Sexual Submission is Easy; Dominance is Hard. Sort of.

Michael comes home after being gone on a work trip for five forever days to find me, an eager little submissive waiting for him, craving attention.  He knows from my many feverish emails to him while he was gone that I am longing to be tied up, be spanked.  I know from one look at him that he is tired, drained from the trip.

But my sweet Daddy doesn’t want to disappoint me, so he tells me he is going to put me over his lap “after we watch TV for a little bit.”

His voice is flat, so I express some hesitation.  “Please don’t think you have to if you’re not up for it.”

I am hoping he will say something like, of course I’m up for it. But he doesn’t.  He says, “Okay, then I probably won’t.  But I reserve the right to change my mind.”

So that’s that.  I mentally let it go.  Poor tired man, he slips in and out of sleep during the show we’re watching, I stay tight against him, and touch him constantly so he knows I am good with him.  After the show is over I ask, “What would you like to do?  Ready for bed?”

“What I’d really like to do is tie you up in this rope,” he says over a yawn.  Well, he may want it in theory, but it is clear he doesn’t want it in reality.

But I don’t want to say no, it would be like refusing to submit.  So I say, Let’s go lie down.   Once we are snuggled up together, I ask again, okay so really, what do you want to do?

He still has that whatever tone when he says he wants to tie me up.  So I challenge him to make me submit.

He says, “I thought you had no choice.”

“Well, apparently I do because it’s not happening.”  Why there is a sarcastic tone in my voice, I don’t know.

He sighs, doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word.  He’s clearly not going to tie me up.  I want to cry, our lovely dynamic has collapsed.

I don’t want to let this frustration be the winner of the evening, I don’t like that it has become some kind of wall between us.  I want so badly to stay connected with him, so I attempt to put the feelings banging around inside me into words.  I say I really do want to submit to him, but I am finding it difficult to tell his true desire.

“Submitting is only half the equation,” I add.  “There has to be some dominance on the other side.”

He does not argue, just lies there.  My frustration grows.

David Deida would say that in enlightened sex, the masculine element provides the “directionality” of the sex, while the feminine element provides the depth and fullness of it.  The woman, he says, is the ocean, full of life and flow, yielding as water.  Blog27Quote1The man, he says, is like the boat sailing the ocean, deciding which way to go, maneuvering the boat to a specific destination.  If the man doesn’t feel any sense of direction, the woman cannot surrender to him, cannot carry him to where he wants to go.

I tell Michael I understand that the submission side is easy, I can submit whether I am in the mood or not.  The only thing I cannot do is submit to unclear desires.  He owns the much more difficult side of things.  There’s no way one can be dominant if one isn’t in the mood.  I tell him I think that he might essentially be too much of gentleman at heart to do the 24/7 Dominant/submissive relationship.

Again, he doesn’t argue, says something about me being right.  I don’t know if I’m right.   Maybe it is something else altogether.  David Deida says men also seek freedom, do not like to be constrained.  They want the freedom to dominate a woman and do what they want with her.  But if it becomes an obligation (as in a D/s situation), then it is no longer freedom, it is an obligation that loses its appeal.

I say I’m going to get up and start to rise from the bed.  He grabs my wrist.

“You want to know what I really want?” he says.  I say I do.   Then he says, “I want you to worship my ass.  I want your tongue on me.”

My heart jumps.  He has never asked me for this before.  I had shown him a web page once, a list of ways submissives can serve their dominants, and “ass worship,” or kneeling to lick his anus, was on that list.  It was my way of telling him I’d be open and willing to perform such service.  But I didn’t know whether the idea had appealed to him.  Now I know.

He kneels on the edge of the bed, bent over, and I kneel on the floor and gently begin licking my way up the crack of his ass.  He moans immediately.  Another taboo to embrace, and oh embrace it I do.  His ass is so responsive and I go into this otherworldy state while I am licking him, kissing, sucking, plunging my tongue into the hole.  I am having some kind of deep communion with his ass, his “secret spot,” he is so delicious wonderful satisfying to taste, and I actually go into some kind of pleasure trance, my mind all blissed out.  I love hearing his moans, I love love love feeling so intimate close to him.  I do not want to stop, but he says, “Now I do you.”

