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

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.

Who’s Afraid of Tantric Sex?

Who’s Afraid of Tantric Sex?

Before my sweet husband and I discovered the joys of Dominance and Submission, we took a quick detour through Tantric sex.  Although perhaps detour is not the right word; Tantric experimentation might have been the actual road to D/s for us.

You see, it was love at first touch for Michael and me.  We met later in life, veterans of unsatisfying and often punishing relationships, our kids grown, not expecting much.  Yet, we found everything in each other, and with a feeling of great giddy celebration at discovering each other, we got naked and jumped into bed, very, very frequently.

Having just turned 50, I felt sexually seasoned and self-aware.  I was pretty sure there was nothing I had not tried, from threesomes and foursomes all the way to BDSM exploits (as the leather dominatrix outfit sitting in a wrinkled paper bag in the back of my closet could attest). I knew exactly what I liked and didn’t like, and would have rolled my eyes at the idea that I could be surprised in the bedroom.

Yet surprise me my new, supposedly less experienced lover did.  Or perhaps it is more accurate to say, we surprised each other.  My openness and “I want to try everything with you” attitude was unlike anything he’d experienced with the conservative, no-that’s-gross women of his past. And his lack of judgment toward me and my sexually varied history was unlike anything I’d known from the jealousy-based, how-could-you-have-done-that men in my past.  With such a sense of freedom and safety with each other, we felt spiritual stirrings in our lovemaking.  And we’d lie in each other’s arms in the afterglow, talking about wanting to hone that feeling, make it more explicit.

I had been introduced to the idea of Tantric sex in the past, but never really practiced it in a determined way.  But six months into my sex-soaked relationship with Michael, I became determined and bought a bunch of Tantric DVDs.  We watched a few of those, and gave some of the exercises a try.  Staring into each other’s eyes, and synchronizing our breathing was… sweet.  Yes, some of it felt slightly silly but it was also romantic. Why not go a little further?  I did a Google search for workshops.   I found an evening seminar called “Sacred Sexuality:  An Introduction to Tantra.”

“Want to try this with me?” I asked Michael.  I showed him the class advertisement on my laptop screen.   In answer, he grabbed my hand and put it on his growing erection.  My enthusiastic lover was game for anything.  I paid the $170 to register us for the class.

Bright Rainbow Blessings

When the teacher sent us a welcoming email that offered us “Bright Rainbow Blessings,” we laughed, entertained.  When the day arrived, we drove hours through Northern California traffic to get there, and an old hippie directed us down a long drive that snaked through thick foliage to park our car.  About thirty people were enrolled, most of them around our age. Almost as if not to disappoint the New Age stereotype, a large carpeted room waited for us, empty except for floor cushions, and Zen-like with the smell of incense.  A cat roamed in and out.  I was giggly and excited and nervous as we all sat in a circle on the floor.

The teacher, probably somewhere in her 60s, began by showing us how she could bring herself to orgasm with her mind.  She sat cross-legged on the floor, then said, “Here we go.”  She made puffing, trilling noises, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed, then claimed success.  The rest of the class, centered on loudly “raising” our sexual energy with the same forceful breathing and pelvic rocking, felt… decidedly unsexy to me.  And the breathless fake orgasm sounds struck me as absurd.  I could not take it seriously, and spent a good portion of the class hiding in the hallway, feeling vaguely threatened by the overzealousness of it all.

“Spiritual Sex”

Next, we attended a “spiritual sex” lecture based on the teachings of a writer I never heard of, named David Deida.  A lecture better suited me, the role of student, sitting in a chair, listening, detached.  But when the class leaders talked about the energy of sexual polarity, how the feminine “surrenders” to the masculine, how “equal 50/50” relationships lead to bland, uninspiring sex, I bristled.  First, Michael and I were having anything but bland sex.  Second, I considered myself a feminist, fiercely independent, and probably more on the dominant side than the submissive.  In fact, early in our relationship, I talked Michael into letting me tie him up and whack him with a paddle, a little BDSM game that had made a previous partner of mine melt in ecstasy and beg for more.  Michael thought it “kinda fun,” but never asked for a repeat.  I thought, too bad, he’s probably still a little too uptight to let go.  Not once did it occur to me that maybe he was not suited to be submissive.

