Kevin-bonding

Amanda and I have had a couple of conversations about Kevin. This has been prompted by one of the items on my “do and be” list in which I expressed my desire to be with him again. Our lists aren’t supposed to be wishful thinking, and Kevin is precisely that for me, so I expected Amanda to say so. But she didn’t.

What ultimately ended things with Kevin more than a year ago was his involvement with a woman friend, a relationship that became quite serious. I wrote about them here and also here.

For newer followers, I should probably explain that several years ago Amanda and Kevin jointly owned me as their slave; later I was gifted to Kevin as an escort of sorts. Kevin was never “mine” in a romantic sense and I was happy for him to have found a romantic someone other. (OK, yes, I was a little jealous.)

My understanding is that they got engaged to be married, then sometime last year broke it off, yet still are seeing each other. I don’t know what that means or what their current status is.

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My inclusion of Kevin on my list has nothing to do with his status or that relationship with his woman friend. I didn’t intend my list entry to be “practical” or actionable. Or maybe I did, kinda, sorta. But I don’t consider him available to me, and it’s not like that for me anyway— that is, to be angling for him. Not my place to even think that way. Besides, I’m a sub-slave with her hands and other parts full (if I were not the one unavailable in Pennsylvania). I told Amanda I didn’t expect something to be done, but just needed to acknowledge on my list that I think of Kevin often and I miss him in a D/s kind of way.

Well, Amanda and I talked about Kevin. And, in the process our conversation became about something more.

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I have never been able to express adequately how I become bonded to dominant men. This bond is not a romantic emotion, nor is it purely a sexual desire. The best I can express it is as an emotional yearning and a poignant body-memory that makes me long for how I was once done by a man who possessed me.

I do not believe that dominant men feel the same bonding with me, and I don’t expect they should. I really don’t consider myself to be a dom’s “significant other” — I know I really am not. A dom possibly has other submissives and certainly has other non-sub women whom he might romantically attach to. So my bonding, my emotional yearning for a man’s particular dominance of me, is one-way, not reciprocated. I accept that what I feel for any of my doms is one-sided and appropriately unrequited. A slave yearns and a dom uses — it’s as it should be, and I have no complaints about that.

But what no one tells you is that you still are bonded to him and feel this bonding long after it’s over. You carry this longing in your body as if he impregnated you with it and left town.

I think the gist of it is that when you’ve been taken by a dominant man, used by him, and made to serve him beyond your personal dignity, something happens inside you, a kind of emotional alchemy. Being defiled by a man is a profoundly intimate experience, more and other than sex with him. It’s his uncovering of your worst possibilities. It’s his disrobing the shames you will commit for him because of your deep submissive need. It’s his awareness of not only the extremes you have done but also the further disgraces you will do because you’re submissively insatiable.

His knowing you this way changes you. Bonds you to him. Later, in absentia, you find yourself craving the man who has transformed you into the slut you are.

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In the sequence of my slaveries, I became bonded to my first owner, Michael, then to Kevin, and now to Master McKenna. They each have watched my desperate submissiveness, led me into degradation, and observed me undressing my dignity before them. They each have enjoyed my struggle for respectability in the midst of my depravity.

You see, any deep D/s experience goes beyond leashes and collars and somehow touches your soul. We think of carnality — the sins of the flesh — on the opposite end of a straight line from the spiritual purity of godliness. Polar opposites. But I have come to think that they actually follow along the line of a circle and ultimately the two ends meet.

This is perhaps the uniqueness of my bond with Kevin. He had a physicality to him that quietly became a spirituality. He had a way of reducing me to carnal, throbbing flesh while making it touch the spiritual in me.

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Kevin’s dominant style with me always had a visceral physicality. A former construction worker, he maintained a kind of body strength even in his executive roles. It wasn’t just brute strength but also the know-how of leveraging weights and balancing loads and moving masses of supplies from one place to another. Kevin could lift me easily and deftly splat me down onto a padded bondage horse. I was all wobbly breasts and fleshy thighs but may as well have been a load of lumber. He wouldn’t lay me gently down but drop me, knowing precisely the load that was me, how far I would fall without injury, how my breasts would thud into the leather and my naked thighs smack onto the pads. This manhandling of me was one of his unique signatures and took my breath away, literally and figuratively.