I give a giddy little laugh as I climb up onto the bed, feeling caught on a wave of innocent hungry love for each other.  Garden of Eden-style love. We seem to be compelled to offer up every single part of ourselves for the fevered exploration by the other.  And so he returns the favor, tongue sweet on my ass, fingers going back in my pussy, and I go off into a different kind of heaven, receiving, surrendering.  Oh yes, this is the root chakra, the source of all our life energy, all our sexuality, I am letting go and opening.  And I am so deeply moved by this moment, the way we lavish love all over each other, as if we want to get inside each other, no barriers at all.

When he’s done with me, he finally drifts off to sleep.  I, however, am nowhere near sleeping, I am too acutely aware of the feeling of whirling love throughout my body.  I seem to be able to feel the spinning energy of the chakras in my lower body, almost as if I am in the midst of one long slow-motion orgasm.  I feel soaked with warmth and light, and I ride the feeling for a long beautiful while.

I think of Deida again, who talked about not surrendering to your lover, but surrendering to love through your lover.  And I am convinced that is what is happening with us.  I somehow didn’t fully understand what that meant before this night.  I’d been so caught up in thinking he had to condition me so I could stay in a ‘subspace’ kind of trance in which my submission was automatic.  I thought that if I couldn’t sustain that mindset all the time, if I didn’t truly see him as my dominant Daddy all the time, then we’d be playing a silly role play game that would lose its spiritual power to transform me.

But tonight, caught up in this shimmering dissolving sensation of love, the framework I was trying so hard to impose on our D/s fell away.  I know he really is my Daddy, but not just Daddy, what a mistake it would be to narrow it down just to that.  Blog27Quote2He is also Michael and sweet baby and lover and husband and friend.  There is plenty of room for him to be all those things at once, and each is always there, and it’s just a matter of focus on which arises in the moment.

That is, it’s a matter of his focus, his direction, his intention, his desire.  Whether I am in a trance-like subspace or not, I am the waiting sea, always in a state of flow, always ready to surrender to him and the love between us.  My submission is not contingent on a special trance, nor on him conditioning me with particular routines.  I hope he will tie me up when he wants, spank me if he wants, do all those things that make my mind go smooth and my pussy swell hot and red and wanting.  But I don’t need those things like I thought I did.  My submission is his by right at any time, he is the one who unlocked me and opened me, I belong to him.  We don’t have to plan it, or sign a contract, make some kind of prior agreement on what it will look like.  I can trust it will unfold in the moment, through its own spontaneous power, like it has all along.  If he truly wants to take me, control me, my heart will know, my body will know, and I will let go.  And I will surrender.

The Crash; Or, When Sexual Submission is not Foolproof

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.

How Becoming Daddy’s Submissive Girl Made Me Feel Safe – And Full of Lust

My life has become an erotic novel.

This morning, still full dark, the first thing I feel is a hand rubbing my back, then grabbing my breast.  My husband pulls me close to his warmth, then whispers to me that he wants me to kiss and suck and lick his body all over.  Which I do, without question.  He is my dominant, I am his submissive, and I will do anything he asks.  Anything.

I run my tongue over him, tell him he is delicious.  He tells me I am Daddy’s good girl.   And there is that word again, “Daddy.”  I cannot help but notice it still portends silliness to me.  I don’t know how he is saying it with a straight face.  Yet as we linger in bed, light starting to fill the windows, I find myself more and more happy to hear it, because I melt, I melt.  And when he says, “Daddy is going to slide inside you now,” I am grateful, yes Daddy, yes.

I keep saying the word in my mind as he fucks me, and somehow I feel myself connecting with my younger more innocent self.  A girl.  Yes, I feel like a treasured girl being taken care of by her powerful Daddy, and I feel joy bubble up in me, and I wrap my legs around him in delight.  Blog14Quote1This is new instinct for me, have I ever wrapped my legs so playfully around him during sex?  I don’t think so, but now I cling, a girl safe in her Daddy’s arms while he gives her thrusts of pleasure.  He holds me still, hand on my neck and I feel so taken, so transported.  Sex isn’t just sex anymore, it is a journey somehow, a journey through different layers of love.

