I'll be the first to admit that in my marriage, I'm the one who has been "trained." Common thinking among many wives used to be a woman could change her husband after they were married; the wife could mold him, polish him up, and buff down all the bad habits she didn't like.
Then that way of thinking fell into bad view as others began to point out that men are men, they are who they are, and they cannot be changed by their wives simply because their wives wish it to be so. Women should marry the men they can live with, the men they can accept for who they are, not the men they want to change. Which, of course, makes sense.
I'm not going to condone marrying a person you think needs changing. Obviously, the old cliche is true: you should marry someone you love. Love means, for the most part, acceptance. Husband accepts me for who I am, and I accept who he is, too.
But do I agree it's impossible to train a person to change their behavior? Oh hell no. That is one of the fundamental principals of a Domestic Discipline lifestyle. And in a D/s relationship, it's the sub who gets trained.
Boy, have I been well trained. In a thousand different things, in a thousand different ways.
One of the ways Husband has trained me is to get wet when I'm afraid.
Yes, you read that right. When I get afraid, for whatever reason, I get wet.
Now, I know all the sadists reading this (hi, Steve!) are probably thinking 'wow, that is AWESOME.'
When I mentioned this unique reaction of mine at a munch the other week, all the sadists within earshot rounded on me with big eyes and took two steps into my circle, like I was suddenly the most interesting thing they had seen all day. I wasn't prepared for that kind of feedback, but after thinking about it, I guess I should have been.
The thing is, this reaction of mine, what has become my body's natural response to fear, is completely out of my control. It's become reflexive. And my body cannot tell the difference between sexual fear, fear that stems from my masochism, and any other kind of fear that is a result of entirely different circumstances.
Going to an amusement park is a nightmare. If I know I'm going to be dragged onto scary rides and roller coasters, I have to wear a panty-liner, or I risk getting off the ride looking like I just peed my pants. People, it's embarrassing.
Getting scared in a movie theater is slightly easier to handle. Those seats are well ventilated, and by the time the movie is over, I'm usually dry enough to feel safe standing up. But I also make sure to wear good, thick cotton panties, and you'll never see me checking out the latest slasher movie while it's still in theaters!
Now, as for Husband...Husband likes to scare me. Some days, he likes to keep me on a constant ebb of simmering fear. He enjoys my reaction. He especially loves it when he can scare me, and then rub his fingers over the crotch of my panties and feel how wet they are. He gets a good laugh when I have to change my underwear, over and over again.
But I think he loves it the most when it becomes a game, and I don't know when he's going to strike next or from where he's going to attack. He might be lurking around the corner, waiting for me to walk past so he can pinch my ass. Or he might be waiting in the bedroom behind the door, ready to shut it closed as I walk through so he can push me over the bed, yank down my pants, and belt me. I don't know when he'll pounce, and my rising anxiety of looming pain will make me soak through my clothes.
Of course, the added bonus of all this is that he knows I hate this reflex of mine, because it's completely beyond my control. I end up always worrying about what I'm wearing, where I'll be if fear strikes, and will I be able to control the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I end up fearful of being afraid.
I am afraid of fear itself.
And you know what that makes me? Wet.