Submission A Gift?

I don’t recall how often I talked to my therapist about how I could perhaps change my sexual preferences and finally start to like things that are regarded as normal, such as having consensual sex and having a monogamous relationship. It seems like I have struggled with my preferences as long as I remember. When I was a kid, I thought that one day I’d be a good boy and start to like what others like, and I remember telling myself that I’d just “try out” those kinks connected with degradation, humuliation and pain. I still believed in that lie when I was much older, and I suffered because obviously I wasn’t able to develop a “normal” sexuality. Well, afterwards I sometimes really enjoy being held and cuddled, but not always, and I totally fail to feel anything but boredom during “normal” sex.

When I met John, I thought it was odd to have someone whose likes and needs fit mine so much. But still I thought that one fine day, with the help of God or whoever, I’d start to have a normal sexuality. I even tried to break myself of my usual thoughts and techniques which just caused severe erectile dysfunction LOL Those attempts never lasted for too long, until I started to crave pain and humiliation again.

Having been abused as a child and as a young man, I always thought of my sexuality as something evil. Like I didn’t deserve it, and moreover, like it didn’t belong to me! When John told me that he thinks of being submissive as a talent, a gift, that sounded odd to me. I guess my father despised me for being submissive and somehow liking what he did to me, and so did I. I didn’t see the beauty in being masochistic. It was a need, sure, but could it be more? My bad conscience almost killed me. I felt like I wasn’t allowed to like being dominated and I struggled so much…

John has never questioned being sadistic. He has had encounters with not so masochistic individuals that ended with a lot of confusion in his not-so-masochistic counterparts and with frustration for him, but he never thought he’d have to change in order to fit into the needs of others. He only thought of them being too weak to serve him. I guess that’s the big difference between us. Both of us have deviant affections, but we cope with them in completely different ways. While I always feel ashamed for what I need, he’s out and proud (and loud) with that. You can’t take what he gives to you? Then you’re weak and not worth the effort. Surely he won’t excuse. On the other hand, I do little more than excuse over and over again for what I am and what I need.

In Greece he let a guy use me who really beat the sh*t out of me, and I enjoyed it so much being spanked and relentlessly fucked that I climaxed several times without any direct stimulation. Later on, that guy told John that he must be proud of me and that it was a pleasure playing with a sub who really is a sub and not just a wannabe. I was so proud of myself that moment that it made me think. And it still keeps me thinking. What if I managed to keep being proud of being sub/masochistic and made peace with what I crave? I guess I could like my body and myself better and savour serving even more. Is it really neccessary to stay ashamed for being sub? What if John’s right and that’s a gift?



I’m 40 now and over the past 10 or 15 years, my body has developed certain details that remind me of my father. Sometimes I can hear him laugh when I laugh. Sometimes I can see his fingers when I look at my hands. Most times it’s just those “small” things, but nevertheless I can barely stand them. Moreover, my brother reminds me of him, too. We’re both his sons, so it’s just natural to carry his genes and have some things in common with him, but that’s rough. You can never change your genes, no matter how much dye you use or which clothes you wear or how hard you try to laugh like someone else.

I know that his heritage includes my sexual desires. Having “sexual preferences disorders” is not only a mere cause of being sexually abused, it’s also in the genes. As far as I know, my father had not been abused or molested as a child, but he grew up with a very dominant and sadistic father as well who demanded very much of him. He passed that down to his sons. I got the bruises, my brother was expected to work hard and succeed. I was regarded as dumb, he was regarded as smart, leading to the fact that I was supposed to take care for his sexual needs and my brother to take care for his wish that he should be successful, a leader, a wealthy man with a flawless reputation. Well, sometimes I think: look at us monkeys, we just did like he wanted us to.

Sometimes I even feel pity with our father. Would he have been able to change, if he had wanted to? I tried to find out whether he had experienced abuse as well, but I don’t know, apart from getting hit by his father. Our branch of the family tree will die with us. My brother and me, we both don’t have children and we both don’t want any. Even if I was heterosexual, I wouldn’t want children. Of course it’s rough sometimes meetin friends with their kids and knowing I won’t ever experience what they have, but numbers speak against me. About 30% of men who were abused as children become violaters later on. That’s almost a third. Apart from that, I have difficulties with taking care for myself, how could I take care for a child?

Sometimes I’m full of sympathy for my “special needs” and value them as coping strategies. Sometimes I just despise them. Even if I know the machinery behind my behaviour, I can’t change it. And even after almost 20 years of different therapies, I’m not over it. I really wanted to believe that one fine day I would be normal, if I just worked hard enough. I thought then I’d be like anyone else. I would return to a safe state of mind and dismiss all perversions. And than I found that I need my perversions to function properly. When I try to leave my perversions aside, I’m insecure and just like that battery bunny without the batteries. I have no idea how to behave or what to do or to say. I’ve written that so often, but it’s still true: I wish I could be normal, but I will never be. All I am, all I feel, think, like and crave is the result of being abused.

