I always find self-explorations of the wellsprings of dominant and submissive sexual orientation interesting. This is an anonymous post I ran across on Usenet and thought I was share it here.
Hello all. I am a male in my mid-30’s. I am one of those sad cases – and I think there are probably a lot of us out there – who has had fantasies of a type appropriate to this newsgroup running through his mind pretty much all his life, but has always been too embarrassed, ashamed or just plain scared to tell anyone about them. My trembling hands have written and drawn probably a hundred thousand stories and pictures over the years, and then destroyed all of them immediately “afterwards” as the wave of guilt came over me. I have reached a point in my life now at which I believe there are exactly two options open to me: I can either share my feelings at least in some small way with the rest of the world, or I can go quietly insane. I have been lurking in the shadows of this newsgroup and the various similarly-oriented binary groups for some time now (a couple of years actually), and the realization that I am not alone in my darkness has come as something of a comfort to me. Whether or not you all are kindred spirits I do not know, but at least I know I won’t be condemned here (except maybe by the odd troll or two, whom I will cheerfully ignore). So here goes my story.
I have no clear memory of how this all got started. My fantasies, for as long as I can remember having fantasies, and long before they were truly sexual in nature, have just always involved bondage of one form or another. The earliest ones that I can remember came to me as a very young child (kindergarten, first grade..). Some Bad People would catch my classmates and me, and put us all into a cage. They would keep us for a while until the Good People came and got us out, and that was pretty much it. The Bad People were poorly-defined, vaguely Snidely Whiplash-type characters, the sort you might see tying the heroine to a train track in an old silent film. The Good People were usually our parents and teachers, the police, and such. It was all quite innocent really. Nothing in particular was ever done to me in these fantasies; we would all have an exciting adventure and then go home. It was just exciting for some reason to be caught and locked in a cage. That was what Bad People did to children I guess. I have a very foggy memory of being taken to see “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”, an apparently otherwise forgettable film which had one character who was a child-catcher. I remember him luring some children into a brightly-decorated wagon with promises of toys or candy or something. When the children were inside, the door slammed shut and the wagon was revealed as a cage on wheels, which carried the children off to… to… The fact that this is all the only image that remains with me says something about the way that my mind was working even then.
There was one old “Sesame Street” episode in which Big Bird was having a bad dream about a Bad Person shoving him into a cage and laughing evilly. The image is very vivid in my mind; it was so much like what happened in my imagination. Big Bird didn’t find it nearly as enjoyable as I did, though, and I felt sorry for him. I never saw that scene again; they may have decided that it was too scary and deleted it in reruns.
The scenarios evolved slowly at first. My companions in the cage became fewer, limited now to just my friends and those kids that I thought were cool. The Bad People became more recognizable as specific people whom I knew, and whom I found unpleasant or scary. The Good People took form too, sometimes as heroes from TV shows or books, superhero characters, or one of my teachers whom I thought was pretty… It didn’t occur to me to notice that an increasingly high percentage of the characters on both sides were becoming female roles.
Things began to darken as I went into the mid-grammar school years, subtly and gradually. The Bad People began singling me out from my classmates, and I was more and more often in the cage alone. To make matters worse, the Good People were becoming less and less reliable as rescuers. Everyone was more inclined to stand around the cage pointing and laughing than they were to help me get out. I was really a prisoner now. I had to stay locked up until some inordinately heroic friend or adult saved me, or until I managed to escape. I still had no clear understanding of why I was being treated this way, or why it was so often the girls and women who seemed so particularly amused by my plight. The girls in my class began to side with the Bad People and to take over their role. Eventually there were no Good People any more.
