Category: Bondage

Are Women “Wired” for Submission?

Published on by CreativeOne3 Comments

Ah, wonderful life-affirming, marriage-enhancing, heat-producing BDSM.  After a long hiatus updating this blog while I dealt with health problems and a couple of no-fun surgeries – and feeling constrained by the whole #MeToo movement of female empowerment against unwanted sexual dominance by men – my Daddy and I have recommitted ourselves to our BDSM life with marvelous vengeance.  We are now over four years into our journey of Dominance and Submission, and oh the things we have learned.  But for now, I am going to go back and pick up our tale from where I so abruptly left off, back when we were just beginning.  This is my journal entry written a month or so into our D/s journey …

Daddy has gone away on a business trip, and over the two days he’s been gone, I’ve been caught up in work, feeling the return of independent me, not thinking too much about sex.  In fact, I’ve become so detached from the idea of sex that I feel puzzled by the intensity of the past month, maybe even a little embarrassed by my previous zeal for the Daddy Dom dynamic.

Last night, all alone, I poked around online for things to read, and ran across these unbeknownst-to-me genres of erotic literature available only in e-books that have flourished in the post-50 Shades of Grey world.  There is a whole genre of being treated as “little” by dominating men and even a sub-genre of “historical” tales – stories of poor lost orphan girls pushed into Victorian boarding schools where they are trained to be submissives to new rich Daddies.  They are splayed open and inspected by stern doctors, given enemas by stern nurses, bound to their beds, and have ginger plugs shoved up their bums when they are bad.

I ran into these books just by typing “spanking” into the Amazon search engine, and hundreds of these are available for download.  Every possible spanking configuration has a niche, the submitting to the stepfather, the schoolmaster, the moody billionaire, the doctor, the sheikh, the teenager, the child, and even “the baby” who is forced to wear diapers, suck on a bottle.  And there is of course spanking on most every page.  It amazed and astonished me, the sheer volume of output about these fantasies.  True, it is dreadfully written stuff, laughably bad.  But clearly, women respond to them in a big way.  I do.  I got hooked reading Taken by the Duke late into the night, feeling the pull of it, almost put in a spell by it.

Before long, a huge sexual longing for my Daddy hit me like an ocean wave, and engulfed me completely.  My mind was possessed by restless sexual longing the rest of the night.  As my mind turned to imagining the rope, or the spankings I suddenly wanted so badly, I felt very aware of how the sexual reward centers of my brain were lighting up, creating a loop of craving (stimulating chemicals) and a following satisfaction (tranquilizing chemicals) from the mere thought of being spanked.  It felt like I had no choice in the matter, the rush of chemicals from the initial longing and then the imagined receiving – they literally hijacked my brain, and spread throughout my body until I actually ached to submit to Daddy, to be taken.

Again, I had the feeling that as a woman with an essential feminine essence (in Deida speak),  I am somehow “wired” for submission, that there is an actual chemical pleasure reward built into the more primitive parts of my brain that, and it lights up like crazy when triggered by feelings and acts of submission.

And last night, whatever chemical flood was triggered by my fantasies of submitting to Daddy stayed with me through the night, because I had long elaborate submissive dreams as well.    I read a sub wife’s blog yesterday where she talks about the intensity of discovering submission, which came with an overwhelming desire to stay on her knees almost constantly.  She said that desire “powerfully controlled” her body.  She said, “I was besotted with submission.  Saturated.  Infused. Owned.”

