A Dominant by Any Other Name

My husband and I are new to the practice of power exchange.  The energy of it is thrilling, but it strange, and maybe even dangerous.  We feel as if we’ve grabbed hold of a tiger by the tail, and we’re not sure how to tame it.

But others have gone before us, there is much advice to be found online, and thank goodness for that.  The volume is comforting; as long as we are following a well-worn path, we cannot possibly be that weird.  In fact, more the opposite, we are discovering a not-so-secret tribe where people are much happier than your ordinary, predictable all-things-equal couple.

I discover an entire genre of literature on BDSM.  I order books.  I subscribe to fetlife.  I study websites with names like dominantsoul.com, I print out pages for him to read.  He is across town, at work in his cubicle, stealing time to do the same.  We become familiar with a new vocabulary, and concepts such as safewords, subspace, sub training, and sub triggers.  I am not crazy about some of this language, it gives me the vague feeling I am being drawn into a cult.  But it also seems vitally important that we understand these concepts, and use the right words, in order to gain entrance into this intriguing world.

We find that submissives, or subs, usually call their dominants, or doms, by some symbolic honorific, “Sir” being the most common.  I cannot imagine calling my warm, enveloping Michael such a cool, remote word. “Master” is also much used, often in a slave relationship, but I do not see myself as a slave.  Pleasure concubine, okay.  But not slave.

I run across a few sites where the sub calls her dom by the title of “Daddy,” and this seems a much warmer word, and fits with the stepfather fantasy with which we began our foray into spanking and my surrender.  But the word also seems to apply to a specific category of BDSM, in which the sexual satisfaction is derived from the sub acting like a young girl, playing with dolls and toys, a girl wants her Daddy Dom to color with her and feed her treats.  That idea did nothing for me at all.  Maybe I would just have to be a sub who called my dom by his actual name.

We stumble upon numerous online stores devoted to BDSM gear.  I am not tempted.  Most of the implements of torture look too severe, and I care nothing for the outfits of leather and latex.  Maybe because so much of it looks biker-ish, or maybe because I have never cared about fashion or clothes in any sense.  Michael doesn’t seem particularly motivated by the costuming of it all either.  Even in our vanilla life, I did not think to wear sexy lingerie, and he did not think to ask for it.

But we do find many images of bondage that catch our attention.  I feel a spark of excitement especially if the woman looks spread open, unable to close her legs.  There’s something about the symbolic openness of it.  For me, it’s about the position she’s in; for Michael, it’s about the rope. He thinks the elaborate ties look like art.  Now I’m tempted.  I order rope from a BDSM site, then order books on rope bondage from Amazon.

Call Me Daddy

But that evening, we decide we don’t want to wait for the rope to arrive.  We decide to make the half-hour drive to the adult toy store and buy some rope for him to try out on me.  In the car on the way there, I ask Michael what he thinks I should call him.  Does he feel like a Sir?  Like a Master?

“Or,” I say with a small laugh, “Do you feel like a Daddy?”

He doesn’t laugh in return but seems to give it serious consideration.  “I don’t know. Would you want a Daddy?”

My heart squeezes a little at this, and I feel how hot my face is as I tell him the truth, that I have fantasized about a Daddy figure doing wicked things to me over and over throughout my life.  That I have craved the feeling of being taken care of and protected and sexually “instructed” and soothed and nurtured.

Then I admit to him something I hadn’t even consciously taken much note of myself – that I have, in fact, had many fantasies of calling him Daddy.

“It seems to be a powerful idea for me,” I add.

“Then,” he says, “You should call me Daddy.”

My heart starts beating hard, and I open my mouth to try to say it, but I cannot make myself say the word, I cannot.  Instead, I seem to be crying, and I don’t know why.  Part of it is relief, but part of it is also the terrible feeling of being exposed in my most strange and secret longing.

He reaches for my hand, squeezes it.  “Never mind.  You don’t have to call me that.”

“No, no, I want to, I do,” I say.  I wanted to be able to call him some name that symbolized his dominance anyway.  “I just can’t say it yet.”

“Well,” he says, “then whenever you’re ready.”

We get to the video store, and I walk in behind him, feeling rattled and exposed.  I am sure I will never be able to call him Daddy.  I am 50 years old, it would be absurd.  And I feel more than absurd as we shop for rope and bondage videos.  I cannot even look at the stuff as I follow him blindly.  He asks if I want to try some nipple clamps.  I nod vaguely.   “Which ones?”  I point to the first package I see, I don’t care, I just want to go.

