It is strange to look back on your life and try to understand how a devout Christian child could voluntarily become a slave to a sadistic BDSM Master (acronym for Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, Sadomasochism and Masochism.) My parents did not abuse or molest any of us. Certain people in our lives did molest my sisters and attempted to molest me, but no one within our home. 

To explain how I became a slave, I have to show you where the idea of tolerating pain was born and when I left God long enough to be turned. 

In Sunday School, we learned about great Christians and Missionaries suffering for the cause of Christ. They were enslaved, tortured, murdered. The book “Spartacus” and movies like “Ben Hur” showed slaves that had such grace in their service. I found that I identified more with the slaves than their Roman rulers. I did not resent the enslavement. When they beat the slave for an infraction, I found it to be like a ritual and similar to self-flagellation, like some Catholics do. A flogging was a way to restore a slave to the graces of a Master. It was their job to endure and be repentant.  

My interest in being able to tolerate a lot of pain started nobly and, interestingly enough, it started in Sunday School. The church was not responsible and we were not abused by those within our church. I broke with the church for a time and in that small window, I chose to substitute my God with an earthly Master and gave this earthly man my body, mind, and will.

Over the years, I imagined myself as a slave or martyr. I would ask myself if I would be able to endure whatever was inflicted on me. Whenever I played sports, or did anything hard, I tried to work on my endurance of pain. My pain tolerance got pretty good. When I would feel pain, I would just suck it up. 

During my senior year of high school, I met a guy named Todd Bennet in Taylors, SC through my work. He was intense and introduced me to my sexual side but we never had sex. We would make out and he would explain in detail what was happening to my body. He explained why when he touched my breast, the nipple would get hard. He explained why when he would touch other places, I got wet and why being wet was that would help when I was ready to have sex. He did not rush me, but he also showed me BDSM images and told me how beautiful he found women in bondage. His favorite picture was a man who looked like him holding three chains that led to three women in metal collars and negligee. Somehow when he would hold me down to touch me, I felt less guilt than when I was free to move. I knew this behavior was not appropriate for a good Christian girl.

Unbeknownst to me, I’d had a natural tolerance against pain since my childhood. Later in life, a chiropractor told me I’d broken my back when I was around 8. I severely burned both hands over a stove and didn’t feel the heat. I walked on a broken foot for a month. I cannot say if this was because of my mental conditioning as a child or if I have some nerve disorder that stops me from feeling pain the normal way. But either way, my high pain tolerance made me able to endure pain in the dungeon years later. 

After high school, I moved to Ohio and worked at the IRS processing center during tax season and got a job at an amusement park in the summer.  I found a church group I liked until one day I got kicked out.  

The church I had been attending had asked me to leave because I allowed some teenage girls to talk to me and tell me about a man in the church who was trying to molest them and they asked me what being drunk felt like. I was so hurt when the pastor and his wife sat me down. And even when I explained that they had a pedophile in the church, they said that addressing any of that was up to their parents and not me. That it was inappropriate for a woman in her 20s to talk to teenagers about sex and alcohol. Maybe they were right, but I was hurt and angry that they would endanger their children — and shun me for trying to help. 

I never found out what happened to the church and if the kids were okay. After that, I gave up on going to church and my relationship with God has been fragile in the best of times since then.

At the amusement park, I met the man who would introduce me into the BDSM life. He rented a kiosk in the park and I was applying for a job. He started flirting with the girl I was walking with. She was well underage and was too distracted to notice. I ended up getting the job and he became my “trainer.” He complimented my “teachable” attitude. One day as we ate lunch in the employee cafeteria, he began to question me about my submissive behavior and asked if I’d ever fantasized about being raped. I admitted yes, I had. Nothing much else was said.

There was a creepy man that worked at the park who liked to stalk us in the park and follow some of us home. So when my boss came to town (he lived in another state) and suggested staying at my apartment rather than a hotel, I felt safer saying yes. The first few times he slept over were non-sexual. Nothing raised any red flags or made me feel uneasy. He was just a house guest, which was nice since I was a 21-yr old virgin. 

One trip he arrived with an extra duffel bag. He left it unzipped in the bedroom but did not say anything. I saw restraints, paddles, floggers and other things that I did not recognize. We went to work that day as usual and came home later. But one morning, I came out of the shower in my robe and when I walked past him, he said I had done something wrong and that he needed to punish me. He pulled me over his lap and spanked me through the robe. I did not resist or cry. He pulled the robe up and spanked me on my bare butt. He kept spanking until I made a sound which was several minutes later. Then he stopped and reached between my legs and using his fingers he gathered my wetness and showed me. He said “your body likes this, that means you do too.”  I believed him and thanked him when he said to thank him. I cleaned up and finished getting ready for work. What happened was just something that happened, and I did not mention it or dwell on it. I just went to work.

A few days later he had the contents of the duffle bag out. He began telling me what each item was and gave me a swat with each to feel how different they were. He used the leather cuffs to restrain me to the clothing rod in my closet. He introduced me to pain, sensual torture, but no sex. This man knew my background and explained it was not a sin for a slave to submit to her Master. He had some Bible verse taken way out of context to back it up. I was so mad at the church and God that I allowed myself to be convinced. 

Then came the night he took my virginity. I had told him about the creepy man and he was teasing me about what I would do if the man broke into my apartment. He pinned me to the bed and pulled my legs up to my chest. I was wearing a skirt and panties. He had a habit of doing a “dip test” to see if I was enjoying what he was doing. My words were not convincing. The more scared he made me and tighter he restrained me with his own body, the wetter I got. This turned him on and he said it was time. He laid on me and moved my panties and entered me. I was in pain and crying on the verge of screaming. He put the side of hand in my mouth like a gag and told me to bite if I had to but not to scream. I obeyed and he took my virginity. This was the beginning.

He owned me, shared me, and ultimately gave me to another more devout Master who gave me to an even more sadistic and devout Master which led me here. Each trained me according to their specific wants and needs and each time I learned and obeyed. When people ask if I enjoy the pain, I can’t answer. My body likes what is happening. My mind likes that I can endure. My ego likes the “good girl” or “I am proud of you” comments I earn. So no, I have no idea if I like it or not, but I do know I miss it.