I have felt the same, saturated and infused, and I would guess that is what happens to me in actuality, I become saturated and infused with the stimulating/tranquilizing chemicals being churned out by my brain.  And these chemicals are wonderful and oh-my-god so addictive.  If I type “The neurobiology of BDSM” into a Google search, the first thing that comes-up is an article in Psychology Today. A relevant excerpt …

“We all know pleasure and pain can be felt simultaneously: think of the pleasures of a delicious meal laden with spicy chili peppers or the blissful ache following a long-distance run.  In the lexicon of cognitive neuroscience, both pleasure and pain indicate salience, that is, experience that is potentially important and thereby deserving of attention …

How is salience built into neural pathways?  We have an evolutionarily ancient and highly interconnected pleasure circuit in our brains.  When  neurons in a brain region called the ventral tegmental area become electrically active, thereby triggering the release of dopamine in a structure called the nucleus accumbens, this evokes the feeling of pleasure …”

The article also says that only 5 to 10 percent of the population report finding pain in the context of sexual stimulation pleasurable.  But I suspect that is only the number of people who have experimented enough to discover an ability to find pleasure in pain.  A year ago I would have said that I absolutely do not find pain to be sexually gratifying.  But today, I am regularly becoming blissed-out by things like firm spankings and tight rope.  Of course, it might not be so much about the spanking or the rope, but about how efficiently those things trigger the chemical rewards of mild pain.

There is something beyond the pleasure reward that plays into submission.  While lying across Daddy’s lap getting spanked, or when he holds me down forcefully to fuck me, I get an incredibly strong sense that “I am designed for this.”  I experience it as such an overwhelmingly primal reaction, and see so much evidence of it in other women all over the internet, that I cannot help but think there could be a universal sexual submission response built into the female brain – or at least a whole lot of them.  Clearly it can be part of the male brain as well, but more many women in BDSM identify as submissive than do men. (See Fetlife breakdown of member kinks).  I know I have come to yearn for it in an urgent psychological way, a spiritual way.

For me, submission is spiritual surrender made literal through my naked body.  To be used by my Daddy feels very much like being used by life, allowing myself to be caught up in the visceral force of love – a creaturely animal force that needs the sexual union of opposites in order to create new life.  I have always had a concept of God as this life/love force, a spiritual longing to be joined in union that exists within all living things.  I can almost literally feel it within me as a longing for the infusion of the masculine polarity (spiritual being) into the feminine polarity (physical being).

I think David Deida is right, and the power exchange of dominance and submission explicitly charges up each polarity.  The more extreme the polarity, the greater the sexual charge between poles, the greater the magnetic pull and flow of energy, the greater the urge to penetrate and be penetrated, by love, and thus by God.  After all my restless spiritual wandering through different philosophies and disciplines, sexual submission to my Daddy Husband is the closest I have ever been to directly experiencing what feels like God-energy pouring into me.  All brought on by Daddy’s hand on my throat, a length of rope, his sharp smack across my bottom.

I am utterly fascinated by all this, but also outraged that I am so late to this way of being, that I only discovered this part of me, and the man able to liberate it, after a lifetime of lackluster 50/50 sex.  I am especially outraged that I have discovered it after menopause, when my sexual response is nothing like it what it was back when I had plump fertile ovaries and a working uterus.  I have a secret suspicion that the feminists who worked so hard to help women by pushing for the sexual revolution were at the same time unknowingly dragging some of us away from our true sexual nature.  Wait, that isn’t right, one has to be able to be an independent self in order to be able to offer true submission, right?  Submission can’t be forced upon a woman against her will, it must be offered willingly.  Sex that is taken without consent is criminal rape that hurts, not spiritual submission that heals.

Still, I wonder. Did cave-woman sexual surrender feel the same as submission does to me when I offer it freely to my mate?  Did 18th century submission to one’s husband lead to any version of bliss?  If it is a universal primitive response as I have been considering, or an evolutionary mechanism built within women so they would allow themselves to be fucked and impregnated – and actually want to be fucked and impregnated – then wouldn’t it work no matter when and where?  I don’t know. I just know I get lost in thinking about this, wondering at this new self of mine, this thrilling new relationship of ours.  I can’t wait for Daddy to come home, and put me across his lap, and enlighten me some more.  Whether it is because I am a woman or not, I am wired for it, I am sure.

