Why We Don’t Use the Language of BDSM

In our early days of exploring D/s, Michael and I spent a lot of time online, exploring BDSM sites and learning the language and lingo from others who’d been immersed in “the lifestyle” for ages.  It was very comforting to discover we were not alone, that this path had been traveled many times and found wonderful.  We soaked up the new language, and tried it out like people with a phrasebook getting ready to journey to a foreign land.  Should we try going to a ‘munch’? I’d ask, then laugh at this unfamiliar word.

But over time, we’ve found ourselves dropping the words, and eventually drifting away from material written for a BDSM audience.  Most of it feels designed for people who are in it for the fetish aspect, people who primarily use bondage and discipline to get off.  Of course, there’s nothing wrong with getting off good and hard; Michael and I have been getting off plenty.  But we feel ourselves primarily motivated by the desire for greater intimacy, greater authenticity.  Blog34Quote1When we use phrases like “scene” or “play,” it seems to imbue our power exchange with the artificiality of roleplay.  We don’t see ourselves as “playing” at D/s, we see ourselves as loving each other.  I feel a stark difference between becoming a servant to the heat of BDSM sex, and through hot BDSM sex becoming a servant to love.

“Safe, Sane, and Consensual” slogans also don’t seem to resonate with us or do “safewords,” or rules of “aftercare.”  These concepts are clearly important, even necessary, for pursuing sex between strangers or the uncommitted.  But they feel irrelevant and overly complicated, two married people who know and trust each other completely.  At least for us.

“Respect for emotional safety” is another phrase we encountered a lot, but this somehow this puts me off as well, I’m not sure why.  Who can object to emotional safety?  Yet, I wouldn’t be doing this if I wanted emotional safety.  The further we go in our power exchange journey, the less we feel like clinging to safety and the more we want to turn ourselves over to the perils of the unpredictable and unknown.

Most BDSM literature strongly encourages two people to be specific with each other about what activities we want, and don’t want, all spelled out beforehand.  And we did at first find that bracketing BDSM activities in a “scene,” and discussing expectations, allowed us to know when to behave a certain way.  That was helpful in our first weeks, when we often felt a little lost as we tried on this new way of relating.  We constantly wondered, how do we move in and out of dominating or submissive behavior?  Is it time for this now?  How do we live normal life and this other life at the same time?

Yet, we quickly realized we were better off allowing our D/s life to unfold spontaneously – unplanned, no scene, just following the impulse of the moment.  Most our attempts to plan a specific scene made it all feel mechanical, a game, and we couldn’t relax into it.  And of course, reality rarely goes according to plan anyway, or feels like one expects it to feel.  Planning a detailed scene more often led to disappointment than pleasant surprise.

We do, of course, spend a lot of time talking about it all.  We still make brief forays online, and tell each other about the images and ideas we find intriguing.

“I love the idea of being tied up naked on the couch,” I will tell him.  “With legs splayed open, being unable to close my legs, just stuck there, exposed, on the couch, while we watch TV.”

Michael will nod, hmm, interesting.  But we will not set up a specific scene to do this.  He might one evening to decide to tie me like that if the mood strikes him.  Or, he might not.  Or, he might put his own twist on it.  Sometimes his version is not anything I would have imagined for myself, let alone thought to spell out.  And that is exactly how I want it.  In fact, I find it irritating if he asks me to spell out anything or tell him what I want.  To me, the whole point of being sexually submissive is to surrender to his desires, not mine.  I don’t want responsibility for any of it, I want to be free of having to think about it.  To me, submission is pure freedom.

David Deida best describes the dynamic we try to live now.  He advises the dominant man to “listen not to what your beloved says she wants, but what love tells you she needs.”  He says that a man can ignore what his woman says she wants if love demands it.  It’s an audacious assertion, and it goes against every tenant of the ‘safe, sane and consensual’ BDSM canon.  But this seems to us the only way it works for us.

Like this morning, I wake up with my husband’s hand reaching between my legs.  Before D/s I would have pushed his hand away, I am sore from too much sex already, and not at all in the mood.  But of course, before D/s he wouldn’t be reaching at all, he’d have waited for me to wake up, might have tried to measure my receptiveness before whispering, “I want to touch you.”  Then he’d wait for my assent, which I may or may not have given after a torturous mental assessment of my mood and desires and weighing the costs of refusal.  Would he be discouraged from offering if I didn’t accept?  Would he worry I don’t find him desirable anymore, or that I don’t appreciate his generosity?

But let’s say I assent and open my legs to him.  Before D/s, Michael would then finger my pussy with this sweet sort of reverence, a respectful and loving touch that responded to every move of my body or sound I made and gave me lovely orgasms well-spaced apart.  Before D/s, he only rarely touched my ass, and even then only hesitantly, carefully, as if not quite sure what to do with it.

This morning, as my dominant, he touches me sooooo differently.  His hands are so confident now, no hesitation, no permission asked.  He is no longer careful, measuring my response in the same way, as if trying to read what I want.  Blog34Quote2He already knows me inside out, and his fingers move inside me the way HE wants, deep and hard and insistent.  And right now, I feel taken by his fingers in the same way he can take me with his cock.  He no longer keeps respectful distance from my ass, but plunges a finger in that hole, too.  Oh and no more waiting for space between orgasms, either, they blend in to each other.  They are orgasmic rushes now, building, and building…

I can barely catch my breath, his fingers are pounding me so hard, opening me, pussy and ass.  I am completely surrendered to it, no resistance, and I can feel energy gathering between my holes, oh yes there is a root chakra, I feel it literally spin open, then whoosh – a conflagration.  Racing fire, the entire tree of my nervous system lights up in a flash, burns up my body in a beautiful searing rush.  Fuck.  Then my body locks up in some kind of overload, I push his hand away from me, scramble to sit upright.

