"Zelophilia," "Stigmatophilia," but no "Obedience"

I spent some time looking at the online resource "BDSM for Dummies."  Essentially it is a glossary of terms.  Presumably, by reading the definitions of these terms, one might get a sense of what one desires when entering the realm of BDSM.

It explains a lot, albeit briefly.  Zelophilia is sexual arousal from jealousy, which I never realized is a thing.  (And of course it must be a thing given how much jealous behaviour there is in the world!) And there's Stigmatophilia, which is sexual arousal from body markings -- tats and piercings and such.  These and many other conditions are in the glossary of BDSM terms, and curiously enough, what's missing?  Obedience!

This is one of the most important words in the BDSM lifestyle, is it not?  Obedience.

Consider words like "control," and "domination," and "mastery," and "sadism."  These words would describe illegal, unconstitutional behaviour without the consenting "obedience" from the other side of that relationship.  Mastery without obedience is just, well, abuse.  Obedience is such an important word!

Consider words like "submission," and "safe words," and "hand cuffs," and "hypophilia" (sexual arousal from breath play):  these words would lack the willing participation of a sub without the inherent desire to obey.  Submission, like obedience, can be forced -- yes it is true.  Forced by another word called "duress" and yet another, "coercion."  However, submission without obedience is the difference between "brat" and "beloved."  Submission without obedience is not how I imagine my submission.  And, obedience without submission is like the Story of O -- obeying a chateau full of men one has not submitted to, intimately and wholly.

Still, the word "obedience" is a crucially-important word: it implies choice.  It says that the submissive has chosen (on some level, even if far removed from the present time and place) to give her power away so that others may use it.  People ask, "Where is the submissive's power? I thought Domination took away all the power."  That power, friends, is in the consent.  Is in the obedience.  Is in the day after day obedience.  Is in the repeated vows of submission that, still, to this day, hold true.  That power is in the consent.  Because without that consent, there is no power surrendered.  Without understanding her dedication to obedience, no Master can dominate the mind and soul and heart of a submissive.

The BDSM glossary has lots of arrows pointed towards sexual stimulation.  I suppose it is a common understanding that the BDSM lifestyle is a sexually-charged lifestyle... but I still maintain that for me it is not.  My submission means other things.

 

The Dictionary, Page Two

Intimacy is a small table, it is true.  Intimacy is also a large dance floor.  Intimacy is a speeding BMW.  Intimacy is a surprise, but it is also expected and waiting where you last found it.

There is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so, says Hamlet.  And, I do think.  I count myself queen of all things, and especially all intimate space, and especially all open water, because I imagine all environments occupied by Tasdron already, and his hand already extends to guide me home.

We danced this afternoon.  There were lots of people around, but it felt like we had the entire place to ourselves.  It was relationship-building as well as relationship-affirming as well as relationship-exploring as well as new-things discovering as well as old-things reviewing as well as lots of smiles and a very serious jolt of WOW to contemplate.  A big deal.  It was something intellectual and something seriously emotional. And it was all in public but all in private.  Not a peep leaked out into the world.  And my collar was shielding me against instant messages so my attention was focused.  My attention would be focused anyway because I would never want that awesome man to wait in line.  There is no line he ever needs to wait in, because I run like a maniac to and fro to make sure there is a smooth road ahead, easy curves and lightning straightaways.  I can do that because I work constantly in his service, even when he thinks I'm just quietly delighting in flattery.  If he even thinks that at all.

And this is intimacy to me.  It's a small table where all of this is spread out on it, and to everybody else it just looks like a white table cloth, and to me it looks like the dinner-spread of Marie Antoinette and all the confections she would enjoy at her delicate fingertips.  And to that wonderful man, what lies upon the table is my beating heart.

At the bell tower

The bell tower was built by people a thousand years ago, the big jade bell a thousand years old and never rung.  "Some things are more precious with use," he said to me, "and some things more precious without use."  We bathed in the water surrounding the tower, because that was the ritual.  I looked up at the bell and realized its enormity.  The closer we approached, the larger it loomed.  It was a giant artifact of craftsmanship and exquisite beauty.  When I tell the story years from now, I'll pretend I was not afraid of the enormity of it all.  When I tell the story years from now, I'll remember only the thrill of ceremony in retrospect.  At the time, though, the water was frigid cold against my bare skin, all the better to purify motive and intent.  "Today is a day for precious utility," he said.

