Take two people: one, a young whip-wielding dominatrix clad in glistening black latex, so tight that it appears her second-skin; lips the colour of blood and eyes so thickly lined in black kohl so that you can’t help but notice them from miles away. She snarls, snapping the whip inches before you, her voice risen to gravelly tones, sharp, and booming. It commands your attention.

The other, a modest gentleman, mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, average height, to just a bit short, decent shape, but far from muscle-bound. He wears a simple suit, appearing like just another cog in the American corporate machine. His voice is steady, but not particularly noteworthy. He stands before you, asking you a simple question, or making an equally simple statement.

Now.

Of the two of them, who has the power? You may say this is an unfair comparison, and most unscientific — one is a man, the other a woman. Apples and oranges. Still, the whip-wielding dominatrix is more quickly linked to ‘power’ in most people’s minds than the older, average-appearing gentleman.

Is that what you think, too? If so, you’d be wrong.

Oh, you can scoff, but seeing as I pulled from life here, I’ll go ahead and tell you that the young dominatrix is just one more faceless actress playing a role on a website, or in a video clip, or entered into a professional contract with a paying client. If she isn’t just pretending, she’s even weaker than the one that is. And the gentleman, ladies and gents, would be Robert K Ressler. You might know him as the guy who coined the term ‘serial killer’ and has caught more than any other profiler in the history of the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit.

What a pro-domme does in comparison is fucking child’s play. Yes, yes, that’s a bit harsh — but you try being across the table from a violent criminal. Go on. Let me know how successful you are.

I, on the other hand, have a unique perspective, being both a domme and having spent years of my life training as what is commonly known as a ‘profiler’. (Although the term ranges from ‘behavioural evidence analyst’ to ‘criminologist’. I was technically accepted into the FBI as a crime analyst for the National Centre for the Analysis of Violent Crime prior to my life entirely switching directions and my relocating to Los Angeles. So suck on that, bitches.) As for being across the table from violent offenders — that’s when I was an interviewer for the Department of Justice. I’d say the rough distance between the guy and me was a good 2.5 feet. There was always a guard outside, and depending upon their threat assessment, they were restrained in some fashion — typically, cuffed.

Training was provided by a DOJ liaison, since we were collegians, and only two of us were on the Bureau track. (I was alone, however, in having my sights on the BAU). The Psychology chair was conducting a specific experiment for which he needed a lot of data gathered, and struck a deal with the DOJ for it. They just needed the manpower. Again, training was pretty fascinating. We learned, very quickly, how to ask the appropriate questions (or, in our case, line items of the several hundred-question survey) and to deflect those that would provide the subject with too much inf0rmation. And I don’t think I have to remind you of how many films and television series featuring ‘interviewing the serial killer’ scenarios there are, where the general idea is, ‘this guy is bored in prison, and gets a rare opportunity to fuck with a total stranger.’ They don’t pull that from their asses, people. I can’t vouch personally, but I can say that from being on the side that conducts the interview, they are desperately eager to see just how far they can get before they fucking break you.

I know. That whole ‘ooh, break me, break me,’ is so fucking hot to you. Bully for you. Maybe you’d have a different perspective if you were one of those they did break, who ended up leaving the programme and taking time off from school. (Ever hear of a psych leave?) Luckily, we had a lot of dunderheads, but being that it was a large enough population (around 200) and there were 6 of us (you do the math), at least one of those assholes is going to want to go Hannibal Lecter on your ass.

And as fate, or what seems to be a bizarre pattern given my own history dealing with psychopaths or the mentally ill, mine was the ass that one such chose. Let me paint the portrait for you.

I’m in a small separate building comprised of maybe three rooms; a seldom used testing facility, just off-campus. There have been liability forms signed, and yadda-yadda, but for the most part, it’s just me in a folding chair across a card table from a man who raped and murdered his wife. Since he had committed much ‘partner-assaultive behaviour’ (to go spouting official jargon at you) he fit enough into the experimental population that our professor wanted. As such, the questions I was to ask this fellow ranged from the typical to gain neutral responses for control purposes: ‘what is your favourite colour?’ to those that would be emotionally-charged — for both the subject and, at times, the interviewer.

For me, that was, ‘Did you ever forcefully engage your partner in sexual intercourse during the course of your relations?’ He looked to the side for a moment, almost as if he was about to laugh. (Some would just go into great detail regarding the horrendous ways in which they transgressed against the women that had been in their lives. Gleefully, I’ll add.)

But this guy was different. And very, very bored. So, he asked: ‘You mean like rough sex?’ Hardly being foreign to the subject of kink, I followed the rules of the interview, knowing that I may respond, but to use discretion. I said, ‘That would only refer to consensual relations.’ I then repeated my prior question. (There were only 4 fucking bubbles — A, B, C, and D, for the love-a Pete.)

At this point, he thought it amusing to inform me via a brief (enough) tirade of all the ways and means with which he would ‘forcefully engage’ me. (Yeah. Never saw that one coming.)

Okay, so on the inside, I was screaming. After all, he was not gingerly, but with a jack-hammer at maximum force, ramming all of my buttons, and flipping the switches to my own individual triggers so much, that the handles were flying off. Now. This is about the point where an interviewer would decline to complete the interview, run from the building, and leave the programme. I may have followed suit — were it not for some very unofficial training I had in college with a homicidal psychopath I had the strange misfortune of knowing.

I was used to having my buttons obliterated. To feeling terrified out of my fucking skull, and able to repeat to myself what quickly became a mantra: ‘Don’t let him know you’re afraid. Then you’ve lost everything.’ It seemed very important to me at the time — when I was 16. Now that I was 22, it seemed strangely more-so.

