Why We Haven’t Been Posting Lately About Our BDSM Love Story …

So last year my Daddy husband Michael and I started posting excerpts from a book we had been writing about our – at that point – two-year ecstatic journey into BDSM. I imagined eventually posting the whole book, which covered the first six months our experience. Oh those glorious first six months! But then … the #MeToo movement happened. It became more and more difficult for me to reconcile the cultural moment of women’s empowerment with my writing on the joys of sexual submission. And now we have the whole Brett Kavanaugh mess, a Supreme Court nominee who is accused of sexual assault, a dramatic reckoning which is unfolding as I write this…. The timing could not be worse for what I wanted to express.

Now – to all those who have wondered and asked– sexual submission has remained the basic dynamic of our relationship. We still know that is the most fulfilling way to conduct our sexual life. But this year we have also taken a little break from that, not because it doesn’t work for us (oh it works!), but because of the most mundane of reasons: health issues.

Ironically, one of my first inklings of my health problems was thanks to BDSM. Over the last year I had developed a fondness for being spanked outside in nature. I loved the extra layer of vulnerability, the excitement of the risk of being seen … But one day earlier this year, when my sweet Daddy sat down on a tree trunk in the nearby woods to turn me over this knee, the spanking did not feel good. It jarred me, and there was no pleasure in the pain. I rose up angry, saying, “Too hard!” He laughed and sort of brushed it off, saying he spanked me with the same force he always did. Which only made me even angrier. We can’t do this anymore, I said, if you’re not going to hear me.

I should have known that if I can’t take a good spanking, then something is wrong. And as it turns out, there was a reason why my pain tolerance had disappeared. And, after many long months of uncertainty and medical tests, I finally underwent brain surgery six weeks ago. Needless to say, we have not indulged in our preferred way of sexual loving for most of this year. But we miss it intensely. And we frequently talk of our hope of resuming that part of our relationship when all is healed …

But I have to say, that after all the years of building trust and communication through sexual dominance and submission, our relationship has been able to weather this stress amazingly well. My husband is still my sweet Daddy who takes care of me. And I still find him the most amazing man in all the world, worthy of worship. Our bond is strong. And maybe someday in the not distant future, I will go back to finishing that book, and posting our experience.

In the meantime, thank you to everyone who has written to us. We wish you well on your own journey.

A Submissive Little Red Riding Hood

Yesterday was a very upside down day.  I felt so confused by what is happening to me. Here I thought I’d been chronicling a great love story, in which my soul is saved by sweet submissive sex to my Daddy Husband.  Then, suddenly, it felt like I was writing a harrowing psychological journey in which I’d consented to my own brainwashing into a different reality.  I imagined myself ending up crouched in a closet, naked, insensible to myself, begging Daddy to be let out and fucked.  And who would have any sympathy for idiot me?  No one.  I’d been trying to turn my mind over to him as if it was useless to me, and my mind seemed only too willing to oblige me.

As I head out for my morning walk through our neighborhood under the still-bare oak branches, I wonder if this is what I deserve for trying to take a shortcut to enlightenment.  Like Little Red Riding Hood trying to ‘zag’ through the woods, I’ve run smack into the Big Bad Wolf.  I’m not sure if the wolf is Daddy, or if the wolf is inside me – the thing that wants to devour my ego and leave me empty.  I think “it’s cheating at life to turn myself over to someone else.  Blog37Quote1Isn’t it my job as a human being to be responsible for my own body, my own choices?”  The price of shirking that responsibility to become submissive suddenly seems very high.  I am dragging my feet as I head back up the concrete steps to my front door.

Then I sit in my chair by the window with my computer and open my inbox to find an email from Michael in response to me sharing my worries the night before.  It is a taking-it-in-stride no-worries email.  A yes, it’s a disorienting journey but Daddy-will-take-care-it email.  It immediately calms me.  And when the work day is done, he comes home and kisses me and puts me on my knees and puts his cock in my mouth and all seems right with the world.

Although I apparently keep looking at his face in a searching way, because he says, “You look wary.”

I suspect I am looking for Michael, my husband, but he is not the man standing before me.  This man is truly Daddy to me now, the name Michael doesn’t even seem to fit.  But I feel so calm and happy in his presence, it seems not a problem any more.

We talk for awhile, agreeing that we can’t go back, don’t want to go back, this is who we really are.  He says he needs to be my Daddy for himself, and I say I need him to be that for me.  But how, I ask, do we make it work so that I don’t get so overwhelmed and lost in it, especially during sex with the insatiable dominant in him?  Should I ever be allowed to say no?

