“I want you naked by the front door.”
Part III of the Bad Polyamory Story
This is the chapter of my Polyamory story that I don’t want to write. I am embarrassed that I was taken in, manipulated, and pushed into a relationship not true to who I was or am. I had enough knowledge about BDSM and power exchange relationships to tell myself and people around me that I knew what I was doing. The apparent truth now is the man behind the curtain held power and knowledge that he used to push and pull me into being his sub.
The push and pull started after my strange mall date. He began to bombard me with text messages night and day. Some were questions, some were pictures that would shock me, and I’d quickly delete them from my phone due to fear of anyone seeing them. Some were stories of his experiences with polyamory. Others were declarations of randomness. He was using a tact, the narcissist often uses; Love bombing me.
While working a particularly awful shift, he texted me, “I consider myself a Daddy Dom.” This text felt like he was answering a question I did not ask.
Instead of responding, I went to deal with the latest emergency. While trying to pretend to be a competent person, my brain kept floating back to Daddy Doms and the Littles they were paired with. I had seen a documentary about a 55-year-old woman who considered herself a little. She wore frilly little girl dresses, spoke with a lisp of a 4-year-old, colored in nonadult coloring books, and liked to drink out of juice boxes while her “daddy” read to her from children’s books. I wanted none of that, and it freaked me out a lot.
When I was done with the emergency, I texted back, “I am not a little. I am not even sure I am a sub.” After that text, I thought this relationship would be done, and I did not look at my phone for several hours.
When I got done with work, I got my nerve up to look at my phone. He had texted back, “I consider myself a Daddy Dom because I like carrying for people. I don’t need people to be a certain way.” After reading the words, I breathed a sigh of relief and agreed to spend part of a day together in my house. The irony of the phrase being a complete and total lie is not lost on me now.
He texted the morning of that planned day, “By 2 pm — I want you to kneel by the door with no clothing and the front door unlocked.” I found his text message terrifying and a major turn-on.
I had myself in position and naked by 1:54 pm. As I was trying to deal with my knees killing me, it occurred to me that I had not planned this well. If he showed up and murdered me, no one would know for at least three days. Keith Morison from dateline started narrating my untimely death in my head, “She put her trust in someone she met on the internet.”
Interrupting Keith, he showed up on the dot at 2 pm, being on time for the first and last time ever. Hearing him get out of his car, I briefly contemplated running into my room but told myself that this was what I wanted. I wanted a dom, and I wanted to be his sub.
He had me off my knees quickly and took what felt like an inspection of my body. My fear that this would end up on dateline decreased, and I began to feel drugged. I would later learn that entering this space with him did become like a drug. It would also result in my losing ability to function or make good choices.
That afternoon at my house quickly developed into a pattern of him beating the shit out of me until I could not take it anymore and then delivering some mind-blowing intense orgasms. This was not my first experience with BDSM, but his manner was different. It was intense and something I could and did get lost in. Another pattern emerged; similar to his text, He would talk at me in-between beatings.
“I don’t have a large penis,” he told me as I lay with my head on his lap. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. What does one say to that? It occurred to me that I was very, very naked, and he hadn’t taken off any of his clothing or taken out his penis once. This was his way of keeping me off balance. I was open and vulnerable to him, and he was walled up and protected.
After a different break in activity, he talked me to at length about what influenced his BDSM relationship style. “It’s called Gorean.” He offered like he was talking about his favorite flavor of ice cream.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s modeled after a book series about an imaginary world where most women are sex slaves. And the sex slaves were the only happy ones because they found freedom in submission.” He said like he was telling a 5-year-old a story.
He could have pulled out a box of red flags and done a magical dance showing me how bad of a choice I was making at this moment, but instead, I asked him another stupid question.
“Have you read the whole series?”
“I haven’t read any of them.” He responded with a tone that it would be silly to have read books he based his relationships on.
Abruptly he got up and started to pack up. I felt like the air was being sucked out of me, and I felt unsure about what I had just done.
He noticed my reaction and reminded me that he,
“I need to get back to my house before Tinker Bell arrives.” I had forgotten that he had agreed to come to my house in-between when his wife left to be with her boyfriend and when his other girlfriend would show up at his house; thus, we were on a timeline. He kissed me for the first time and bit my lip so hard it bled a little as he left.
