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.