Being ‘Loved to Smithereens’ Through Dominance and Submission

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I am having a rough work day, lots of difficult conversations and criticism of the pages I have turned in.  And in the middle of this, Michael sends me an email.  He wants me waiting naked in bed for him when he gets home from work, to have ropes and riding crop ready so he can beat me.  I first feel dismay to read this, I could really use nice safe loving Daddy tonight, not pain and bondage Daddy.  I want to tell him, no I can’t do that, not tonight.

But once I remember I have agreed to submit, I have surrendered my choice, my emotional turmoil falls away.  Suddenly, I feel rescued from the dictates of my emotional whims.  The Tantric teacher Charles Muir said something about Tantra that I think could apply equally to sexual submission.  He said that Tantric people don’t wait to be in the mood for sex; he said because sex is their spiritual practice, they do it regularly whether in the mood or not.  “They don’t wait ‘til they feel like it, they change how they feel through the practice of love.”  When you don’t feel like it, he said, is the time when you MOST need to do it.

Still, it is challenging to wait in bed with my clothes off.  It makes me uncomfortable, but oh my God, it puts me very much in the frame of mind of looking at Michael as my Daddy, who gave me this hard thing I have to do before he gets home.  Blog29Quote1It makes me feel like I did when I was a kid and had to get chores done before my parent came home, or I’d be in trouble.  I am squirming like crazy under the covers when he finally comes in.  But oh the joy to see him, and to feel him close.  The love just flows between us, it is so palpable, so warm.

Within minutes, he is tying me face down on the bed, first binding my wrists together, something he’s never done yet.  I feel a surge of fear, and the words “Wait, wait, I’m not ready,” tumble out.  But he just smiles at me, and tells me to trust him, and so I do.  I let go of my resistance, and the threatening panic subsides.  He licks my pussy halfway through, but doesn’t let me come, (mean Daddy).  By the time he finishes tying me up my mind has gone nice and quiet.  Oh it is so easy to submit now, easy to allow, feel, experience.

I lift my head to see him digging in a drawer, and he comes out with a clear lavender plastic butt plug I haven’t seen before.  I laugh nervously.  “Where did you get that?”

He just smiles again as he slathers lube all over it.  Then crouches behind me.  “Now just relax.”

What choice do I have?  I cannot move.  I lay my head back down and close my eyes and then I feel it, it’s a little cold, forcing it’s way up into my ass, then nestling into place.  It hurts a little, but intensely erotic, stretching me open.  Then comes a hard smack, and my ass tightens around the plug.  Ohhhhhhhh.  Another smack.  Goooood.

The feeling of being owned and used as he spanked me with that in my ass, me helpless tied up, unable to move, no mind at all… sweet emptiness of thought meets huge hot fullness of sensation.  Ecstasy is a word ringing in my mind, but it is not that, it is something of a different shade than that.

When he’s done spanking me, he fucks me from behind, that plug still in my ass.  I can barely make out the edges of my orgasms any more, I feel more like I stay in a “state of orgasm,” always on the crest of a wave that doesn’t break just builds and rises and curls through me, his fingers his mouth and oh my god his tongue in my ear shoot energy through me in rushes, I feel my body moving in shudders of pleasure and joy and love and love and love.  The deep submission of it takes my “self” away, it is freedom from self, this amazing nothing/everything, this kind of purity of experience.  I want to say ‘I love you,’ but it is hard to even think the word “I,” because I cannot connect subject to object, or make a sentence that makes sense out of it.  I’m not a subject, I am all object, and there is love and there is intensity.  I am completely swallowed in the moment, and if that’s not the essence of a spiritual experience, then I don’t know what is.

