Punching the Collector in His Eye

I had a fight with the Collector and punched him in the eye, which resulted in an even bigger confrontation.

I have never in my life hit one of my boyfriends (or anyone else for that matter) unless he specifically wanted me to in the context of an erotic encounter.  I have never hit a partner even when I was with a douchebag who deserved it, which was most of them!  I know this sounds weird coming from a professional domme, but I’m not a violent person!  The last time I hit anyone was probably my little brother when I was twelve!

The Collector has been sending me to a hypnotherapist to help me with my concentration, alcoholism, and memory recall.  He did it for several years himself and swears that it helped him.  Perhaps it did, because his ability to recall information and recite entire conversations verbatim is superlative and it really helps him at his job.  Whenever I write anything academic or professionally it looks like a library bomb exploded around my desk; most of the Collector’s citations are memorized.

My Freudian analyst was also a personal fan and I know someone else who swears it helped them stop smoking.  The Collector pays for the therapy sessions, so told myself I should try it.

“Is it going to be like a 90s daytime talk show, where the hypnotist makes you dance around with a mop thinking it’s Frank Sinatra?”  I asked him.

“No, it’s not like that at all!” he laughed.

I didn’t care for it at first.  Hypnosis is A Real Thing, but some people take to it much more easily than others.  After several sessions I did not perceive that it was doing anything for me (although the meditation aspect was relaxing…I never tried to meditate before.  Sounds too much like prayer, which is pointless to me).

“You have to practice at it.  I’ll help you,” he said.

Well, we worked on it.  We certainly did.

I have multiple concerns, but chief among them is that I do not give a shit if I never remember parts of my childhood that I don’t already remember.   If I could get most of it wiped from my brain, like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I would do so.  Happily.

As we all know, the Collector has what might be euphemistically called boundaries issues when it comes to me.   It’s difficult to talk about because obviously Tops have boundaries issues–it’s what they do.  BDSM is partially about intimacy and (in my BDSM fantasies, at least) doing stuff that would be illegal in any other context.

We did some stuff over Christmas after I got out of rehab that I haven’t posted because I’m too self-conscious and I am pretty sure that he would shit purple twinkies if he knew I was sharing with my 8 readers.

But you know him, he always wants more, more, more!

He wanted me to work on remembering the last meal I shared with my father.

“Tacos with the rest of the family at my favorite Mexican restaurant before I left for Ph.D. school,” I said.

“No.  The last meal you shared together, just the two of you.”

I pulled a blank.

“I don’t particularly want to remember this,” I said.  It was true.  I don’t want to remember this shit.

He kept pressuring me.  A few days later he brought it up again and I was in a bad mood that morning and I snapped.  I raised my voice.

“Look, Collector!  You’re not my shrink, okay?  You don’t get an all-access VIP backstage pass to everything that goes on in my head!  In my life!  I already give you 90% of what you want, sexually!  You’re so invasive!  You’re not my psychologist!”

“I’m not your psychologist…?”  He stood there, completely unruffled by my outburst.

No!  And I don’t care how many years you spent on the couch with your analyst in London!”

“I’m not?  All of this time, you thought we were just having conversations…?”

He cocked his head to the side and then did one of his signature moves that I used to think was sexy but now drives me crazy: The Collector’s smug, condescending smirk. 

WHAT!?!?  I thought, letting the implications sink in.

I walked right over to him and punched him in the eyeball.

He didn’t even step back or raise up his hands to defend himself!  I’m sure he never thought in a million years I’d do something like that!  And I did it!  I just clobbered him upside the face! And I did a pretty good job of it, too, for a girl with scrawny bird arms who never hit anyone with a closed fist and never learned how!

And I didn’t apologize!  I didn’t ask to take him to the hospital or anything!

He yelled and put his hand over his face and bent over at the waist.

I just stood there, waiting.  I was waiting too.  As soon as his hand went down, I was going to punch him again in the same place!!!!  YEAH!!!

He finally looked up at me, but didn’t take his hand off his face.  He was breathing hard.

“You should not have done that,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you!!” I yelled.

“Go to your room RIGHT NOW and stay there until I decide what to do with you,” he said.

“I’m not going to my room!”

He took his hand away, and there were tears coming out of his eye and streaming down his face.  I really got him.   His face was all red.  It was real pain.  He was breathing hard.  The way one does.

“Then go lean over the table,” he said, panting.

Now, I know what that means: it means he’s going to beat me or fuck me or both.  I have received many beatings bent over the table, both for maintenance and for punishment.

“Fuck you!  I’m not leaning over your table!”

“DO IT!”

“NO!”

Then shit got bad.  Shit got really bad, my friends.

Then he ran over to me.  I turned my back in an instinctual move to run away from him, and he put his arms around me and lifted me off the floor. 

“Go to your room or go to the table!” He screamed.  I’ve never heard him scream except for the time he broke the door down a long time ago.

The confrontation has just escalated dramatically in a heartbeat and I’m still furious but I’m also scared because I’m vulnerable.  The Collector isn’t a big man, but he’s my height and very strong.   Besides a few bad “clients” being intimidating scary dickheads, the last time I had a man impose himself on me physically was the Surgeon when he made his final house call, and we all know how that turned out.

I started flailing and kicking around and screaming at him to let me go.  I was telling myself that I needed to go for his balls, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that and I was panicking.  We are struggling, like actual struggling, this is not funny.  I was clawing at his hands.

“See now why it suits me that you’re frail?” he screamed in my ear.

Aaaaannnnddddd….another piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

I let go of his hands and starting batting at his head.  I was doing it from behind me, so there wasn’t much leverage.

He let me go and shoved me at the same time and I fell on the floor.

You might be wondering why I didn’t run for the elevator, but what was I going to do?  I was butt-ass naked.  I didn’t have my purse or my wallet or shoes.  What was I going to do?  Run naked into the street?  Like he wouldn’t have caught me before I got to the elevator anyway?  And what was I going to do, leave Abe?

It gets worse.  This is all the writing I can bring myself to do now, but there it is.


2 thoughts on “Punching the Collector in His Eye”

  1. There is a good reason why psychiatrists and clinical psychologists are subject to strict ethical rules.

    Since The Collector is neither, it is not his business to force you to revisit and disclose previous trauma as part of his power play.

    Shakespeare, as usual, gets it right.

    “Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me. You would seem to know my stops. You would pluck out the heart of my mystery. You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass. And there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak? ‘Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me. “

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.