Why We Don’t Use the Language of BDSM

In our early days of exploring D/s, Michael and I spent a lot of time online, exploring BDSM sites and learning the language and lingo from others who’d been immersed in “the lifestyle” for ages.  It was very comforting to discover we were not alone, that this path had been traveled many times and found wonderful.  We soaked up the new language, and tried it out like people with a phrasebook getting ready to journey to a foreign land.  Should we try going to a ‘munch’? I’d ask, then laugh at this unfamiliar word.

But over time, we’ve found ourselves dropping the words, and eventually drifting away from material written for a BDSM audience.  Most of it feels designed for people who are in it for the fetish aspect, people who primarily use bondage and discipline to get off.  Of course, there’s nothing wrong with getting off good and hard; Michael and I have been getting off plenty.  But we feel ourselves primarily motivated by the desire for greater intimacy, greater authenticity.  Blog34Quote1When we use phrases like “scene” or “play,” it seems to imbue our power exchange with the artificiality of roleplay.  We don’t see ourselves as “playing” at D/s, we see ourselves as loving each other.  I feel a stark difference between becoming a servant to the heat of BDSM sex, and through hot BDSM sex becoming a servant to love.

“Safe, Sane, and Consensual” slogans also don’t seem to resonate with us or do “safewords,” or rules of “aftercare.”  These concepts are clearly important, even necessary, for pursuing sex between strangers or the uncommitted.  But they feel irrelevant and overly complicated, two married people who know and trust each other completely.  At least for us.

“Respect for emotional safety” is another phrase we encountered a lot, but this somehow this puts me off as well, I’m not sure why.  Who can object to emotional safety?  Yet, I wouldn’t be doing this if I wanted emotional safety.  The further we go in our power exchange journey, the less we feel like clinging to safety and the more we want to turn ourselves over to the perils of the unpredictable and unknown.

Most BDSM literature strongly encourages two people to be specific with each other about what activities we want, and don’t want, all spelled out beforehand.  And we did at first find that bracketing BDSM activities in a “scene,” and discussing expectations, allowed us to know when to behave a certain way.  That was helpful in our first weeks, when we often felt a little lost as we tried on this new way of relating.  We constantly wondered, how do we move in and out of dominating or submissive behavior?  Is it time for this now?  How do we live normal life and this other life at the same time?

Yet, we quickly realized we were better off allowing our D/s life to unfold spontaneously – unplanned, no scene, just following the impulse of the moment.  Most our attempts to plan a specific scene made it all feel mechanical, a game, and we couldn’t relax into it.  And of course, reality rarely goes according to plan anyway, or feels like one expects it to feel.  Planning a detailed scene more often led to disappointment than pleasant surprise.

We do, of course, spend a lot of time talking about it all.  We still make brief forays online, and tell each other about the images and ideas we find intriguing.

“I love the idea of being tied up naked on the couch,” I will tell him.  “With legs splayed open, being unable to close my legs, just stuck there, exposed, on the couch, while we watch TV.”

Michael will nod, hmm, interesting.  But we will not set up a specific scene to do this.  He might one evening to decide to tie me like that if the mood strikes him.  Or, he might not.  Or, he might put his own twist on it.  Sometimes his version is not anything I would have imagined for myself, let alone thought to spell out.  And that is exactly how I want it.  In fact, I find it irritating if he asks me to spell out anything or tell him what I want.  To me, the whole point of being sexually submissive is to surrender to his desires, not mine.  I don’t want responsibility for any of it, I want to be free of having to think about it.  To me, submission is pure freedom.

David Deida best describes the dynamic we try to live now.  He advises the dominant man to “listen not to what your beloved says she wants, but what love tells you she needs.”  He says that a man can ignore what his woman says she wants if love demands it.  It’s an audacious assertion, and it goes against every tenant of the ‘safe, sane and consensual’ BDSM canon.  But this seems to us the only way it works for us.