After bathing, he carried me from the water and lifted me to the top of the stairs.  As if the threshold were as sacred as the water from which we emerged, he stepped carefully and I could feel the change of before and after.  Even through a simple doorway, a change of before and after.

"Where I am from, water purifies," he said gently, talking into my ear,  and then he said, "Music also purifies."  We stood at a singing bowl, the tones of which he commanded with a beautifully ornate stick.  He drew the sound from the singing bowl until it filled the forest surrounding us, creating a sacred space that I'll never forget.  For ritual spaces, this one rules.  The way the tone struck my heart and resonated, it is hard to describe: if you have ever craved a place to hide, or if you have ever craved the lash of a waking whip, or if you have ever craved the soft touch on your cheek, these things approach the intense feeling of "needs met" that this perfect, sacred, musical tone symbolizes.  He claimed me with a watermark, a "T" he drew upon my face, and the water was warmed by his skin and made me feel alive.  And then I claimed him, too.

"This is the most sacred spot," he said to me, then, when we reached the platform of the bell itself.  Naturally, he tied me in rope.  Hoisting me aloft, I was suspended just like the bell was, hung from giant wooden rafters.  He retrieved a thick leather collar, metal studded and iron-worked, from a basket left by the ancients who had built this place, and he fastened the collar easily around my throat.  Another leather strap for his wrist, similarly studded and wrought with the same shining metals, and we were clothed together only in our bond, then.  "Your neck, your life, mine.  My sword, my life, yours," he said to me.  The exchange of power happens by the bell.  The collar is engraved with "Eternal," and his wristband is engraved with "Solid."  Solid and eternal.  I know what it feels like to be collared for life.

"Cherished, protected, sacred," he whispered at me then, lowering me gently and winding the cords of black rope around my wrists for keeping.  He will use them again, but not this afternoon.  We settle upon the wooden floor beneath the great bell, and he sounds the gong so that it echoes for miles beyond over big water.  His back was to the bell, and my face buried in his chest, so that I could hear the sound but not feel the vibration.  Cherished, protected, sacred.  The door to the belltower is open, and the bell has sounded for the first time in a thousand years.  I wear the collar of Tasdron Dryke and it is a collar I shall not remove for the rest of my life, and if he means to take it from me, he takes my life with it.

Proud of Submission

What submission means to me.  I feel proud that I submit my power, sometimes, to a man I love.  When it is good to do so.  When it is time to do so.  Sometimes, because I am submissive, I notice that he is not in the mood to take control.  I watch and I pay attention.  And in those times, I take control, not because I want to, but because it is part of my submission.  I make decisions I would feel more comfortable that he makes.  But he wants them made for him, sometimes.

What submission means to me.  I feel proud that I am observant and watchful.  I feel proud that I pay attention to details.  I feel proud that I observe and keep my eyes wide open (not dulled with drink, not dulled with smoke, not dulled with medications that I do not require, not dulled with over-sated appetites).  I feel proud that, because my eyes are wide open, I can anticipate.  I can predict.  I can have patience sometimes when I might not have had patience, otherwise.

What submission means to me.  It feels as though I wear it openly like a system of restraints, obvious to anybody.  It feels like clothing to me.  It feels like a zipper I cannot reach behind me that someone else zips and unzips for me.  It feels like a thick, chunky, heavy-metal collar with no seam and no clasp: as though it was born there, on me, reminding me constantly who I am.

What submission means to me.  I am part of a club that teaches me, like I teach them, how great it is to feel like our true selves.  Our true selves.  My true self.  I look at other submissives through my camera lens, studying their beauty and self-declaration.  I study their presentation, their decisions about how the world will see them.  I look at them, and I rejoice.  I look at myself, and I rejoice.  We are, truly, our own selves.  (Thanks, E, for letting me take so many pictures of you.  I know your time is precious.)

What submission means to me.  I am not a sexual object.  I am not a tool.  I am not a doormat.  I am not stupid.  I am not gullible (because of my submission).  I am not a slave.  I do not surrender all my power at all times to all people.  I do not accept violence.  I do not accept abuse.  I do not accept other people's anger about not submitting myself to them.  I have never been obligated to.

What submission means to me.  I give a part of myself to one man that I do not give to anybody else -- not a boss, not a police officer, not a judge, not another man, not any woman, not in pretend or in fantasy.  I give a part of myself to one man with which he could do anything he wants, and I give it to him as a surrendered offering, because I would not be me if I did not give this to him.  When I deal with police and judges and bosses, I do not submit to them, and they do not dominate me.  I do what I do because I want to do it.  There is only one king of the castle for me!