Still, despite the politically incorrect description of raising sexual energy, I found the lecture interesting, and when I got home ordered several books by David Deida, which I put on my shelf without reading.  But I also found myself on the organizer’s mailing list and received an invitation to another Tantric class, this time on genital massage for a man.

“What do you think of trying this?” I asked Michael.  He grabbed my hand and placed it on his erection.

This class was held in someone’s living room, mostly empty of furniture, again filled with floor cushions, and taught by a warm, long-haired woman with a spacey air and girly laugh.  We were treated first to a live demonstration on a brave man willing to lie naked in front of us strangers while she “massaged” his penis.  The teacher spoke throughout, as would any anatomy teacher, and we all watched with studious looks.  At least there were no strange noises to send me scurrying into the hall.

After a break, it was time for the men to strip, and most of the women took off their tops off in solidarity.  I did not.  I stayed fully clothed, back against a wall, trying to pretend I did not notice all the other naked men around me.  I was impressed at Michael’s lack of self-consciousness as I covered his cock in coconut oil, then followed the instructions.  For the next half hour I practiced moves like “The Corkscrew,” and “Around The Clock” on his very, very hard cock.  His favorite was when I placed my fist under his balls and vibrated it. His eyes grew wide in surprise, he began to moan and writhe.  I knew he was on the verge of orgasm, but he kept control.  Afterward, we laughed all the way home, and had ourselves a good, hot time in bed.

We went back a month later to do the genital massage “for her” class, throughout which I secretly sipped vodka from a water bottle to help me get up the courage to strip down in front of strangers.  I can’t say I enjoyed being sprawled naked on the floor, my head only inches away from several other women, while we were being fingered by our lovers, the instructor calling “Good!  That’s it!  Let’s hear your pleasure!”  I felt more like the detached star of a porn film than anything.  (Although I admit that in the weeks that followed, the technique he learned, patiently stirring my pussy open with two fingers, would introduce me to unexpected bliss and transform my entire experience sex, but that’s another story.)

Entertaining, if a Little Strange

Overall, our Tantric explorations were highly entertaining, if a little strange.  Yet, after several months of the classes and watching DVDs and trying different exercises, the promise of transcendent sex remained unfulfilled for me.  (Well, except for that pussy-stirring revelation.)  Mostly, I felt like I was missing something which all the other Tantric explorers we met, with their easy nakedness and beatific smiles, seemed to get.  Slow, voluptuous Tantric union, while lovely to me in theory, just didn’t do much for me in actual practice.  The exercises felt forced, even a little boring.  And I was more disappointed in our explorations than I let on.

So that’s it, I thought, we’d gone as far as we could go into sexual experimentation.  Today I laugh when I remember that.  We think that by mid-life, we really know ourselves, know exactly what makes us tick.  Actually, we don’t just think we know, we are certain of it.  Even with dozens of sexual relationships and experiences behind me – including a BDSM relationship in which I acted as the top (acting being the operative word) – I had very little inkling of what might truly open the door to ecstasy for me.  Even after our little spanking role play, I still had no clue.  At least my conscious mind had no clue.  My subconscious sexual awareness, however, had just been smacked awake.

The First Time I Told My Husband My Fantasy About Sexual Submission

The First Time I Told My Husband My Fantasy About Sexual Submission

We had been married five days the first time my husband spanked me.   I don’t know what it was about the marriage license that made me feel safe – or emboldened – enough to tell him about my longtime fantasy about being turned over a man’s knee and spanked.  But in the open space of peace that followed our legal union, on our first Friday night together as a married couple, I sat with him on the couch in our den, a glass of whiskey cold in my hand and warm in my face, and said, “Maybe we should try role-playing.”

Michael, my husband, nodded seriously. “Maybe we should.”

