Tag Archives: Daddy-Dominant

Of Mice and Monsters VII

Not long after he shared his fantasy of his torture chamber with me. I was in my home and received a call from him. He told me, “you should really check the unsolved homicides from 1995-1997 in Boston. 

So indeed I logged onto the Massachusetts State police website and told him, “I see X amt. of victims here. They are both male and female. They have a wide range in age and ethnicity. The manner of death varies as does both the manner and means in which their bodies were disposed.”

I continued, “I’m not seeing any identifiable pattern of behavior that would tie any of these victims together.

He replied, ” No, that’s right you don’t.”

So I questioned, “why did you have me go check on these specific unsolved homicides from these 2 years?

Nothing

Did you have anything to do with these?”

Silence

Then…..quiet laughter.

Then, “goodnight Lexi.”

Then the phone hung up.


The following day I phoned the Massachusetts State Police and asked to speak to a detective.   I ended up talking to one and told my entire story. Highlighting his sexual sadism and impulsive violence, the photographs I saw of the pummeled, black and blue woman, on through to the animal killing story, to the sexual fantasy of wanting to abduct a teen.

Sadly, the detective thought that my claim was outrageous, my credibility nill , and he consequently dismissed me as a crackpot.  He told me he would “ keep a report on file.”  This I knew to be a lie.  I felt like this sexual sadist was above the law.  I was pretty sure he believed he was above the law too.

I felt hopeless that day, but things were about to change and a Higher law would set things right.


Of Mice and Monsters II

It smelled of mold and mildew down there.  The air always had a cold damp quality to it.  Because of my asthma, I had never liked going there.  All the walls were entirely lined with neat rows of shelf-stable food.  Enough for a small family to survive an Armageddon.  I always thought it strange.  Then there was the safe.   The massive safe hidden behind the stairs.  Standing at well over 6 feet high, it was large enough with which to store a body.

All throughout our relationship, I was never permitted there while he opened the safe.  It was always one of those unspoken rules.   The mystery that shrouded the safe added to my wonderment of its contents.  The only light was from the lone 60-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling.  There were two dirty tiny windows meant only to allow light and ventilation.  They were both sealed tightly shut.

He was cooking spaghetti and meatballs that night and asked me to run down to grab a can of diced tomatoes.  I headed downstairs and began searching the shelves for the requested item.

Suddenly I heard him shut the basement door and then slide the metal chain latch  over.  Then I heard his footsteps on the floorboards above me trail away.

I bolted up the stairs heart racing and called out his name all the while feverishly trying the door handle in hopes it would open.  It did not.

He did not answer.

It hit me then.  The sheer and absolute terror.  The blood in my veins ran cold as I realized I have become entombed in this cellar.

I yelled at the top of my lungs and began pounding my fists on the door, “PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!! I’m begging you!!Let me out!!!

Still no answer.

More screaming, more begging, more pounding on the door,” I’m BEGGING you to please come back, I don’t have my inhaler, please let me out!!”

Silence.

My tears turned to full on sobs realizing I would might never get out of this basement.  My mind began to race:   Would I die from an asthma attack and suffocate or would I die from thirst/dehydration since there was only food down here but no water.    That I would never get to say goodbye to my family….

Seemed like seconds turned to minutes and each minute felt like an eternity.

When suddenly I heard his footsteps again and then the metal chain sliding to unlock the door.

“Why are you crying?” he laughed, “You didn’t think I was going to leave you down there forever did you?” He chuckled,” I was just fooling around with you.”  He pulled me in close and hugged me.   I felt relief, repulsion, anger….   The Stockholm Syndrome with which I was quite familiar, was unfolding right in front of me.  I simply couldn’t see it.

I don’t know how long I was actually locked down there.    It was long enough to know that I was not dealing with a garden variety “Daddy-Dom” into some weekend kink.

In retrospect, I think that’s why I stayed.  He intrigued me.  I thought with all my psychological acumen, I’d find out what made him tick.  But by then it was nearly too late for that.  For what I’ve failed to mention….was that by then I was in love with the monster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Good Girl

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I don’t care what you have ever seen or read about Fifty Shades of Grey,  it’s all bullshit.  At the outset, all I want is to please and want to do what he says and all that; I guess it IS like that.    And I suppose in the beginning maybe I would’ve eaten a piece of dog-shit or something for him.

But this was 3 years in.   And the lashings with his cane and whip or hand or paddle had grown kind of old .    And the formality of saying “yes, Daddy” had worn me thin.

One particular night, he had bragged he wanted to make me bark like a dog.

One of his fucked-up whims I guess.

Like any good girl I told him to fuck off  that I wasn’t going to  bark like any dog .   He insisted and dragged me to the bed and said,” then I will make you.”

I quipped ,”no matter how many times you take the cane to me, or the flogger, or the paddle,   you will not make me bark like a dog. It’s just not going to happen. You will not break me.”

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown and I knew it.  But I was confident that I would be the victor.  That he would tire before I.

He threw down lash after lash.  Each time stopping long enough to pause and ask, “are you going to bark now?”

With each blow I tried to deal with the pain by biting into the comforter hard, as he bore down into my flesh.  Now, some submissives are masochists but I am not.  Some go to a dissociative place and leave their body, I did not.  I just bit down and braced for it.

I was already bruised from his blows and felt it but didn’t want him to win.  I hate losing.  I despise weakness.   At the next go round, I’d grown angry.  I asked, “If our roles were reversed I wonder how many lashings you could take? Oh that’s right you would have pussied out by now.”

Then he hit me harder and atop of the bruises he had just inflicted.  Dirty….dirty…. underhanded bastard I thought.

I knew in that moment he would win.

He leaned in and asked for the final time, “are you ready to bark yet?

