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.

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