Turning Off the Static; Or, the Peace of Sexual Submission

Electric Energy 

The morning after my “I am sexual submissive” revelation, I wake with new identity and a new body.  It doesn’t feel like the normal body I am accustomed to inhabiting, a body often numb and easy to ignore as I go about my day.  It has now been jolted awake by an influx of electric energy (thank you, sexual polarity) and hot blood.

As I lie under the blankets in bed and watch my husband button up his shirt with his talented fingers while gazing at me, I feel warm and heavy and full everywhere.  Blood is engorging me – between my legs, in my belly, my breasts – making my skin hot and sensitive to delicious waves of anticipation as I wait for my goodbye kiss.

We do not mention what happened the night before.  I’d think it was a dream if I didn’t feel so profoundly woke up.

After he leaves for work, I lift my unfamiliar body from the bed, and walk around the house trying to get used to the feeling.  I settle down with my coffee in the living room, staring out the window for a long while in a kind of half-smiling daze.  I do not see the twisty oak branches that stretch over the house across the street; I only see the sexual images dancing through my mind.

I finally open my laptop, and write Michael that I feel strangely exposed by the way he claimed me the night before.  I tell him he how he laid me bare, then gave me a new identity.

“I don’t know where this D/s path will lead,” I continue, “or what shape it will take or how far to push it.  I don’t even know for sure how you feel about it today. I just hope the dynamic is also good for you, and that you are willing to keep exploring in that direction.  I realized very powerfully last night that I don’t want it just to be a game or a role play.  I want to literally turn my body over to you, place myself in your wonderful loving hands.”

I do not do anything but wait, in that chair, until his response comes a few hours later:

Oh, make no mistake, our experiences were equally deep and profound.  I’ll admit that I didn’t know quite what to expect going in, .. a hot little sex game maybe, but ‘taking’ you on our couch last night was a true revelation, .. a dizzying, mind-bending, altered state revelation that somehow, impossibly, seemed to shift our soulmateship™ to another higher plane, .. I’ll never forget the ‘knowing’ expression in those eyes of yours as you gave yourself to me so completely.

I always thought of myself as a nice normal guy, sexually and otherwise, so last night was both thrilling and unsettling, .. I so ‘got off’ on the power dynamic, the absolute control, the incredible surge of sexual energy derived from ‘owning’ you, .. your blind obedience to my every request, .. I had no idea I would revel in that power so totally, didn’t know I had that ‘edge’ lurking inside, .. but there it is, undeniable, .. gets me so hard even now.  So, shake-off that “strangely exposed” feeling and know that you are well loved and safe and in exactly the right hands, .. you belong to me.

Sexual Smoke

After hearing back from him, I am galvanized.  We are in agreement, I am going to continue in submission, he is going to dominate me.  I am not just a new me, this is now an entirely new relationship, a new us.  I have given up control of it, of me, and together we are stepping into the unknown.  Suddenly, I have no idea what our evenings will be like now, all our familiar routines have gone up in a puff of sexual smoke.  I feel excited and anxious, barely able to stand the slow drag of time until he comes home.

That evening as it grows dark, I hear the rumble of his car pull into the garage and my heart leaps.  He comes through the door and I become jumpy and giggly, unsure how to act, how do submissive women act?  I don’t know the answer, and my uncertainty grows as he kisses me hello.  Is that who I really want to be?  Am I just kidding myself?  Is this just a stupid game?  Will it harm our lovely and kind relationship of mutual respect?

He can sense my disquiet as he kisses me hello.  He takes my hand and pulls me to the couch to sit and says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I lean onto his chest, spill out all my questions. He laughs as he listens, he is sweet and calm and confident.

“This feels right to me,” he says. “Does it feel right to you?”

I cannot deny that it does.  Beneath all the questions I cannot yet answer, there is no doubt this is what I want.

He tells me take off my pants.  My mind immediately calms, and I obey.  He tells me to open my legs.  I obey.  He shoves his fingers inside me again, stirs them around.  I lay there, allow, yes.

Again, I am amazed at how calming it is to just do what he tells me to do.  To simply obey is like throwing a switch that turns off the tension around sex in my mind, a tension I didn’t even know was there until now. I never realized how pervasively I have always felt mental “static” around sex, created by the constant analyzing of my own mind:  Am I in the mood?  Do I feel like doing it?  If he asks, should I say no or yes?  Will he feel hurt if I say no?  If I’m in the mood, should I initiate?  What if I initiate and he doesn’t want to?  What if I initiate and he can’t get it up, will I be responsible for making him feel bad about himself?  Is he going to initiate if he wants it, or have I made him reluctant with too many rejections?  How are we going to negotiate this transaction?  Such questions with uncertain answers generate non-stop mental noise and insecurity around what should be a simple loving act.

