Integration

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

A year ago I was locked in an epic moral battle with myself. An act of moral violence would ensue, and I would tear myself from the miserable fabric of unbroken mediocrity in the hopes of something, of anything. Of finally claiming a life that was my own. I was born with a station in life, and though I made much of what I was given, I still only had the things I was given. That awful, wretched winter melted into spring, and the birth of a new life, of a new me.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

But it’s not simple enough to say that I just leaped from a bad life into a good, now is it? My “resume,” as it were, was a disaster. And, alone, I was confronted with the simple reality: I was not good enough for someone to love. I was not enough.

And Mina loved me anyway.

And really, shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t it be enough that someone could find someone so undeserving as myself to truly and genuinely love? I was more than delighted to finally reach into the dark recesses of my mind and along last give a single screaming voice to the powerful urge of sexuality inside me. But, yea, I still want to be a good erson, even if I shall indulge this desire, this lust, I still want to be someone good. I want to respect her, this person that I so dearly love that I so desperately don’t deserve. But, somewhere in the recesses of my spirit, a wisp of smoke was rising, something dark, wicked in intent, and poisonous by smell.

It began with a simple spanking, then a paddle bought partly as a joke. And yes, she truly loved the burn of pain on her skin, the rise of of agony, but there were just things I wouldn’t do, because I am not like them, I am not an abuser. I will not be throwing her on the bed and whipping her with my belt without even asking if she is up for it. I will give her this joy of submission, but I will not just be using her.

But, as I am even thinking the belt is too far, the next day, I am beating her down to her knees with my belt, sapping the strength from her knees as it rushed to another clenching, wet muscle.

And I loved doing it to her.

Beating her makes me hard, it brings my cock surging forth, ready to plunge inside her. The percussion on her skin, the crack of her scream of unfiltered agony melting into perverse pleasure. I refuse to give in to this. I am not this man. And, slowly, I feel the dominance fading from our lives, turning instead into crass greed and feckless exploitation.

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

This week, I looked back into my spirit, into the dark and dusty corners, holding a single candle, shoulders hunched against the intangible evil lurking about. And there was the simple, inescapable goblin as much a part of who I am as my love of kittens and my relentlessly geekiness: I love hurting her. I am aroused by inflicting agony through insidious mind games on Mina. Mina! The same woman I love, that I wish to spend every remaining day I have in the sun with, that I fear losing more than anything, that I miss more in our time apart than I ever knew I could. This very evening, I came home exhausted mentally and physically, not up for even my usual pleasure of cooking dinner, and I found rejuvenation in pampering her, in massaging her back, shoulders, and scalp as we watched TV, in bathing her afterward. The simple acts of adoring her brings me so much vitality.

And I find vandalizing her body powerfully erotic.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

There is a new zone for Mina and I. We own two collars: one black, one pink. My darling girlfriend Mina is the only one who wears the pink collar. The black collar is worn exclusively by Slut. Slut is not my girlfriend, and she has no free will. Slut shall bear the burden of these dark urges I now call my own. I have finally come to terms with the person I am. I am a profoundly evil person.

I am a sadist.

I am a Dom.

—
Quotes from Richard III, Act 1, Scene 1