Masochism and Devotion
By Alison Pilling
A new world for me, Paros, four masochists in service.
Their previous experiences have been with authentic Mistresses. The ones who have dungeons and know how to wield a cane, whip and cruelty. That’s not me. My tantric D/s journey has been one of creative shadow healing. Of working with people bringing forward issues, fixations and hidden desires to explore, transform and experiment with. Pain is only part of that, dealing with shame or shyness is just as important in the search for power and emotion, whether that’s to hand it over or to express it.
I’d been told to avoid labelling anything as ‘trauma’ and the masochists weren’t much interested in making agreements with me, or expressing their requirements. When I asked what the submissive men desired, I heard ‘That’s up to you Madame.’ Except without being a natural sadist or knowing how Mistresses behave, I was stumped about what I wanted, feeling the weight of unspoken expectations. Fortunately, we had someone on the team who needed to discipline people.
My intention for the time together, living kinky big brother style, was to enjoy and express my demands, desires and and to trust my leadership. With the service-oriented masochists’ hesitancy, I was nervous. So I asked for and lead only to what I wanted to do and receive. To touch people as I want, to dance, to seek closeness and coffee, to boss them around peremptorily and generally see if I can get away with being explicitly my mother. I feel I’m too much. That what I want is too much. To be intimate, to touch, to talk. I want a man who’ll do my bidding, whatever that might be. My perfect husband fantasy plays out in intimate gestures, being at my beck and call, doing stuff for me, tidying up, making food I choose, taking me out to dinner, painting, supporting householding and being an aware spiritual person to boot.
That week I led naked yoga with 4 men, 2 in chastity cages, and one day with a riding crop. I remembered humiliation and dredged a few phrases of belittlement to the worms. Another day recalling devotion with child’s pose, men kissing my feet, kicking their legs apart. I was a Madame and yogi on the hoof, but man that’s a bit of a wild trip, to ask people to expose themselves to me, to the vast skies, to feel wonder and tininess in a big blue Greek island horizon and azure sky, on a public beach before anyone arrived. Risk and surrender.
Another time, bored with the meagre lunch, I interfered and took over, wanting excess of beauty, fresh bread and feta. Messing up the tidily arranged cucumber slices, demanding more tomatoes, more oil. It’s not much but it shows who’s in charge. Domesticity and food prep generally are low down my hierarchy of needs. Bossing three men to make lunch for 8 is moving up. That way I get what I want to eat and assert my dominance. Squeezing ass while they poured sparkling water or made my bed, watching the lead house sub swallow his insolence, putting lipstick on the most femme. Small touches, lovingly made, libration building as the week developed.
Hearing the masochists share about their lives and coaxed out feelings, helped me understand them. Where they struggled with isolation, grief, guilt, boredom or boarding school past. Where pain has been a salvation and a solution, a pull and a painful urge. Reconciliation to one's innate nature, and subpar nurture, played out in discipline and service. I admired the men for making the decisions they’d made to find the Dominant sadist they needed, to offer anticipatory service, to express grief through pain, to leave marriages, to skirt the underground scene, and to dress up in glamorous frocks and wigs or maids or butlers uniforms and attitudes. Owning themselves.
This expression of a unique self takes courage and determination, to serve the divine feminine in all her guises. We had three styles here, the Goddess-Priestess in Eva Weaver, the Sadist-Dominant, MsEveWhite and me, the Seductress Monarch or Madame Ali. As Dommes we offered our service to the men, in our individual authenticity. I wondered if it was confusing initially, the cruelty tempered with healing ritual and intimate bossy kindness. I don’t give a rat's ass about bending the rules and roles in traditional BDSM, but I’m aware other people have more need and respect for protocol than my inner brat. As the week went on I got curious about caning, I asked if I could slap faces, I flogged, I voyeured, I hugged and I danced with them.
I left my nice woman at home in Corfu and brought her mean sister on holiday. I would and could have been crueller if they’d only made specific requests. Occasionally someone did and I loved the intensity of looking into the eyes of a man being caned, feeling the pain and eroticism of his offering. I wanted to corrupt the goody-two-shoes maid, seeing the glimmer of potential naughtiness in her eyes when the smile on the edge of her lipsticked mouth belied the uptight servant.
Being bad is an aphrodisiac of rebellious, non-conformist edge living. In our daily sharing, I offered my contrariness to the group and they brought their gifts. Each of us committed to sharing vulnerability, our truth in the moment and not going over our own limits. It may not be the most so-called ‘conscious’ work I’ve ever done, but it was so enjoyable. I felt gleeful and liberated. And it went deep, each of us with our realisations and responses. Each time someone said “No Madame”, after my initial anxiety that I’d gone too far with boundaries that were never spoken, I danced a quiet Wheel of Consent jig Each time someone said Yes to me, I couldn’t believe I was getting away with it.
Allowing the parts of our personalities that we often feel are unacceptable is freeing. Giving them expression with consenting adults who want what you try to hide, and who will support you to feel the sensation and experience you seek, builds trust in life. Transformation happens when we can be more of who we are and might be. I’ve come away feeling like a Head of Household relationship would suit me. That polyamory would get more done. That having ‘men in service’ might not be as demanding as I think. That’s my job.