Now, I am finding that to just submit shuts down the questions, turns off the static.  I am released from the uncomfortable grip of my judging and analyzing mind, released into mindless obedience, released into peace, into pleasure. Turns out a submissive woman doesn’t have to act a certain way at all; submissive women is able to just be.

Later, as we lie pressed tight together in bed, we talk about how all this seems too good to be true.  It is such a radical departure from the rules both of us have always followed about consensual sex.  It feels like some referee is going to come in and yell foul, or send us off to be punished.

But no, we are making are own rules now, following our instincts, following love, following peace.

“I can do anything I want to you,” he says with a tone of wonder.

“You can do anything you want,” I repeat.

It feels like we have an amazing secret that wraps us in a warm, protected bubble as we fall asleep.  Yes, this feels right to me.  Yes, yes, yes

Keys and Unlocked Locks

On the Verge

Get down on your knees, he says when I walk in the door, and I laugh.

I laugh because this is the first time my husband has given me a sexual command, and it feels strange and unfamiliar to be told what to do.  I laugh because it also feels like roleplay, and roleplay is silly, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pull it off.  But I especially laugh because we have suddenly, unexpectedly, found ourselves on the verge of entering a Dominant/submissive relationship and I feel a bubbling kind of joy that he’s willing to give it a go.

But after I laugh, I obey.  I get down on my knees, and I suck on his cock while he sips his drink, my first blow job on command.  It feels both momentous and not so different than any blow job.  No, wait, there is something different.  For once I don’t have to analyze whether I am in the mood to do it or not, or wonder whether he wants it or not.  I just do it, and keep doing it, until he tells me to stop, no thought required, pure in-the-moment physicality.  It is a relief, and I feel good about it, feel good about his moans of pleasure, his enthusiastic kisses afterward.

It makes us feel close, and puts me in a nice frame of mind as I go to the kitchen to make dinner.  He pours me a drink, and we talk while I cook.  We ask each other, are we really going to do this?  Are we really going to give a Dominant/submissive relationship a try?  The desire seems to have sprung from nowhere; neither of us can recall longstanding urges or fantasies about such a thing.  Even my step-daddy spanking fantasy was more about the being stimulated from the sting-y hot spanking rather than the submitting.

Later, I will find clues in my past that I’m primed to respond well to a dominant man.  But up until this past week, I felt perfectly happy with the egalitarian relationship of sexual equals between Michael and me.  Make that more than happy, I was thrilled with our sexual relationship, and more fulfilled than I’d ever been.  So why try to introduce what seems to be such a backwards, caveman thing into our seemingly perfect union?

As I go through the motions of cooking, turning back and forth from stove to the granite-topped island where Michael sits on a tall stool, I ask him this.  Why do you think we’re we so compelled to conduct our sexual life like this now?  We arrive at the same conclusion:  Once one finds a safe place to be honest one’s deepest desires, the truth about what feels good and right will rise to the surface and spill out.  And on this day, it feels good and right to me to offer him my submission.  I am happy that he is so enthusiastic about accepting it, although I half-believe he is doing it to make me happy.

“You just have to tell me what days you’re in that kind of mood,” he says.

I give him a half-smile as I load salmon and rice onto our plates.  “The whole point is not to have to consult my mood.  The whole point is for you to take whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“So you’re saying every day,” he says.

“I’d guess that’s the only way it works.”

He nods seriously.  “Every day then.  You’ll submit to me.”

I nod seriously in return.  “I will submit to you.”

We gaze at each other, then both laugh as we carry our plates to the table.  I wonder, even if we try to do this seriously, how will it ever not feel like a game?

I am about to find out.

Primal Surrender

After dinner, I head into the den to sit on the couch, and my rear has barely touched the cushion when Michael says, “Take off your pants.”

I don’t feel quite ready for sexual intensity yet, would really like a few minutes to exhale, relax.  But then I remember, it doesn’t matter what I want.  And that in itself stops my inner dialogue.  My mind goes quiet.  I take off my pants.

