My Second Submissive
This true-life story chronicles my experience meeting a troubled man who thought what he needed was a Dom but actually needed an intervention. Meet Chuck, my second submissive.
After my first experience having a male submissive, I decided to explore my sexuality a little more by dating. The mid-90’s seemed like a time of change for the gay community in the Great Lakes/Mid-West region. I discovered so many facets of that Lifestyle and got to experience them all… unfortunately. I treated those experiences as life lessons and learned a great deal more about human dysfunction and its causes. Basically, everyone is the way they are because of the things they did or did not experience in their past. While most people choose to try and forget traumatic incidents, they fail to understand how crucial revisiting them can be in order to heal emotionally.
And for those who disagree… it is only a matter of time before your own demons resurface. Whether you want them to or not. The human mind is an incredible machine. But with all machines, they need maintenance and occasionally… a reboot.
Wiping the slate clean and starting over.
It happened. Can’t change it. Learn from it… and then move on.
I met Charles through an online personals site in ’96. He had responded back to my ad as he was drawn to the fact that I was Black and a Dominant. We communicated back and forth for a few weeks until I felt it was okay to meet. Charles preferred to be called “Chuck” for short and told me that he has only dated Black men since he was 17. I was in my early 20’s and he was in his late 30’s at the time. I remember noticing how much he resembled Steve from Blue’s Clues, which was this hugely popular kids show. He didn’t even know about the show until I became the umpteenth person to point out the similarities. After finally checking out an episode, he immediately stopped wearing khaki’s and polo’s with green or blue in them. Baseball caps then became the norm as well.
I couldn’t stop laughing.
He was very good at that… making me laugh.
After about 3 months, I started noticing his kinkier side emerge. Sex was always great. He possessed a small bubble butt on a petite yet athletic frame. We had probably been meeting up for about 6 months before he began to call me ‘SIR’ during every conversation. He also started coming over every other day to hang out and service me. We talked about a variety of things with it always coming back around to the Lifestyle. He had no real experience being a submissive but felt drawn to it. But not as much as when he was serving my needs.
About a year in, my lease was up and I was thinking of moving to another part of the city. Chuck was unusually quiet during a conversation about apartments and condos I was considering. Then he murmured that I could save money by living with him. He owned a duplex in a downriver suburb of Detroit. It was about a 30 minute drive from where I lived and worked in Ann Arbor but he sold me on the idea. No rent versus $700 a month (remember this was the mid 90’s). It wasn’t that hard to convince me.
Living with Chuck for the first year was very good. He fell into the role of submissive quite easily. There were bumps along the way but they were dealt with as they arose… except when it came to his drinking. Being in denial, he strongly believed he did not have a drinking problem. From the blackouts, violent episodes and emotional breakdowns, it was clear to me that there was a cause as to why alcohol became a crutch for him. He wouldn’t admit to it directly but one night, it all came out like a runaway train.
I had just gotten home from work and noticed the music was blaring. I turned down the stereo and found Chuck naked on the bed watching some Rosalyn Russell and Joan Crawford movie (he was really into old movies). When I confronted him about his behavior, he started verbally attacking me. He had done this on a few occasions in the past but was always apologetic and remorseful. Always promising that it wouldn’t happen again.
I am not sure why I let it go on. Sensing that he was hiding alot of emotional pain and waiting for him to trust me enough to share it was one. And, feeling sorry for him was another. I would find that waiting was the worst thing I could have done… for either of us. Things changed forever when the volcano finally erupted.
Later that same night, he came back home drunk after leaving and not responding to my calls nor letting me know where he had gone. I was furious when I found out he had gone out to the bars. He started his usual racially charged, verbal barrage but I wasn’t having it. We got into a yelling match that ended with me whooping his ass. I was probably more upset that I was driven to violence and it didn’t feel satisfying seeing him turn from angry drunk to a frightened man afraid for his life. It was the sudden change that broke my own anger.
Please don’t hurt me. I’ll be good, I promise. I know I’m a worthless piece of shit.
I think what made those words have such impact was the pure terror in his voice. Terror, I know I could not have caused… even if I was in the process of kicking his ass. That kind of terror builds over time and with repeated incidents of what caused it. I did not know what to do. The moment I tried to calm him down, his demeanor changed again and then he stormed out of the house. Slightly more drunk and really upset. When I noticed that his car keys were gone, I went after him to prevent him from getting into his car, a recently restored 1960 Cadillac SeVille, but I was too late. He had already taken off in it like a bat out of hell.
Twenty-five minutes later, I get a call from him crying and hysterical; telling me that he crashed the car and lost his dog. I hadn’t realized he had taken his Yorkshire Terrier with him. He told me where he was and I drove to pick him up. When I got there, I saw the Caddie was wrapped around a pole. Luckily for him, he was in an industrial area with little to no traffic at that time. He was running around yelling for his dog. I barely glanced at him when I got out of the car. He was obviously okay.