Like this morning, I wake up with my husband’s hand reaching between my legs.  Before D/s I would have pushed his hand away, I am sore from too much sex already, and not at all in the mood.  But of course, before D/s he wouldn’t be reaching at all, he’d have waited for me to wake up, might have tried to measure my receptiveness before whispering, “I want to touch you.”  Then he’d wait for my assent, which I may or may not have given after a torturous mental assessment of my mood and desires and weighing the costs of refusal.  Would he be discouraged from offering if I didn’t accept?  Would he worry I don’t find him desirable anymore, or that I don’t appreciate his generosity?

But let’s say I assent and open my legs to him.  Before D/s, Michael would then finger my pussy with this sweet sort of reverence, a respectful and loving touch that responded to every move of my body or sound I made and gave me lovely orgasms well-spaced apart.  Before D/s, he only rarely touched my ass, and even then only hesitantly, carefully, as if not quite sure what to do with it.

This morning, as my dominant, he touches me sooooo differently.  His hands are so confident now, no hesitation, no permission asked.  He is no longer careful, measuring my response in the same way, as if trying to read what I want.  Blog34Quote2He already knows me inside out, and his fingers move inside me the way HE wants, deep and hard and insistent.  And right now, I feel taken by his fingers in the same way he can take me with his cock.  He no longer keeps respectful distance from my ass, but plunges a finger in that hole, too.  Oh and no more waiting for space between orgasms, either, they blend in to each other.  They are orgasmic rushes now, building, and building…

I can barely catch my breath, his fingers are pounding me so hard, opening me, pussy and ass.  I am completely surrendered to it, no resistance, and I can feel energy gathering between my holes, oh yes there is a root chakra, I feel it literally spin open, then whoosh – a conflagration.  Racing fire, the entire tree of my nervous system lights up in a flash, burns up my body in a beautiful searing rush.  Fuck.  Then my body locks up in some kind of overload, I push his hand away from me, scramble to sit upright.

My mind is so dazed by that intense flash that all I can do is stare up at him dumbstruck, while the embers the fire still drift through me.  I want to describe it to him, but I don’t know how.  My words are incomprehensible.

This is not a scene. We are not playing a game. These surges of sexual heat keep exploding between us unplanned and unexpected, carrying us away.  No moment is predictable anymore.  We are surprising each other always.  And my pussy is so damn sore that I will be feeling it – warm and throbbing – all day long.

Ass Training; for the Ultimate in D/s Sex

This morning, I slip off back to sleep after Daddy goes to work, and I dream that he has decided to start “anal training” and come back into the room to slip a butt plug in my ass.  We have been talking about it so much lately, my growing desire to surrender to this ultimate symbol of his domination and the problem of how to get my ass open enough to be able to take his cock.  But however much the idea excites me, just a finger or two is about all I can handle, anything bigger hurts so much that my behind clenches up in resistance.

I have printed out actual “submissive ass training” instructions off the internet that require a graduated series of butt plugs, and flushed with embarrassment as I handed it to him a few evenings before.

I tell him I am embarrassed that this is how I am spending my mental energy.  Really?  I say.  This is the biggest problem in my life right now?  We laugh as we talk about it, our “first world problems.”  Imagine, I say, if I could put all this mental energy into actually doing good in the world instead of trying to figure out how get your cock up my butt.  I look at all the people on Fetlife, and I am agog at the ingenuity that goes into constructing gadgets and contraptions for sexual stimulation.  What if those people put their minds to doing something useful with that ingenuity, too?  Then again, what if more people were focused on getting off sexually rather than raping and pillaging the earth, inventing useless things, bombs, airplanes, starting wars?

But whether I approve of myself or not, this is where my mind is going, this seems an urgent and vital thing.  My Daddy must fuck me in the ass or I cannot be happy.  Blog31Quote1And this morning my dream seems so vivid and real that when I wake, I am unsure whether really happened, and I reach around and touch my behind to make sure there is truly no butt plug there.

I open up my email to write Michael and tell him about my dream.  But he has already written me that he intends to begin my ass training over the weekend.

“We’ll begin on the couch tonight,” he writes, “after I apply the usual discipline, gentle anal massage, sensual, relaxing, after which I’ll ease a slightly larger plug inside.”

I cannot wait for him to get home.  I helpfully put the tray of graduated sizes of silicone butt plugs on the coffee table.