My mind is so dazed by that intense flash that all I can do is stare up at him dumbstruck, while the embers the fire still drift through me.  I want to describe it to him, but I don’t know how.  My words are incomprehensible.

This is not a scene. We are not playing a game. These surges of sexual heat keep exploding between us unplanned and unexpected, carrying us away.  No moment is predictable anymore.  We are surprising each other always.  And my pussy is so damn sore that I will be feeling it – warm and throbbing – all day long.

Submissive Holy Grail; Opening for Daddy

Daddy finally – finally! – gets his cock in my ass.  For an actual minute.  I’ve already spent an hour face down across his lap with him spanking me and playing with my holes and sticking progressively larger butt plugs in me.  They are the soft, more flexible ones that aren’t so rough on delicate tissues.  First the medium sized one, oh hurts a little, but I think I like it.

I lay there on his lap, cheek pressed against the couch cushion, soaking in the feel of ultimate penetration.  He eventually pulls it out, and I think he’s done.

No, he says, Daddy’s gonna slide the biggest one in, babygirl.

I brace myself, struggling to relax into it as I feel him push the large plug into me, stretching me…  Well, kind of odd and uncomfortable, but… not bad.  I got on my knees on the floor with the big one in me to suck on his cock, oh I felt so full.  And so owned.

There is such sweetness in offering up my ass to whatever he wants to do to me, whether it hurts or not.  And now, he tells me, what he wants is to get his cock in there.  I swallow thickly, worried.  I am already sore from the plugs, don’t feel ready.  But whatever Daddy wants, Daddy gets.  And so I get on all fours on the couch, grip onto the arm, and he shoves his way in.

It hurts.  A lot.  Jagged little streaks of pain.  An unnatural invasion so it seems.  But I can take it.  I like taking it.  I like the rude visceral surprise of it.  I breathe, breathe, as he moves around just a little bit.  Then he’s pulling it out.  I am almost disappointed it was so brief.

But it feels like a triumph.  We are both incredibly turned on by it, and when I get up off the couch, he comes after me, backs me up against the wall of the hall afterward and kisses me and yanks on my nipple until I come.

Afterward, we go out dancing, have a blast, so high on each other, so crazy in love.  We come home and feel asleep in each other’s arms on the couch…

This morning he tells all he can think about is doing me in the ass.  “It’s a huge domination high,” he says.  “I want to try again.  Go wash up.”

I want this, too, but my hole is sore from the breach of my behind last night.  Do I tell him I can’t?  The thought makes me want to cry.

My ass is the last part of me that has not cooperated in submission.  Oh, my pussy is completely conquered, it opens for him, welcomes him, craves him, wants him, comes for him.  My pussy is a willing slave.  But my ass, it doesn’t want to give, still a gate that wants to stay locked, stopping me from giving him everything.  I resent my ass its resistance.  Blog33Quote1I look at our collection of butt plugs as the tools to open the gate, I crave to have him put them inside me, train me open, to take him.  I sometimes think about putting them in myself, try force myself to open for Daddy.

That’s the phrase I use in my head, “Open for Daddy.”  I first encountered it on a submissive wives blog a week or so ago, where a woman posted her despair because she couldn’t withstand the anal sex her dominant wanted.  This other woman talked about how painful anal was for her at first, but eventually he trained her with many hours of butt plug wearing.  Now, she wrote, “I keep my ass lubed all the time so master can use it for his pleasure whenever he feels like it.  Now it always opens for him real nice.”

I have been taken by this idea.  And I am now determined that my ass should open for Daddy.  So I go wash up, make myself clean.

But when I go back into the bedroom, my fear is still nipping at me. I crawl on top of Michael, bury my face into his neck and tell him so.  I’m afraid I can’t take it.

Don’t worry, he says, I’ll get you ready.

And so, as I lay there on his warm chest, breathing into his neck, he reaches down, starts stroking my behind, he pulls one of my knees up, pries one cheeks open… and oh God, the way he touches me.  Stroking the edges of the hole, slow, soothing, gentle, relaxing knowing.  He slides one finger, then two fingers inside me, oh so gentle and yet with all this skill and familiarity, gently stretching me wider.

I completely allowed and relaxed and it changed the sensation for me, not painful anymore, but this aching deep pleasure that was so unexpected.  Up until now, any time he touched me there was a sort of hot turned-on, pain-pleasure sensation.  To have it become pure melting pleasure, radiating pleasure, and no pain whatsoever, well the world turned upside down.  I felt as if everything I previously knew about myself was wrong, my whole body had been transformed.  And Daddy the man who transformed me.

I had come to believe my true self was located inside my pussy, that sacred spot, and I think that is still true.  I have sometimes felt very aware of it being the literal spot where my soul meets flesh, and I still feel it is the seat of my soul, and the opening to my heart.  Blog33Quote2Oh but it is not the seat of my body, that is in my ass, my bodily self begins there, I never knew that before this moment, never felt it so palpably directly touched and moved… Daddy has found the physical me in a way I have never been found or known before, and I want more.