He bodily grabs me, throwing me off balance and puts me across his lap.  He pulls down my panties, spanks me sharp and hard, spreading fire over my behind.  Oh it is so sweet hot.  He parts my legs, then once again he works his magic with his fingers moving deep in my pussy, he is wickedly expert at this now, knows exactly how to bring me to a fever pitch of grunting moaning excitement.  No choice, no choice, my mind chants in a hypnotizing mantra that makes me let go even further.  I feel the whole of me opening, being soothed and healed.  By the time he is finished, I am gasping for air, dizzy.

He tells me to turn over, and I lay beneath him on the couch, gazing up at him, feeling warm/hot/full everywhere, as he lowers himself on top of me.  He shoves his hard, hard cock into my inflamed, engorged pussy, and pounds me – passionate, aggressive, demanding, fucking me hard, looking right into my eyes.

“You’re mine,” he growls as he fucks me.  “This pussy is mine.”

He grabs my leg and hauls it up over his shoulder, spreading me wider for him.  I allow, let go, and his eyes, his manner, are so full of possession, I do feel owned, I feel it viscerally, to my core.  I have never felt anything like this primal surrender of my body up to my lover, this intense opening, no resistance.  And as he thrusts into me, repeating the word, “Mine, mine, mine,”  I drop away, it is profound, I am just gone, like I imagine the sea recedes before a tidal surge, I feel the wave gathering, building…

It breaks, I feel a whoosh of electric heat shoot up straight through my groin, so piercing it shoots up through my belly into my chest.  I feel full of heat, the most golden light, I am incandescent with love, and overwhelmed with this exploding pleasure…  It was not an orgasm, it was something else entirely, and for a moment I feel like my heart has stopped, I am sure I am dying, killed by ecstasy.

When he is done, and I finally fall back into myself, I am babbling and incoherent, can barely breathe.  I come up off the couch, wobble into the bathroom, and I sit down on the toilet in the dark.  I am trembling, laughing and crying all at once, literally shaken to the core.  And I have the very clear thought, “This is who I am.  I am submissive. And I am his.”

This is a stunning revelation to me, not because I didn’t know the idea turned me on, but because it felt like such a strong and irrevocable sexual identity.  Who I thought I was no longer feels true; my entire sense of self and my relation to my husband has transformed in an instant.  It feels like a religious conversion, a spiritual realization that will somehow save my soul.

I know that when my mind calms down, I will have a hundred questions to work through.  But I also feel certain that however my understanding of what is happening evolves, I will never doubt the hot truth about myself that just shot through me on the couch with my husband.

I repeat it to Michael when I get back to him.  “I’m a submissive.  You’re my dominant.”

“Yes, baby,” he says, and the religious feeling comes over me again. I feel enthralled with him, humbled as if the presence of a holy being.  It reduces me and I start to cry, really cry, with this sort of happily hysterical laughing edge.  He holds me throughout, his arms are strong and tender, and I feel so known and safe and cared for.  I apologize for crying, but what else can a girl do when her whole mind-body-self, her whole life, has just been broken open?

Later, in the bedroom, as we hold on to each other, I try to explain how it felt almost like the very first time we made love.  After our first naked encounter a year earlier, I’d told him in a long, heartfelt letter that it felt like my heart had, for the first time in my life, unlocked itself.  You, I wrote, hold the key to my heart.  Now I know he holds still another a key, the key to my body, which is somehow a key that also unlocks my soul.  This sounds over the top even to me, and I know I sound scattered as I talk to him about it, I am feeling things I don’t know how to understand or put in words yet.

He falls asleep, one hand possessively holding my breast.  But I am awake for a long while, feeling at least one certainty sinking into me:  There is falling in love – and it is amazing – but there is something even more profound than that exchange of feeling, and that is the exchange of sexual power.  I am suddenly, and thrillingly, aware of the vast difference between belonging with someone, and belonging to someone.  I cover his hand over my breast, loving the weight of it, loving him, the man who holds my keys.

 

Rhett Tames Scarlett; Or, the Desire to Be Dominated

The Ecstacy of Surrender

One of the most iconic love scenes in movie history is in Gone With the Wind, when Rhett Butler overcomes the resistance of Scarlett O’Hara, scoops her up into his arms and carries her up to bed… to presumably force her to submit to his sexual lust.  Cut to the next morning, Scarlett waking up smiling and happy and even singing in bed.  Finally!  After watching their power struggle over the years, now we are hopeful two star-crossed lovers can finally be together in peace.  Then Rhett enters the room, and instead of kissing her and sealing their truce, he expresses regret for his crude behavior.  Scarlett’s happy bubble pops, and they once again fall back to battling each other for the upper hand.