Safe, Sane, Consensual

Safe.  A white room, well - lit.  A soft floor.  The security of my bindings, and the freedom to move around, testing the environment.  How does it feel to walk like this.  How does it feel to breathe this new air.  How does it feel with my body vulnerable to You.  How does it feel to trust You.  Will you listen to my limits?  Will you say, out loud, that You protect my limits?  Will you say, out loud, that You will do nothing to tease me about having limits?  You will do nothing to push my limits, because my limits are there to prevent pushing?  There is a whole, big, beautiful room to explore; there is no need to see what is behind the door.  The door is shut for a reason: and that reason is mine.  I feel safe in this room.  I feel safe with my limits, and with how well You respect my limits, and love my limits, because they are part of me.

Sane.  Nice, straight lines.  Regimented, regular schedule.  Proper proportion, moderation, and balance.  The horizon is a straight line, and everything flows from the line that extends into forever.  Private time to meditate and contemplate: to process what I have learned, and to turn back towards You and smile, understanding.  You have shown me.  My future You, my present me loves You for the nice, straight lines, regimented and regular schedule, and Your moderation and balance.  We do nothing that we have not talked about.  We do nothing that You cannot control.  Everything that we do is a measure of Your control.  Everything that we do is evidence of Your mastery of self, and mastery of me.

Consensual Consent.  I bear my burden willingly.  The chains about my neck are light.  The bindings at my feet are anchors, not weights.  You take from me what I would willingly give: You take from me all that I have, and curiously it simply fills me with more.  The Private Garden where You tend is full of me.  The vessel of secrets is capped until You open it and find me, a pool of wanting, rippling therein.  I am so easy to decipher, for You.  I am, for others, hieroglyphs without the guiding stone; monuments without meaning.  The brambles and the thorns, the teeth and the rats' nests, the Medusa head and the stone statues of men that line the garden path... I wander past souls of the troubled, and I try to keep my heart intact.  When there is only You.  Only ever was.  Only ever will be.  When I finally find You, it will be a moment of awakening, and then I will cry out YES  once more, and these dreams will be forgotten.

What is submission?

My very most excellent mentor led a discussion (has been leading a series of discussions, actually, each Tuesday evening) and yesterday was 3 of 4 on The Story of O.  Yesterday's discussion focused on "Domination" in the novel.  Genny kept asking variations on the same question, "Where is the domination?"  Systematically she made her way through every so-called dominant in the story and the behaviour of each one, posing the question:  "Is this domination?"  The quotations she pulled from the story successfully challenge the notions of domination and submission that I have come to learn about (and, given some of the reactions in the group, some of the notions that LOTS of people have come to learn about and hold as true, unshakable, and sacred).  The fundamental principle of "legitimate" D/s is that it is a safe, sane, and consensual practice, and the unspoken assumption in that dynamic is that both Dom and sub have equal voices in determining what is sane, what is safe, and what is consensual.  The complicating dynamic in The Story of O can be seen in this one passage, in part 1, just after Rene tells O that her submission will be obtained "in spite of" her, that her submission will be forced from her:  "O was on the verge of saying that she was his slave and that she bore her bonds cheerfully.  He stopped her."  This one little dynamic -- O's urge to submit herself, which would frustrate the men's intentions of slavery -- complicates the rest of the novel in terms of submission, slavery, and what domination "really" is.

I have long struggled with categorizing O's participation at Roissy:  sometimes the men say she is free to leave, and yet she is chained to her room at night removing any idea of personal freedom.  Conversely, the reader begins to understand that not all chains are visible: privately, we get the impression that there is no way O would prematurely leave Roissy anyway, even if she were unchained, because hers is a kind of love that makes her endure whatever her lover expects of her.  She is so in love with Rene that, regardless of what the men do to liberate or enslave her, her personal code prevents her from leaving Roissy anyway.  To say it another way, it doesn't matter how many chains the Roissy men equip: O would not leave.  It doesn't matter how many men it takes to force her to kneel and service them:  O doesn't require force to obey.  (Can you enslave the willing?)  She will, accordingly, endure whatever the men do to her, no matter how painful and no matter the length of time.  Whatever lines exist between slavery and submission are blurred in this novel, it's true, and speaking as a North American I would say that even the new-world's view of D/s and modern romance are also challenged.  Rene demands that for which it is impossible to consent (he says the very words himself), and yet O insists that she consents, that she loves him, that she would do anything for him.  She is determined to consent (to submit); and the men are determined to objectify and remove consent (to enslave).  The question for me now, in my journey of learning, is whether a woman can submit under those circumstances. Is it logically possible to offer submission to someone who hears (and accepts) something completely different?  Or who doesn't hear or accept at all, for that matter.

