My True Name - Anonymous

"Look at the picture and tell me what you see."

"Miss, the first thing I see is the Lady's face. I'm drawn to it, but I can't discern her expression. Her feelings are a mystery to me."

Miss smiles. I wonder if the mystery is because I'm a sub? I believe Miss understands the Lady's feelings perfectly. I raise my eyes to look into Miss's face, and she slaps me, nonchalantly. Hers is a whimsical, casual cruelty. But not unconsidered. She is very deliberate. Like a surgeon or an artist, she reveals things not seen. She uses my comments about the picture like an x-ray, to reveal me, to take away my hiding places.

"Continue, boy."

"The appartus is designed for a single purpose, and though there are much simpler ways to spank a sub, the Lady chooses this elaborate device. It's for regular use, maybe ritualistic. The mirror is interesting. I think it represents the narcissism of the sub. It also represents self examination and shame." I say

"Shame about what? Would you be ashamed, boy?"

"I would be ashamed when the spanking made me lose control and cry like a little boy. And I would be ashamed of revealing my true self, that I'm submissive, that I love to surrender my will."

"So submitting, being bound and punished, actually would free you. Is that right, boy?"

"Yes, Miss" I reply meekly, predicting that my future contains pain at her hands.

She smiles and places the toe of her boot under my balls, pushing upward.

"You like to order and name things, don't you, boy"

I stammer something, and she increases the pressure on my balls. I squirm.

"Not all things can be named or sorted, boy."

She presses harder yet, then pauses, giving me time to feel the pain, time to think. She challenges my way of looking at the world, and she's right, I do find names fascinating. Names are the magic that lets real things enter the virtual world of our mind. They're in story after story.

* In one version of the creation story, the first task was to name the things in creation. When something has a name, it "fits" into our mind. That's why one religious tradition used an unpronouncable name for god.

I think the original concept of a "true name" comes from magic, where if you know someone's true name, you have ultimate control over them. In the fairy tale, to save her first born, the queen has three chances to guess the true name of the dwarf: Rumpelstiltskin.

Kafka's story "In the Penal Colony" describes a punishment machine similar in some ways to the apparatus in Miss's picture. The victim is fastened to an elaborate machine which carves their crime into their back in intricate detail. It's a long process, and after many hours, though they can't see it, the victim discerns exactly what has been carved. The victim becomes one with his crime, and finally see's himself completely as he is, finally knows his true name. It's a religious experience, an epiphany. Then, of course, he dies. Some knowledge requires death, for example, the knowledge of good and evil in Eden, or maybe the recipe for an atom bomb.

Miss brings my thoughts back quickly, placing the stiletto heel of her boot on my thigh. She shifts her weight and the heel bites into my leg. Then she teaches me about a name: slut. She explains that "slut" is a word that has been used by men to denigrate women who express their sexuality. There is no corresponding word for a man. Her explanation connects with another interesting word: feminization. In BDSM, feminization is often humiliating for a man, but why should there be any shame in becoming feminine? But it seems to me BDSM feminization is not about becoming feminine necessarily. It can be about becoming a slut, becoming the image men project on women's sexuality.

She presses her heel deeper into my thigh. I hear the fabric of my pants rip.

"How do you feel, boy?"

I babble something abstract, but she knows better.

"I think you're feeling something more visceral."

She pulls her nails through my hair, scrapes one across my face, resting it on my lips, inserting just the tip. I risk kissing her finger.

"No, boy. I say when you may act and not act."

She makes me wait, makes me wonder how she will punish me. My arousal grows steadily as I wait and hope she will continue. She slides her finger into my mouth, just a little. I feel penetrated, so aroused, words begin to fail me. She slides her finger back out, resting it on my lips.

"Now you may kiss my finger, boy."

I kiss her reverently, the kiss so much more delicious because it is at her command. With the toe of her boot she begins stroking my cock, while at the same time, in the same rhythm, she slides her finger in and out, fucking my mouth. I'm out of my mind with desire, longing.

"Quite the slut, aren't you boy?"

"Yes, Miss, I am a slut."

I'm amazed at the economy, the elegance of her control as she brings me to the edge with just a toe and finger.

"Miss, please may I cum?"

I want the little death, the epiphany, I want it so bad.

"Please, Miss, please, please."

"No." She says it so casually. It's her whim, her right. How perverse that being denied arouses me even further.

"Please, please, please, Miss, may I cum?"

"Don't you dare, you little slut. Stop right now."

She withdraws her touch.

Oh god, oh god, oh god,

breathing hard,

cock hard,

totally in need,

shaking with desire,

I stop.

When I have words again, I whimper, "Thank you, Miss."

She laughs.

I know my true name.