He comes home crackling with sexual energy, puts me on my knees, I suck his cock.  He sits in a chair, he wants to show me silly cat pictures on the internet.  So I sit on his lap, and he shows me.  At first I feel too huge and silly to be draped across his lap, but then I snuggle in, to be close to him always intoxicates me.  I am nervous and giddy I tell him; you are so powerful over me; I don’t know what you’ll do.  I hope you’ll never tell me what you plan to do; I just want to be in a receptive state.

We kiss, he whispers his “sweet Daddy nothings” in my ear, plays with the edge of my underwear.  Then: take them off baby girl.  I splay wide on the chair in front of the living room window while he goes down on me.  The window is open I can see the neighbor in the front yard, I try to be quiet as he makes me come with his tongue on my clit.

Then he tells me I am going to lick his ass for him.  Oh my God, I am so excited for this, “this is my treat for being good,” I tell him.  He gets naked, I play with his ass, licking, sucking, fingers.  And the whole time I am thinking of the tray of plugs on the coffee table.  Soon it will be my turn.

Then he does me, oh my god he does me, fucks me so hard.  As he is pounding me from behind, pressing my head down on the mattress, I ride this spike of excitement, being carried by the intensity of it, and then finally can’t seem to keep up with the intensity, and I feel a switch go off in me, everything in me releases, becomes passive empty open.  I lie there taking it, completely mindless and peaceful, an object in truth.  When he is done, I can barely move so deep is my peace and serenity.

Later, after dinner, he ties me up in a breast harness.  I keep asking for it to be tighter, tighter.  And when he is done it is uncomfortably tight around my breasts, but not painfully so, just enough to keep me constantly aware of it, unable to get in a truly comfortable position.  I am constantly achingly aware of my bare breasts being pushed out, aware of the rope, the feeling of being tied, owned, oh my god it is stimulating.  And he can’t stop playing with them.  “I am fascinated with your titties,” he says as he grabs them, sucks on them.

He turns me over his knee on the couch for my spanking, and with each blow he yells out and shudders, he says he feels like he could orgasm that way, it so turns him on.

I stay across his lap as his fingers begin playing inside my pussy.  A finger slips into my ass.  And here it comes, I think.  My throat feels thick with anticipation.  But he doesn’t do anything more than that.  I squirm impatiently across his lap.  Has he forgotten?

I lie there sulking for a good five minutes, deprived, cheated.  I finally reach out, slap my hand onto the tray of plugs and grab one of the medium-sized ones, then twist around to hold it up to him.  Oh I am topping from the bottom, but I can’t help it, I want this badly.

He laughs and nods, ah okay, and goes about the long slow business of caressing my nervous asshole, and then pushing the wide bottomed plug in.  It takes some effort; I keep trying to relax and open and take it in.  It is not really that big, but it feels HUGE.  It stretches me, feels both uncomfortable and incredibly hot.  I feel invaded, subdued.  He keeps caressing the area around it, keeping me relaxed.  Oh, I sigh and wiggle and smolder, feel so turned on it is excruciating.  He starts to take it out, but I say no, I need to leave it in so it will stretch me.

I move back onto the couch, lay up against him.  Oh, but there is no way to get comfortable with that thing inside me.  I feel some cramping sensations, like I have to go to the bathroom.  So now I am both strangely turned on and turned off at once.

Why is it the idea of having something in my ass is so much more pleasurable than the actual feel?  It as to be because of the submissive quality of it, the discomfort makes me feel deeply submissive, deeply surrendered.  Blog31Quote2So here I am, in love with the idea of being fucked in the ass, but struggling with the pain.  I ask him to take it out, he pulls and pulls, but my ass is so tight around it, it is not giving.  I think, oh fuck, it is going to rip me up.  Finally it comes out with a sudden pop.  Wow, he says, that sucker was in there.  It makes us laugh, I come up off the couch in wave of laughing embarrassment.  I say, “Now I have to go recover my dignity.”  I go wash the thing.  Oh, my ass hurts.

Soon we go to bed, he says he wants me again, but I am smarting and stinging down there, so I put him in my mouth and make him come.  He cries out, louder than I have ever heard him yell.  He tells me it was one of the most intense orgasms of his life.  He is 54;  I am 51.  We had intense exciting sex for the better part of six hours.