The element of the novel that challenged my preconceptions the most (last night, at the discussion, thanks entirely to my mentor) is this very idea of submission in the face of slavery.  The tension in the novel between consent and the wholesale absence of rights and freedoms* was once to me an interesting plot device, but as of last night it is now an all-engaging thought process that occupies me concerning the very nature of submission.  I wrote in this blog two days ago that I had surrendered "even though you are not here."  The idea of submission, to me, changes with that statement:  I know that it is possible to submit -- that it is possible for me to do my half of the job -- even if I'm the only person in the room.  I know that it is possible for me to make that agreement in my mind:  "When you speak, I will obey; I will surrender control; I will yield to you; I want to yield; I need to yield; whenever you speak, I will yield and I am so grateful."  I know that it is possible for me to make this agreement and to not know the answer from "him", whether or not he will accept and act upon my submission.  What if he doesn't accept and act upon it? Does it invalidate my statement that I would yield?  No, he's a free-thinking man with his own definitions of safe, sane, and consensual:  and I am a free-thinking woman with my own definitions of safe, sane, and consensual.  Whether or not he accepts my submission, I have given it.  It is a cake in a box beside strewn flowers on the porch of the one who might enjoy it.  If he's home, and if he answers the door, and if he is hungry, and if he is pleased, then we are in synch!  If he's not home, OR if he refuses to answer the door, OR if he's simply not hungry, then there is no synchronicity to what we have to offer each other (and there are so many variables to determine synchronicity that it's amazing anybody ever gets it right).  None of this changes my surrender.  If he leaves his house and goes on vacation, never even noticing the cake and strewn flowers upon his porch, it would be a bit of a waste, this gift I offer, to say the least -- physically, anyway.  But it doesn't change my offering it.  And it's not a waste to me, emotionally.  Logically.  And I do not take back the offer, petulantly, if he rejects it.  It was offered.  It is offered.  It remains.  I am there with it.  And, naturally, I have surrendered to every possible future, accordingly.

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*Quoted from the novel:  "you are not free but fettered."  She is not free: she is enslaved, objectively.  Once the men pronounce that, it becomes objective fact.  And yet, she consents to be there, subjectively.  What if this is not simply a plot device but, rather, O's free-will determining her own submission even in the face of those who would enslave her?  What if this is the touchstone to understanding submission on a grand scale?