I am gasping on his chest, waiting for him to tell me it’s time, time to turn over so he can enter me.  But he doesn’t do that.  Instead, he kisses me, says, “I’m going to give you more time to be ready.”

I groan, then roll off him, laughing.  Hoist by my own petard.  I don’t know if he’s decided to wait to be kind to me, or if he’s not ready yet himself.  I think of him as all-knowing and powerful, but the truth is, he has zero experience in ass fucking, maybe he’s not that confident.

But whatever the reason, that’s the last time I’ll tell him I’m afraid to take it.

 

Pussy Galore; Or, Why Do I Want to be His Sexual Object?

The other night as I headed into our bedroom, I found my darling Daddy Husband watching the James Bond movie, Live and Let Die.  Like many men, he loves watching the obviously dominant James Bond seduce sexy women into submission.  As I looked at the screen, I said something about how young Jane Seymour was in that movie – a little young for the much older Roger Moore, I thought.

Michael said “Who, you mean Pussy Galore?”

“That’s not Pussy Galore,” I said.  “That’s not her name.”  (For the record, Jane Seymour played Solitaire.)

“They’re all Pussy Galore to me,” he said.

I felt a flash of knee-jerk anger, which I hid behind a laugh.  “Really?” I asked.  “You watch all these Bond movies, and can’t be bothered to learn their names?  All those women, they’re all basically just pussy to you?”

He tilted his head back and forth, which I interpreted to mean, Yeah, pretty much.

I felt myself filling up with a righteous rant, but before I could speak the first word, I realized how silly it would be to blame him for looking at women as sexual objects when I have openly encouraged him to treat me as one.  As in, I literally do not want him to seek my consent, but treat me as a sexual object for his gratification.

He has taken me up on this with great enthusiasm over many months now.  A few weeks ago, he told me how much he enjoyed grabbing my head and forcing my mouth down on his cock to his preferred rhythm.  “It’s like you’re not even there,” he said.  “It feels like the essence of using you.”

I was thrilled to hear him say this; and at the same time disturbed to hear him say it.  I thought, If anyone hears you say that, we’ll be kicked out of civil society.

This is not an easy time to come to terms with my appetite for sexual surrender, let alone write about it in this blog.  In fact, I haven’t written about it for many weeks now as the year-long storm of media attention toward sexual harassers has reached a fever pitch.  Blog32Quote1It started last year with Donald Trump’s Access Hollywood tape about his zeal for pussy-grabbing, and has continued on through Roger Ailes and Bill O’Reilly losing their jobs for their own zeal.  And lately with Harvey Weinstein and others being outed as perverts who prey on women, I cannot go on Internet without running into one anguished tale after another.

Lately, when I sit down to write another detailed description of our latest D/s bedroom exploits, I feel myself freeze up with… I don’t know, some kind of guilt, or… Is it a feeling of complicity?  In writing about how much I crave objectification from my husband, I worry terribly I could be abetting the sexual harassers who seem to be making so many women miserable in the workplace and in their lives.

I can, of course, point out that I only desire to submit to my husband, not just any male who crosses my path.  I can point out, as every BDSM practitioner does, over and over, that the entire dynamic requires clearly stated consent. And I can point out that in exchange for my submission in the bedroom, my husband has become my fierce protector, and treats me with extraordinary care and respect in all other areas of our married life.  And I have no doubt that – despite his joke about Pussy Galore – he does not look at womenkind as nothing but a bunch of sexual receptacles.

But none of that would hide the fact that I really, really crave being a sexual object for him.  And that most of my life I have sometimes enjoyed the little frisson of energy that comes from being viewed as one by others.  I don’t know if that is primarily a biological urge (certainly sexual attractiveness must have played a big part in our species’ survival through the imperative to procreate), or if I have been trained to it by the culture, or both.

What I do know is that after a wretched adolescence in which I was completely ignored by boys, I came to feel there was nothing so painful as being invisible to the opposite sex.  Since growing into my body, I have always dressed up for parties hoping to be flirted with and lusted after by other men.  I have gone home disappointed if that didn’t happen.  And I confess that I have often implicitly encouraged workplace sexual attention through laughter at inappropriate jokes and remarks, and even the acceptance of the odd groping here and there.  Rather than making me feel victimized, it somehow always made me feel like I was wielding power over these hapless men who could not control themselves around me.

I learned this attitude from a mother who dismissively waved away any idea of sexual attention as “bad.”  As a 12-year-old with brand new breasts, I’d been cornered by one of her friends in our bathroom, and grabbed and pulled tight against him.  I watched in the mirror as his face went slack and his hands roamed over my chest. When I told her about it, she didn’t get outraged.  She told me “boys will be boys,” that’s how they were, and I could expect some of them would try to get handsy with me.  She told me she’d warn him off, but that I might as well be “flattered” he found me attractive.  Oh, okay then.

Now, there have been times in my life when I have felt anger at my mother’s dismissal of what was clearly sexual abuse.  But most of the time I believe she did me a great favor, teaching me that I can interpret such events any way I choose.  And so, when I began working in a field where men far outnumbered women, I chose to not feel victimized or even uncomfortable, despite all manner of inappropriate words or actions.  Blog32Quote2I laughed a lot, made good friends, felt part of a team, and was generally known as “cool chick” for my lack of uptight censure of them.  Not that I didn’t sometimes pay a price for my tolerance of bad behavior.  When a male supervisor made up stories about getting me in the sack, those stories that were believed.  And if I had ever been raped, I suspect the consensus among at least some of my coworkers might have been that I had somehow asked for it with my easygoing attitude.