The question is no sooner out of my mouth than we adamantly agree – that is not going to happen.  Neither of us want me to have a choice in how he uses me (oh how I love that word ‘use’ and the throb of sexual heat it releases in me – used by Daddy, used by love, used by life).  I cannot give up my submission to him, that would be disastrous to me, and this is such a surprising thing to feel.  Is this really me?  I can’t help but ask myself.  It feels so different than the independent me I have known most my life, is this who I really want to be now?  But the answer is unequivocal: yes, yes, yes, yes.

We talk about the possibility of me using code words for when I am feeling pushed too far, but that is just another way of saying no, another way of reducing it all to a role play game rather than the reality we want to live.

Besides which, I tell him, I crave to be pushed too far sometimes.  And he seems to understand that it is his job to push, the way he is talking about it, with no hint of conflict or concern in his voice.  I think, wow, he really sounds like a true dominant.  (Just as I frequently question whether I am truly submissive at heart, I also frequently wonder whether he is truly a dominant at heart, as I never saw any hint of that in my respectful gentleman lover for our most of our time together.)

I speak my fear that I will keep falling deeper and deeper into submission, become less willing to make any decision about any of it at all.  “That means it’s all on you, all your responsibility to make it work,”  I say.  “What if that responsibility becomes too big, too burdensome?  What if you want to forget the whole thing, but by then it’s already too late for me?  Then we wouldn’t match anymore, and then what would happen to us?”  In the end, we agree there is nothing to be done about it.  I have to keep submitting and trust him to find the right balance.  We agree that all we can do is live in this moment, allow it to unfold, stay open and honest with each other, keep communicating.  We know we are playing with fire – oh I think we are both deeply aware of it – but we feel certain the rewards are worth the risks.  We feel we have no choice.  We can’t unknow what we now know about ourselves.

And after all, it is only a problem I cook up in my mind while thinking about it when we are apart.  When we are together, the complexities of it all seem to resolve and fade away.  I just let go and do what he says and feel dominated and happy and loved, oh my god so loved.

He puts me over his lap for my nightly spanking, and afterward, I lie there across his legs, panties around my knees, bare ass-cheeks warm and tingling, my mind serene, as he reaches across me to the drawer in the coffee table where we keep the bottle of lube.  I know what is coming, I can’t wait for what is coming.  My Daddy has devoted himself to the training of my ass to open for him.

As his slippery finger starts to stroke my bottom hole, he tells me that back when I first confessed my fantasy of being touched in my “secret spot” at night before bed, he didn’t realize that I’d meant my ass, he thought I’d meant my clit.

I smile and say, “no,” any man will go for the clit, the pussy.  “Only my Daddy is allowed to touch me where you’re touching me now,” I say.  And it is true that I have kept my ass very close to virginal for him, waiting for him to discover it, caress it, soothe it, penetrate it …

And penetrate me he does.  After his fingers, he patiently works a large butt plug into tight me, leaves it in for awhile, stretching me, preparing me.  Then he eases it out, and tells me to get on my knees.  I am athrob with excruciating excitement as he shoves and pushes his cock into my ass, splitting me, oh it is so fucking intense, being filled to the point of lovely perfect pain.  Blog37Quote2To resist would only cause more pain, so there is nothing I can do but submit completely, go still and relax and accept him into me.  His cock holds me impaled, motionless, gasping, full.

I am not able to take to take it for all that long before I’m groaning from the pain, and he eases out.  But it is certainly longer than I’ve ever taken it before, and afterward I sink back down to the couch, feeling so invaded, so owned.  He is showing me that there is no part of me that belongs to only me anymore, he has taken everything.  I love it in the most primal way, and I happily float off to the bedroom with him.

Before we fall asleep, he reaches over, pulls my leg up across him so my ass opens to him, and again pushes his finger into my most private, most sensitive place.  Then a second finger.  I love that he doesn’t ask, or even seem to care if I’m ready, he just takes possession of me, reaches into me where I have never let anyone else go.  And again it shoots piercing pleasure/pain up through my whole body, and oh my god the soul-melting sweetness of it, the intimacy of it, the full and pure surrender of it.  The deeper his fingers go, the more I let go, and the greater the feeling of being held in his power, and the greater the security and peace that blooms up throughout me, spreading warm safe love into every cell of me …

As his fingers lazily stir inside my ass, he says, “Being able to do this to you whenever I want is changing me.”