Back home, he makes us drinks, while I unpack the bag.  What I don’t admit is that now that we have rope, I am scared of being tied up.  I have always panicked when any man held me too tightly or tried to hold me down to tickle me.  Why on earth did I think I would like that?

He pulls me into the bedroom, tells me to take my clothes off, and then get on the bed on all fours.  But I am now in a nervous state, not really ready yet, but okay, I am submissive now, right?  I don’t argue, I obey.  So he spanks me and fingers me, and just when he gets going and I am starting to feel excited, he stops, waits, then starts again.  It is frustrating me, it throws off the build of pleasure.  I ask what he is doing.  He says he read on the internet that a dominant should “hold back orgasms” from his submissive in order to gain greater control of her.

“Well, that’s dumb,” I say, not hiding my annoyance.

He stops, says he’s done.  He lies down on the bed and I lay my head on his chest, say I’m sorry.  He says I don’t have to apologize, he is feeling weird and out of sorts.  I admit I feel the same.  It is the first time in weeks that the ever-building sexual energy between us has sagged.

I am suddenly afraid that this D/s thing we have just begun is impossible to sustain beyond fantasy play, and could already be over.

We get dressed and go to the couch to watch the bondage movie we just bought, and it is at first entertaining, and mildly stimulating to watch the girls be tied up.  There is something about helplessness that most certainly turns me on.  But then the dominant in the movie sticks gags in the women’s mouths.  I cringe.  I do not like the sight of gags, the drool coming out of the women’s mouths, it disturbs me.  I am now very much turned off.  I shut off the video, tell him how much I hate it.  He just sits there in his funk, not saying anything.  The energy between us has worse than sagged, it’s gone entirely flat.

Wow.  It all really seems over, just like that.

I pick up the nipple clamps from where I’d left them on the coffee table.  I start swinging them around by the chain.  I say, “I wonder how these feel?”

He just shrugs, takes another sip of his drink.  I strip off my shirt, and hesitantly start putting the clamps on my own nipples.  The sensation is intense at first, but it doesn’t really hurt for long.  I lean back, feeling kinda sexy with my nipples pinched prominently between the clamps, the chain hanging between them like jewelry.  The sight seems to rouse Michael, he reaches over to start tugging my pants down.

I lie back onto the arm of the couch, allow him to pull my pants off.  He says he’s going to try something else he saw in those videos, starts slapping my bare pussy with his open palm.  It doesn’t hurt exactly, at least not much.  It feels all sting-y nice, and I like it.  Then suddenly he is up on his knees, looming over me, fingers shoving hard into me, pumping like mad, hard and pounding.  The submissive switch in me turns on, my mind goes quiet, peaceful.

I ask him if he will turn me over his knee, I crave that most submissive of poses, love my face pressed into the couch while he shoves his fingers into my pussy from behind.  And he does, oh he does, ramming slick fingers into both holes, rough and sweet, while I lie there and take it, while I open up and melt away, flesh rendered into soft yielding liquid.  I love this stuffed full feeling like I love nothing else in life, the swirling molten sensation is so deep, so urgent, it feels like the essence of life, the impulse of life, energy opening up within me, all hot and wavy radiant, I am burning like the sun.

As my orgasm rushes through me, I finally gasp out, “Yes, you’re my Daddy, you’re my Daddy, you’re my Daddy.”  It doesn’t feel absurd to say it at all.

Raw, Soul-Scorching Sex

In these early days of our D/s life, I am lucky I don’t have a lot of work on my plate, and after Michael goes to work I can just float in this new perspective on “us,” try to grapple with his change in our relationship, this change in myself.  The feeling of coming home to myself as a sexual submissive has been one of the greatest shocks of my life, and I am now obsessively curious about the entire subject.  I want to know:  How many women really live this way?

I google “dominance and submission” and find a blog on Tumbler which is nothing but gifs that show a muscled guy – we never see his face – manhandling different women during sex.  In short five-second clips, he pounds them mercilessly with his cock while they are tied up.  Pounds them while forcing their heads down on the bed.  Pounds them while slapping their faces, or while grabbing them by the neck and choking them.  I have never watched internet porn before, and I have never seen anything like this.  These are offensive images; abusive and awful images.  These are images in which people should probably be arrested, and laws prohibiting them passed.  And they turn me on intensely.