I know there is no use in crying about that sh*t, but it still makes me sad. I know that even if my father was still alive, I wouldn’t confront him. My brother did, he was courageous, but of course that had no effect as our father didn’t think of abusing me as something unjust. We will never solve that. He will never stop feeling guilty and I will never stop feeling ashamed. It’s our heritage.



Sometimes, when I just thought everything is alright, there appears a trapdoor and suddenly nothings is really alright anymore. I know how it is to live with triggers and I guess all in all I do quite well. Apart from some times…

Saturday, John and I were attending a BDSM-party in a club and I actually wanted to write about that. Because after more than nine months of daily nipple stimulation I have finally managed to cum by nip play only. I was proud of myself and I like the fact that my clitlette is no longer neccessary.

But, on another level, this physical reaction has triggered memories that are rather lost underneath the dust of time. For years now I’ve been collecting memories written on little papers in a box. I try to sort them chronologically, but some memories can’t be put in the right place. Cumming by nip play only triggered memories of things that have happened when I was really, really young. I know my father touched me as a baby though I don’t recall exactly the first time when he inserted something into me. What I do recall is the feeling of being torn apart, a hellish, neverending pain and the fear of being extinguished. Well, well, and obviously sooner or later he made me cum by anal stimulation only. For years, like, the most part of my life I haven’t been able to cum by prostate massage or fucking only and always needed my clit to be stimulated. Now I remember why.

In fact I think I’m quite lucky to remember that now and understand why I couldn’t cum without clitoral stimulation. I feared loss of control and I feared death when letting go. My body needed to be overpowered again to recall that. I hope I can work on that and let it go, because of course I know I won’t die when I get fucked. I want to be a useful fuck-slut and cum when getting fucked as my clit is just a ridiculous and superfluous attachment.

For the moment, I just hate my body, hate myself. It sounds sad, but I’m glad I’m used to that, so that I know I will be OK again, sooner or later. I wish I could just hate him, but that little boy in me still loves him and wants to be loved by him. So sick of that.

Thoughts About Tits

Tonight, I’m excluded from our bedroom and while John and Leo are upstairs, I have made my bed on the couch in the livingroom. I’ve been watching porn for quite a while now, I’m horny and greedy and feel a bit lonely. Just like they wanted me to. Ugh.

This week, we have talked very much about certain fantasies that keep haunting me and obviously John as well. For a while now, I have often worn those boobs made of silicone. I own to different sizes. One pair is obscenely big, the other is more decent, like an A-cup. I had to get used to their weight and their mere existence, and I guess the big ones are nothing for everyday usage. But the small tits are. Sometimes, if I don’t need to go to work or elsewhere, I wear them the whole day long. They need to be inserted into a bra to keep them in the right position, and they adhere to the skin as well. When I put them on, they’re cold (but I could put them in warm water if I’d remember that), but after a while they’re just warm and soft and become a part of my body.

Sometimes, it confuses me how much I regard them as a part of my body. Of course I still feel them and even if they’re small, they put some extra-weight on. But I really savour this feeling, and I like my body with them on very much. I like the curves they provide me with, even more if I wear a corset around my hips. In the last years, I have piled on some pounds, but I’m far from being, you know, curvy. And those boobs present me with curves. I like how my dresses and blouses fit with them beneath. When I wear my boobs, it is easy to feel glam and gurly.

For months now, I was only allowed to cum after extended tit play. Sometimes John rubs and sucks my nipples, but most times I just use small stimulators or suction cups, but I have been thinking about getting me a breast pump. I have read so much about men who were able to develop a bigger breast by using them, and some of them are even able to squirt a bit milk. Sometimes, when John sucks my nipples, I feel like I’d love to pour him some milk as a precious and very intimate gift. I like that fantasy very much, even though I question my sanity. On the other hand, there are some men and couples out there who live it out. Men with boobs, even men being able to give milk. Why shouldn’t I try it? Obviously, there’s no risk at all. Even if I’d manage to give milk and find out that I don’t like it, I can stop. It’s all about the frequency. If you want to give milk, then pump your breast several times a day for half an hour and in about six months there should be milk. If you want to stop giving milk, extend the pauses between milking until no more milk is produced.


Last summer, when John and I were in France, he said someting I couldn’t forget ever since. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have always thought that a person with tits and cock is perfection”. Uhm, yes. Could I be that person? Is it risky or even unhealthy? I mean, in a more psychological kind of sense? I would cross a border, but heck, I have crossed so many in the past. I still like being male and I love my cock, even though I like chastity and do fantasize about cock-shrinkage and castration. I don’t want to live as female, but the longer I play that Ginny game, the more it seems to me that it isn’t a game. I have no idea what exactly that means and I’m afraid that I experience this because of what my father did. But well, he never wanted me to be a girl, and to be honest, I have often wondered if he was gay as well. I don’t know. Is Ginny just an escape from the reality which is represented by my body? Or is Ginny more like….me?