Would they have been right?  If a woman doesn’t set up hard boundaries against being cast in a sexual light, is she inviting abuse?  Worse, is she failing to protect all other women who have been — or might in the future be — grievously harmed by abuse?  Most of the commentary I see online lately is very black and white, as if the answers are obvious.  Women are victims and men are predatory pigs.  And when it comes to a true predator like Harvey Weinstein, and the women who suffered at his hands, a black-and-white picture is right and necessary.

But most of life unfolds in gray areas, and it strikes me as unhelpful to pretend otherwise.  The determination of where sexual power lies, at least since the sexual revolution, is not at all black and white, but murky, and fraught, and complex.  Men have generally struck me as beggars for sex, made biologically desperate by their stronger need, and sometimes sadly comical in the way they will bow and scrape in order to “get some.”  I’ve seen plentiful signs that many men resent their lack of power in the sexual arena, and so when they find themselves in a position of power in the workplace, some are clearly willing to use that power toward a sexual end.  A few even make criminals of themselves.  But I think it’s fair to recognize that men can be confused by mixed signals, such as the way women dress to invite sexual admiration – a point which fashion designer Donna Karan recently made and was immediately punished for in the court of public opinion.

But of course, women are beggars for power where they can get it, and sexual power is easier to come by than any other.  We like to blame the culture for making women into sexual objects, but no one forces girls to put on short skirts, or show off our cleavage, in order to invite the male gaze.  We do it, I believe, because it makes us feel a certain kind of power.  And certainly, many men must have also found that while some women are offended by workplace sexual attention, others overtly welcome it.  Or even if they don’t actively court it, many are willing to brush it off without being unduly disturbed.

Just this week in The Atlantic, a writer talks about working for years with a magazine editor who was well-known for his sexually inappropriate manner with the women who worked under him.  She tolerated it without too much trouble it seems, and even felt fortunate to be working with him for other reasons.  But now she – and other women who also worked there – regrets that tolerance.  She writes that many of them are feeling “guilt-ridden” and complicit, “for not having been stronger or braver; for not having stood up for themselves and demanding more respect.”  Why didn’t they?  Because, she says, it was “complicated.”  Meaning, it wasn’t a black-and-white situation, it was gray.

I have read again and again that we are no longer supposed to say, “boys will be boys,” and give them a pass for bad behavior.  This has been important in dealing with black-and-white crimes, but it has been disastrous in the gray areas we navigate every day.  I worry we have taught ourselves and our daughters to feel traumatized by any and all sexual attention, and at the same time, cast a net of shame over men for seeing women through a sexual lens.  A quick look at social media shows how many men feel angry and alienated from women because of it.  I think they instinctively know it’s not just a “men are assholes” problem, it is also a “women want it both ways” problem – and this blog reveals that.

And that’s where my guilt comes from, because I’m not supposed to admit it.  I’m not supposed to admit that I want to be wanted in a sexual sense by men just as much – if not more – as I want them to respect me for my work.  But, if we humans really are subject to a hierarchy of needs, as many psychologists suggest, then our biology-driven need for sexual regard and connection, however we define it for ourselves, is always going to be more urgent than other legitimate “higher” needs.  (Hence, the downfall of so many prominent figures because of tawdry sexual entanglements.)

From where I sit, one reason the problem of sexual harassment has become so charged is because we do not allow ourselves to tell this whole complex gray truth about it.  Perhaps that is why I am so drawn to, and so comforted by, sexual submission in my marriage.  I have always found peace and pleasure in understanding that boys will be boys, and being willing to relate to them on that level.  It feels simple and honest, everything out in the open.  My husband wants pussy galore, and I consent to let him have it and don’t make him feel badly for it.  I give my sexual power over to him, and finally oh finally, there are no more layers of confusion to get in the way, no more guilt, or resentment, or conflict between needs.  Just two bodies and raw sex.  Just sweet uncomplicated fucking.  And somehow from that flows the richest spring of love and respect I have ever known.

So… politically incorrect or not, I have decided I will keep writing about it.

Ass Training; for the Ultimate in D/s Sex

This morning, I slip off back to sleep after Daddy goes to work, and I dream that he has decided to start “anal training” and come back into the room to slip a butt plug in my ass.  We have been talking about it so much lately, my growing desire to surrender to this ultimate symbol of his domination and the problem of how to get my ass open enough to be able to take his cock.  But however much the idea excites me, just a finger or two is about all I can handle, anything bigger hurts so much that my behind clenches up in resistance.

I have printed out actual “submissive ass training” instructions off the internet that require a graduated series of butt plugs, and flushed with embarrassment as I handed it to him a few evenings before.

I tell him I am embarrassed that this is how I am spending my mental energy.  Really?  I say.  This is the biggest problem in my life right now?  We laugh as we talk about it, our “first world problems.”  Imagine, I say, if I could put all this mental energy into actually doing good in the world instead of trying to figure out how get your cock up my butt.  I look at all the people on Fetlife, and I am agog at the ingenuity that goes into constructing gadgets and contraptions for sexual stimulation.  What if those people put their minds to doing something useful with that ingenuity, too?  Then again, what if more people were focused on getting off sexually rather than raping and pillaging the earth, inventing useless things, bombs, airplanes, starting wars?

