Paradoxical Part II: A New Ending

So what do we do with our heroic narrative if it usurped by submission? By the fact that our tormentor is the one we love? What do we do to resolve the conflict, to present a close to the story that is our scene? Where is the moment of crisis? Where is the crescendo? Where does it all come together? The normal heroic narrative requires us to overcome our debasement and suffering, not revel in it.

For instance, take “Lethal Weapon.” Naked Mel Gibson is chained to a shower head which pours water over his body. He is tortured by Mr. Joshua and Endo (played by ’80s action character actor Al Leong.) Voltage is coursed through his body, his muscles tighten and relax as he is electrified, over and over again, when not being beaten. At the end of the torture, Our Hero is strung up, limp, beaten. “Take him outside, Endo,” says the antagonist.

And then! And then, Our Hero springs to life, wraps his legs around Endo’s neck and then snaps his head to the left, leaving him dead. He pulls himself free to wreak murderous vengeance on the bad guys.

That’s how it ends in movies. But I’m a submissive masochist — there is no cathartic murder at the end of my torture — the one hurting me is the one who loves me. There is no bloody vengeance, no reckoning where I make my will known by writing it in blood across the silver screen. In effect, I am part of a torture scene with no conclusion, no moment of release, no denouement.

Right?

I say there is another way to end the scene. I say that our heroism can be taken and turned to other uses. Our survival — our struggle — as submissive masochists funneled into another, different ending to the narrative.

Imagine:

My wife has me tied to a pair of boards crossed like an “x”. Rough hemp secures my wrists and ankles to the wood. I am naked. She tortures me with belt, flogger, crop, and switch, until my body is madman’s scribbling of welts and bloody gashes. She punches my arms, smacks my face, pulls my hair. She bleeds me with a knife, burns me with hot wax and candle flame, clamps my cock and nipples, and chokes me with my collar, pulling on it so I can’t breath.

In the beginning, I thought this was about information, but it’s not - she has me in a ballgag half of the time. Even if I wanted to talk, to give up the secret I think she wants, I couldn’t, because she has me gagged until she decides she wants to hear my cries.

“Break,” she says. “Break for me.”

Never, I say.

“You’re so strong. You’re so tough. You’ve nothing left to prove. But…there is nowhere for you to run. No one for you to run to — but me. Nobody is going to save you. Nobody is going to love you like I do. Look how much I love you?” And she dips her finger into my blood and licks it. Her blue eyes dance. “Everybody thinks love is easy, but true love is the strength and will to be cruel. And so who loves you more than me? Nobody. Ever…”

I can’t look at her.

“Say my name, and the pain ends.”

I shake my head. Exhausted. I will not break.

“I’m not ever going to break you totally, that’s why this final element has to be your choice. You’ve taken what I have to give you, suffered every stroke and lash and humiliation. You’ve nothing left to prove to anyone. So that leaves us here: with me, hurting you. You, tied to that wood, bleeding, suffering. But it can end. If you choose me. If you say my name. If you say, “Please, I’m yours, take me down,” I’ll unstrap you, I’ll clean you off, and you can lay next to me. I’ll take care of you. You’ll never be my equal, but I will be such a kind master. There are certainly worse forms of ownership. So say it…”

No.

“Say my name. Choose me. Choose what I have to offer. Surrender. Give up. You’ll always have the knowledge that you never broke — that inch of yours that never broke — but everything, even that inch — will be mine. Think of what I’m offering you.” She runs her finger down my chest, across my thigh, to my cock. “Pleasure. Plain. No doubt. No worries. Just me, owning you, from now until eternity. True fucking love, love so strong it hurts you and makes you beg.”

I shake my head again, weaker.

“Say my name. Say that you’re my slave. This isn’t me forcing you, this is you choosing. The act of a free man…” She smiles, her eyes flash, and she adds quietly, “…the last free act of a free man. After this … pleasure and slavery. And purpose.”

She strokes me with one hand while her other twists my nipple. “Choose. Say my name, and you can be mine forever.”

I lift my head up to shake it — but when my tired glance meets her gaze, I realize I don’t want to fight — I want to be owned. I choke it out. Her name. My cock thickens in my submission, throbs with my new purpose.

“I didn’t hear you, slave.” She says as she leans in to kiss me. Her lips graze mine, just out of reach. “What are you? Who am I? What’s your choice?”

“I…I’m your slave. Mistress. I choose you.”

Yes, I think I can live with that ending to those kinds of stories.