I feel wonderful after, perfect and pacified, as he unties me.  But he is not done, he leads me docile into the living room, ties me in a breast harness and puts clamps on my nipples.  I cannot perceive the pain, it just feels like spiky heat radiating through me.  He takes me to the couch and puts me over his lap to stir his fingers in my pussy some more, and the clamps on my nipples catch on the seam of his pants and tug, giving me more electric jolts of heat until fire takes over my body and I am shaking with energy and pleasure so deep, and making sounds and sighing “yes” and begging “please” at the same time.  Blog29Quote2.pngI am receiving all this love he is pouring into me, and becoming love and the whole time he is speaking, chanting, “Daddy’s sweet girl, you’re my sweet girl, so beautiful… I need this, I need you naked on my lap…”

Later, when he has sated himself with me, I go into the bathroom, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.  First, I see how swollen my lips are from his hard kisses, see how flushed red my skin, as if I have been sunburned by the heat of passion.  Then I try to take in my whole face, and I feel almost disoriented to see a woman standing there.  I look sort of familiar to myself, but not entirely, so completely had I lost any feeling of self at all.

This is how submission is changing me, making it so that ‘making love’ is no longer something I myself am “doing.”  I am no longer thinking about how I am doing it, it has become something that is “happening.”  I switch from thinking to just feeling, I am open and allowing and all this love is happening inside me.  I am not doing anything, love is happening, pleasure is happening, I am just flowing with the experience, and experiencing it more fully somehow, being moved by it more deeply.

David Deida talks about “Embracing the Taboo,” and aggressively “Loving Her to Smithereens.”  He says our love is too polite and respectful, it does not carry us away anymore, and I would not have thought that was true, I would have said my sex the past ten years was amazingly passionate and loving.  But then, I had no idea what it was like to be truly carried away, to be loved to smithereens through rough powerful sex.

The Crash; Or, When Sexual Submission is not Foolproof

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As we head into Saturday evening, we are high on the electric connection our new power dynamic has created between us.  And the evening begins nicely, with Michael tying me in a breast harness.  It is like slow hypnosis, as I feel his hands move against my skin, and the rope tighten around me, I feel my body relaxing, becoming pliable.

“I feel like I’m wrapping a precious jewel,” he says, and that’s how I feel as he takes his time, making it perfect, his precious object.

He takes me by the wrist and leads me into the bedroom, then slides my panties down my legs, tells me to get on the bed.  I lie down naked in the middle of the bed on my back.  I can’t wait to feel helpless, can’t wait to feel myself fall into the net of my trust for him.  As I wiggle in anticipation, he tells me not to get too excited, this rope-tying session just for “practice,” not for sex.  But I am feeling so lovingly held in that harness, so warm and swollen with pleasure and lust, that I cannot imagine there will be no sex.

He takes my right leg, bends it, moves it to the side, then places my wrist against my ankle and starts to bind them together.  My bare pussy is now exposed, open, I can’t close my legs.  Oh this is amazing, the stuff of years of fantasies about being exposed, helpless to do anything about it, oh I am happy.  But as he continues wrapping arm and ankle together in ever more intricate patterns, I start to feel a trickle of worry.  The rope is thick, heavy, and the knots so elaborate, I start thinking about how long it could take to free me.

All at once the rope feels less like loving embrace and more like a trap.  I feel a jolt of panic, and my chest tightens with fear.  I try to breathe it away, waiting, impatient, for him to finish the knot.  When he is done, I go limp with relief, I made it, I can make it through this.  I expect him to go around and do my left side, wrist to ankle.  Instead he gets down on the floor to secure the rope trailing from the first knot to the leg of the bed.  The panic flares huge, takes hold.  Blog15Quote1It’s too much, I’m too vulnerable, too much heavy entrapment, wrapped too many times around me, unwieldy and uncomfortable.

“No, I can’t, no,” I say.  “Take it off, can you please take it off?”

He raises up to look at me in surprise.  He doesn’t say anything for a long beat.  Then, being the sweet and considerate man he is, he obliges.  He starts unwrapping me, and I am grateful, and my panic subsides, I breathe.

