THE BEGINNING

by

Piacere

I am hesitant about writing this story even though it is true.  Well actually, it is

posting the story which causes my concern.  Undoubtedly, I may offend someone, which is not my intention. Then again, if they are reading it here what business do they have being offended by something they found on a bondage fetish site?

I am an Italian-American from head to toe.  My Dad was born and raised in the Friuli region north and east of Venice and my Mom, well she is from Sicily. My folks were your run-of-the-mill normal everyday Italians—hot tempers and unblushingly passionate. Obviously, I am my parents’ daughter.

Italian kids from my neighborhood were all Catholics. We went to the same parochial grade schools; had our first communion the same Sunday in May; and if you still lived in the neighborhood, got confirmed together; got married in the parish church; baptized your babies; and your funeral service all happened in the same neighborhood.

Hot tempers and unblushing passion are alright in Italian parents, but apparently not in first born Italian daughters. I made it through the fifth grade as home and thought my young life was going okay.  Friends to hang with, buddies who bought us beer and cigarettes, what more could a budding teenager want?

My aunt, the matriarch of the family because my grandmother was dead, lived around the corner and three houses away from ours.  One of my uncles lived in the house exactly in the middle.  If I had an argument with my friends I always had a bunch of cousins to spend time with.

For some reason I never got along with my aunt.  I think it was because she saw right through me.  Over time she had convinced my Dad that unless something was done quickly I was growing up to be, “nulla ma difficolta” - - nothing but trouble.

Old Zia (Aunt) was pretty perceptive as far as she went. Had she known everything, I would have ended up in juvi instead of the cloistered year-round girls school (catholic of course) three states from home.

At the time I was mortified; lonely; missing my friends; felt my parents did not love me or want me around; and was just plain ole pissed! The worst part, not being able to do anything about it. It made no difference how I felt, parents, especially Italian moms, ruled.

In retrospect, going to that boarding school was probably the best thing (I did not think so then) for me because I am convinced those years made me what I am today, in more ways than one.  We had no choice but to be independent, confident, self-reliant, and mature beyond our years. We learned discipline, community, service and introspection. There was nobody to make our beds, wash and iron our clothes, and the myriad things moms are supposed to do.

College, my post-graduate studies, and my professional life all reflect the disciplined work ethic environment of that school. However, you won’t find it in the school’s brochure, nor would the nuns tell the parents of perspective students, but there was one other facet of my personality that was created and nurtured by that school experience—

Cutting to the chase, I am a masochist. I have tried all the other roles but once the novelty wore off, I always come back to what I know I am. I did not just wake up one morning and but the ‘M’ brand on my forehead.  It was more of an awakening, of never feeling calm and easy with earlier choices. It took awhile,  but the genesis, the beginning  of my sexual proclivity began one night in the hallway of that long gone boarding school about ten feet in front of a life-size Jesus on the cross.

The offense doesn’t matter, fact is, I’m not even sure I remember why I was being punished other than it must have been pretty serious to warrant what, short of suspension or expulsion, was the harshest penalty for rule breaking.

We had study hall for two hours after weeknight dinner. Afterwards until lights out at 9:30 we had free time to talk, change hair styles, listen to music, paint toe nails and all the things teen age girls did.

For me, however, my free time ended at 9:00 p.m. because that was when punishment began.  I was too young then to realize it then but starting punishment while my friends and class mates were still up and about had two purposes—one upfront, the other much more subtle and devious.

Hall punishment was a deterrent announcing to the student body, you break a rule and you will be the one here for the next hour.  The more subtle effect was that starting the hour when my friends and school mates were still scurrying up and down the hall getting ready for bed, meant that I was on public display unable to defend or protect myself.  I always knew who my true friends were because they would whisper ‘hi’ or ‘you doin’ ok?’  The others, not all but enough, would often snicker or giggle.

The half dozen hours or so of punishment would make an experienced Dom proud.  Not only was there physical discomfort, bordering on pain, but also the psychological  effects of humiliation and embarrassment particularly at such a young and vulnerable age. 

I was too young then to understand the imprint that was becoming more and more indelible in my psyche.  It was some years later when the whole humiliation aspect of being punished in public became clear to me.  Not only was there physical pain but mental punishment as well. 