Now this is a guy who, at the time I met him, I described to my sister as, “white bread and buttoned-up.”  As in, he wore boxy, dry-cleaned shirts buttoned up tight to the neck, with a white undershirt underneath.  As in, he parted his hair on the side and combed it down, like a kid from the Eisenhower era on Picture Day.  This is a guy who worked in the same corporate job for 30 years and had stayed faithful to his first wife, (who, like an Eisenhower wife, did not work), for nearly as long, despite only being offered missionary position on the sexual menu.  He called sex “making love,” never fucking; he called body parts by their proper clinical name, “penis” and “breasts.”

I think it would be fair to say that at his first scent of me, his buttons popped open.  Our first time alone in a room, he loomed assertively over me on the couch with a smoldering gaze and said, “I have to have you.”  Or something to that effect.  Then he proceeded to expertly take me.  I’d  never been taken that in such a confident, masculine way before. The experience was so moving, I cried.

In our first year together, 53-year-old Michael was like a man set free from sexual prison, game for anything.  Oh so game.  Underneath those boxy shirts I found a hard, muscular body, a Greek god kind of body, smooth, muscled, perfect.  His cock was big, continually hard, perfect.  I literally never saw it soft until months into our relationship.  (How old are you again? I’d laugh.)  We were hugely in love, hot physical love, and did it constantly, everywhere, in every position, as if we’d discovered this amazing thing called sex ourselves.  We quickly embraced toys, porn, naughty outfits, tie him up, tie me up – yes, we said, absolutely.  Tantric massage class that required him to get naked in a roomful of other naked men – sure, he said, why not?

Before our wedding, I happily and hornily played out whatever erotic scenario I thought a formerly sexually-deprived man might want, and never once felt anything was lacking.  But somehow, after our impulsive trip to Reno to tie the knot, I feel something new:  a long-hidden want, pushing up in my mind, ready to reveal itself.

But first, I describe for him where I felt this want came from.

How a Spanking Fantasy Was Born

“Okay, so one day when I was about twelve,” I begin, “I found my mother’s stash of porn magazines in her bedroom, and I was looking through them, getting pretty aroused.  Then my stepfather walked in and caught me.”

I let that sit for a beat.   “Go on,” says my husband.

“Well, I remember having this flash of thought at the time, Oh no, he’s going to spank me.  Even though I was too old, and he no longer spanked me anymore, the idea gave me a visceral jolt of heat.  And when he didn’t spank me, just sent me out of the room, I felt… disappointed.”

“Interesting,” says my husband.

“So, I’ve had this fantasy ever since, about being spanked by my stepfather.  And not just spanked.  More than that. After he spanks me, he…”  I can barely say it.   But I do.  “Then he, um, fondles me.”

I can’t believe I’ve confessed this.  Not the fantasy aspect of it exactly, it is probably benign enough to admit to enjoying the idea of being spanked and manhandled.  It is even trendy lately, with the movie version of 50 Shades of Grey about to come out the following weekend.

But to role-play a father figure molesting me, and physically act it out?  Well that feels like a different thing – politically incorrect – insulting to actual victims of molestation.  And by asking him to imagine himself as a father figure violating his stepdaughter, well that feels like pushing him to place himself in the “pervert” category.  I know by now my new husband is not at all buttoned up like I first thought, but I also know he is a highly moral person as well.

But now I have opened that door, and I keep talking.

“So if we do this role-play thing, I could pretend to be a kid watching a porn movie, and you could pretend to be my stepfather who comes home and catches me.  And you make me lay over your lap so you can pull my panties down and spank me…  Then you feel bad, and so you try to make it all better by putting your fingers inside me.”

I wait for a response, excruciating heat (is it shame?) now burning down my neck.

My husband’s face is still serious as can be.  “I could do that.”

“Really?  You really want to do that?”

Now there is a hint of smile at the corner of his mouth, a kind of ironic smirk that I find incredibly sexy.   “Yes baby,” he says.  “I really want to do that.”

Now I talk faster, letting my entire fantasy, and all its details, spill out.  “You feel bad because you realize I am just curious about sex.  So you want to satisfy my curiosity and show me how it feels to be touched ‘down there.’  You’ll do that while I lay face down on your lap with my panties down around my knees, and I’m unable to move.   And you are going to tell me I have to be still, that I can’t tell anyone, it’s going to be our secret.”