As soon as I am free of the rope, I sit up and grab a blanket to cover myself.  But I am already regretting asking him to take it off.  I have failed to submit, I don’t want to fail.  I still want the experience.

“Will you try again?” I ask him.

He gives a short shake of his head.  “No, I’m done for tonight. We can try again tomorrow.”

I feel an argument jump to my lips, I want to say, no, please try again, just not so elaborate and overwhelming, just a simple knot, please.  But if I argue, that will make me a double failure at submission.  It will be me trying to take control of the situation, get my way.  The rope experiment is over.

I get dressed, and as we settle onto the couch to watch TV, he seems oddly cheerful.  I suspect he could be feeling burnt out by all the intensity of the last week and actually prefers to do nothing tonight, prefers to not be responsible anymore.

I don’t really blame him for that, and he has that right.  But I am not at all cheerful.  My submissive trance of the last week has evaporated, the delicious spell has been broken.  In my mind, newly discovered “subspace” is a magical thing, but also a black-and-white thing.  I don’t yet recognize shades of gray, it is either all there, or all not.  And now it’s not.  For the first time since we began, I’ve lost my wonderful dominating Daddy, painful sudden, and I have no idea if he will ever come back.

Quick Cool Kisses

I am all at once relegated back to being ordinary wife with her sweet and considerate husband.  I love my sweet husband, but I feel bereft the rest of the evening.  And when we go to bed, our kisses are cool and quick.

I wake the next morning, and lie brooding as dark turns to light at the edge of the curtains.  I squirm around, “accidentally” brushing against him until he stirs.

Oh, I say, sorry, did I wake you?  He yawns, says it’s okay.  I roll over to put my head onto his shoulder.  I bring up the night before, ask him how he is feeling about it, but I don’t wait for an answer.  I need to admit my feeling of failure, tell him how sorry I am I wasn’t able to see the rope experiment through.  I tell him I must need to be more slowly conditioned to being bound and tied.

“Maybe use a lighter rope next time, not so many knots?  Maybe then I wouldn’t panic.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me.  “It’s no big deal.  We needed a break anyway.”

This isn’t what I want to hear.  I repeat again, “But I failed.”

He laughs a bit.  “Oh don’t worry, your punishment will come.”

I laugh, too.  It is a good thing to say.  We had been reading about “training” a submissive, and discussing the idea of punishment.  But after my laugh fades, I sink into even deeper brooding.  I have the terrible suspicion that even though the D/s has felt very real in the past week, it is still a role play game between us.  We had been playing it well, but last night revealed that it is still a game that can suddenly become too much for me, and be dropped any time.

Before I can express this thought to Michael, he tells me to put his cock in my mouth, suck on it until he comes.  I kneel between his legs and suck him to orgasm, but the thrill of submission is no longer attached to me.  It was just an ordinary blow job, which I wanted to get done.  It didn’t make me feel all warm and adoring toward him, not like just the day before, when his cock seemed like a magic scepter, object of my adoration.

I do not tell him how the spell has broken for me.  I am too confused, don’t know what happened.  What I do know is that I don’t want the failure to be all mine.  In fact, I don’t want any of it to be mine.  And as we go about our Sunday afternoon, I am secretly assigning the failure completely to him.  Blog15Quote2I decide we weren’t able to complete the rope experiment because he decided to stop dominating me.

I tell myself that when I panicked the night before, instead of immediately untying me, he should have remained the dominant yet still-caring Daddy, and tried to soothe my panic.  He should have let me know I was still safe with him, even though I felt scared at that moment.  After all, a real Daddy wouldn’t let his little girl quit if she stumbled while trying to learn something new, say for example, riding a bike.  A real Daddy would kiss her hurts and give her sympathy, but then urge her to get back on the bike and keep trying, right?  Of course, he would.

Clearly, Michael should have tried to calm me down until I could get more comfortable.  And maybe I would have been able to calm down, and maybe I wouldn’t have.  But if I still begged to be released, and he’d decided to let me go, he should have delivered some immediate consequence for failing to submit.  If he’d done that, then I wouldn’t have tumbled out of that lovely subspace.