From Part 1: The Lovers of Roissy.  "[...] Your hands are not your own, nor are your breasts, nor, most especially, any of your bodily orifices, which we may explore or penetrate at will. You will remember at all times - or as constantly as possible - that you have lost all right to privacy or concealment, and as a reminder of this fact, in our presence you will never close your lips completely, or cross your legs, or press your knees together (you may recall you were forbidden to do this the minute you arrived). This will serve as a constant reminder, to you as well as to use, that your mouth, your belly, and your backside are open to us. You will never touch your breasts in our presence: the bodice raises them toward us, that they may be ours. During the day you will therefore be dressed, and if anyone should order you to lift your skirt, you will lift it; if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you, unmasked, but with this one reservation: the whip. The whip will be used only between dusk and dawn. But besides the whipping you receive from whoever may want to whip you, you will also be flogged in the evening, as punishment for any infractions of the rules committed during the day: for having been slow to oblige, for having raised your eyes and looked at the person addressing you or taking you - you must never look any of us in the face. If the costume we wear in the evening - the one I am now wearing - leaves our sex exposed, it is not for the sake of convenience, for it would be just as convenient the other way, but for the sake of insolence, so that your eyes will be directed there upon it and nowhere else, so that you may learn that there resides your master, for whom, above all else, your lips are intended. During the day, when we are dressed in normal attire and you are clothed as you are now, the same rules will apply, except that when requested you will open your clothes, and then close them again when we have finished with you. Another thing: at night you will have only your lips with which to honor us - and your wide-spread thighs - for your hands will be tied behind your back and you will be naked, as you were a short while ago. You will be blindfolded only to be maltreated and, now that you have seen how you are whipped, to be flogged. And yes, by the way: while it is perfectly all right for you to grow accustomed to being whipped - since you are going to be every day throughout your stay - this is less for our pleasure than for your enlightenment. How true this is may be shown by the fact that on those nights when no one desires you, you will wait until the valet whose job it is comes to your solitary cell and administers what you are due to receive but we are not in the mood to mete out. Actually, both this flogging and the chain - which when attached to the ring of your collar keeps you more or less closely confined to your bed several hours a day - are intended less to make you suffer, scream, or shed tears than to make you feel, through this suffering, that you are not free but fettered, and to teach you that you are totally dedicated to something outside yourself. When you leave here, you will be wearing on your third finger an iron ring, which will identify you. Bu then you will have learned to obey those who wear the same insignia, and when they see it they will know that beneath your skirt you are constantly naked, however comely or commonplace your clothes may be, and that this nakedness is for them. Should anyone find you in the least intractable, he will return you here. Now you will be shown to your cell."  [...]  The more he surrendered her, the more he would hold her dear. The fact that he gave her was to him a proof, and ought to be one for her as well that she belonged to him: one can only give what belongs to you. He gave her only to reclaim her immediately, to reclaim her enriched in his eyes, like some common object which had been used for some divine purpose and has thus been consecrated. For a long time he had wanted to prostitute her, and he was delighted to feel that the pleasure he was deriving was even greater than he had hoped, and that it bound him to her all the more, as it bound her to him, all the more so because, through it, she would be more humiliated and ravaged. Since she loved him, she could not help loving whatever derived from him. O listened and trembled with happiness, because he loved her, all acquiescent she trembled. He doubtless guessed it, for he went on:

"It's because it's easy for you to consent that I want from you what it will be impossible for you to consent to, even if you agree ahead of time, even if you say yes now and imagine yourself capable of submitting. You won't be able not to revolt. Your submission will be obtained in spite of you, not only for the inimitable pleasure that I and others will derive from it, but also that you will be made aware of what has been done to you."  O was on the verge of saying that she was his slave and that she bore her bonds cheerfully. He stopped her.  "Yesterday you were told that as long as you are in the château you are not to look a man in the face of speak to him. The same applies to me as well: with me you shall remain silent and obey. I love you. Now get up. From now on the only times that you will open your mouth here in the presence of a man will be to cry out or to caress."

Temptation and Surrender

Temptation is a taut bow.  Temptation is a strung violin. Temptation is a high-wire.  Temptation is a knife's blade. Temptation is a red, ripe sheen on the tight skin of an apple, promising crisp, sweet relief.  Temptation is a finger sliding beneath the strap that had no finger-room until he pushed it through.  Temptation is hair pulled straight down, arching a back to a perfect curve.  Temptation is a little droplet upon the lips, waiting for the tongue.  Temptation is the gaze waiting for the blink.  Temptation is the push, waiting for the penetration.  Temptation is the pull, waiting for the release.  Temptation is grip on one wrist, waiting for the grip upon the second wrist.  Temptation is the raised crop, waiting for the swift-wishing cut.  Temptation is the whip raised, waiting for the whistled-air crack.  Temptation is the rip, waiting for the eyes to look upon the torn clothing, how much damage...

Temptation is a turned back, feeling the breath from behind.  Temptation is a favourite toy, handle-forward, waiting on the table.  Temptation is what I can smell.  Temptation is what I think it feels like.  Temptation is what I want it to feel like.  Temptation is making a big hole where I know I've never felt it.  Temptation is stupid with longing.  Temptation is the feeling of a strand of hair falling from my shoulder, grazing my lower back, and me mistaking it for your hand, and me groaning louder than I thought warranted such a simple, small thing.  Temptation is a clear picture, sharp edges, perfect clarity between all the lines.  Temptation is a blindfold, suddenly jerked a little too tightly.  Temptation is a voice in my ear, suddenly, when I thought there was nobody there.  Temptation is what I look like, standing in heels, my bra loosely strung from my fingertips.  Temptation is what I look like, standing in heels, wrists bound, my bra loosely strung from my fingertips.  Temptation is what I look like, standing in heels, wrists bound, lips parted, my bra loosely strung from my fingertips.  Temptation is wondering when my lips will feel the kiss.  And surrender is what I've just done, even though you aren't here.