Lauren Wissot spent years in a Master/slave relationship before she realised consensual play had morphed into abuse.
I love being a slave. I love the freedom inherent in giving oneself over to another. There’s a simple beauty in losing control, in returning to a childlike state of no responsibility, when all needs are taken care of by someone else. It allows a nearreligious exploration of the most taboo fantasies within a consensual context. I’ve known slaves who liked to get punched and kicked, pissed and shat on – and none of this is abuse when the slave has given total consent. It’s not the behaviour, but the willingness to engage in that behaviour that’s the key.
My childhood was fairly uneventful. No traumatic losses, no abuse of any sort. In other words, I’m the last person I would think could be abused. So when I met David, a gorgeous stripper whose need for power matched my own need to relinquish control, I thought I’d tasted heaven. Willingly I gave him my mind and body, and he took my heart as well.
I spent nearly six years with him. I will love him till the day I die, as I’m sure he’ll love me. But one of the many things I’ve learned is that love can’t heal wounds so deep you forget you weren’t born with them.
David was not lucky enough to have the uneventful childhood that I did. David’s desire to be a master was a direct result of his running from abuse. I knew all this fairly early on, but I also believed David had mastered the art of keeping what he called his “black devil” in line. Both bodybuilder and workaholic, David was nothing if not disciplined. Until he wasn’t.
David had always been moody and manic (and the steroids and crazy hours he kept as a stripper didn’t help), but I could always fall back on the fact that I was ‘only’ his American slave. He lived in an open marriage in Montreal and I only saw him every six weeks or so. His problems were his and his wife’s to deal with. Or so I thought.
That’s the thing about people with “black devils” living inside them. They can have the most beautiful, sparkling souls, most caring paternal instincts, most generous and giving natures – but when the darkness appears like a tornado, it sucks everything into its void. I can still remember my moment of realisation, when I saw David like the small wizard behind the giant curtain. I was on my knees worshipfully before him when he struck me across the face so hard I fell over onto the carpet.
“Mercy!” I screamed, which was my safe word (used to let the dominant partner know the submissive wants to stop). But David only menacingly raised his hand again. “Don’t you dare cry mercy!” he yelled. “If you cry mercy, I’ll hit you again! I know your limits.” And after so many years, he did indeed know my limits. That’s why I suddenly became so afraid for my life. David knew I wouldn’t submit to being slapped across the face – and he didn’t care. Not only that, but he’d taken away my right to use a safe word, meaning I could no longer deny my consent. In other words, he’d finally lost control; not just of me, but, more importantly, of himself.
It was the beginning of the end. The part of David that longed to cause unimaginable pain would not go away unless he dealt with his past. It could only be restrained like a vicious dog on a leash. Everyone’s limits are different. Whether their most hardcore fantasy is being put over someone’s knee and spanked, or something much darker, each person has a point beyond which they won’t be pushed. Beyond that, it’s abuse.
Lauren Wissot is a film critic and journalist, filmmaker and programmer.