By evening, I am practicing in my head how I will convince him of his responsibility for the collapse of the dynamic.  How can a woman successfully submit if her dominant gives up on dominating when she gets skittish?  Even if he finds he wants only to sit around and watch TV at that moment, there must be a way he can do that and still make sure his girl stays in state of submission regardless.

As we sit over dinner, I wait for the right moment to bring it up.  But I don’t.  Because I know I am wrong.  It is not his fault.  It is, I am suddenly sure, no one’s fault, but the fault of the dynamic itself.  It is too complex a psychological interaction to sustain.  It is too burdensome a responsibility for the dominating side to always be responsible, too difficult for the submitting side to always be submissive.  My fears have been confirmed, we have been fooling ourselves into believing the game is real.

For the second night in a row, our goodnight kisses feel quick, perfunctory.  I can no longer feel the vibrant connection that seemed so life-changing just a little over 24 hours earlier.  He falls asleep, but I just lie there, curled away from him on my side, staring into the dark for long, empty hours.

Becoming Daddy’s Girl When You’re No Longer a Girl

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The morning after I first call my husband Daddy, it is Saturday, he wakes me up in the dark again by climbing on top of me, and I think I will lie there in peaceful silence again.  But I find out quickly that Michael is not in a peaceful mood, he is pure animal this morning.  He is strong, muscled, heavy, and he is a force on top of me.  I can barely catch my breath, caught in the storm of his lust, wave after wave of lust.  He pounds me hard, holding me tight by my neck.  Then he flips me over onto my hands and knees, and pounds his cock into me from behind, smacking my ass at the same time, hot jolts that ratcheted up the excitement in my body.  And just like in those little domination gifs, he shoves my head down as he fucks me, holding it hard against the mattress.

I know that if someone happened to be watching us at that moment, it would look alarmingly wrong.  I cannot believe how I like it, this thing that looks degrading from the outside, yet feels so kind.  To have my head pushed hard against the mattress is somehow a grounding thing, an anchor that holds part of me still as I am caught up in the wave of animal lust.  Then he grabs a hand full of my hair, pulls my head back.  I am wide open accepting, I am only vaguely aware of the pain in my scalp.  He is so excited by the pulling of my hair that he shudders to an orgasm.  After he pulls his cock out, I am lying flat on my stomach, his fingers shove inside my pussy, and he keeps finger-banging me, with little growls, then slides two fingers in my ass, it hurts a little, but I relax, keep letting go, oh wonderful.  It is all is raw pleasure, being held down, controlled, smacked.  Let go, no thought, just feel, here now now now, yes.

He flips me over and again, spreads my legs open, slides his fingers into me again, stirring me, opening me, so hot blood engorged open yielding.  He holds my head still, whispers in my ear, he tells me he wants all of me.  Then his tongue plunges into my ear, stiff and warm, it feels like sexual penetration of another sort.  I have never felt sexual excitement in my head, he is penetrating my mind almost, I am so hyper-excited that I come hard in an electric whoosh that I feel all the way into my feet.

After two hours, my nervous system is overwhelmed, I am completely conquered into submission, and I cannot stop looking into his eyes as he lies beside me, facing me.  I feel hypnotized.

I try to say, Thank you Daddy.  But it comes out as, “Thank you, Da……”

I can’t say the word.  Although I had happily called him Daddy the night before, and made mental peace with the idea, I somehow cannot bring myself to say it in the light of morning.  It makes me swell up with some unnameable emotion that will take me awhile to unravel.

The Inner Battle

As we get up and get dressed, we are both overwhelmed by the strength of the storm between us. We wander into the living room.  But instead of heading to the coffee maker, we both end up sitting dazed on the couch.

He says, “I’ve never felt out of control like that.  I was in a frenzy.”