This scene is much loved by romantics – and often reviled by feminists. If I do a Google search for “Rhett Butler” and “dominance,” I find numerous feminist screeds – some vehement, some more vaguely scolding – against what is considered an obvious example of our cultural glamorizing rape.  For example, the author of a book called Love Does No Harm, says this scene presents a “dilemma” to people of moral conscience in the way it eroticizes male dominance and female submission.  It is a patriarchal choice to “portray” the power dynamic this way, says the author.  As if the movie-makers had imposed a perverse frame around what happened between Rhett and Scarlett.

That is, in fact, the feminist argument, that we are culturally conditioned to believe male dominant behavior is sexually exciting.  “In a million books, movies and perfume ads,” says the author of Love, Honor and Negotiate, we are inundated with images of “a powerful and passionate man, bent over a woman who, weak with rapture, is arched back in his arms…”  As if such images have nothing to do with women’s true longings, or how sex might naturally unfold between a man and woman.

These authors are suggesting that a woman who does not recognize that Scarlett was raped by Rhett has been brainwashed by our culture.  But did Rhett really rape Scarlett?  Scarlett clearly didn’t think so.  In the movie, we see her smiling and luxuriating in what happened the night before.  In the novel, Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell describes Scarlett’s feelings about it:

He had humbled her, hurt her, used her brutally through a wild mad night and she had gloried in it.  Oh, she should be ashamed, should shrink from the very memory of the hot swirling darkness! A lady, a real lady, could never hold up her head after such a night. But, stronger than shame, was the memory of rapture, of the ecstasy of surrender. For the first time in her life she had felt alive…

Ah yes, the ecstasy of surrender.

Clearly, Scarlett was not raped, and most women instinctively know this, despite what might be considered the cultural counter-programming of feminism.  We, like Scarlett, might feel we should be “ashamed” to admit it, but Clark Gable as Rhett Butler can still send us into a swoon of longing for a man to sweep us off into a “wild, mad night.”  Well, Clark Gable not just as Rhett, but as any of the dominating males he embodied so well.  I’ve watched him throw Claudette Colbert over his shoulder and whack her on the ass, or pick up Joan Crawford and spank her with a hairbrush while holding her mid-air, without even having to sit down.  (Later in the movie, Joan Crawford shows him she is ready to be with him by actually handing him a hairbrush.)  Same goes for Cary Grant.  Remember how he face-palmed Katherine Hepburn and pushed her onto her ass in Philadelphia Story?

Or, think about Burt Lancaster chasing Deborah Kerr up the beach in From Here to Eternity.  She falls onto the blanket, lies submissively waiting as he looms over her, then he falls on top of her, gives her a ravishing kiss.  She lies there as if in a trance, sighs and says, “I never knew it could be like this.”  Oh yes, the glory days of Hollywood were full of dominating males, and you knew once a hero spanked the heroine, with her kicking and hollering to the playful music, they were destined to reach their happily-ever-after. Even all the way through the early 80’s, the macho men of the silver screen, epitomized by actors like Jack Nicholson, would take charge of their women in a hands-on way.

Meanwhile, on the print side, Kathleen Woodiwiss practically invented the historical romance in 1972 with her “bodice ripper” novel The Flame and the Flower, and it’s dominating hero.  I read it as a teenager, not knowing how controversial the first sex scene in the book (in which the hero forces himself on his soon-to-be-love) would eventually become.  I only knew it thrilled me, and throughout my teenage years, I devoured romance novels just like it, one after the other after the other.

But feminism has in many ways won the argument, at least on the female side.  While action movies, video games and ads directed at men still push images of submissive women, no mainstream romance intended for women – whether in print or on the screen – now celebrates a dominant man in the bedroom.  Only jerks or villains treat women in such a way.  Female sexual submission has been shoved from the mainstream to the fringe, and is now reserved for BDSM porn, or naughty erotic novels.  Although, once in awhile, some of those naughty erotic novels, like 50 Shades of Grey, explode in popularity and hit the mainstream anyway.

It is definitely a conundrum to feminists that, despite decades of female empowerment and consciousness-raising, so many women still become aroused at the idea of sexual male dominance.  And it is now a conundrum to me, the first time I get down on my knees before my husband in response to his sexual command.  However thrilled I am in this moment, I am not oblivious to the harm done by the sexual objectification of women in our culture.  And in the months to come I will often have to beat back the disapproving feminist voice in my head, and give myself permission to do what my body tells me it wants.  Cultural conditioning cuts both ways, and feminism is sometimes as guilty as patriarchy in telling us that we cannot trust ourselves or our desires.

