but also it was his maiden flight into this turbulent air.
I was surprised by the immediate submissive headspace I hit in this scene, but in retrospect, it made total sense. Gray had been privy to a fantasy that had lain, pristine, for over a decade. In my head there were all of the emotional trips and triggers that would be critical to making the scene hot. I wondered if I would be aroused or disgusted with myself for permitting this scene to breathe into life, but after the opening salvo, and as my clothes were sliced and ripped from me in preparation for punishment by this rather brutal and sadistic “slave trader,” there was no doubt that I was not only turned on but completely in tune with this fantasy. As the bottom, I am able to roll with the flow of the scene, but the top is the one who has to keep things afloat. They
have to do the steering, the pushing. That was Gray’s job.
“While doing it, there wasn’t much thought involved,” Graydancer said. “No thought about the ethics or morality of it, anyway. I was in the moment, playing a character I’d plucked right out of Mollena’s own fantasies, doing my best to break through her shell of self-control by hitting precise pressure points in her psyche, and doing it with as much method acting as I could muster.”
It was certainly beneficial to Gray to try this type of scene with, essentially, a blueprint and an experienced bottom. Even as I was pushed over a bench so that I could be “inspected” for “usefulness” and then was found lacking, the shame I felt veered from shame at my wanting this to happen at all to shame at the “me” who was truly present in the role-play feeling shame at somehow failing to be pleasing. The framework of this dynamic provides a set, lighting, and costume for the psyche to play out the emotional drama. We already have this knowledge, this shame, this nightmare, and yes, this lust, within us. The capacity to pull it out and make it arousing is nothing short of miraculous.
I’d joked with Gray that he would probably have people asking him how the scene was for him afterward, because of the relative scarcity of whites who do this type of play. Everyone wants to know how it feels to be “the oppressor” in these scenes, and this is a unique opportunity for them.
I’d left the demo area for a moment to put on some clothes after the scene, and catch my breath. As I returned to the classroom, I heard a Black woman who was in the class participating in the discussion. “I really wanted to jump in there and help you a few times,” she was saying. I turned to her, a bit bleary but grateful for the support. It is scary up there! As I started to speak, she waved me off. “No, no, not you. Gray. He was being way too nice to you.”
Nonplussed, I turned to Gray. “There you go! Always leave’em wanting more.”
He was surprised by the responses as well. “We came to the end of the scene, and that was when it got weird. People were concerned, people wanted to make sure everything was okay with me, not Mollena, who had been beaten, terrorized, and literally dehumanized. No, the questions were coming from people—regardless of skin color—who wanted to make sure I was okay, that my psyche had not been bruised. In fact, when I travel through the Midwest I will still get people who come up to me and express appreciation for the demo. I’ve never heard one negative comment.”
That was an added flavor of humiliation, unexpected even for me, and, in the way that the pain can be pleasurable, yet another shove down the slope of erotic humiliation.
Humiliation is a delicate balancing act. The person laying on the abuse has to remain focused, and watch themselves and their bottom for signs of the scene veering off course. There is a very likely possibility that something you say will push a button, and some reaction—rage, fear, terror, despair—will rear its head and start flailing about, thrashing in its pain and
I was surprised by the immediate submissive headspace I hit in this scene, but in retrospect, it made total sense. Gray had been privy to a fantasy that had lain, pristine, for over a decade. In my head there were all of the emotional trips and triggers that would be critical to making the scene hot. I wondered if I would be aroused or disgusted with myself for permitting this scene to breathe into life, but after the opening salvo, and as my clothes were sliced and ripped from me in preparation for punishment by this rather brutal and sadistic “slave trader,” there was no doubt that I was not only turned on but completely in tune with this fantasy. As the bottom, I am able to roll with the flow of the scene, but the top is the one who has to keep things afloat. They
have to do the steering, the pushing. That was Gray’s job.
“While doing it, there wasn’t much thought involved,” Graydancer said. “No thought about the ethics or morality of it, anyway. I was in the moment, playing a character I’d plucked right out of Mollena’s own fantasies, doing my best to break through her shell of self-control by hitting precise pressure points in her psyche, and doing it with as much method acting as I could muster.”
It was certainly beneficial to Gray to try this type of scene with, essentially, a blueprint and an experienced bottom. Even as I was pushed over a bench so that I could be “inspected” for “usefulness” and then was found lacking, the shame I felt veered from shame at my wanting this to happen at all to shame at the “me” who was truly present in the role-play feeling shame at somehow failing to be pleasing. The framework of this dynamic provides a set, lighting, and costume for the psyche to play out the emotional drama. We already have this knowledge, this shame, this nightmare, and yes, this lust, within us. The capacity to pull it out and make it arousing is nothing short of miraculous.
I’d joked with Gray that he would probably have people asking him how the scene was for him afterward, because of the relative scarcity of whites who do this type of play. Everyone wants to know how it feels to be “the oppressor” in these scenes, and this is a unique opportunity for them.
I’d left the demo area for a moment to put on some clothes after the scene, and catch my breath. As I returned to the classroom, I heard a Black woman who was in the class participating in the discussion. “I really wanted to jump in there and help you a few times,” she was saying. I turned to her, a bit bleary but grateful for the support. It is scary up there! As I started to speak, she waved me off. “No, no, not you. Gray. He was being way too nice to you.”
Nonplussed, I turned to Gray. “There you go! Always leave’em wanting more.”
He was surprised by the responses as well. “We came to the end of the scene, and that was when it got weird. People were concerned, people wanted to make sure everything was okay with me, not Mollena, who had been beaten, terrorized, and literally dehumanized. No, the questions were coming from people—regardless of skin color—who wanted to make sure I was okay, that my psyche had not been bruised. In fact, when I travel through the Midwest I will still get people who come up to me and express appreciation for the demo. I’ve never heard one negative comment.”
That was an added flavor of humiliation, unexpected even for me, and, in the way that the pain can be pleasurable, yet another shove down the slope of erotic humiliation.
Humiliation is a delicate balancing act. The person laying on the abuse has to remain focused, and watch themselves and their bottom for signs of the scene veering off course. There is a very likely possibility that something you say will push a button, and some reaction—rage, fear, terror, despair—will rear its head and start flailing about, thrashing in its pain and
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