My First Taste of Surrender

by Patricia Black  Apr 20, 2014
My First Taste of Surrender

When I was 15, I read Story of O, the 1954 novel about a young Parisian woman who willingly gives herself to be debased by her lover and members of a secret sadomasochism society. I wasn’t so much shocked as I was drawn to the tale of O’s absolute surrender as a submissive. There was an allure to imagining myself in her position, being given by her lover to be “used” by many other men. This was all exotic and far away from my life as an angsty high-school kid in Baton Rouge in the 80’s. And yet there was something familiar about O. Though I didn’t quite know it at the time, I wanted to be her.

But I’m a late bloomer and my sexual explorations, though not purely vanilla, hardly ever strayed into “kink” territory. It took hitting my mid-thirties, finding myself in the proverbial sexless marriage and deciding that I had to find my way back to the spark of my sex. After the break-up I found a practice called Orgasmic Meditation. The practice helped uncork my desire and I felt alive, turned-on, and more open than ever. And the word surrender started coming up a lot in the “OM” world, just as it does in other communities of seekers. I began to see a link between my occasional bondage fantasies and this notion of surrender. And one December night at a holiday party, I met the dom with whom I was to have my first scene, my own initiation.

Before we go upstairs to the play room, we sit and talk in the living room of his Harlem townhouse. He tells me it’s no taboo these days for a woman to want to be a dominatrix and beat up men. “You’ll be cheered for that. But for a modern woman like you, admitting to rape fantasies or the desire to submit--well, that’s much edgier.” I never had rape fantasies, but the desire to have all control taken out of my hands? Absolutely. I tell him I am excited, nervous, new. I ask for tea. “I’m chilled from the walk,” I say.

We climb up the creaking stairs and into the play room. He tells me to undress and take off my jewelry as he steps out. The walls are filled with bookshelves. In the center of the room is a tall metal tripod over a black, circular rug. In a corner of the room hang leather straps, floggers, and other things I decide not to look at too closely. I undress quickly and am standing on the black rug when he comes back in. He sits down and tells me to close my eyes, then to kneel in front of him. After this, there are no words. He has me hold out my wrists. I feel the soft rope looping around and tightening so that my wrists are close together. He caresses my arms, my belly, my back. He helps me to stand, arms over my head, hands holding onto a ring which hangs from the top of the metal tripod.

He puts a blindfold over my eyes. We have barely begun and I’m crying. This thing that is beginning, I’ve known it forever. While I always found ways to rebel against what was handed down to me, and chaffed at the idea of being the obedient preacher’s daughter, there was an undeniable charge to being absolutely taken in hand. He pats the side of one breast with his heavy hand, then walks away from me. He comes back and starts tapping my body with what feels like a long plastic tube. Over the back of my thighs, between them, at the soft places above my hips. The tube feels firm yet flexible and now he’s running it back and forth between my legs over my clit, catching at my ass, until my wetness quickly makes it slick. And suddenly there is the scent of me, my own pungent juices, raw and tinged with shame. My turn-on is undeniable. He steps away from me to put on music.

Heart beats fast and shoulders start to shake and a word reverberates through my body--gratitude, a gratitude so deep as you might feel if you were lost in the woods for days and found yourself suddenly in a clearing with drinking water in sight. The grace of coming home when such a homecoming was neither guaranteed nor inevitable.

Then the flogger, snapping at my legs, ass, and belly. I am attuned to his movements. When I hear him putting on gloves I know he will touch my pussy with his hands. He’s pouring something from a bottle. Lube. His slick hand is on my pussy, quickly opening me, no hesitation. He is sure and firm. His fingers sink deep into me while he flogs my ass. Then come the strokes that start to really sting. I’m on the edge where pain signals kick in, alarms start to go off in my mind, and my body pulls away and yet I want to stay. Low moans are coming out of my throat, they sound far off but they are coming from me. I feel his head tuck in toward my shoulder and I rest my head on his chest for a breath.

There is a moment when I feel as if I were up high on the pinnacle of some mountain, like a saint, my arms above my head in a gesture of rapture. Tears gather at the edges of the blindfold. Snot runs down my nose and mixes with tears over my lips. Unable to wipe it off, I am absolved of vanity. A sudden thought flashes through my mind. What if I my parents could see me like this? The shame. And yet this is me, this is for me. This is mine. Some part of me that’s been holding on forever lets go.

When we start coming down, he tells me to sit on the rug and he sits behind me and holds me. I let myself fall back into him. This large, quiet man who intimidated me upon first meeting, now holds my body and attention exquisitely.

God, to be taken charge of and held in this way. I am still blindfolded and my wrists are still tied. He pats and presses his hands on my chest, my arms and belly, and holds my head. My limbs are shaky as if I’ve been running hard. My stomach contracts with aftershocks. He takes off the blindfold and the tears spill down my cheeks. The light feels bright, though the day is overcast. My breath deepens and slows. He unties my wrists and helps me sit up. I look up at him and the only words are “thank you.” There is nothing else.

I get up to dress slowly. He brings me toilet paper to wipe off the lube. We walk back down to his living room. He makes tea. I start to cry, telling him how grateful I am. I hate to be so fucking earnest and sincere, but there is no hiding it. I tell him this was a deep desire for a long time. We sit quietly, and I let myself fall back into the couch and rest.

This is nothing like my fantasies, where I picture a scene and it gets me off. I feel myself there, bent over, ass in the air, bound at the ankles, anticipating, being made to wait for the spanking, for a caress, for penetration. But in these scenarios, I am orchestrating every detail. I only play at taking myself out of control. In the living moment, I taste surrender--a peak, the thing saints and junkies alike yearn for. No time. No self. But I am neither saint nor junkie. I am a woman, finding a portal.