After all our attempts to “raise sexual energy” through complex Tantric exercises and visualizations, and feeling little but laughing discomfort, now the mere sight of a woman being forcefully dominated unleashes a torrent of sexual heat in me.  I go through image after image in a kind of sick fascination, appalled at myself for how excited I become looking at them.  Those images do not look like love.  What is happening to me?

That night, Michael comes home from work, again has me on my knees after he walks through the door.  The cock-sucking ritual is oddly calming.  Then he asks me what I did all day, and so I nervously show him what I found online.  While I cook dinner, he sits on the couch, going through the images of rough, dominant sex for a good 15 minutes, not saying a word, giving nothing away.  He is so quiet, I regret showing him the site.  I am embarrassed, I have just revealed how base I have become.  The whole relationship suddenly seems threatened.  I want to go rip the computer away from him. I want to cry.  What is happening to me?

“Come here,” he says.  I go sit on the couch with him, barely able to look at him.

He points to the images on his computer screen.  “Is this what you want?” he asks.

I can only shake my head, shrug, nod, all at once.  “I know it looks bad.”

“I think it looks hot,” he says.

I am surprised. And somehow even more unsettled.  What is happening to us?

That night when we get in bed, we are both in an agitated, over-excited state.  He reaches over in the dark to put his hand around my neck like in the images I showed him.  He squeezes tightly.  And after the first instinctual moment of fear, my brain goes smooth and flat and peaceful in a submissive “yes.”

I have just learned what a submissive trigger is.  Now I know how a female lion feels when a male clamps his teeth on her neck so he can mount her.  I know why she looks so hypnotized, so sedated.

Michael is breathing hard as he lets go.  “How did that feel?”

“I loved that.”  I turn to press my face into his neck. “But doesn’t doing that seem disturbing to you?”

He laughs low.  “It should.  But it doesn’t.  It just gets me hot.”

He then puts his arms around me, tells me in no uncertain terms that he is very comfortable taking ownership of my sexual will, that it feels good and right for him to dominate me.  I grab onto his hand and kiss it in gratitude.  My questions fade away, and I fall asleep happy.

Putting Sexual Submission to the Test

It is still deep dark and I sleeping soundly when I feel a hand wrap around my ankle and pull my legs apart, and I wake up to him looming over me, shoving his hard cock inside me.  I am startled.  Okay, now here is a true test of how submission really feels to me.  I have no time, no chance, to tell myself a story or fool myself about it.  Surprised awake, my true feeling is all right here, immediate, unfiltered.

And what do you know, I feel nothing but acceptance of what is happening.  I would have expected at least annoyance at being awakened from such a nice sleep, but no, I just let go into whatever Michael wants to do to.  It isn’t about me, or how I feel, or my arousal.  It’s simply lying here in sweet peace while my husband pleasures himself with my body.  And he is clearly feeling pleasure; in fact, he is working himself into a frenzy, fucking me hard, penetrating me to the core with hard relentless thrusts.  I lie beneath him, still and yielding, as if asleep.  Oh, it is lovely to feel this no-static peace, to feel my excitement slowly building, to revel soundlessly in the lust and love he pours all over me.

His mouth swoops down onto my neck, my breasts, kissing, biting my nipples.  It hurts, and I feel a struggle rising in my mind to lie still, to not resist, to not stop slap him off and say, “Too rough!”  He starts working his way down my belly, biting, like an animal devouring me; I don’t like my belly touched; I am self-conscious; he knows that, and I am tightening up more now, the word “no” starting to form itself.  Then again, I remember, I am submissive now, I have no choice, just allow, allow…  I let go into the “yes” and then whoosh, a powerful jolt of electricity shoots through me.  Suddenly I am thrilled by the little pulls of pain and over-stimulation, thrilled by the feeling of animal wildness in him.  And I am aroused even more by the uncertainty of what he might do to me, and knowing that I trust him anyway.

My trust in him is an alive thing now, flexible, accommodating, my “yes” repeating itself in my head, my body taking up its beat, yes, yes, hurt me, take me over the edge of what I can stand, please use me, dissolve my will completely…  His orgasm is loud, convulsive, I feel its echo inside me.  I feel elated by this glimpse of wildness in both of us, the catharsis of it, and the calm that follows.  I curl against him like a cat, it feels as if my nerve-endings have been completely restrung, I am all but purring.