So, I picked up my little clipboard, noticeably (and murmuring under my breath) darkened the ‘Subject declined answer’ bubble’. Option D. I also looked right at him, as if I were telling the subject I was photographing to move a little more to the left. Not immediately, but soon after, I pushed to the back of my mind the images that had come immediately to the forefront of being molested by my older cousin, repeatedly, as a child. I went onto the next item. And, well, shut off the A/C. It’s Texas. In the summer. (They don’t like to sweat.) I then resumed the interview, which continued without further incident.

(Pussy.)

Oh, yes. Homicidal personalities can be pussies. In fact, it takes strength to not give into your most base desires and instinctual yearnings. But, I digress.

I have to admit my interviewing style was partially through my individual research of Ressler’s own techniques (because the man is a true marvel) and working with a hostage negotiator who cut his teeth on Waco. (Yeah.) The most important piece of advice proffered me?

Never raise your voice. Ever.

You know those dommes who rant and rave and shriek and shout and think that they’re actually getting somewhere (besides having swollen lymph nodes)? There’s a reason why they think they have to project themselves so loudly. Likely, no one told them otherwise, and secondly, they fear they’ll simply not be heard. Think about it. Why do you raise your voice? It’s when you’re trying to be heard, right? You’re yelling at the dog, you’re calling to your spouse, you’re reprimanding your kid. ‘Damn it! I told you outside!’ ‘Honey, what time is that dinner thing tomorrow?’ ‘I told you, turn the TV down!’ Really, the only situation in which you’re not losing power — or just flat giving it up — is when calling to your spouse because there’s competing noise. But regarding your kid, and your dog, you’ve lost it.

And they know.

Let today’s lesson be a little about the reptilian brain. The oldest part of our human brain structure. That collection of nerves, synapses, and neural pathways that’s been there forever — that developed before anything else, and relies on instinct. That’s the part of you that wants to fuck the shit out of the buxom blonde with ridiculous tits walking her dog, even though you’re in the car coming back from church with your wife. (Ooh! Snap!) It’s also the part of you that wants to beat people with tire irons, just because. It’s a very uncivilised, generally unruly and almost infantile part of you. It wants what it wants. Now.

It also seeks to gain control of everything, because what do we want when we want overall? Control — because then everything else is a lot easier to obtain. Like a kleptocracy (look it up) where the ruling bodies have carte blanche to do whatever the hell it is they want to do, regardless of who gets hurt. Absolute power — in this case, corrupting absolutely. So, your lizard brain is all about getting the upper-hand in everything. A bit scary, but true. Your parents, your lover, your kids, your boss, your pets — even the cashier. As a result, we’re all subconsciously going about keeping ourselves in check. Don’t fuck the dog-walking-blonde. Don’t bludgeon your boss with the tire iron. It’s just a bad idea, and morally, very, very uncool.

But while you’re keeping your little devil on your shoulder from wreaking havoc, you’ve gotta keep an eye out for everyone else’s. And the surest way to fail is by giving any indication that you’re out of control. Take for example, your kid watching TV. You’ve told her to turn it down. She doesn’t really want to, however, so she’s going to see just how serious you are about this. The more you remind, the more she’ll test. Finally, you’ve got other shit to worry about than this, so you wander back in, find the TV still blaring, (or notice that it’s been turned back up) and think, ‘what the fuck!’ So, without thinking, in your exhaustion, you launch a counterattack. ‘I told you to turn that down!’ She can tell you’re angry — and the fact that your voice is booming is a clear sign that you’ve lost control. Her little reptilian brain smiles. Muahaha!

Okay, so all kids are not little budding supervillains, but you get the point. (Though, sometimes, they really do seem that way!) Instinctively, we know when someone else has just ceded control in some way, and we automatically position them submissively. It’s as if we’ve realised: ‘Oh, they, that person’s not a threat anymore. I don’t have to take them seriously.’ We also lose respect for that individual. Ouch.

So, how do you think the reptilian brain feels about the shouting dominatrix? Yeah, you guessed it. ‘Is she for real?’ Or, worse, ‘Man, she’s totally lost it. I’ve got her.’ Now, the submissive has gained total control, and — ick. That’s not even what he wanted, is it? So, the domme‘s been submissively positioned, and the sub is now in control of the situation.

And we wonder why kink can fail.

It’s not that we’ve incompatible kinks; it’s that we’re incorrectly expressing them. The domme’s actually too out of control to be in a position of real power. The sub knows this, and is given control by default. In the end, everyone’s pissed off, and no one’s having a very good time.

Short answer? Dommes: stop yelling. Seriously. Fuck that noise! You’re a Goddamned woman, for chrissake. What is between your legs? Go on, spread ‘em and take a look if you can’t remember. A pussy? Oh, good. Then you’re in the clear. Men will do everything in their power to get all up in that shit, and all you have to do is not raise your fucking voice. Is it that hard?

Real dommes don’t need to raise their voices, because they don’t question their dominance. If you do, then you are. Look into that.

Stay calm, steady, and project yourself with an air of confidence — not arrogance – I’m not talking about that ‘serve me, I’m a princess’ bullshit. Again, it’s fakery, and deep down, everyone knows it — especially, you! Just be firm, just, and seek to get your needs met. If your sub is truly submissive, seeing your needs met will meet his own.

How’s that for compatible kink?

Now you know the secret of power, use — and don’t abuse — this knowledge. Of course, power is a multifaceted thing, but this is the most basic, and the easiest to master — if you know how to do it.

Now you do.

Good luck!

Tags: profiling, real dominance, robert k ressler, the secret of power, the secret of true dominance, true power