While I am not exactly sure what that means to him, it gratifies me, and I relax around his fingers even more.  He senses it and pushes a third finger into me, opening me wider. “Thank you,” I whisper, “that feels so good.” How lovely to know I am not the only one being transformed.

Submitting to the Insatiable Beast: Or, The Brain on BDSM

I haven’t posted in awhile.  I have been so busy with my job, 12-hour days lately.  Michael and I find that me working so much temporarily throws off the sexual power balance between us.  Work takes assertive masculine energy, and I often have a hard time shifting down into a passive submissive space.  And without the sweet spell of D/s, we end up having less sex.  Well, not for long, we always find our way back to it.

But even when we get there, I’ve felt constrained from writing about it, with all the #MeToo movement stuff and the loud and fierce female resistance to women being treated as sexual objects.  It has seemed important to take that movement all in and give it space, figure out where the cultural feeling about sexual relationships will end up.  It’s simply not the most auspicious time to brag about the joys of sexual surrender.  So I will not brag about the joys today, though they remain clear and strong for us nearly three years into our D/s journey.  This blog is basically pieces of journal entries I kept during our first year.  And while most of those early days were exhilarating and electrifying and enlightening, we did stumble into difficulty on occasion.  The following paragraphs describe what I felt one morning, barely one month after my turning my sexual will to my husband …

I am overwhelmed, I cannot keep up with the speed of these changes between me and my … I started to write Daddy Husband.  But I have the unsettling sense that I lost my husband somewhere along the way, misplaced him in my mind.  There is only a Daddy now, and he is suddenly scary in his power over me.

This morning his possession of me is very overt.  I am barely awake and he is kissing me and shoving his cock inside of me.  I am already sore from the weekend, from last night, but oh I love this so much, this still-dark morning being fucked.  I mean, I really really LOVE this, the not having to think about whether I am in the mood or not, or does it feel good or not, just mindless open allowing.  Sex is just happening to my body, love is happening, orgasms are happening.  He pounds me, and I sink very deep into his possession of me and it feels wonderful…

Then he tells me to open my legs, says, “Daddy is going to make you feel so good.”  I open my legs, his fingers slide into me, but I am even more sore now, my body both opening and resisting at the same time.  Blog36Quote1My body obeys, but now mind is starting to say, too much, too much.  After another orgasm, (or two?… yes two, his tongue in my ear) I feel myself starting to squirm away, nerves raw, too much.

But he doesn’t seem to notice.  He gets on top of me, shoves his cock in me again, and oh my poor raw hole.  I normally like being sore, to walk around sore and aching during the day makes me think of him, of sex, of us.  The too-muchness is good sometimes, too, and now I am trying to embrace the too much as he fucks me, whispering in my ear, “Daddy is pouring his love into you.”

I am taking it, but my nerves are stretching tight, I feel an orgasm coming and it keeps coming and coming, my whole body shaking beneath him, and he still speaking into my ear, “Daddy loves you, Daddy loves you…”  And I am in pain and ecstasy and shaking, breathing hard, hyperventilating.  I feel this rise in me, my body coming up, revolting against this too much.  My overwhelmed nervous system crashes, and my mind crashed into fear.  I have the clear thought:  I am in the grip of an insatiable beast.  He is going to fuck me into oblivion.

I scramble away, cold and hard with fear, I look at him, and he does look like a beast, gazing down at me in a blank and lazy way. I am trying to calm down, repeating in my mind, “This is the man who loves me, I am safe.”

He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, just pulls me close, hard against him.  When I can finally form words, I say, “I wonder if you can love someone to death?”  He doesn’t seem surprised at the question.  “You said you wanted to test the boundaries, find the edge.”  We had talked about that the day before, in a lighthearted sort of way.  I said I wanted to keep pushing into the further reaches of submission and pain, find the boundary, the edge where we wouldn’t go past.  He had said that he wondered the same thing, where are his limits, how far will he go, does he have any limits at all?

As he gets up to get in the shower, I regret having spoken so carelessly.  My body is shaken by too much sensation.  I can’t get comfortable in myself, let alone with him.  And when he comes out of the bathroom, and sits on the bed to put on his socks and shoes, I reach to touch his back and ask, “How are you doing?”