A Part Of Me

During the last weeks and especially after that certain event when I got my hair cut, my therapist and I have been working with a part of me I obviously have lost when I was still very young. I have never had trust in this method, you know, and always questioned the use in dealing with younger selves. I wanted to regard them as gone forever, even dead, because I thought it would hurt too much and bring too much back if they were not. But, as you know when you’ve been following me for longer, there already are certain child-parts of me active in my life, like that little boy who still needs diapers and his pacifier. I found out that living out that aspect of myself has made it easier to cope with it. The pressure has vanished, and sometimes when I feel the urge to be little, I just give in and allow myself to be a child again.

Now, I have made contact with a part of myself who is about 6-7 years old, a shy, deranged boy who can’t speak propperly (he stutters) and is very frightened about anything. He doesn’t really speak to anyone and shys away from people, especially from men, which is a bit tricky, because I am a man, I live together with a man, my therapist is a man, and even my best friend is a man. He fears almost any movement and one of his gestures is to put his hand to his head as if he wants to prevent someone from hitting him. Am I surprised? Not at all. Besides all other tortures, my father used to hit me on the head, like very often and very brutal. I have suffered several traumas in my head region, ranging from concussions to a broken jaw and several injuries in my ear region. As a result, on the right ear I can’t hear porperly. I’m not really hearing-impaired, but I’m not able to hear very high tones. Of course hearing and the ability to speak properly are connected, so I’m not surprised that this boy is stuttering.

When he was suddenly there, he brought a lot of memories with him I wanted to forget. Or to be honest: I had forgotten. My therapist says that that’s quite normal. I have seperated this part of me from my conscious memories and locked it up somewhere deep inside myself. To be honest, I wish he had stayed there, but my therapist and even John keep telling me it’s good that he’s back with me. Since he’s with me, I suffer from nightmares, and when I wake up, I’m spacy and panicking. Ugh. My therpist has encouraged me to find out what this boy might need, and I went to buy him a helmet. I thought that was stupid, but obviously he likes it.

At the moment, I don’t know how to cope with the pictures and memories he has brought with him. I see myself at that very young age, trying to be a good boy and know what my father wants before even he knows. I remember his dirty fingers anywhere, his brutality, then again his tender movements to make me cum, still dry. I remember that feeling of getting a stiffy, of being ashamed but liking it anyway, of wanting to die or to run away. My lame attempts to hide from him, my discomposure when he made bottles and hangers break on my body, and my decision to never feel anything again and to vanish. It makes me so sad to see and even worse feel this boy again, standing alone between shards and broken bones with nowhere to go. I try to tell myself that he is me, but I have difficulties in really feeling him. I’m afraid it might be too much if I’d allow that to happen, but on the other hand I know I now have a place to bring him to: right into my arms or maybe into John’s.

In these moments I feel that hatred again. I hate myself, I hate that scum who did that to me. It will never end. I even hate that.


The past few weeks have been very challenging for me. During talking therapy, we talked about the influence my father still bestows upon me, and it left me so sad, confused and desperate. I know that the younger you are when the abuse takes place or starts, the more disastrous is the effect it has. Sometimes I have no idea of who I actually am! I have friends to talk it over, I have the best husband I could wish for, but still I feel so trapped by my father and what he did. When I went to the mental hospital for the first time, I asked my brother why he sent me there, and he answered “to help you”. I had to laugh at that, because I was convinced nothing or nobody would ever be able to help me. But there has been help. It was good to talk it over, you know, good in a certain kind of way. I didn’t enjoy it, but it was good that they believed me and just let me talk. It was good to understand why I did so many things the way I did, like hiding bananas under the couch and whatever.

In the past few weeks, I kept asking myself where I can still see my father taking influence on me, almost 20 years after his gutless suicide. Anyhwere. He is anywhere, in me, in my world, in my dreams and thoughts. I still feel the urge to please him, be a good boy, take care for his moods and needs, keep still, spread my legs, be his fuck toy. The weird thing is that when people criticize him or call him names, I tend to defend him. Like “oh yes, sure he put a gun to my head, but, you know, all in all he was my father, right?”. That’s poor. My therapist told me that’s the survival strategy of an abused child, identifying with the abuser and take the role of his lawyer.