Definite sexual elements had begun to creep into the scenes. A couple of things happened at about the same time. Elements of bondage in mainstream images began to interest me. Advertisements in newspapers and magazines were rather less politically correct than they have to be nowadays, and they often showed pretty, scantily-clad women in cages or tied up in some way. I would picture myself not as their tormentor, but as a fellow prisoner sharing their terror alongside them. I wondered what it would be like. I tried to imagine it. It was pleasurable to think about. Thinking about it did things to my thing, which I didn’t understand, but it felt good. The Bad People saw this and began to treat me more harshly. Soon they were not only locking me in the cage, but they were tying me up as well. Their favorite position for me at the time was with my arms at my sides, and a single loooong rope wound tightly around my body from neck to ankles. If I happened to have a crush on a particular girl at the time, she stood a very grave risk of being tied up and caged along with me. Another huge new wrinkle was nudity. To my horror, the Bad People discovered that my humiliation, and their fun, could be increased drastically if I were put into the cage with no clothes on! This was truly terrifying. I am a basically shy person by nature. If any of the girls were to have caught a glimpse of me nude, I would have died on the spot from shame. Now in my fantasies, I was being stripped right in front of them, often by them, and then put on display for all the world to see. The bleachers in our school gym were packed with people who had come to see me tied up naked in a cage in the middle of the gym floor with a spotlight shining down on me. It was the most indescribably humiliating, frightening, unspeakable thing that I could imagine happening to me. I wanted it more than anything else. The Bad People who lived in my mind realized that it was the fear, the humiliation, the nonconsensuality of it, that was the turn-on for me, and they began to make things very unpleasant for their hapless host.
The unfettered imagination of a child is a wondrous and dangerous thing. Mine was working full steam. I would be playing with my model planes and cars, and I would imagine that there was a war between the boys and the girls. I was a fighter pilot with the Boy Air Force (though I occasionally flew dangerous reconnaissance missions too, but I digress), and after a thrilling dogfight I would inevitably get shot down behind enemy lines. Of course the girls would capture me, tie me up and drag me away to their headquarters for interrogation. Simply exposing and caging me for display was no longer enough for them; my situation was much more serious now, and I was in real trouble. Here is a bit of very important advice: If you are a normal, well-adjusted young boy and, through some Twilight-Zone type of hiccup in the spacetime continuum you wake up inside one of my boyhood fantasies, do NOT let the girls capture you. Fall down on a grenade or swallow your cyanide pill or throw youself back into the flaming wreckage of your plane if you have to. You do not want Shannon or Lisa or Shirley (especially not Shirley) to interrogate you. They will strip you and tie you up naked in a chair or to a post or on a bed or in some impossible position, and they will do things to you that will make you wish you had been born female. You will scream and beg and writhe and scream, and you will tell them anything, anything at all, to make them stop, but they won’t stop, because you are a boy, and to them boys are worthless worms whose only value is as a source of amusement in their torture chamber. And if you are sweet on a certain auburn-haired beauty who sits next to you in science class, pray that she does not take pity on you and try to rescue you. She will fail, and be caught and condemned as a traitor, and you will only watch helplessly as she is stripped nude in front of you and bound up for torture right along with you. And if you are old enough to know of such things, the girls will rope the two of you together face-to-face and make you do that thing to her, and you will do it to her no matter how much you love her, because if you don’t… I have to stop now for a moment.
My fantasies had evolved into a full-blown alphabet soup of NC BDSM Fm CBT by the time I got through grade school. I was helpless. I would get a crush on a girl, and the only thing I wanted in the world was to be gagged and chained to the wall in her basement, with her torturing me and all of her friends laughing as they watched. I had the misfortune of having a very attractive woman as a math teacher; I would dream about the things that she would do to me after school if I misbehaved in class, and I had to fight to get the images out of my mind before math class was over and I had to stand up. I wanted to know what it would really be like. When the rest of the family was out and I was home alone, the girls would break into the house and experiment on me. They tended to concentrate their attentions on my rear and especially my genitals. They would make me rest my balls on a desk or table and lay the head of a tennis raquet on top of them, or force me to kneel with my balls bound and trapped between the toilet seat and the lid. They would pile more and more weight on top, and whip my rear with my own belt while I struggled and begged. There were still a few nice girls left in my class, and my captors would often bring one or two of them along, bound and gagged and doomed, for additional entertainment. The basement became a chamber of horrors. They would tape my mouth and force me naked down the stairs, whipping