He considers this a moment.  “Now you’re turning me on.”

This seems too good to be true, that my twisted little private fantasy might also appeal to him. “You’re not just saying that?”

He takes my hand, places it over the erection pushing against his jeans.

I jump up, energized, I am giggling, breathless.   I gulp more whiskey, tell him I’m going to go change, can he please put a porn DVD in the player?  Then I will come back into the living room, and he will give me a few minutes to watch the movie, then pretend to be “Daddy” coming home and catching me.

I go in the bedroom, change into a little, black dress that no 12-year-old girl would wear, but it’s the only dress I have.  I am excited and embarrassed all at once, this is ridiculous, I know.  But we are going to do something we have never done before.

I Finally Get Spanked 

I go into the dim living room, sit on the couch, and wait, impatient.  I am not even slightly interested in the bad porn playing on the DVD.  I hear him come in.  Michael gasps in mock outrage, “What are you doing!”

I have never seen him try be an actor before, and he looks so earnest and serious.  I try to sound earnest, as well.  “Oh no, I just turned on the TV and this was on, I swear!”

Then he stands there as if not sure what to do next, and how can I take all this seriously?  I bust out laughing.  I think he will laugh with me, but he doesn’t.  “What?  Did I say something wrong?”

I wave a hand.  “Sorry, sorry, no, I can’t help it.  I’ll get it.  Go back and start again.”

He goes back out of the room, and this time, when he catches me watching porn, I give a more worthy performance.  “I didn’t put it on, it came on by itself, I swear, Daddy!”

He tells me I’ve been bad, he is going to turn me over his knee.  He sits on the couch, pats his lap.  I try to fake being sad, but I am can barely keep the laughter at bay as I drape myself over his lap, ass in the air.  He drags my skirt up, pulls my panties down, and I am hit with the feeling of true vulnerability beneath the silliness of it all.

Oh, this isn’t what I thought it would feel like.  I’d expected it to be hot and exciting, not embarrassing.  Then he spanks me while I fake cry, and well, that is kind of fun and different.  I do like the slight sting and the warmth it leaves behind, and I wish he’d have done it harder.  I feel both stimulated and disappointed, it doesn’t seem like he really has it in him to be a mean Daddy at all.

I lie there across his lap, waiting for the next part, the good part.  Even if this isn’t as exciting as I’d imagined, I am still entertained by our efforts.  He starts saying his lines – “You were just curious, weren’t you.  How’d you like it if I showed you how it feels to get excited?”

Well, I didn’t expect/want him to ask me, but I say, “Yes, please, Daddy.”

He starts stroking my bare behind.  Then again asks me, “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to pull your pants down now.”

Now I am irritated.  He’s not supposed to ask permission.  That spoils the fantasy of enjoying a forbidden touching.  I have the urge to complain, but here he is doing his best to deliver my fantasy, so I bite my tongue.

He lubes up two fingers and I feel him probing between my legs, I feel them push into my hole.  But it feels awkward, I am not really excited.  It is like being probed by a doctor.  He asks me if I like it, I don’t want to be asked, but I quickly say yes.   I lay there while he finishes playing the part, trying to focus on the porn still playing on the TV, trying to muster up some excitement, but secretly waiting for it to be over.  I am glad for the moment I can sit up and pull my panties back up.  That wasn’t hot at all.  I took that huge risk in revealing that secret fantasy for not a lot of reward.  Well, that’s not true, there is the reward of revealing something intimate about myself to the man I love and being accepted for it.  It is also a bonding thing to take a risk together, try something new.  There is also the burst of gratitude I feel that he has tried to grant me my fantasy.  What a generous man.

We have sex there on the couch, and it is sweet and I love him, and afterward we sit together to finish our drink, and we laugh at how hard it was to do that and not laugh.

“Although,” I say, “If there is ever a next time, I’d rather you spank me harder.  And not ask permission to put your fingers in me.  That sort of undermines the whole point.  I’m supposed to be helpless to prevent it.”