Feeling Electrified

At this moment though, kneeling in front of Michael as he unzips his jeans, I am experiencing a thrill unlike anything I’ve known before.  I feel electrified.  I feel alive. How wonderful to discover that all the rapturous language in movies and romance novels is not just reserved for fantasy, but can made real.  
And not made real by the arrival of some impossible, fictional hero, but made real with my own sweet husband.  As Scarlett O’Hara realizes about Rhett Butler the morning after he ravished her, a man she’d been married to for years: “The man who carried her up the dark stairs was a stranger whose existence she had not dreamed.”

Right now, I know how Scarlett felt, because the man sitting in the easy chair with the drink in his hand, watching me with his smoldering gaze as I take his cock into my mouth is now new to me.  And he’s reminding me very much of Rhett Butler – unpredictable, powerful, irresistible.  I don’t know what will happen between us next.  But like Scarlett, I know I am going to glory in it.

Lap Time; Or, Awakening to the Desire for Sexual Surrender

Aching, Throbbing, Wanting

In the days following our “Got caught watching porn by Daddy” role-play, my once barely-noticed fantasy – lurking at the bottom of my awareness – rises from the deep and overtakes the surface.  My mind becomes possessed by the image of myself draped face down across Michael’s lap, panties pulled down around my knees, him sliding his fingers into me while we watch TV.  That one, omnipresent image starts emanating hot-and-bothered chemicals throughout my body.  Add that to being newlywed in love, and a fresh dose of hormone replacement, and I feel more sexually juiced up than I’ve felt in years – maybe ever. “Aching” might be the word to best describe it – aching, throbbing, wanting with a kind of desperate edge.  All day.

One evening after dinner, I tell him how antsy I feel.  “This must be what a 17-year-old boy feels like. I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t get some relief. Help me, please, please, pretty please?”

“And how would I do that?”

I am sitting beside him on the couch, I stare down at my hands, and wish he could read my mind.  But he can’t.  I have to say it, and I do, in a breathless rush.  “I lay on your lap, you put your fingers in me, and you stir them around like you do, relieve the pressure.”

He smiles, pats his lap. Oh so game, my husband.

I slip out of my pants, and happily throw myself across his legs.  We can do this, because for the first time in decades, I have no children living at home.  And for the next hour – a whole hour! – I lay face down over his lap, cheek pressed into the couch cushion, head turned to the TV, my legs wantonly open as far as I get them without falling off his lap, while he lazily slides two fingers in and out of my throbby, needy pussy from behind.   Oh, the sweet relief.  Oh, the orgasms.

The next night, we repeat the ritual, this time for two hours while the TV drones on and we both half watch, half ignore it.  Two actual hours.  That is how generous he is, how kind.  And how deep down scary horny I am.  I literally cannot get enough, my vaginal walls engorged and hot and needy.  I lay there in a receptive daze as he slides fingers in and out of me, and stirs them around, sometimes pounding them into me good and hard, sometimes taking a break to give me a little slap on my bare ass.  Oh heaven, heaven, my mind settles into a buzzy humming.  I am mind-body-everywhere soothed and stimulated all at once.

I have never been shown such focused sexual attention by my lover, and I cannot believe my great good fortune.  I am giddy with it, I married this guy!  I get to keep him!  I also cannot believe that after several orgasms, I still feel insatiable, want more.  I am becoming a little unhinged with it, and increasingly embarrassed.  I feel like a mindless begging slut; no, worse, like a mindless animal.

Again, one reason might be the too-high-dose testosterone pellet dissolving in my hip.  But then again, maybe not.  Later, I will receive the same dose and not have the same reaction, so maybe it really is the newly-released power of living my fantasy with my new, overtly sexual and sexy husband.

But whatever has brought on this feverish aching, I can’t bring myself to ask for more hours of fabulous fingering, can’t bear the idea that it might seem like a chore to him.  Yet I feel like I still need something inside me, need to be stretched, need to be filled…

A Trip to the Adult Store

We take a trip to the adult store, and buy a giant dildo, and some ben-wa balls.  It bothers me that the chatty woman at the register will know that I can’t get enough, and so I hide in the lingerie section, staring sightless at the headless mannequin bodies wearing skimpy lace, while Michael pays for our items.  When we get home, I lay breathless on the couch, legs open, so he can slip the silver ben-wa balls inside me.  I hold them in as I cook dinner, and we watch a movie.  The pressure is sublime, soothes my ache, at least for that moment.