But whether I approve of myself or not, this is where my mind is going, this seems an urgent and vital thing.  My Daddy must fuck me in the ass or I cannot be happy.  Blog31Quote1And this morning my dream seems so vivid and real that when I wake, I am unsure whether really happened, and I reach around and touch my behind to make sure there is truly no butt plug there.

I open up my email to write Michael and tell him about my dream.  But he has already written me that he intends to begin my ass training over the weekend.

“We’ll begin on the couch tonight,” he writes, “after I apply the usual discipline, gentle anal massage, sensual, relaxing, after which I’ll ease a slightly larger plug inside.”

I cannot wait for him to get home.  I helpfully put the tray of graduated sizes of silicone butt plugs on the coffee table.

He comes home crackling with sexual energy, puts me on my knees, I suck his cock.  He sits in a chair, he wants to show me silly cat pictures on the internet.  So I sit on his lap, and he shows me.  At first I feel too huge and silly to be draped across his lap, but then I snuggle in, to be close to him always intoxicates me.  I am nervous and giddy I tell him; you are so powerful over me; I don’t know what you’ll do.  I hope you’ll never tell me what you plan to do; I just want to be in a receptive state.

We kiss, he whispers his “sweet Daddy nothings” in my ear, plays with the edge of my underwear.  Then: take them off baby girl.  I splay wide on the chair in front of the living room window while he goes down on me.  The window is open I can see the neighbor in the front yard, I try to be quiet as he makes me come with his tongue on my clit.

Then he tells me I am going to lick his ass for him.  Oh my God, I am so excited for this, “this is my treat for being good,” I tell him.  He gets naked, I play with his ass, licking, sucking, fingers.  And the whole time I am thinking of the tray of plugs on the coffee table.  Soon it will be my turn.

Then he does me, oh my god he does me, fucks me so hard.  As he is pounding me from behind, pressing my head down on the mattress, I ride this spike of excitement, being carried by the intensity of it, and then finally can’t seem to keep up with the intensity, and I feel a switch go off in me, everything in me releases, becomes passive empty open.  I lie there taking it, completely mindless and peaceful, an object in truth.  When he is done, I can barely move so deep is my peace and serenity.

Later, after dinner, he ties me up in a breast harness.  I keep asking for it to be tighter, tighter.  And when he is done it is uncomfortably tight around my breasts, but not painfully so, just enough to keep me constantly aware of it, unable to get in a truly comfortable position.  I am constantly achingly aware of my bare breasts being pushed out, aware of the rope, the feeling of being tied, owned, oh my god it is stimulating.  And he can’t stop playing with them.  “I am fascinated with your titties,” he says as he grabs them, sucks on them.

He turns me over his knee on the couch for my spanking, and with each blow he yells out and shudders, he says he feels like he could orgasm that way, it so turns him on.

I stay across his lap as his fingers begin playing inside my pussy.  A finger slips into my ass.  And here it comes, I think.  My throat feels thick with anticipation.  But he doesn’t do anything more than that.  I squirm impatiently across his lap.  Has he forgotten?

I lie there sulking for a good five minutes, deprived, cheated.  I finally reach out, slap my hand onto the tray of plugs and grab one of the medium-sized ones, then twist around to hold it up to him.  Oh I am topping from the bottom, but I can’t help it, I want this badly.

He laughs and nods, ah okay, and goes about the long slow business of caressing my nervous asshole, and then pushing the wide bottomed plug in.  It takes some effort; I keep trying to relax and open and take it in.  It is not really that big, but it feels HUGE.  It stretches me, feels both uncomfortable and incredibly hot.  I feel invaded, subdued.  He keeps caressing the area around it, keeping me relaxed.  Oh, I sigh and wiggle and smolder, feel so turned on it is excruciating.  He starts to take it out, but I say no, I need to leave it in so it will stretch me.

I move back onto the couch, lay up against him.  Oh, but there is no way to get comfortable with that thing inside me.  I feel some cramping sensations, like I have to go to the bathroom.  So now I am both strangely turned on and turned off at once.

Why is it the idea of having something in my ass is so much more pleasurable than the actual feel?  It as to be because of the submissive quality of it, the discomfort makes me feel deeply submissive, deeply surrendered.  Blog31Quote2So here I am, in love with the idea of being fucked in the ass, but struggling with the pain.  I ask him to take it out, he pulls and pulls, but my ass is so tight around it, it is not giving.  I think, oh fuck, it is going to rip me up.  Finally it comes out with a sudden pop.  Wow, he says, that sucker was in there.  It makes us laugh, I come up off the couch in wave of laughing embarrassment.  I say, “Now I have to go recover my dignity.”  I go wash the thing.  Oh, my ass hurts.

Soon we go to bed, he says he wants me again, but I am smarting and stinging down there, so I put him in my mouth and make him come.  He cries out, louder than I have ever heard him yell.  He tells me it was one of the most intense orgasms of his life.  He is 54;  I am 51.  We had intense exciting sex for the better part of six hours.

We love BDSM. Are we Freaks?