As he is getting dressed for work, I am mesmerized by him.  His eyes catch me and I can’t look away, he is a god to me, a magician, the master of my body.  I also feel a delicious vulnerability, knowing I will do anything for him, share any part of myself he wants to gain access.

He kisses me goodbye, and disappears out the door to the garage, and I just stand there in the hall for the longest time, transfixed by the spell he cast over me.  Then I am overcome by a strange need to cry, a combination of desperate helpless love and being overwhelmed with “too much.”  Too much sensation, too much soreness, too much exposed-ness, I don’t know what exactly.  After the frenzy, I crave to be still within myself, absorb everything that has happened.  I start toward the bedroom to lie down again, and feel I can barely walk.  We have had a lot of truly passionate and meaningful sex since we met.  But we have never had raw soul-scorching sex like this.

How Dominance & submission (D/s) Leads to More Sex. A Lot More.

Everybody Loves Raymond

Since discovering my sexual submissive self over two years ago, it is almost impossible not to see relationships through that lens as they play out in popular culture or in the news.  For example, I recently saw a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond, in which poor Raymond is desperate to get laid but can’t get his wife to agree to sex.  He feels angry and resentful, she feels pushed and resentful… Well of course, I couldn’t help but think they both would be soooo much happier if she’d just submit to her horny husband already.  My wonderfully horny husband is never desperate to get laid.  And we are never angry and resentful toward each other.

On Tuesday of this week, I stumbled across an article in the New York Times that announced, “Americans are having less sex.” (https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/08).  A recent study found that in the last twenty years, sexual frequency of sex has declined for all Americans, but especially married couples (from an average of 67 times per year in 1989, to average of 56 times per year in 2014).  Meanwhile, young people are not getting it on as much as older generations did at the same age.  Millennials, says the article, “are having less sex than any other generation previously.”

The authors of the study could not say why sexual frequency had declined, but guessed it could have something to do with technology intruding into our lives and stealing our attention away from each other.  However, I suspect it is more likely because young women today have been brought up in a feminist era that allows them to feel fine about saying “no” to sex.  In fact, they are pretty much obligated to say no if they don’t feel like it.

Just Do It Anyway

I once suggested to a 20-something family member, worried that her boyfriend would leave her because she hadn’t wanted sex in months, that if she wanted to keep the relationship she might want to “just go ahead and do it anyway.”  She was horrified at the suggestion, and said her boyfriend would never agree to it anyway.  “He would never want me to have sex with him if I wasn’t really into it.”  Okay, then.

I run across feminist advice daily on the internet to girls on resisting the “cultural brainwashing” that tells women they should feel obligated to sexually satisfy boys, and focus on what they really want.  I have seen so many version of this – especially lately in response to the Trump ‘pussy-grabbing’ political flash fire – that the advice has now become its own form of cultural brainwashing.  I have even read essays that suggest sex that happens without our full arousal is basically a traumatic event.

It is one thing to point out that women have the right to determine what happens to their own bodies, but we also need to look beyond that point.  We need to ask what happens to our relationships when we listen only to our own moods, satisfy only our own needs?  Are women really happier people when they have sex only when they feel like it, regardless of their partner’s needs?  My family member did not seem happy; rather, she felt her entire relationship in jeopardy, and felt something was “wrong” with her that she didn’t want sex often enough.

I quickly find another article on CNN about a study that explores couples who buck the trend of less sex and actually have more sex. So what is it that determines how often a couple has sex?  The study concluded that it is the personality of the woman, and whether she is “agreeable.” (http://www.cnn.com/2016/05/25)

The study’s authors say that because men want, and initiate, sex more often than women, women are by default “the ‘gatekeepers’ of sex within relationships.”  The higher a wife rated on openness to experience or agreeableness (my translation: submissiveness), the more often the couple had sex.  The husband’s personality, on the other hand, was not a predictor of sexual frequency.

My experience of the world (and numerous marriages) tells me that a woman who says “yes” to her husband’s sexual needs, despite her own level of desire, is going to have a happier more peaceful relationship, not to mention she will feel better due to the many health benefits of sex (https://www.alternet.org/sex-amp-relationships).  The result is that she will be happier herself.