and slapping me, and drag me over to the workbench. They bound my ankles together, and then I had to stand on tiptoe as they tied up my balls between the jaws of the vise. The screw would be tightened until the pain was absolutely unbearable. Then they would give the crank yet another half-turn, and laugh with delight as I screamed behind the tape and tugged at the belt twisted around my wrists behind my back and writhed in agony. Invariably I would last about ten seconds before I untwisted the belt and clawed the vise open again. I would be left standing there in the dim, silent basement alone and frustrated, wanting it to be real, wanting the mocking laughter of the girls to answer my screams as the vise tightened inexorably and their whips slashed my squirming naked body again and again, wanting my wrists and ankles to be bound for real, secured so I could not escape, could not make it stop…
I had no way of dealing with it. I could not share my feelings with anyone. I wrote my stories, illustrated them, destroyed them. I drew pictures. Some showed naked, bound girls and women being tortured and raped by men and monsters. Others showed naked, bound boys, most of whom looked more than a little like me, being tortured and raped by women and monsters. I found some old Playboy magazines and traced the lovely Vargas pinups with tracing-paper, removing lingerie, adding ropes and shackles and gags and eyes widened with fear. Sometimes I could not easily part with my images and hid them in my room. Several times my poor mother came across them and was troubled more deeply each time, fearing that her son would himself become a monster of some kind, and today I would give everything I possess to go back and shred the damned things before they caused her pain. I fell in love with a girl, became terrified that she would somehow find out what I was, and let the love drift away, a pattern that repeated itself over the years. I am reasonably attractive I think, and I have had many female friends, some of them very close, but never a truly serious relationship.
That is where I am today. My fantasy world has matured of course. The girls have become women. Their methods of torment have become more diverse and sophisticated. Their husbands and boyfriends have begun fairly recently to assist them on occasion (I am strictly heterosexual; the men’s participation simply adds another level of humiliation to some fantasies). Women I do not know are dragged screaming and thrashing into the dungeon and forced into sex with me. I do not always leave the chamber alive. I still write stories and draw pictures. There are four of the latter on my desk here now. One of them has me being very thoroughly bound to a post in a barn by three women. Another shows me on my back on a table with a woman on top of me; we are both bound with straps and belted together at the waist. Another shows me clamped to an execution device that I designed for myself but will not describe here. In the last one I am chained to the wall in a large dungeon with very heavy weights hanging from my balls; all around me are men and women bound and chained in various positions and being tortured in various ways. I wish I knew how this happened to me. What causes a person to dream of being tortured and raped to death, and find pleasure in it? I can’t bear to see people suffer in real life; why does fantasizing the torture of others turn me on so? I was never abused in any way as a child. Shannon and Lisa and Shirley (especially Shirley) were all perfectly nice girls as far as I know. My math teacher was a good woman who never kept me after school at all, never mind binding me across her desk and teaching me alternate uses for staplers and rubber bands. Am I just wired in some strange way that makes me need these things? Should my parents have taken me to see “Oliver!” instead?
I am not a monster. I have no fear of women. I enjoy their company. I love. I have other “normal” interests. I dream of being whipped, but I also enjoy being hugged. Can I explore my fantasies in real life without losing myself completely in them, unable to relate to women in any other way? I don’t know. Maybe I would like it too much. I don’t want to risk having this become the defining center of my life. But I can’t stay like this any more. I need something. I need to let my demons out to play in the open. I need to know what it’s like just to be tied and helpless, to be utterly at the mercy of someone else, with no control over my own fate. I need to know what it’s like to suffer at a woman’s hands. I need to know what it’s like to beg for mercy and be whipped or clamped or dildoed all the more severely in response. I need to know the feeling of a woman’s body struggling against mine as we are chained together nude on a torture rack, moaning and squirming, in terror of what is about to happen, wanting it desperately… Maybe I will never have any of those things, but I need to at least make contact with someone else who understands what I am feeling. But I just can’t do it. There is a regularly scheduled munch in my city, easy to get to, but I can’t get up enough nerve to go there. What if someone I know sees me? What if my friends somehow find out? Or my boss? I would die. What can I do? If anyone reading this has been in a similar dilemma and can offer me any kind of advice, I would be very grateful.
This post is too long already so I will stop here. Simply posting my confession here has made me feel a bit better already. Thank you all for letting me vent. This screen-name is of course a throwaway AOL identity, so EMail addressed to me may have nowhere to go if I panic and delete the name. I will read the NGs though.