Throughout these weeks of edgy sexual D/s exploration – no wait, it’s months now – I go to Fetlife hoping to see more people “like me.”  I want to feel normal.  And I can’t look away.  Well, I can easily scroll by all the exhibitionist girls with stilettos and waxed pussies trying to lure people to their web sites.  It’s the normal looking people that absorb me for hours – a little overweight, showing off whippings, ass fistings, their flesh red and bruised and cut and bleeding, jizz and cum everywhere.  All stunning in their torture extremes, boastful of those extremes – look at what I can take.

Oh yes, I am absorbed, but none of it makes me feel better about much milder me, nor does it make me feel more normal.  My fascination makes me fear of going that far, becoming freakish.  I like a little spanking, a little nipple clamp maybe.  Blog31Quote2I like the submission mind game.  But I don’t like the idea of going over some dark line, getting lost in freak territory, becoming unrecognizable and unreal to myself.

Up until now, David Deida and his writings, like Intimate Intimate Communion has provided a wonderful framework for me to understand what is happening with me and my Daddy husband, helped me understand why our exploration in ravishment and surrender are so thrilling to us, and why it has so dramatically opened hears and bodies to each other.  Yet nowhere in what I have read from Deida so far does he talk about BDSM or dominance and submission.  He talks about the masculine partner loving his woman “forcefully” and “even aggressively,” and how the feminine partner can yield to this energy.  He talks about going after “the style of intimate relationship that best serves our expression of love.”  He says “every desire, every taboo must be embraced and then converted, by love.”  But he will not describe what all that may look like.  He recommends embracing the taboo without naming the taboo.

To me, it seems he is referring to power exchange.  But his writing is very airy, almost in the vein of romantic poetry.  He doesn’t bring it down to earth.  And so his advice is lacking in practical applications.  It is not “implementable,” as one poster who is familiar with work wrote on a message board I discovered.

I am frustrated by this.  I want a wise teacher to tell me, Yes, woman, letting your husband torture your nipples is a spiritual exercise.  I want to continue my noble project of thinking of “submission as a path to God.”  I don’t want it all to just be a perverted fetish.  For a brief while I am comforted by the idea that one BDSM devotee posits on a message board, that Deida likely considers BDSM an area to “grow through” or a “kink to be ironed out,” and that eventually a couple will discover that such extremes aren’t needed to open up one sexually.

At first, I like this idea. It calms the feminist chatter in my head that never quite goes away that I am doing something wrong by withdrawing my right to consent to my husband. I like thinking, “Okay, this D/s stuff is a phase we are moving through on the way to some greater cosmic place, a proving ground for some relationship nirvana we are on our way toward.”

But then I think, no, attributing this glorious physical heat we are experiencing as a phase on the way to something else is doing a disservice to that heat.  Why can’t the heat be a noble end unto itself?  Blog31Quote1There is a reason there are so many women on Fetlife, asses in the air, with blissed-out looks on their faces, waiting to be beaten, penetrated, loved roughly.  There is a reason why 50 Shades of Grey, by all accounts a terribly written book, is so fucking popular, even more popular than Harry Potter.  The desire to be dominated is clearly a universal longing.

To look for something beyond the immersive experience of BDSM strikes me a little like standing on top of ladder in order to look for a ladder.  I am already there.  Michael grabs me hard, and I am immediately present, immediately pulled into my body.  Immediate nirvana.

Maybe that is why I end up drifting away from the gaudy entertainments of Fetlife and start reading what surveys and studies I can find about BDSM.  According to the science of statistics, BDSM practitioners are actually happier than their vanilla counterparts.

For example, one Australian study shows that BDSM people show signs of being more psychologically healthy than the average population.  Another 2013 study, called “Psychological Characteristics of BDSM Practictioners,” explains why:  “Individuals experienced a reduction in the stress hormone cortisol and elevation in testosterone levels after kink activities suggesting that there is a biochemical enhancement for some who engage in these behaviors.”  This same study also “revealed improved measures of psychological relationship closeness in participants.  Both people who received and administered kink activities were notable for these increased measures of intimacy.”

Furthermore, “BDSM participants were less neurotic, more extroverted, more open to new experiences, had more conscientiousness, yet were less agreeable compared to non-BDSM control groups.  The subjective well-being of BDSM was higher than that of the control group, and the study summarized that people who engage in BDSM are characterized by greater psychological and interpersonal strength and autonomy, rather than by psychological maladaptive characteristics.”

Okay then.  I can stop worrying, go ahead and set aside this need to justify my sexual longings as noble and not antifeminist, and especially “not sick.”  Although I suppose this blog is exactly that, a justification, my own version of women posting their pictures on Fetlife, asses in the air, pussies exposed, look what I can take.  I am just doing it with words instead of photos.

But writing through this – and hearing back from women like me, going through what I am going through, takes me ever closer to peace with it all.  Writing this allows me to let it be what it is – the most intense sexual and love experience of my life.

Daddy Tucks me In; Or, a Submissive Fantasy Comes True

One way my husband wants me to surrender to him is to reveal to him how I am feeling about him and our Dominant/submissive sexual arrangement, so I am developing the habit of writing down our sexual experiences and how I feel about it.  I call it my “chronicle” (and the basis for this blog).  Today, when he gets home from work, he tells me that after he read my chronicle at his desk, he headed straight to the bathroom masturbate.

“In all the years I’ve worked there, I’ve never done that,” he says.  “But I was that stirred up.”

