Heinrich Dominates Margo

It was the second night of my tour to San Francisco, and after thirteen sessions I was emotionally drained and exhausted.  Thirteen sessions is a LOT of BDSM.  Some of the sessions were very physical, and I was spotted with bruises even though I hadn’t been subbing (domination and fetish only).  I was still fucked up emotionally from Therapist Jung, and I’d just completed a session that involved publicly humiliating a client in the bar of the W Hotel in Union Square.

I was begging Heinrich to dominate me.  Usually I don’t feel sexual after a long day’s work at all–so much of my energy goes to my clients, and coping with their eroticism–but now, this moment, I needed something.  I felt afraid and out of control.  I felt all alone.  I felt like my clients were making me crazy.  I kept wondering if Therapist Jung was right, and my sexuality made me a sick person.  Thinking about my sexuality made me feel sexual.  I felt like I was going to act out–get on Craigslist and find a date, or go hunting at the hotel bar.

Heinrich to the rescue.  He talked me through it.  He did it in the middle of the night, too, and he had to be at work early in the morning.

His English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the right words.

“You are a weak, docile, small female animal!  Weak little prey for any man who walks along.  I should take you back out to the country.  You can serve me and my friends after we have been walking in the fields all day.”

I was kneeling in front of my computer in my black cocktail dress, still decked out from my session at the W Hotel bar.  He had me on the floor.  Heinrich doesn’t usually let his subs use the furniture.

“You are good for that.  Tending to us and meet-ink the needs.  You really are an obedient child and a well-trained servant.”

The wave of emotion that came upon me was overwhelming.  Maybe it was just catharsis after two hard days of sessioning out of a hotel suite.  Maybe it was all the second-guessing of myself I’d been doing for Therapist Jung.

Maybe it was just feeling like I was seen.   Seen and recognized and accepted for what I am.

(I really was an obedient, submissive daughter.  I did everything that was asked of me, and I was calm, and never resisted.  I worked hard, was responsible and dutiful. I don’t understand why my obedience never earned me the love of my parents.)

I started to cry, right there on Skype, on the floor of my hotel suite, in front of my computer screen.  Great hitching breaths, tears running down my face.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized.

“Nein!  You are a beautiful submissive woman, and what you have, for the offering, is very rare.  Your future husband should be keeping you in a closet, and beat you every day.  You need leading.  Like” he flapped his hand, trying to think of the word, “anchor.”

I was sobbing, yes, just sobbing on the Skype.  And, readers, you know I never cry.  Honestly, I cry maybe 6 times a year.  Ten times at most.

“You need some pain to focus you.  I am sorry, that I cannot do it myself.  Do you have the wood paddle?”

I sniffled: “Yes.”

“Bring it, please.”

I went to get my nice heavy wooden paddle.   I showed it to him on Skype.

“You need to take the pain where you have no wish.  Hit on the tits.  Five is good.”

Heinrich knows that I hate to be hurt on my breasts.  It’s a big deal for me.  Usually, I don’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends, and I definitely don’t let men touch my nipples.  The Surgeon could, but he’s about it.

Well, I smacked my breasts five times, with the paddle, for Heinrich.  And it hurt, and I have mild bruising.

“Sehr gut!  Wonderbar!” 

And that was the session.  I don’t know how to end this blog post.

 


11 thoughts on “Heinrich Dominates Margo”

  1. There’s little a book by the psychiatrist R.D. Laing, published in the 1970s. It’s called ‘Knots’, and it’s about the mental knots that people tie themselves up in and try to unpick when they are in therapy.

    Your piece reminded me forcibly of Laing and his book. So I wrote this, in the same vein.

    “I am a masochist.

    Masochism is sick and shameful, so I am ashamed and I feel bad.

    That which is sick and shameful should be punished, therefore I should be punished.

    He punishes me, and I feel better.

    Therefore I am a masochist.”

  2. “You need some pain to focus you.” That´s it, and that´s what people like your Jungian can´t (/won´t) understand. Pain is catharsis, pure and concentrated, and for those who can’t free themselves of their burdens in other ways, it’s so SO important. Sometimes you can talk it out or cry it out or shout it out or sweat it out or whatever. But other times, when things are so fucked up inside you that nothing works, pain is the best therapy.

    My most powerful experience was when I was going through a very long, really bad break-up, stuck in a loop of arguing and resentment and unsaid things that had built up inside for a bunch of years – and I couldn’t get out. So I asked a good friend for help, and it was the most intense experience of my life. I was so numb, inside and out, that the pain didn’t even seem to register – until it broke through the numbness and it was as if I had broken a dam. It was clarity, and it was catharsis, and it was wonderful.

    1. This is a wonderful comment, and I’m going to return to it several times, at least. Much food for thought.

      Pain is SO many things…but yes, catharsis is at the top of the list. It’s also transformative. Changes the emotional and mental states, and also the body, with the marks on the skin, and the lasting soreness. It’s like a tiny journey, too. You go through it, and it takes courage and fortitude, even if it’s just a hard spanking. If people like Therapist Jung were not such conservative reactionary morons, they’d grasp the (OH, THE IRONY! A JUNGIAN MISSING THE SYMBOLISM!) symbolic meaning. Joseph Campbell could tell you (us) all about it.

      Enduring that experience, coming through it, is good for character-building. My masochistic clients feel like CHAMPS after a session, like they’d just climbed Mt. Everest or something…(that makes the idea that I abuse and degrade them just that more absurd). I’m usually not big on the “suffering breeds character” bandwagon, I think that that’s religious bullshit and it mostly just degrades the soul, but when you CHOOSE it and go through it and overcome it, yeah, I think it adds something to your internal power. I take pride in the fact that I am not afraid of pain. Not sayin I want to be laid up in the hospital after a car crash or dying of cancer for six months, but in general…not afraid of pain. And so many people are phobic of it.