Woof.”  I said quietly. 

He said, “say it louder.

SMACK!!!!! 

WOOF!” I yelled.

That’s my good girl, ” he replied.

Initially I wanted to be him that day, the one with all the power; the one wielding the implements.   But then I realized that I had power of a different sort.  That this sexual sadist craved me.  I was his canvas and he needed to mainline me.  By me pushing his buttons and challenging him, I created how this entire night went.

Good girl indeed.


Hurry up with the lobotomy already

I don’t know what’s up with me today.  I’m pumping gas and some guy is staring at me.  At first I assume I must have something on my shirt.  When I look down and realize that I don’t, I start feeling even more nervous.   I want to run and hide and wonder why I didn’t just find a frigin gas station that had no one pumping at it.  Some remote desolate gas station with tumble weed blowing through, like the kind you see on old TV westerns with John Wayne.  Except that’s ridiculous, because tumble weed isn’t indigenous to Massachusetts.

Then I get to the grocery store and I’m picking out a head of lettuce.  Red leaf and romaine are both $2.49, so I stand there paralyzed like a deer in headlights.  Apparently this woman notices this and in an almost chastising way says to me, “it’s not going to jump off the shelf you know.”  But that’s just it.  I can’t make a fucking snap decision between Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice or Minute Maid.

Later, I walk to the post office to mail some seriously over-due bills, and I feel this pain in my left lung.  It comes and goes, every few months.   But because I used to chain smoke I have myself convinced that I’m a sneeze away from terminal small cell carcinoma.  I start actually wondering who would come to my funeral, my wake, screwed up shit like that.  In under a minute, my catastrophic thinking has me dead and buried.  All from a pain in my lung…..Who fucking thinks like this?

Maybe…….just maybe……… this has something to do with seeing my ex  yesterday.

He’s the ex-boyfriend, Daddy Dominant, sorry….. the sexual sadist. The man I’ve gone back to a thousand times after he’s treated me less than dog shit.   As we stood there in a parking lot to exchange an important document, he told me in a voice void of any emotion, that he was heading out to fuck a 27-year-old at a local motel and didn’t have long.  He is 52.  He doesn’t even know her first name and will never see her after today, but he will “use her til she’s raw.”

Tears began to well up in my eyes and I felt like I was going to puke when he said that.   He went on callously, “I’m sorry, but right now, sex with strangers is my number one priority.  Maybe someday I’ll want to stop, now I don’t.  I won’t ever forget you….you’ll always be my girl.  I think it’s best not to call me anymore, for your own good.”

His words hung in the air like a garrote, suffocating the last bit of air between us.  And as I sobbed, he approached me and stiffly put his arms around me for what seemed like a long time, except that I didn’t feel any emotions coming from him.  It felt almost obligatory, staged, a mere perfunctory task that  he must execute before moving to his next destination.

I can cook a mean lasagna.

I can give great head.

I can speak in several fake foreign accents and make everyone in the room laugh their ass off while doing them.

As a trained mental health counselor, I can de-escalate psychotic, suicidal, severely agitated, anxious patients in a locked ward.

I can read books to small children with enough enthusiasm to have special requests for” just one more”.

But for the life of me, I can’t love myself enough to walk away from him…..


“Normal” is a setting on a washing machine.

I don’t know exactly what normal is supposed to be.  But I know I’m not it.

Normal isn’t sitting at Thanksgiving dinner while everyone else is yapping about how they upgraded their living room with the latest and trendiest color themes, while you are recalling yourself being tied and blindfolded to a tree in the woods while your Daddy Dominant whips you with his flogger and cane til your tits have welts wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto heels.

“Ummm yes, pass the green beans Uncle Bill.”

Normal isn’t sitting in your apartment knowing your “Daddy” is probably out with some new submissive in a motel somewhere, because he hasn’t answered his phone in several hours and his AA meeting only lasts one hour.  And normal sure isn’t spending half the night casing the local motels when you drove by the AA clubhouse and proved your theory was correct, your sponsor and friends says he never showed.

Yes Mom, I’d like some gravy on the turkey.

Normal sure isn’t dumping said boyfriend after three years because that’s what normal people do, but you’re not normal, you seem to be addicted to him,  he’s like your “fix”. Every time you try to leave, it feels like your dying inside.  So you’d rather have lit cigarettes put out on your flesh than feel that pain…..and you’ve done that.  You’d rather drink until cognition ceases to function, and you’ve done that too….. than feel that pain.  You’d rather have Daddy take his cane to your flesh until you bleed, and not safeword out, to prove you’re not a wimp, than to risk him leaving.  You don’t want to risk him finding some new younger, version of you with a more pert ass and a new boob job; so you tolerate his sadism because you know that’s one thing “they” can’t do.  They, don’t have your history, and won’t be able to tolerate or allow him to do any of the things you can physically withstand because he is a sexual sadist.  Normal.  Yes, this is normal. THIS! staying in this feels safer to you, than to feel the pain of him leaving you behind.

“Yes Grandma, I think I will pass on the pecan pie, I’m trying to watch my waistline.”

“Normal, is a setting on a washing machine” someone once told me, “and that’s about it.”  They went on, “there is no such thing as normal.”  I took some comfort in that, I really did.  But deep down, I knew that I wanted to be. Somewhere deep inside me, the healthy seedling in me was germinating.  I started setting limits with him.  Taking small steps.

The truth was, I am not a masochist.  I hate pain.  I only endured it so he wouldn’t throw me away.  He always promised me that if I did these “things”, I would be his good girl.

The way it rolled off his tongue….it was as if the promise of coming home has been re-awakened right then.

Maybe this Thanksgiving, I’m a tiny bit closer to normal than last year~


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