He turns to look at me… And he does not look the same to me.  I actually gasp, because he does not look like Michael my husband anymore.  He looks like Daddy, and only Daddy. And he feels like how I remember my parents feeling to me when I was little, the all-powerful people I adored, but who scared me with their unpredictability.

He answers my question, tells me that he is doing well, but I somehow can’t decipher if this is true or not.  His face and manner seem suddenly inscrutable to me in the way adults are to children. This man I know so well feels almost a stranger – a stranger with complete control over me.  I can barely keep it together long enough for him to say goodbye.

I mentally spin into a panic after he leaves.  What the fuck has happened to me? I have never felt afraid of him before.  Okay, I don’t suppose I am actually afraid of him now, more like afraid of what is happening in my mind.  I never dreamed that I would experience such a literal transformation of perspective – and certainly not after such a short time.  I’ve been struggling to remember to call him Daddy at all.

Clearly, I have hit some transition point in the evolution of my submission.  The intensity of this process is not just physical, it is psychological, far beyond what I previously thought.  His sexual conquering of me has been amazingly effective, all resistance to his ownership of me has seriously broken down.

Is this the result of some kind of hypnotic suggestion?  Charles Muir, the Tantra expert, says that in the moments before, during and after orgasm, the psyche becomes very open to words and suggestions (and so one should say only loving things).  BDSM-oriented writers are more straightforward about “mental malleability” and brainwashing techniques inherent in their practices.  Clarisse Thorn, the self-proclaimed S&M Feminist, writes of the aftermath of submitting to pain: “I felt myself starting to fall apart and reform:  around him, around his guidance and force and demands. Almost unable to think.”

Be careful, many such writers say.  The introduction of pain and chaos to mind and body leads to cognitive dissonance, and the mind gives in to save it from stress.  Well, my dominant Daddy has been putting my body through stress, and perhaps I have been brainwashed – but not against my will. Blog36Quote2.png I have consented to it, craved it, wanted it.  Oh I very much wanted to “fall apart and re-form” myself around him.  But now it is freaking me out.  Any last vestige of a role play game is completely gone.  And I feel unexpectedly bereft because I have lost my husband, lost Michael.

This is the problem:  my husband is the one I trust.  I know I can trust that my Daddy loves me, will take care of me, but his dominant side is growing stronger and ever more powerful over me.  And his dominant side is unpredictable even to him, he keeps pushing me farther, overwhelming me with constant forceful sex and stimulation.  Daddy is an insatiable beast, wringing orgasm after orgasm from me, pushing and pulling me, day by day and hour by hour, between pleasure and pain.

If I could look at him and see Michael again, see my husband, I would be able to tell him “stop, no more no more, I feel wrung too hard.”  But Daddy owns me.  I never say stop to him, I won’t, every day I feel more and more that I am actually his to use as he wants, whenever he wants.  I have thrilled to that like nothing else in my life, oh I will never ever say no to him.  Just the thought of saying no to him actually plunges me into a kind of despair, I can’t, I can’t, I feel I would rather die than go back to owning myself.  I fear I am fated to lie still and go slowly crazy from the too much.

“This is scary, loaded, complicated territory,” says Thorn.  But however scary, I feel like I have to keep moving with him into this territory.  I am committed to surrender, to allowing it to take me, change me.  I know that is where real happiness lies for me.  Yes, I am trembling in fear of my powerful Daddy.  But I do trust Michael with everything in me.  I just need to figure out how not to lose sight of him…

How Submitting to a Dominant Daddy Allows Me to Inhabit my Body

For the longest time, Michael has been openly calling me his baby girl, and referring to himself as my Daddy.  He is able to say the words with an unabashed confidence that I cannot yet match.  Most often I still call him “Daddy” only under my breath, barely audible.  Oh, I call him Daddy in my mind continually, no problem, I write it here in this chronicle with ease.  But I still feel silly when I say it out loud in the space between us.  Well, unless in throes of sex, when the word bursts out of me, as if tired of being pent up.

I don’t know why this hesitance, this embarrassment. It seems to be a common enough longing in women.  I look up “Daddy Dom” in Amazon, and come up with hundreds of books, erotic novels in which a stepfather (usually) is the romantic hero, and teaches his curious teenage stepdaughter about her body, about her sexuality.  I wonder if this triggers some sort of universal archetype in our minds.  It is definitely the mental framework we have built for our particular expression of dominance and submission. Michael is my stepfather figure, and I am the girl who needs him to sexually teach and care for me.