He tells me he wants me to cook dinner topless, and ties me in a rope harness so that my breasts are squeezed in loops of rope, my bare titties jutting out.  I love the feel of it, love the way his eyes follow me around the kitchen, love the submissive trigger of rope.

Still, something is stopping me from getting too deeply into a submissive space.  Maybe it’s the novelty of cooking topless?  No, I think it’s my self-consciousness.  I feel more than a little ridiculous as I chop onions and jalapeno peppers with bare, jutting breasts.  What an odd sight I must be, middle-aged me, with my imperfect body on such flagrant display.  Even as it turns me on, it also inhibits me from letting go like I want.  I am disappointed in myself for letting my insecurity take precedence over his pleasure.  But I don’t know how to stop it.  I know there is no way I am going to eat like that, so I put my shirt over the harness to eat dinner.  Yet, as soon as we are done and I settle onto the couch beside him, he tugs at the shirt.  “Off.”

I peel the shirt off, and my breasts are now faint pink from being squeezed so tightly by the rope.  He drops his head down to put one of my nipples in his mouth, then yanks his head back in surprise.  Blog30Quote1“My mouth is on fire.”

I laugh.  I must have touched my nipple after chopping the jalapeno, and now he’d gotten a mouthful of the spice.  I get up to go to the kitchen to watch them off.

Survivor starts on TV, and I go back to lie down on the ouch with my head on his lap. As we watch the screen, he idly plays with my rope-squeezed breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers, pinching them.  It is ohhhhhh, lovely lovely, waves-of-warmth, fuck yes perfect.  My whole body soon feels electrified, and still he plays and pinches, pleasure ratcheting up and up and up…  I feel as if he is plucking me away from myself and throwing me up into heaven.

I never asked for it – he is doing it for his own pleasure I’m sure – but I am so profoundly enjoying it, that it doesn’t feel like submission at all.  It feels like he is submitting to my own secret desires.  I am suddenly confused, who is submitting to who?

It is a conundrum that has been nagging at me lately.  When he is giving me such intense pleasure, I feel my own sexual will bursting back to life, yes Daddy, give me more of that, more more, I need more.  My words start as a plea, but come out sounding like a command to my ears.

As I lay there, panting with the intensity of the pleasure, I ask him, “How is this submission?”

“It’s okay if you get off on it,” he says.  “I’m your Daddy.  That means I want to take care of you, spoil you, make you happy.  It doesn’t mean I’m not in charge.”

As if to prove his point, he twists my nipples, making me gasp and arch my back in sharp beautiful pain.  Then he pulls me across his lap and spanks me shockingly hard.  As I take the pain, my mind shuts off immediately, goes blank, quiet, peaceful.

“I know you need me to be rough sometimes, too,” he says.

“Yes, Daddy,” I say, my behind on fire.

And just like that, he has made my conundrum dissolve away into his generous Daddy love.

He unties the rope, takes me to bed. He tells me to kiss him all over, show him how I love him.  And I do, sweetly, thoroughly.  We continue in a slow tender dance of lazily exploring each other with mouths and fingers, anywhere and everywhere, arm pits even.  There is an innocence about it that moves me greatly, to be able to feel so free of boundaries, to have such permission to touch each other anywhere.  Places never touched before, or even considered sexual before, are now charged with erogenous energy.

I begin to grow sleepy and lie on my side, with him curled behind me. He slowly starts caressing my behind, his fingers moving to softly along my crack.  I sigh, and relax and open…  And then, oh then, with one moist finger, he begins caressing my bottom hole.  And I do mean caress, the lightest strokes against the oh so sensitive hole.  Blog30Quote2I have never been touched there like that, so slow and gentle and loving.  The tender intimacy of it makes my heart beat hard.  The pleasure of it suffuses me with glowing heat.  My eyes fill with tears.

I am ready to cry because Michael has discovered my deepest desire without me ever speaking it aloud.  I think I’d once mentioned I had a fantasy of “my Daddy tucking me in,” but I never told him what being tucked in meant to me.  But in my fantasy, which I’d lately been having nightly – in a strange and secret longing that I barely understand – I imagine that after I turn over to go to sleep, my Daddy slips in behind me and whispers in my ear that I have been such a good girl that he is going to make me feel good as I fall asleep.  Then he softly strokes my pussy, like petting a cat, slipping a finger into me just a little bit, stirring me slowly.  I sleepily tell him it makes me feel nice, and then he says, “I can make it feel even better.  I am going to touch your special spot now.”  Then his finger eases back until he is stroking my asshole, achingly soft.  As he does, he is whispering, “Shhhh, just lie still and go to sleep now baby,” and I do, I relax into the sweet warmth, and drift off, feeling so loved, so special…

Now he is doing exactly that, and it feels a hundred times sweeter than I could have imagined.  And then I do start crying because I am so blown away that he knows me so well that he is now able to pull my desires straight from my mind, without me even speaking them.  I also cry that he is loving me so freely and so expressively, and because I am about to fall apart from the keen pleasure of it.  I try to tell him what this means to me, but my voice does not work, trapped inside me by the lump in my throat and the loving sweetness he is still stroking into my the most intimate and vulnerable part of me.

It is, without a doubt, one of the most profound moments of my entire journey with him.  I am undone.