Of course, I’m not the only one who’s figured this out.  A quick Google search confirms that in the past few years, more articles are popping up advising women to ignore our feminist cultural conditioning and go ahead and have sex with our partners whether we feel like it or not.  In Prevention Magazine, there is Why You Should Have Sex Even When You’re Not Feeling it.  At YourTango, there is For a Good Marriage, Have Sex Even if You Aren’t in the Mood.  And CafeMom came up with 11 Reasons to Have Sex When You’re Not in the Mood. (http://www.prevention.com/sex), (http://www.yourtango.com/2014228914)

Sometimes these articles point out that merely by saying yes and getting going, we are likely to find ourselves in the mood after all.  They don’t really say why that is so.  But sexually submissive wives know: submission is hot.  Thanks to the laws of sexual polarity, D/s releases a huge amount of sexual energy.  Beyond that, D/s increases trust and intimacy between two people, and grows love.  In this warm, loving conflict-free state, sex will naturally follow… and follow again and again and again.

The Submissive Stuff; Or, Searching For Signs of My Sexually Submissive Nature

Early Indications

We are a week into our D/s exploration, and now that I am believing this is going to be the way for us, that this is really who we are…  I spend a lot of time in my living room chair, gazing at the winter-bare oak trees out my front window, trying to come to grips with my new unfamiliar self.

How did I not see this coming?  Were there signs I might be inclined toward sexual submission?   I start sorting through my sexual history, and I do find a few signs, experiences that did not strike me as significant at the time.

Once, in my 30s, during a marriage in which battles over the frequency of my willingness to have sex were bitter and exhausting, I told my then-husband, “Just go ahead and do me, I don’t care, as long as I don’t have to pretend I’m into it.”  He took me up on it a few times, and I found not only did it not bother me to be screwed when I wasn’t in the mood, I would eventually become excited by the passive acceptance of it, and told him so.  Still, we reverted back to the “rules” of consent, and weekly fights over why I wasn’t more often in the mood.

Another time, in my 40s, during a brief period of dating, I once met a man for drinks at his hotel after he’d charmed me online.  Although he was nice, I knew immediately he was not a romantic prospect for me.  He was younger, almost boyish, with glasses and a cowlick, exactly fitting the stereotype of computer nerd.  But as I was plotting my escape, he suddenly became commanding.

“You are going to come into to my bedroom with me now,” he said.

I laughed, thinking his overconfidence ridiculous.  “Oh, you think so.”

He moved closer to me, and leaned to say in my ear, “If you don’t think about it and just do it, you might be surprised.”

Then, without waiting for me to demur, he took my hand and pulled me toward his bedroom. To my own great surprise, I did not resist.  I allowed him to pull me up the stairs and through the doorway of the bedroom.

“Now sit on the bed,” he said.  I found myself sitting, and marveling that I was doing what he said.  He knelt to take my shoes off for me.

“Now stand up and take your shirt off.”

If he had asked me to do it, I would have said no.  But something about him commanding me… well, I liked it.  And I obeyed.  Not because I felt threatened or in danger; I knew I could safely walk out if I wanted to.  But no man had ever spoken to me in such commanding way before, and it held me spellbound.

Over the next hour, I felt as if I was playing the most amazing fun game as he gave commands and I obeyed.  He didn’t demand anything too exotic, in fact, if not for his bossiness, it was a pretty standard sexual encounter.  But I was fascinated by my own response – how I felt almost hypnotized by his commands, simultaneously excited and soothed by them.  (Probably my first no-static sex.)

I left invigorated by the whole episode, and thought, well I guess I like it when a guy is assertive.  And that was it.  I did not see him again, nor did I think too deeply about it, or what my response might mean about my sexual nature.  I certainly didn’t start looking for assertive or dominating kind of men.

Role Reversal

In fact, only a short while later, a few weeks in to my next serious relationship, my new blonde, blue-eyed, wholesome-looking boyfriend confessed to me liked a woman to boss him around in bed.  He also liked to be whacked on the ass with a paddle, and would I be willing?   I was indeed willing, it seemed like yet another fun and naughty game.  And although it didn’t much excite me to whack him, it amused me to go shopping together for a paddle.  And it made me happy to satisfy his desires, made me feel like a good, open-minded lover.

At least I felt good until he started asking me to me to tie him up, hit him harder, mark and bruise him.  Then I would grit my teeth and wince as I wielded paddle and whip across his backside.