In so many ways, I feel that this is what he is literally doing for me.  While I had a definite model for sex as good clean fun growing up (Thanks, Mom), I did not have a good model for sex as an expression for love.  And for most of my life, sex and love have never been very well-connected.  Blog35Quote1I was plenty sexually adventurous, but I also remained distant from the act, and from my own body’s participation in it.  It seemed like a game I’d play on occasion, a grown-up game that made me laugh.  But most of the time, I’d feel so disconnected from my body that I’d pretty much never let my lover see my body naked if I could help it.

In our first relatively vanilla year together, Michael helped my body learn to experience sex as the full expression of love.  Through his loving care and acceptance of my body, he helped me shed inhibitions, open up to him, and trust him deeply.  But that was only the first part in a much bigger journey.  Now, in handing my body and sexual will over to him as my husband and looking at him as my dominant Daddy, I feel like he is literally teaching me how to inhabit my body, inhabit my sexuality.

In tying the rope around my breasts – especially when it is so tight I have to stay aware of them sticking out so bare and vulnerable at every minute – he alters my perception of them.  In his constant pinching and sucking of my nipples, he is giving me no choice but to feel my own breasts in a sexual way for more than just brief moments.  After hours in that harness, I am achingly aware of the sexual purpose of my breasts, my body.  And for the first time in my life, I feel I am finally connecting to myself as a sexual creature, someone designed by nature for the purpose of sex and love.

In giving myself sexually to my husband, he is giving me my sexual self back to me.  And now I understand why that first day I submitted to him, I was so rocked by the feeling of ‘this is who I really am.’  I’d assumed I was feeling that way about being submissive, but now I believe I felt that because submitting to him makes me feel so sexual, so alive and present in my body.

Paradoxically, in this dynamic that seems like such a game on the surface, I can finally stop looking at sex as a game.  I don’t think this ever would have happened for me in a normal marriage of equal partners.  My own strong-willed version of myself, my culturally induced hostility to my body, and my disconnected relationship to sex all got in the way.

Now, several months into D/s and power exchange, I am for the first time ever in my 51 years, walking around comfortable with my body, comfortable being without clothes, even preferring to be without clothes when Michael is home.  It feels miraculous, this change, as if I have finally been granted permission by a loving generous father figure to own my sexual nature, inhabit my true self.

The question that has been lurking at the back of my mind is:  Am I too caught up in this discovery to interpret it correctly?  Is sexual submissiveness the only way for me to get there?  Is that truly who I am underneath it all, what I need long term?  Is it even possible to live it long term?

It takes true effort to keep the dynamic alive, the 50/50 relationship is so much a part of us and our default way of relating.  We are pretty high on the D/s dynamic at the moment, but we are burning very hot, the intensity is overwhelming, and I can’t help but wonder:  Will we burn each other out before we figure out how to keep it alive in a sustainable way?

Last night I got a little bit of an answer to my questions.  After several days of being distracted by ordinary life and work and kids, the D/s dynamic sort of faded away, and by the weekend, we had drifted into our ordinary husband and wife way of being, doing not much on a Saturday, having dinner at the lake, watching a funny movie.  It was 9 o’clock at night when he surprised me by saying it was time to lay across his lap.  I laughed, a little uncomfortable.  I was not in the submissive mindset at all, and it felt suddenly silly to pull off my pants and lie across his lap.  That feeling of silliness gave me a moment of worry, oh shit, this isn’t really me, is it?  I am a grown woman, an intelligent person, am I really going to go through with this absurd ritual every night?

But I didn’t say any of those things out loud, I just obeyed, lay across his lap.  And then came his hands pulling my panties down…  Then came that vulnerable feeling, and the building anticipation…  And then came the hot smacks of his hand…  Blog35Quote2And my mind went quiet and still and peaceful, as it always does.  It did not feel absurd at all, but necessary to me.  It felt essential.  And when it was over, I thought yes, yes, yes, this is who I am, this is what I need, Daddy knows what I need, I am so lucky to have him.

I was elated to have my moment of doubt so decisively chased away, to have the grown woman who lives only in my head brought back to my body and put back in my proper place.  I spent the rest of the evening tight against him, held in his arms, floating in the feeling of submissive serenity.  And knowing I have given my trust to the right man.  And feeling the most amazing relief that I don’t have to worry about how to sustain it long term, that is his job.  My only job is to submit to what he asks, no matter my mood of the moment, and he will keep liberating my true self.

Daddy will take care of me.

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.