“Yes,” I say.  “Frenzy is a good word for it.”

We are both revealing our most basic animal selves to each other, and it is wonderful and terrifying all at once.  I am thrown off balance.  I do not recognize either him or myself.

We assure each other we are okay.  But even though I keep opening my mouth to say the word, “Daddy,” it stalls in my throat.  He, however, is saying it frequently, referring to himself in the third person as “Daddy,” and it gives me a little twist of annoyance each time.  I want to tell him to stop, although I don’t know why, when the night before it was so clearly what I wanted, what I felt was right.  Why can’t I say it?

As the day wears on, I fall into an uncomfortable funk.  We decide to go the movies, and I ride along in the passenger seat wondering what is wrong with me, am I just tired from being overstimulated, from being off balance from all the emotion of the past week?  I don’t want to admit it is because maybe I don’t like the Daddy Dom thing after all because he clearly likes it.  Then we get out of the car and he grabs me by the wrist, pulls me along across the parking lot.

And there it is again, this sudden letting go inside myself, this surrender to power.  And I realize this is also a submissive trigger, to be pulled along by the wrist, rather than walking side by side, hand in hand.  It is also is a very Daddy specific trigger, it takes me back to being a little girl, being pulled along by an adult.  Suddenly I am having no problem at all feeling like Daddy’s girl, and in the dark movie theater, I snuggle up against him, and I find myself taking his thumb into my mouth, sucking on it, and it feels soothing to me, like sucking on a pacifier.  He moans and whispers to me that I am a good girl, and I am so warm and pleased.  I would love to suck on his thumb the entire movie, but I am afraid other people will see.

I walk out to the car in momentary peace, but on the way home, the tension that has churned in my mind all day returns.  I feel pulled by the deep desire for Michael to be the Daddy, my Daddy, and yet also feel myself pushing away from it.  To call him “Daddy” feels like a pretense I don’t know how to make real.  I don’t want any falseness in this relationship, any silliness.  How can I think of myself – middle-aged me, so large and unwieldy – as his girl?  It feels absurd. It feels impossible.

Later, as I make dinner, the inner tension and tiredness makes me feel brittle.  He is practicing knots, so he can tie me up.  I feel a struggle inside me, I don’t feel like being tied up, I want to say no, and if I do?  This whole dynamic will fall apart.  It all suddenly feels fragile, and the tension in me escalates.  I am upset because I feel I need to make a choice whether to let him tie me up or not, and if I make the wrong choice, then this whole marvelous adventure is finished.  I hate this static.  I hate having this power.

This thought makes me laugh out loud.  Oh right, I remember now.  I have agreed to surrender power, I don’t have to make a choice, I don’t have to figure out this Daddy thing right now, I just have to do what Michael wants, that’s it.  No choice, no resistance, no struggle.  My mental tension falls away, I am instantly at peace.  It is stunning, how instant that peace.

Surrender Is Sweet

I make us some drinks.  And when I am good and buzzed, I stand in the living room, naked from the waist up as we follow along with our new “basic bondage” video.  His arms go around me, again and again, drawing the soft rope around me, wrapping me up.  I feel like a true object, still and peaceful as a statue, as he ties me in a beautiful rope breast harness, with my hands trapped behind me.

When he is done, I am amazed, it feels so good, the rope tight around my breasts, I feel held.  I walk around with my bare breasts jutting out, and go into the bathroom to admire his handiwork in the mirror.  Oh, I am beyond amazed by the waves of warm delicious feeling radiating from my bound breasts throughout my body, tranquilizing my mind.

I want to know if I can lie on his lap while I am wearing the harness, and he gives me permission.  I lie my head on his leg with the TV on and he reaches out to idly play with my over-pronounced nipples.  Dear God the sweet heat of it.  He gets turned on, and fucks me there on the couch.  And I still don’t say the word Daddy, but I think it, oh yes I think it, he is my daddy, giving it to me for my own good.