But it’s more of course, and on to my point — my experience with Kevin was also spiritual. I wrote about times with him in his garage as he tinkered with his truck. He’d have me half naked on a stool in the garage with him. He wouldn’t speak, there was silence, and I was just a quiet sexual presence in his space. I knew he loved his truck more than me; he used us both. His tinkering with his Ford was a kind of worship of its craftsmanship, and I found a similar spirituality in being the object of his sexual dominance.

Kevin, of course, trained me to provide him blowjobs on demand, impromptu, and I was used by him at home and in his truck constantly over a period of months. He made me into a cock-slut, one of those “worst possibilities” about yourself that you’d never know unless a man made you. Most often, my blowjob of him was in the morning early, before he went to work. For him, I was regular, like his morning shave, and just as mundane, which I loved. For me, this became a moment of quiet devotion, as spiritual as meditation, perhaps deepened and enhanced because I could not speak — my mouth was so occupied.

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And then, of course, there was the special experience of bound sex with him. Kevin would tie me bent over the leather horse, face and breasts flatted down. His ties were tight — my arms, legs, torso belted snug to the horse. My legs straddled the round of the horse at the end, and my ass extended just past the edge, making my pussy and anus open and available to him. He used both, entering and exiting me at will.

Bound sex is a unique experience with any dominant, as it makes you incapable of anything except to be used. I am there, of course, out of my own consent, but once in it, nothing is really consensual. There are safe words and signals, but I don’t use them even though at times I wonder if I want to. Part of the extraordinary experience of bound sex is this ambiguity, just as a man is entering you with himself.

Kevin was quiet in these times, and words were distracting to him. He sometimes ballgagged me for that reason, taking away one of my attributes. His business was to use my body, apart from meaning and sensibility. He liked that, over time, my ballgag would generate much saliva from my mouth, which would pool thickly around my face pressed against the leather of the horse. It was a further reduction of me to the functions of my body. I became pure flesh, used.

In bondage sex, everything you feel is magnified, doubled or tripled because you cannot do anything other, choose anything other, feel anything other. Kevin would push his fat cock into me, and it would be violating and glorious at the same time. His firm restraints so tightly binding me, tamped down the spasms of my orgasm, not repressing it but extending my shudders longer, making my ecstasy a novel instead of a short story.

With Kevin, at a point, the intensities of the flesh become a spiritual nirvana. The circle of flesh and soul completes. After, he’d leave me there used and dripping, in solemn repose, like a penitent remaining long after the mass has ended.

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Amanda and I talked about all this, about Kevin being this way for me, about the nature of my bonding to him. It wasn’t a new conversation for us — she knows how he has imprinted me like with a tattoo — yet in the discussion new things came out.

I don’t think she knew my bonding to him had persisted so strongly more than a year later. I don’t think she understood before this how everyone I am shared with submissively has this potential of bonding me to them. (This got into our “do and be” list items regarding polyamory and her future sharing of me… but more on that in other posts.) The take-home point was that I am affected by everyone I am used by to any significant extent. A year later, I am still so bonded to them.

Regarding Kevin, there is not much Amanda can do. I told her again I didn’t expect her to. It has to be his call, his desire, to pull me back into him. And even then there are logistics. Even were I to be in Colorado, he lives some five hours away from us. Amanda might be willing now to share me with him once again, but that takes a lot of time out of my schedule. Meanwhile, Amanda is wishing to do more with the “neighborhood at hand.”

And so, anything more with Kevin isn’t likely. Which makes me sad.

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In D/s, we sometimes make the mistake of seeing leashes and collars and all the rest as the actual thing. In fact, they are mere symbols of the inner reality. I am bound to someone internally by need and conditioning and the event of being taken, and my collar symbolizes it.

Kevin has bound me to him, an internal collar that he’s locked shut. And he’s walked away with the key.

I will always wear him.