He nods, ahhhhh.  This is a revelatory thought for a man who prides himself on never being anything other than respectful of women.  “Okay, I’ll know for next time.”

But I don’t really expect there will be a next time.  The role-play was awkward, and lacking the excitement I’d expected.  That often seems to the way of indulging a fantasy, it never measures up to reality.  But isn’t that the whole point of fantasy?  To keep our desires safe and pure from messy, uncooperative reality?

I did, however, have a glimpse of what it felt like to be over Michael’s knee.  And I’d had some fun with it.  It just was not what I’d call a “hot.”

What I did not know then is that the problem was not in indulging the fantasy, but in the role-play aspect.  I didn’t want to just want to pretend to be under the control of my wicked too-loving Step-Daddy.  I wanted to be truly, in reality, under his sexual control. Of course, this didn’t occur to me that evening.  I would have been shocked at the very idea.

But now that the seed was planted, it was going to burst from the ground – very, very soon…

How This Feminist Became a Sexually Submissive Wife

How This Feminist Became a Sexually Submissive Wife

I consider myself a feminist, proudly so, passionately so.  I am liberal, far into mid-life, I believe in equal rights, equal pay, equal opportunity.  I have my own career, I earn my own money, keep it in my own bank account, and I certainly make my own life decisions.  I have written dramatic defenses (literally dramatic, as in TV movies) about treating people, especially girls and women, with respect and dignity.  Which is why it took me many nervous months to decide to write the words in this blog, to feel right about publicly advocating for female sexual submission within marriage.

Wait, I cannot say I feel completely “right” about it.  I have been writing this during the months before the 2016 election, when Donald Trump’s hostile sexism and open disdain for women has been making news each day.  His Access Hollywood audio-heard-round-the-world of bragging about his sexual assaults on women, grabbing them “by the pussy” without their consent, has made headlines and started a national conversation about how women are frequently traumatized by a male sense of sexual entitlement to their bodies.  Many anguished accounts from sexual assault victims have popped up all over the media, while on the flip side, many unapologetic men started the hashtag, #repealthe19th, expressing their desire to take away a woman’s right to vote.

So, of course, I feel conflicted about what I am writing here, especially since Trump won, leaving women to feel, yet again, that our society is just fine with sexual harassment.  I am needled with fears of how my words might be interpreted. I know how hard women have fought in our culture – and are still fighting today – against being seen as sexual objects.  I do not want to present any kind of word or idea that can be interpreted as justifying rape culture or viewing women as second class citizens.

But, because I am a feminist, I feel the need to stand up for my truth, and my truth is this:  I submit to my husband sexually.  Whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, he gets it, no hesitation, no choice in my mind.  I am not talking about the pop culture version of Dominance and submission (D/s), with it’s 50 Shades of Grey trendiness and elaborate protocols – although I do believe the 50 Shades phenomenon tapped into a true feminine longing for erotic surrender.  Nor am I talking about the thriving BDSM subculture one sees on Fetlife and other sites, a fetish community that celebrates implements of pain, extreme images of female subjugation, and ways of thinking that do not speak to me and my desires (I am not a dirty little cumslut whore).

My form of sexual submission is much more quiet and deep and, I hope, more evolved than the pornographic stereotypes.  It does not involve “scenes” or props or costumes or safe-words. (Not that props and costumes aren’t fun once in awhile.)  This power exchange dynamic evolved spontaneously between my husband and I, arising from our instincts and desires of the moment.  It was only later that we began to use Dominance and submission language as a way of framing what was happening to us, and discussing it with each other.  The basic D/s model has proven useful to us, creating a symbolic doorway or path that allowed us to work our way beyond the egalitarian 50/50 style of sexually relating that we previously understood as an “enlightened.”  We still use D/s language, for lack of anything better, and still use the D/s framework as a symbolic container for the way we conduct our sexual life.  So, I will continue to write these words from a D/s standpoint.