Things are so confusing, even more as the physical feelings connected with him are so confusing as well. Most times, my first impulse when thinking of his touches is to push him away, hit him, shout at him, but it needs just one second more to have me horny, in an angry way. Why? I guess because he didn’t let me take control of my body, but took what he wanted. I found no other way to cope with it than sexually. And the only thing that helps me to control this anger concerning my mind and body, is physical pain combined with sexual relief. I fully understand that all I like in bed is just a reenactment of what he did: being tied down, being hit and hurt, being fucked relentlessly.

My therapist often asks me: “what about you? what do you like?” and I always tall him, I don’t know. I have no idea. Isn’t it me who likes to be beaten and used? If not, than I don’t know if I even exist. Sometimes I think if I weren’t that down-to-earth-guy, I’d have already gone mad. I guess I’m lucky to have my family and my job, right? I even don’t know what would happen if I just let him go, dismiss him from my life. Would it all tumble down? I see that allowing Ginny to come out was the first thing I really did for myself, for my own identity in long years. It’s not like Yoga or running, you know, althought both help, but being Ginny just feels so right and comfy. When I’m her and in her dresses, I can feel myself better, I feel vulnerable and adorable at the same time.

Bad Conscious

The last weekend gave me so much to think about and I can’t seem to figure it out.

First of all, I really have issues with that missing reaction from people towards us (my appearance, me obviously not wanting a haircut, the lead/collar). On Youtube, I have found a lot of videos testing people’s reaction. This is called “social experiments” and I wasn’t surprised to see that most people do not react in any way if they witness harrassment, fights or violence. Most of them just walk by. When they’re questioned concerning their not-occured reaction, most of them say they don’t want to get in trouble. Uhm. That really makes me worry! I don’t know how I would instinctively react if I witnessed a fight or harrassment. To be honest, I regard myself as a coward and I have always tried to avoid confrontations. I don’t know if I’d have the nerves to interfere. I hope I would. Or at least, I hope I’d have the courage to call for help. But anyway, it feld bad to be in that situation. I don’t even know whether I had wanted someone to barge in, but I was confronted with my own helplessness and that’s an ambiguous feeling. More of that later.

Second, I have really bad problems with my new hair length. If there’s one thing I’m vain about, then it’s my hair. I’m that kind of guy who even uses conditioner on a regular basis, and having had an involuntarily haircut makes me feel hurt, even though many people reacted very kind to that. Like telling me my hair looks better/thicker now and so on. I’m bad in defining who I am, but I would always mention my hair as a big part of myself, and having John rule about it, feels weird. I don’t really get that point, you know. It had been OK in the past if he told me what to wear, where to shave and even who to have sex with, but my hair is so special to me. It took me a lot to have it cut and I’m not OK with it yet.

The third thing I fight with recently are conflicting feelings regarding my role on the weekend. On the one hand, it was hard to accept this role of a useless fuck toy. I felt more like a pet than a husband and there were moments in which I fought with tears. What John demanded from me was not little and in some ways, it reminded me of what my father did. It was somehow like triggering memories I wanted to forget. On the other hand, it make me going, you know.

When I take a look at what I have written over time, I can clearly see that these conflicting feelings are very typical for me. There are times when I try to cope with every injury, both mentally and physically, in a quite “grown up” way. Going to talking therapy, trying to calm myself, trying to do my chores, be a good and kind person, trying to oppress the urge to hurt myself in thought and deed and just being a nice, loving husband, a reliable friend and a good brother. In such phases I tend to think that I can live without the pain and that I even might learn to like normal things like truly consensual, clean sex, soap operas and puppies. Then BAM and everything changes. I seem to lose grip of myself and all my good resolutions. Then I just need dirt, pain and humiliation and really thinkI am ready to fully embrace the fact that whatever I learn about myself or whatever I talk about with my therapist I am broken and have the goddamn right to like all that stuff. Sorry for cursing. And after a while, I’m again into a good phase and think of myself as a disgusting, insane person with those perversions making me tick.

Having these conflicting feelings and needs puts unbelievable pressure upon me. In a good phase, I disgust myself for the need for pain, and in a bad phase, I despise myself for the attempts to live a clean life. For John, there is no clash between the “good” and the “bad” John. He says it’s always him and he totally accepts that he is a realible, nice guy with dominant and sadistic needs. Period. I totally adore him for this ability!

Craving what I crave, needing what I need makes me feel like a bad person, and I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have a bad conscious about my sexual fantasies and about other fantasies as well. And even if I know it’s all just because of the abuse that took place for about two decades, it makes me feel insane, bad and psycho. The worst fantasies are those of me being a kid and having to please my Dad. I know, I really, really know it’s just because of what he did, and I wish it would not turn me on like it does. It makes me feel so worthless, but I have failed in about 18 years of therapeutic sessions, stays in several mental hospitals and a whole lot of work woth myself to find better, cleaner things to turn me on.

Since last weekend, I keep asking myself whether I will always be that torn?