Early the next morning, the ache is back, stronger than ever, and before he even gets in the shower, I whisper in the dark, “Please, please make me come.”

His fingers go back inside me, and I cannot get enough, even though now I am getting very sore.  As his fingers pound and pound my pussy, I grip his wrist, urging him to pound harder, I tell him I’m sorry, I can’t help it.  He tells me he loves me insatiable like this (oh thank God).  He tells me he loves giving me what I need.  Then he gets on top of me and fucks me hard and harder, aggressive, pulling my hair, and I let go, no will, no thoughts, filled and satisfied.  And feeling oddly peaceful and safe in the midst of the storm of his rough passion.

Afterward, he gets up and goes and gets in the shower.  And I lie there naked in bed, feeling ravished, and content.  I wish it was possible to always feel this serene during sex, always feel this safe and cared for, and my imagination catches fire with vivid images of him taking control of my body, fucking me into submission like he just did.  I have a sudden, fierce desire that he will do that from now on, ravish me at will, and that I will somehow not be allowed to say no, that I will have no choice, that I will be allowed to become his sexual receptacle.

I don’t yet understand why this idea so compels me, I just know that when he comes out of the bathroom dressed for work, I want to express my desire, the feeling is swelling in me, a clutching urgency in my chest…  But I have no words yet for this new, still-forming hunger, and I’m not sure how to explain it myself, let alone him. I cling to him as I kiss him goodbye.  He must sense some of the unexpressed need I am feeling because he asks me if I’m okay.

I nod, half in tears, half laughing.  “I’m wonderful.  I love you.”

I start the day in a daze, wishing I could shake myself out of it.  I try to work, not very successfully.  An hour later, I get an email from him.  It says:

I am consumed with thoughts of imposing my will on you.  You face down, flat on the bed, legs splayed, me fucking you into submission, … your slutty self wanting, begging, whimpering, … stiff cock, fingers, toys, tongue … I own your sexy ass, baby, .. you need me … you are willing, grateful, obedient, catering to my every sordid sexual whim … my dutiful wife … complete surrender, a powerful turn-on.

I read these words and I fly out of my chair and I walk around the house, heart pounding.  He knows what I want, he knows.  And he seems to want it, too, has found the words, has written them down even.

I feel a shift happening between us, it feels big, I need to pay attention to this, understand this, we need to understand each other.  I sit down at my computer again to write him back, but I am nervous.  I am unsure of the tone to take, stay playful?  No, I need to honor this, tell him how I really feel, how big it feels inside me.

I start by calling him a spooky mind-reader.  I tell him how it makes me weak with wanting to be the object of his desire.  I tell him how wildly it turns me on the more assertive and aggressive he becomes.  I admit how vividly I had been fantasizing that very morning about being “completely available and wordlessly submitting to your every whim, anything, anytime, any place, no question.”  I confess my hope that he will take control of me like that, “every now and then, not every day, but some days.”

I feel I have to add the clause, “not every day,” because I fear I sound demanding. In fact, to even confess my desire at all feels too demanding, and I become almost apologetic.  “To ask for it doesn’t really seem very submissive.  It has to be at your will not mine.  It has to be something you want to do yourself, take for yourself, assert yourself.  It’s not powerful to me if I only play at submitting, the power comes in when it is your idea, when it’s real.”

Shimmering Possibility

And that is how I leave it.  I hit send, and we both go on with our day, our words of longing left hanging between us.  I feel the energy of it, can almost see that energy, a shimmery thing of possibility, stretching in the air over town between our house and his office building.  My whole body feels caught up in it, captured by the sudden raw physicality of our connection, beyond anything I have felt before, ever.

I go to the grocery store in the afternoon, excited, jumpy.  I knew he’ll be home by the time I return, but I have no idea what he’ll say, how he’ll react to the words I’ve written him, what will happen.  Will we pretend we hadn’t written those words, in silent acknowledgement that to expect a wife to be literally sexually submissive in 2015 is unrealistic?  Or will we laugh it off, let it become an every-now-and-then role-play game in the name of hot sex?

His car is in the driveway when I get home.  I carry the grocery bags in, and find him sitting in his chair in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand.  I give him an uncertain smile, say hi.

He gives me that smoky look of his.  Says, “Come here.”

I set the grocery bags down and walk over to the chair to stand in front of him.

“Now,” he says. “Down on your knees.”

I laugh in relief.  Then I obey.