Being ‘Loved to Smithereens’ Through Dominance and Submission

I am having a rough work day, lots of difficult conversations and criticism of the pages I have turned in.  And in the middle of this, Michael sends me an email.  He wants me waiting naked in bed for him when he gets home from work, to have ropes and riding crop ready so he can beat me.  I first feel dismay to read this, I could really use nice safe loving Daddy tonight, not pain and bondage Daddy.  I want to tell him, no I can’t do that, not tonight.

But once I remember I have agreed to submit, I have surrendered my choice, my emotional turmoil falls away.  Suddenly, I feel rescued from the dictates of my emotional whims.  The Tantric teacher Charles Muir said something about Tantra that I think could apply equally to sexual submission.  He said that Tantric people don’t wait to be in the mood for sex; he said because sex is their spiritual practice, they do it regularly whether in the mood or not.  “They don’t wait ‘til they feel like it, they change how they feel through the practice of love.”  When you don’t feel like it, he said, is the time when you MOST need to do it.

Still, it is challenging to wait in bed with my clothes off.  It makes me uncomfortable, but oh my God, it puts me very much in the frame of mind of looking at Michael as my Daddy, who gave me this hard thing I have to do before he gets home.  Blog29Quote1It makes me feel like I did when I was a kid and had to get chores done before my parent came home, or I’d be in trouble.  I am squirming like crazy under the covers when he finally comes in.  But oh the joy to see him, and to feel him close.  The love just flows between us, it is so palpable, so warm.

Within minutes, he is tying me face down on the bed, first binding my wrists together, something he’s never done yet.  I feel a surge of fear, and the words “Wait, wait, I’m not ready,” tumble out.  But he just smiles at me, and tells me to trust him, and so I do.  I let go of my resistance, and the threatening panic subsides.  He licks my pussy halfway through, but doesn’t let me come, (mean Daddy).  By the time he finishes tying me up my mind has gone nice and quiet.  Oh it is so easy to submit now, easy to allow, feel, experience.

I lift my head to see him digging in a drawer, and he comes out with a clear lavender plastic butt plug I haven’t seen before.  I laugh nervously.  “Where did you get that?”

He just smiles again as he slathers lube all over it.  Then crouches behind me.  “Now just relax.”

What choice do I have?  I cannot move.  I lay my head back down and close my eyes and then I feel it, it’s a little cold, forcing it’s way up into my ass, then nestling into place.  It hurts a little, but intensely erotic, stretching me open.  Then comes a hard smack, and my ass tightens around the plug.  Ohhhhhhhh.  Another smack.  Goooood.

The feeling of being owned and used as he spanked me with that in my ass, me helpless tied up, unable to move, no mind at all… sweet emptiness of thought meets huge hot fullness of sensation.  Ecstasy is a word ringing in my mind, but it is not that, it is something of a different shade than that.

When he’s done spanking me, he fucks me from behind, that plug still in my ass.  I can barely make out the edges of my orgasms any more, I feel more like I stay in a “state of orgasm,” always on the crest of a wave that doesn’t break just builds and rises and curls through me, his fingers his mouth and oh my god his tongue in my ear shoot energy through me in rushes, I feel my body moving in shudders of pleasure and joy and love and love and love.  The deep submission of it takes my “self” away, it is freedom from self, this amazing nothing/everything, this kind of purity of experience.  I want to say ‘I love you,’ but it is hard to even think the word “I,” because I cannot connect subject to object, or make a sentence that makes sense out of it.  I’m not a subject, I am all object, and there is love and there is intensity.  I am completely swallowed in the moment, and if that’s not the essence of a spiritual experience, then I don’t know what is.

I feel wonderful after, perfect and pacified, as he unties me.  But he is not done, he leads me docile into the living room, ties me in a breast harness and puts clamps on my nipples.  I cannot perceive the pain, it just feels like spiky heat radiating through me.  He takes me to the couch and puts me over his lap to stir his fingers in my pussy some more, and the clamps on my nipples catch on the seam of his pants and tug, giving me more electric jolts of heat until fire takes over my body and I am shaking with energy and pleasure so deep, and making sounds and sighing “yes” and begging “please” at the same time.  Blog29Quote2.pngI am receiving all this love he is pouring into me, and becoming love and the whole time he is speaking, chanting, “Daddy’s sweet girl, you’re my sweet girl, so beautiful… I need this, I need you naked on my lap…”

Later, when he has sated himself with me, I go into the bathroom, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.  First, I see how swollen my lips are from his hard kisses, see how flushed red my skin, as if I have been sunburned by the heat of passion.  Then I try to take in my whole face, and I feel almost disoriented to see a woman standing there.  I look sort of familiar to myself, but not entirely, so completely had I lost any feeling of self at all.

This is how submission is changing me, making it so that ‘making love’ is no longer something I myself am “doing.”  I am no longer thinking about how I am doing it, it has become something that is “happening.”  I switch from thinking to just feeling, I am open and allowing and all this love is happening inside me.  I am not doing anything, love is happening, pleasure is happening, I am just flowing with the experience, and experiencing it more fully somehow, being moved by it more deeply.

David Deida talks about “Embracing the Taboo,” and aggressively “Loving Her to Smithereens.”  He says our love is too polite and respectful, it does not carry us away anymore, and I would not have thought that was true, I would have said my sex the past ten years was amazingly passionate and loving.  But then, I had no idea what it was like to be truly carried away, to be loved to smithereens through rough powerful sex.