My eyes never left his car.
He eventually found where his dog had run off to and came back towards me. I was still staring at his car. He tried to hug me but I stepped out of his reach. He opened his mouth to probably say he was sorry but I held my hand up.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I got back in the car without saying a word. Waited for him to get in and drove back to the house. I got out of the car without saying anything. During the trip back, he attempted to apologize for what he had done but I didn’t respond. Once indoors, I went to the bedroom, took out one of my suitcases and starting packing. I was done and mad at myself for not being done when I found out about his alcoholism and drug use.
I thought I could help him.
He stood in the doorway watching me pack while continuing to cry, plead and beg for me not to leave him. When I turned to leave, he blocked my way. Telling me that he needed me. I told him that all he seemed to need is that damn bottle and that I was done with it all. He then started stripping down and that unintentionally made me laugh. Sex was NOT going to fix this. I will admit that the pussy was good and all but this was more than I had signed up for.
He continued to plead, throwing himself at my crotch. Begging me to use him however I wanted. Wanting to be punished. To beat him. As I was watching him grovel at my feet, I formed an idea.
You said you would do anything I asked of you, right?
Yes SIR, anything. Please allow me to make this right. I need you. I need you.
I made him enter a rehabilitation clinic for substance abusers. Within 12 hours, he escaped and came back home crying that he couldn’t do it. Stay at the clinic. And claimed that they let him check out. I had already received a call stating that he did not show up for a counseling session and was missing from the facility but I didn’t mention that.
I reminded him of his vow to do whatever I wanted in order to keep me from leaving. And, since he has failed at that… I told him goodbye and good luck. My bags were already packed and in my car. I had intended to be gone by the time he made his way back to the house. He noticed that all of my stuff was gone when I said that.
I walked up to him and bitch slapped him HARD. I do not like feeling as if I’ve been made a fool of.
He tried to say something but I wasn’t hearing it. I slapped him again.
I do not like having my time wasted.
Gripping his stinging cheek, he reached out for me. I swatted his hand away and grabbed his neck and slammed him down to the floor. Stunned. He just looked up at me bug eyed, like he was about to explode and then it all came out.
The extreme and violent physical abuse when he was a child. Date raped and almost murdered by his first male lover at age 17. Gang raped in county jail during his first arrest for drunk driving. If you lived in Detroit during the 80’s and 90’s, most know how bad Wayne County jails were and the notorious reputation for that kind of stuff happening… especially if you are a scared white male.
I was the one stunned this time. He had never told anyone about his past before. I allowed him to cry in my arms for quite some time. I felt he needed this release. To finally get out what has been haunting him for so many years. I apologized for slapping him but he said, it wasn’t necessary. That he deserved it. Everything that he had done before, the racial taunting, verbal assaults were said to get me mad enough to hurt him. His last lover was an ex-convict who repeatedly beat and abused him during their relationship. I was deeply offended that he would purposely do that to me when he knew that I was not a violent person. But, I kept that to myself as he was making a breakthrough.
I took him back to the clinic. Made sure he was properly checked back in. Stayed with him for a few hours to make sure he knew he was safe in that place. Gave him a big hug and told him that I was proud of him for doing this and most importantly, that I forgave him… for everything.
And, I did. That was my final gift to him.
I supported him during the time he was in rehab. And made sure he knew that he had at least somebody in his corner during those dark times. Something he had never really had.
When he finished rehab and came home, I had already long since moved out but I still looked after his dog and made sure that he had a home to come back to. He seemed hurt that I wasn’t living there while he was away and asked if we could start over but I felt that our time had passed. I was glad that I was instrumental in his recovery but after nearly a year, I had moved on and was currently exploring something new… with someone else.
I allowed him to stay in touch but as the years passed, our contact naturally lessened. In 2006, after nearly a decade, he contacted me out of the blue as I was in the process of moving to Colorado. He had found out through a mutual friend and wanted to pay me back for what I did for him all those years ago. So, he paid for my relocation expenses and drove with me and my fourth submissive out to Denver to help me get settled. Allowed him to stay with me and my new slave, Dave for a few days before he flew back to Detroit.
Before he left, he got emotional and told me how he could never repay me for allowing him the privilege of being a part of my life, for even for a short time. How that opportunity had changed his life. A life he says I saved by giving him a chance and not giving up on him.
In return, he has vowed to be there for me whenever I needed him. For any reason. Despite if he was with someone else or not. I did not ask that of him but its something he has said that he feels within his soul he must do. That he can’t help himself. Dedicating himself to me, in his own words, is as simple and as natural, as breathing out and breathing in.
It’s the easiest thing he has ever done in his life. As long as he stays away from alcohol and actually lives his life, he will be honoring our time together. And paying back with interest on the forgiveness I granted him all those years ago.
The Black Sovereign Chronicles