Last week Mother asked me more about my D/s life and some of the specific things I am, uh, “made to do.”
For those new to my life, two years ago I came out to her, first about my bisexuality and my lesbian relationship with Amanda, then about my submissiveness and D/s lifestyle. It was admittedly an unusual seasonal cocktail — my first confession at Thanksgiving, my second at Christmas — a holiday one-two punch. Amanda, proof of the first part, was there for the second part, and wooed my mother into surprising acceptance of everything.
I think that in the years following my father’s death, my mother, although feeling deep loss, has also come to a new freedom. I don’t know what all that entails, nor do I need to know, but I believe Mom’s acceptance of me (of me and Amanda, and of me under Amanda) has much to do with her awareness that the man she was married to was quite restrictive morality and especially narrow in the area of sexuality. She herself wanted more and “other” — or so I surmise. I don’t know that she has anyone in her life now, much less her own Christian Grey, but at the very least, she seems to have curiosities about my alternative life and to a degree lives vicariously through me.
And so she asks me, “How does Amanda tie you up? You know, take control of you?”
This would be humorous if it were someone else and someone else’s mother, and if I weren’t in the squeamish position of deciding how much to tell her about the heated intimacies of my slave life. Telling her “Amanda makes me go topless and has me wear jingle bells from my pierced nipples” is one thing. Telling her that Amanda shares me with two other men is quite another.
I think mother probably still holds to a morality of monogamy, accepting the lesbian and D/s elements of my life because I am the “wife,” in her sensibility, of “husband” Amanda. To her, per the Bible, a husband should have one wife, and vice versa. Given that’s how Mother imagines Amanda and me, it’s really okay in “Mom-theology” for Amanda to do whatever she darn well pleases to me. (I’m not sure what Mom does with the so-called biblical teachings against homosexuality that Father frequented spouted, but she never really was much on board with those sermons, as I recall.)
In any case, I’m guessing that, for my mother, monogamy is still a pillar of civilization, so I avoid mention of the fact that I am on a regular basis servicing two men about once a month. That might not fly, I’m guessing. Amanda, the Woo queen might be able to sell it to her someday — Mom thinks Amanda is wonderful — but if I mentioned it, I’m sure mother would disapprove. To her, thinking of me as a lesbian submissive to Amanda is thrilling but to think of me as a promiscuous slut would be deplorable.
Another area I avoided in conversation with her was corporal punishment. For me it conjures recollections of being spanked as a girl, not frequently but, let’s just say, memorably. And it reminds me that as an adult woman I was spanked not so many weeks ago by Master McKenna. Actually Mother would like the spanking part, one of the fifty shades perhaps, and maybe even the idea of a debonair man pulling me across his lap, but then not so much the idea that I am a slave to more than one person which, again, makes me a slut. This gets so convoluted…
So, pressed by her, I manage to sort through this and volunteer a few things. Amanda really isn’t so much about bondage, which mother actually gets into. Mistress A is far more about public display, which I think would be troubling to mother. So, I avoid the BBQ party and being made bare-breasted in front of trash men. How do you explain that? Again — conversations you should never have to have with one’s mother. But I have to tell her something…
Not sure it was a wise choice, but I tell her about the wet bar.
“So,” mother says, reprising my explanation, “you’re stretched over the bar and your breasts are hanging on the other side, and she sits there and places her wine glass on your bare back? Doesn’t it topple over and make a mess?”
Somehow in my naked bondage mother finds tidiness important.
“Yes, my back is the surface,” I say. “It’s up to me not to move or breathe too deeply so there is no spillage.” (Yes, I used the word “spillage.”)
She wants to know how my ankles are secured to the wet bar and I tell her about the eye bolts and shackles. “And your arms, where do they go?” I tell her they are stretched to either side of me and bolted to the wet bar as well. I watch her face as the mental picture of me forms in her mind, which gives me a little twinge of horror, and, yes, somehow she makes the observation that my body then bears the image of a cross.
I certainly don’t want to go to unholy images of me as a crucifix, so I try to change the subject. “Amanda also makes me scrub the kitchen floor,” I say, “while I’m naked. Well, sometimes with a short skirt on.”
“So she uses you for cleaning. That’s good.”
Somehow, as we’re talking about my utter debasement and sexual disgrace, my mother finds virtue in keeping a spotless floor. Through her eyes, my whole life is summed up by a sudsy, slippery roll on the slick kitchen floor and a bright yellow bottle of Mr. Clean.
For a hot funny minute I imagine my mother as a D/s slave. She would drive Christian Grey nuts. He’d tie her to a bed and she’d make a comment about dust collecting in the corner of the ceiling.
I think she’d have to be a service slave.