Who Has the Power?

I remember the day. 

My slave and I were enjoying a quiet moment in the early evening. Autumn’s coolness was making its early presence known through a gentle breeze floating in from the open door. I was relaxing on the couch and she was on the floor at my feet, leashed, as I still often have her, all these years later. She grew quiet in the way she often does when she’s been processing something that she wants to raise and discuss with me. 

She looked up, met my eyes. 

“Master,” she said, “I can’t disobey you.” 

Good, I thought, perhaps a bit smug, that’s the whole point of being a slave. 

But I didn’t say anything aloud. I know her. In moments like those, her first statement is inevitably just the opening to a much deeper discussion. 

Looking down at her hands playing nervously with the leash, she elaborated, “I mean, I don’t think I’m capable any more of disobeying you, even if I wanted to. The thought of it makes me physically sick, makes me need to throw up.” Like an alcoholic taking Antab*se. “It scares me.” 

At the time, I didn’t know all that much about Master Tanos and his ideas of internal enslavement, which have become much more widely known and embraced in the years since. But I knew I liked what my slave was saying about herself, about us, even if she feared it. It meant that she was truly enslaved to me. Not only did I hold a physical leash that gave her comfort, I held a metaphorical one—an unbreakable metaphorical one. 

It is a common trope in some segments of our communities that “the sub has the ultimate power.” After all, they say, the sub can simply withdraw consent, can safeword, can decline to tribute, can log off, never to be seen again. I’ve seen the sentiment expressed on this very site, in some blog or other writing that I happened upon while hopping around. I think this is dangerously naïve thinking. 

At best, it applies to a different kind of relationship than the ones that sustain me. Or maybe I concede that it applies to the earlier phases of such relationships. But in those, the endless tide of scenes and tributes and domination and obedience steadily works its erosion on the once-rough rocks, rendering them as smooth as seashells polished by the waves. It happens slowly enough that it might not even be noticed—until the moment when it has become undeniable. 

On that late-summer day many years ago, my slave and I discussed her feelings and mine well into the night, until the earlier pleasant chill had deepened enough to cause her to shiver and she needed the leash unclasped long enough to close the door. 

We came to a shared understanding. Scary it might be, but it was also thrilling, satisfying, and mutually rewarding. Neither of us knew what would come next, of course, in this new phase of our relationship. We knew only that it was something special that we would both lean on in our exploration. We would continue together, taking intrepid steps along the obscure path, and see where it led. 

I’ll never forget that day.