The Joys of Sexual Polarity

To me, my submission is not a kink (not that there’s anything wrong with getting kinky), but a natural expression of my true sexual nature. I ran across a study (Jozifkova, 2012) that states sexual arousal in response to dominance might be hardwired into women as a way to ensure the survival of the species.  Apparently, cavewomen understood that having babies with the dominant male of the clan improved the odds of her children making it to adulthood.  I certainly believe myself to be hardwired for it.  When I submit my body to my husband I can feel myself in alignment with a potent energy that flows the more it yields, a phenomenon which the Tantric philosopher David Deida helped me understand with his theories about the masculine and feminine and sexual polarity.

It was also Deida who helped me understand the important difference between what he calls “Stage One” Dominance, which is fueled by a male self-centered control of the female, and what he calls the more enlightened “Stage Three” masculine dominance that serves the fulfillment of the feminine.  In fact, it was reading his book, Intimate Communion, in the early months of our power dynamic exploration, with his gorgeous language about the joys of being “ravished,” that gave me the intellectual grounding I needed to let myself go into my first true experiences of sexual ecstasy.

Beyond all that, submission turned out to be an expression of love for my husband that has created deep intimacy and built great trust between us, creating a more peaceful and satisfying union. I would even go so far as to say that I experience D/s as a spiritual devotion, maybe even a spiritual path, which teaches me how to deal with a self-important ego, and how to surrender to the rhythms of physical life.

Because of these surprisingly positive and profound impacts on me and my marriage, I do not want to keep my submission hidden, or hold it within me like a shameful secret.  I very much wish someone had told me about the joys of sexual power exchange decades ago.  I think I would have had fewer relationship issues, happier marriages and a much happier life. Perhaps there are other women who might not have considered submission beyond naughty fantasy, but who might be as transformed by the strange magic of D/s as I have been.  It is for those women I am sharing my experience.  As Clarissa Thorn writes in the S&M Feminist, “Openly acknowledging, owning, and discussing your sexual preferences can help others respect those preferences – and can help others who share those preferences respect themselves.”

A Woman’s Right to Submit

Still, the worry that my words will be misunderstood and misinterpreted – or worse, used by men to justify rape or other ways of abusing the rights of women – has been almost paralyzing at times, making me stop work on these pages for long stretches at a time.  I finally realized that it is not up to me to manage how this is received.  No matter how carefully I try to phrase my thoughts, the history and cultural landscape of “women as sexual objects” is vast, and laden with mines.  I have decided to keep going, and hope that by setting down my one unique experience, nothing will explode in my face.

The irony is that I believe sexual submission would not be such a powerful experience if it was not firmly rooted in a woman’s right to decide what happens to her body.  The gift of my submission, this unconditional “yes” to my husband, would be meaningless if I did not first have the right to say no.  Feminism has worked hard for me and all women, and it won for me the right to express my sexuality in whatever way I choose – and I believe the choice to submit sexually to my husband is as valid as any other, and as empowering to me as a woman as any other choice.

Another irony of D/s is that the power ultimately flows from the submissive.  The dominant can only dominate through the permission of the submissive, otherwise he risks going to jail (thank you feminists).  I feel strongly that D/s, at least as my husband and I practice it, is a post-feminism phenomenon, and could not exist without a clear understanding of a woman’s right to her own body, and thus her right to surrender her body to her husband’s use.  The result for me has been a paradoxical increase in the amount of respect and care I receive from my husband. He feels responsible for me and my body, and while he may sometimes “selfishly” use me for his own pleasure (though it never feels that way to me), he more often spends his time and effort pouring pleasure into me.  I am a thousand times more sexually fulfilled and pleasured as a sexual submissive than I ever was with a 50/50 partner.

Of course, I do acknowledge that might have less to do with D/s as it does to the quality of the man I married.  Which is why I want to make clear that I am not advocating sexual submission in a casual way, the way it is described on BDSM sites as “playing” with others. I don’t judge those who choose to explore in that arena; it thrills many.  But I can only personally advocate submission within the safe boundaries of a committed relationship, to a mature and trustworthy person who respects women as equals, and who takes up dominance with a feeling of great responsibility and care.  So please read the words in this blog knowing they are anchored firmly in the context of real love, real commitment.