      That’s all for now. Again, thanks for this great comment, and thanks for reading! xo

  3. (I really was an obedient, submissive daughter. I did everything that was asked of me, and I was calm, and never resisted. I worked hard, was responsible and dutiful. I don’t understand why my obedience never earned me the love of my parents.)

    For some reason this did my head in, so I reduced it to its essential ‘knot’ form.

    I want my parents to love me. I want their nurture and their approval.

    In order to earn their love I must be obedient and submissive. I must not be me. I must be the person they want me to be.

    I am obedient and submissive and I try so hard to be what they want me to be. But still they do not love me. So I try harder.

    The harder I try, the less I am me, and the more I am not me.

    And still they do not love me.

    But even if they did love me, they would not be loving me. They would be loving the not-me that I have created in order to earn their love.

      1. Relatively early on in therapy, I was told that children don’t “earn” their parents’ love; parental love is unconditional. That did my head in because it was not my experience. Parental love not only had to be earned, it could be revoked at any time for any perceived infraction. (I was never physically punished, but learned to do it myself.)

        It’s horribly unfair that children have to experience that. Life’s not fair, but still. I’m sorry that you went through that.

        1. Sorry for this tardy response, Random Canuck;

          One of the greatest (and most harmful) myths in our society is that all parents love their children. It’s complete bullshit. A LOT of parents don’t love their children (or, to be at least a little charitable, CAN’T love their children). A LOT.

          Children are almost completely disenfranchised. Their legal status is only somewhat better than animals. They have almost no rights….just basic human rights and a handful of welfare laws. They are, essentially, little slaves.

          Any dumb, cruel, unworthy, irresponsible, selfish, exploitive, addict can make his or her own little slave, at will. And most of them do.

          I cannot, for the life of me, understand why my mother chose to have a baby with my father (or marry him, for that matter) except that, possibly, she was in her mid 30s and REALLY wanted a family. Nor can I understand why she surrendered me to him, knowing him as she did. Like, you couldn’t even tolerate this abusive sociopath for a year, but you gave me to him? Your first-born, and only daughter?

          I would have shot him, gone to prison for 10 years, and left my baby with my brother to raise.

          Sorry for this rambling comment. Scotch, yes, this is why I drank it.

          1. No need to apologize for taking time to comment, or for supposedly rambling. I’m always interested in what you have to say.

            You’re right about the myth of parental love, and that a lot of parents don’t or can’t love their children. What’s sad is that there are also lots of parents who do love their kids and try to do right by them, but don’t like their kids a lot of the time. And it shows. They snap at them, or ignore them, or make snarky comments; kids still pick up on that kind of thing.

            (Or they get mad and grab the kid’s arm and jerk them around, that kind of thing.)

            I wonder how much of that has to do with little girls being given baby dolls, etc. They look cute and you can hold them and rock them and they never cry or shit or wake you at 3am. By the time people figure out what having a child is really like, it’s too late and they’re stuck with one.

            Kids are little slaves, absolutely. And as long as they’re relatively clean, fed, and dressed, with few visible injuries, nobody will ever check how they’re treated at home. My sister and I were the housekeepers, and I was essentially my mother’s caretaker from about 13 on. That was considered perfectly acceptable; after all, my mother and her sister were the housekeepers too. It’s like indentured servitude, actually; it was always hung over our heads how much money was spent on us.

            It’s funny (and not ha-ha funny) how anyone can get a tiny human to do with as they will for 16+ years.

          2. Hi, Random Canuck! TY for your comment

            “My sister and I were the housekeepers, and I was essentially my mother’s caretaker from about 13 on. That was considered perfectly acceptable; after all, my mother and her sister were the housekeepers too. It’s like indentured servitude, actually; it was always hung over our heads how much money was spent on us.”

            I can really relate to this: “It was always hung over our heads how much money was spent on us.”

            I was always acutely aware that the house I was living in wasn’t mine and that none of “my” things were actually “mine.” It gave me a complex–the opposite of entitlement, I guess. It messed with my head. I swear to God, I would have been happy to never get a gift after about 9 years old (and my parents never spoiled me or lavished me with anything, I’m talking about basic things, like small birthday gifts or school clothes). I was made to feel like any expenditure on myself was an imposition or a heroic sacrifice or some act of generosity. As an adult, in retrospect, one thing that sticks in my craw is that there are poor families who don’t do this to their kids, even though they have almost no resources. My parents were the upper crust of the working class: there was a (modest) amount of disposable income (at least until Franz lost control over his gambling addiction…but that happened much later in my life).

            When I was 13, and it could no longer be avoided, my mother took me shopping for training bras and repeatedly complained about the cost. An already-awkward/nervous experience was just turned into a shame-fest. As if the development of my body, which was natural and which everyone could see coming, was an imposition. And she seemed so ANGRY about it. And what did it cost, honestly, at the time–plain cotton bras to wear to school? 3 bras for $40 total AT MOST? Probably $30 in those days!

            I swear, if I ever have a daughter, when she gets old enough to go bra shopping, I am going to take her to a nice department store and get her the best bras and probably go bra shopping with her (for a bra myself), so that she can learn all about bras. Unless she doesn’t want me to–in that case, I’ll give her some money and let her decide what she wants herself.

            Sorry, this comment turned into something more about me than you…it was just my train of thought.

            Re: baby dolls….no clue. I just had a Barbie and a Raggedy Anne. A Cabbage-Patch (I’m dating myself). I do think it’s interesting that little boys get no “Vater Mutter Kind” (play house?) toys, as women do.

            Thanks for your comment and thanks for reading, as always.

            Margo

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