I finally told him, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.  I don’t feel comfortable hurting you.”

He told me he experienced the pain as pleasure.  When I told him I didn’t see how that could be possible, he offered to tie me up and paddle me, so I’d know how it felt.  “Not too hard, I promise.”

I was nervous, but agreed I should know what it’s like on the other side.  He loosely bound me to the bed with straps we had bought to be used on him… Then took the black strip of leather with the word “Love” stenciled-in, and whacked me on my bare ass.

Ooohhhhhhhhh.  The pain flashed only briefly, then left behind a warm pleasant tingle.  Very warm, very pleasant, very stimulating.  I said, “Can you do it harder?”

Once I knew that pleasure, I felt liberated to become an enthusiastic dominatrix.  Over the following months, we went all in on BDSM, me in a leather outfit, whirling a cat-o’-nine over my head with the best of them.  He called himself a submissive, and a painslut, and we pushed the boundaries of what he could take.  He thrilled at any mark or bruise.

I can’t say I “got off” on delivering the pain, or being the object of his worship.  But I did enjoy the intensity it gave the relationship.  It was my first experience of the heat of no boundaries sex.  I liked the sense of intimacy it created, the feeling that we were, together, boldly going where few had gone before.  I especially liked that every once in awhile we’d switch, and I’d get a rare turn face down on the bed, tied up and helpless while he did wicked things to me.  Oh, that was my favorite thing of all.

One would think my enthusiasm for my turn on the bottom would have been an unmistakable signal to me that I was more naturally suited to submission.  But I didn’t hear that signal.  I was too busy trying to figure out how to be a dominant, how to cultivate that mindset.

Yet, try as I might, my desire to play the role of dominant began to drain away.  I no longer enjoyed the dynamic.  I blamed him, told him he was always “topping from the bottom,” trying to get me to give him what he wanted, instead of allowing me to do what I wanted (even though I had no idea what that might be).  I blamed the dynamic of D/s itself, declaring that it was built on an illusion.  Obviously, the submissive was the one with the real power.  After all, the only reason I was playing dominatrix was to satisfy his desire for pain (ironically, because I was a closet submissive who felt I had no choice).  I was giving him what his fetish demanded, rather than following any desire of my own.

When the BDSM aspect of the relationship went away, the intensity that held us together went away, and it was not long before the whole relationship teetered on collapse.  It was upsetting and confusing for both of us, as we had once felt protected by the intensity between us, which we interpreted as love.  I lost all desire for sex, and became hostile toward any suggestion that we try BDSM activities again. I felt a resentment toward him all out of proportion to our small problems, and finally ended the relationship.  He felt bitter.  I didn’t blame him, as I had no explanation that made sense to myself, let alone to him.

Now, a decade later, after marrying Michael and stumbling on the glorious discovery of my own submissive self, it seems clear to me that I resented my painslut boyfriend because he took the role better suited to me.  In order to be dominant, one must be strongly aligned with masculine energy, and it was always an effort to pull that out of myself in the bedroom.  But yielding feminine energy, ah, that is effortless to me.  There was no way I could continue in that relationship and be my true self.

I don’t know how I stayed oblivious to what these brief experiences were pointing me toward.  Or how I failed to grasp what my sexual fantasies were telling me for most of my life.  It was Freud who declared that each person has a ‘central masturbation fantasy,’ and suggested this fantasy can reveal one’s deepest traits and desires.  One fantasy has always played in my head while I bring myself to orgasm, from the time I was a teenager:  I am helpless (often voluntarily so), usually splayed open, not allowed to move, while sexual things are being done to me.  The setting might change – I am a volunteer in a medical lab where doctors test me for sexual response, or an inmate in a jail subject to the whims of the guards, or a priestess being serviced in a fertility ritual, or a teenage girl being “taught” about sex by her stepfather.  But always, always, I am still, passive, yielding, accepting.  And incredibly aroused.

Who knows how Freud might interpret this fantasy, or what a psychologist might say this reveals about my psyche.  And who knows why I didn’t understand this perpetual fantasy as a sign that I might respond well to sexual submission, or why those few brief forays into surrender didn’t catch my attention.  But now that I have found myself on this path to sexual bliss, I can look back and see a pattern, glowing neon bright.  I have always felt this longing to be dominated by my lover.  And I feel giddy with what might come next.