For 18 years, these two definitions clashed in my mind, so I denied being a slave. The impulse to offer myself completely to another person is too overpowering to resist. My first experience with kinky sex happened at Then, there was the first time Devon wrapped his hands around my throat. As he cut off my air supply, waves of an intense orgasm coursed through my body. I remember the initial, instinctive fight to live, as my body felt on the brink of oxygen-deprivation.
I recall his soothing words: As a young black woman trying to find herself, I wondered if enjoying these acts somehow betrayed my blackness. My family and friends often joked about the weird things white folks did, and twisted sex acts—like incest, bestiality, and golden showers—was one of them. Growing up, I had no real contact with white people, outside of teachers, police, and retail workers.
My experience, then, seemed more like some kind of taboo reserved for white people than anything I should be doing. So, how does a black person identify as a slave, given its historical connotations? Photos of enslaved Africans bound by chains and covered in whip marks provoked a visceral horror in me. But when I saw similar items used in the consensual kink realm, I would become curious and highly aroused. Occasionally, I do a self-check to make sure this still feels good and right—and every time a strong hand grips my throat or a paddle whacks my backside, it always does.
Surrendering to my master, then, means momentarily unburdening myself from the weight I carry as a divorced black mother. My obligations are so draining, I relish the comfort I feel when I can safely give myself over to someone who respects, loves, and values me.
In bed, everything happens on my terms, which is especially empowering on days I feel like the world is beating me down. Slavery is a refuge that helps me escape my problems and my life. Fourteen years after my first kinky encounter, I entered a relationship that helped me grow as a submissive. I craved this in ways I gave up trying to understand long ago, and as my desires grew, our relationship evolved into a master-slave dynamic. It was important for me to serve an intelligent, hard-working, charismatic black man close to my age, so I could feel safe.
This man wanted to be my master as much as I wanted to be his slave, and in each other, we found the ideal partner. It just felt right. In , I published a fictional story about a black couple involved in BDSM, and it gained popularity among people of color who longed for increased representation in this mostly white community. In the already marginalized world of BDSM, white members are also fighting for acceptance of their alternative lifestyles, but minorities are even further marginalized.
As I became more vocal about my involvement in BDSM on social media, I noticed that black people would frequently shame me for my preferences. We have the same right as white people to indulge in our deepest sexual desires. The sting of each lash set me free all those years ago.
I now weed out potential partners who balk at the idea of choking me to near unconsciousness, or using riding crops, belts, and paddles to cause me the pain I crave. All Rights Reserved Credits.