Today, I realize that long ago combination of pain, helplessness and humiliation would have a profound impact on my sexual development. My tableau of cravings needs, and urges were but seeds that were fertilized those nights in sixth grade while I was being punished for some unremembered rules infraction.

…but I digress.

I’m willing to bet if you were raised catholic and went to mass regularly that, whether girl or boy, we all shared some version of the same fantasy.  What fantasy did we all share, you ask?

Remember going to mass and knelling in the pew, praying, being pious when all of a sudden your eyes were looking up at the crucifix? Be honest now. Remember thinking how much He suffered on the cross? Remember wondering what it would have been like hanging up there on that cross? The pain; the humiliation; the helplessness; people pointing and taunting; sweating with flies on your face; breathing becoming more difficult; aching shoulders and back trying to support your weight so you could take a deep breath; fire shooting through every nerve, every sinew when, as you moved searching for some comfort one of the spikes so cruelly and unrelentingly holding you to the cross rubbed against bone, gristle, tendons and nerves.

Even today when I see a crucifix, all those fantasies flood my senses—Thank heavens for those fantasies because they were my only ally as I suffered alone in the cold dark hall of my home away from home.. 

Looking up at the cross brought back all those fantasies. They were my way of dealing with the hard floor and my aching shoulders and arms. Under stress you do with what you got. Back then all I had were my fantasies.

Unlike loss of weekend privileges or, movie nights, or detention, the rehabilitative activity I would experience lasted only one hour and for a specified minimum number of nights. Truth be told, the specified minimum number of nights was just that, the least number of nights punishment would last.

After one last chance to use the bathroom I knocked on the door of the resident floor nun’s room. Together, in silence, we walked to the end of the long corridor and stood in front of Jesus on the cross. She opened the folding chair from the cleaning closet, arranged her habit and sat down.  At that, she told me to pull up my nightgown or roll up the legs of my pj pants so my knees were exposed.

At the sister’s direction, I knelt down, bare knees on the hard cold floor.  Responding to her nod, I then raised my arms, palms-up, upward from my sides until they were at shoulder height and parallel to the floor.  With that sister raised her eye toward the face on the crucifix which was my signal to do the same. Because the crucifix was only ten feet away and I was down on my knees, I had to throw my head back as far as possible to be able to see His face.

That was the punishment position—somewhat holy, somewhat remorseful, and very much submissive, about to be very painful after a few minutes, arms outstretched asking for forgiveness—the scene was complete and my young not so penitent soul was being taught a lesson.

If I didn’t shift my weight from knee to knee and I kept looking into Jesus’ eyes, and if I did not lower my arms then, and only then, did that night’s punishment last but a mere sixty minutes. One hour, that would be easy.  Ha!

I guess today I probably could hold my arms out from my sides for a half hour or so because I am somewhat of a gym rat and take great pride in the tone and conditioning of my body. I’ve also had plenty practice staying in rigid positions, albeit usually supported by ropes or chains, for extended periods of time.

I never knew how long I could hold my arms out. I tried to figure that out by counting, “one Mississippi”, “two Mississippi”, “three…” to “sixty Mississippi” to see how many minutes I could remain with my arms outstretched. Suffice it to say I did not have to count too many “sixty Mississippi’s” before my heavy-as-lead arms started inching downward toward my sides

Usually the first lowering of the arms met with a “harumm”. The second with a, “get your arms back up”, and the third with the warning that the next time would earn extra time.

Extra time was fifteen additional minutes added to that night’s period. After three such extensions for a total of forty-five minutes, the next lapse in self-discipline added another night to the penalty period. 

For me, what started out as three nights ended up as six. It probably would have been longer except I rather abruptly ended the whole fiasco with a, “FUCK you sister, and shove that cross up your ass”!

Did I mention that I have a hot temper?

A phone call to my parents the next day and words between them and Mother Superior, and just like that, punishment time was over. I finished that school year, actually got good grades.  Miraculously, and to my great relief, my Zia declared she was right because sending me off to the cloistered girls school  changed me from a “sobillatore” (troublemaker) to an “angelo con le ali” (angel with wings).  Truth be told, that year did change me, changed in so many ways.

So, what does this have to do with the beginning, the beginning of my present lifestyle? You’ll just have to kneel there with outstretched arms and eyes lifted to heaven before you can read the rest of this story…