Chapter 2: The Story Behind the Story
(Backstory, not so heavy in the pain-domination-sex thing. But hey, check back for Chapter 3 on that!)
Here I am, Brooke of a nice suburban neighborhood in LA, naked on a long leather-padded table in a living room. My arms and legs are trussed up on a spreader bar, and I'm gagged in a row with seven other women, some of whom I know. The cruel Matriarch behind us is whipping the woman's ass raw next to me with a heavy leather strap. That poor woman is Nicole. I've known her since our kids were in elementary school together. We've shared countless glasses of wine in our kitchens and backyards, and shared the confidences that wives share. And yet, she's bucking and thrashing and screaming and crying through her ball-gag harness as she gets the living shit whipped out of her. But that's not the weird thing. The weird thing is that my husband Dave and I are the only newcomers tonight. Nicole has done this before, and she's back for more.
I know exactly what Nicole's going through. She is third in line on this table. I was second. After watching poor Anass take it on the ass from the cruel Matriarch's strap, I got to endure it myself. And I do mean endure. After one session with that thing, I can't imagine volunteering for a second time. And yet, that's obviously what Anass and Nicole have done. Do they like this? Is it because their husbands like it? Or is it the secret that keeps their marriages together?
Where does my mind go during this? How about: how on Earth did I get here?
How it all started: We were having problems in our marriage. It happens. We'd married in our 20's, and were now juggling the suburban ennui and financial pressures that typically accumulate in your 40's. One kid out of the house in college, one still in high school, and different lives as my husband Dave and I splintered off in different directions. Dave had done very well for himself as an attorney in LA, but it's an expensive place to live in the style we're accustomed to. So he worked a lot, and was often working in his head even when he was home. I was drifting. I felt distant from him, and had transitioned from being a full-time mother/housewife to volunteering on so many boards and committees. God, I was turning into my mother.
Sex was a distant memory. Is it my fault? Dave's? Probably both. Familiarity does not breed passion after 18 years, and both of us were too comfortable with just drifting through the nights on our laptops with Netflix. Then I had an affair. Well, almost. I never did have sex with Thomas. But we hit it off on a committee. We had chemistry, and he really paid attention to me. As much as I liked him, I didn't let it go beyond coffee dates, except for that one kiss on our last coffee date. Boy, did that mistake cost me! Turned out Thomas liked money more than me. He had someone take pictures of us, and threatened me with blackmail. I could only get the money through Dave.
Confessing to Dave was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. But it was also the right thing to do. First of all, Dave took care of it. We couldn't afford the damage that a scandal would do to his career and our income. He didn't pay them off, however. He reached out to an "independent contractor" for his firm, and paid to make the problem go away, without paying the blackmailers. That was good enough for me. I didn't want to know anymore. So, the problem was solved, but then we were left with each other.
Dave was livid with rage, but worked hard to contain it. Too hard. He needed some way to vent and deal with it. I was mortified by my behavior, and what I almost lost because of it. We tried three marriage counselors inside of six months. None of them clicked for us. We didn't want to give up, but it wasn't getting any better between us. I even encouraged Dave to try an affair to see if that would help. Hell, if it didn't, we weren't going to make it anyway.
My friend Margie was my closet confidant, but I'd kept this from her. When I finally spewed it all out over martini's one afternoon, she surprised me with her response. She and her husband Amesh had gone through their own crisis, only without the blackmail part, and had come out the other side. It had even unlocked latent passions they'd never suspected in themselves. How was this possible? Could this be what I needed? Margie said she'd talk to the person you need to talk to and get back to me. When she did a few days later, she said that we seemed like likely candidates for the very unconventional marital therapy they were in. We were welcome to try it. But then Margie warned me of just how unconventional it was.
Had I ever heard of S & M? Dominance and submission? BDSM? Well, yeah, of course. I was in a neighborhood book club. So of course I'd read that
50 Shades
book. It was the one book I knew every woman actually read. I never thought it was for me though. But I was desperate. Margie warned me that
50 Shades
was rated G compared to what they were doing.
My marriage was literally on the rocks, so I went for it. If this radical "therapy" didn't work, my marriage was going to fail anyhow, so I figured we had nothing to lose. Margie coached me on how to get Dave open to it. I told him that I thought the underlying problem is that I had transgressed badly, and never been punished. I needed to be punished, and he needed to see it. Dave thought I had finally lost it completely until Margie's husband Amesh stepped in. I don't know what he said to Dave, but it worked.
Monday morning at 10am found me at the gate for the big steel and glass house at the end of the cul-de-sac on top of our hill. The electronic gate slid away as soon as I got within two feet of it. I worked my way through a tastefully manicured garden up a windy stone path to the house. Dana stood in the open door, welcoming me. She was about 60, a little on the curvy side, but toned. She worked out, but probably wasn't much for diets. I made her out to be about 6'2". Her dyed black hair was tied up in a severe bun with a grey streak in the center. I figured the fact that most women had literally looked up to her all her life accounted for her naturally dominant personality to some degree.
"Hello Brooke", she said, "welcome to my little oasis." Dana ushered me inside. She led me into her office just off the front door, so I didn't see any of the rest of the split-level. It was almost like the typical beige design that therapists go for that effect of emotional neutrality. But it was a little darker than the others I'd seen this year. We sat down for coffee and we...well, I guess we got down to business.
Dana was good. She was a professional. The first thing she did was make it clear that this was a free consultation, nothing more. I was free to tell her anything I wanted, and if Dana did offer any helpful advice it was just that, free helpful advice. But she did add that she couldn't help people who weren't open and honest in these things. Well! After scorching through three different marriage counselors this year, I could go from zero to open and honest in a heartbeat. So I dived right in.
Dana listened patiently, asking a few questions here and there. She then quizzed me on the history of our sex life. Since I was warmed up, I was brutally frank. The dwindling from time and age had come to a crashing halt after the emotional damage my incident caused. It was a miracle we were still even sleeping in the same bed. Dana said that could be chalked up to habit, but was also a hopeful sign that no matter how hard it was for Dave to forgive me, he still didn't want to give up. With that, Dana took over the conversation. She had what she needed. Margie's introduction got me in the door, and Dana agreed that Margie had been right to send me to her.