Afterward, we lie together for a long while, he holds me so close, so gently, whispering I am good girl, he will always take care of me, and I feel as if I am being enfolded into some kind of cosmic protection. I have always felt loved by Michael, hugely, but this Daddy dimension gives the love a new heft and shape and sweetness.  A new sense of safety that is palpable – it wraps blanket-like around me, holds me, shields me.  Finally, I can drop my guard and just be.

All at once, I understand the nature of the difficulty I’ve felt in seeing him in the role of “Daddy,” even as I’ve been craving him to be that for me.  I had assumed it was because I was so accustomed to seeing him as Michael, my romantic partner, lover, boyfriend, new husband.  I’d thought it too difficult to reconfigure my image of him, or the way I relate to him.  But now I see it is less how I look at him than how I look at myself.  Or rather, it is about how I feel inside myself.  When I feel tired and middle-aged and guarded, looking out from cynical eyes, I cannot get in touch with the “girl” inside me, and thus, cannot relate to a Daddy figure.  But when I let go, drop my preconceptions of myself, step out from behind my defenses, then I am open, easy, just me-in-the-moment.  (I’m pretty sure this is what Buddhists call “beginner’s mind.”)  The barrier to seeing him as sweet Daddy dissolves away.  The word slips more easily out of my mouth.

From this different mindset, I am no longer a guarded woman carefully managing a relationship with a man, continually analyzing my feelings in reaction to his behavior, continually judging how the relationship going.  I am instead a carefree girl who effortlessly accepts her Daddy’s love as a given.  I get out of my head and into my body.  I laugh more easily.  I love more easily.

Hypnotic Love Dream

Later, after we have settled into the big easy chairs by the front window in the living room with mugs of coffee, I ask him to tell me how seeing himself as Daddy changes how he relates to me.

He tells me it is very powerful to feel protective over me.  He tells me that when I am curled up next to him, he loves the feeling that he has a cherished girl to take care of and please and show deep love for.  I smile and try to describe how it adds to the dimension of safety to me, how I feel like a carefree girl again…

Suddenly I become choked up, in tears.  It occurs to me this might be the first time in all my life I have known what a carefree girl feels like.  When I was young, I did not have a father around, my parents divorced when I was two.  My mother worked, she was an actress, and the house was full of people, actors and musicians and druggies, and it was all so unpredictable, I did not always feel safe.  I was known as a “serious” child, internally guarded, and I often remember feeling hard and cold and cut off from what was happening around me.  But now here is a Daddy for me, all love and warmth and protection, and I am overwhelmed at the gift he is giving me, the way he is opening the door to healing the child I was.

He sees me crying, says, “Come sit on my lap.”

I get up, and cross over to his chair, and for a moment I again feel the absurdity of a too-big middle-aged me plopping on his lap and being girlish.  But the moment is brief, banished by his sweetness, his tenderness.  I have never felt more exposed, and we look into each other’s eyes and kiss and kiss and feel so close.

He says, “Oh babygirl, you’re getting me excited.  You need to get on your knees and suck me.”

I laugh, and squirm off his lap to kneel in front of him.  The submissive position triggers that lovely trance, that liberating trance, that allows me to be fully in the moment.  I take him into my mouth and it is wonderful, my mouth full of his hard smoothness, I am crazy for this, in love with this.  I want his cock as far back in my throat as possible.  Blog14Quote2I kiss him everywhere, cuddle up to his pulsing cock as if it my favorite toy, feeling it hard and hot against my neck.  I worship him, and we are giddy.

Afterward he tells me he feels like he is living in a dream.  He is completely present, aware of everything.  We have no barrier between us anymore, I say, nothing between us, completely open and honest, everything revealed, allowed, safe.  The feeling of acceptance is extraordinary, hot, and so sexually charged.

For the next hour, as he cooks us omelets for breakfast, we cannot look away from each other.  We find ourselves just standing staring at each other, walking around the kitchen, eyes caught.  My chest feels swollen with warmth, with love.

We go for a walk by the lake, the water is deep blue in the sun, the hills around are eye-watering green.  We go down a trail through an idyllic countryside on this cool sunny day.   Butterflies flit ahead in the path, delicate yellow and purple wildflowers bloom alongside.

“This is the land of milk and honey,” he says.

We stop in the dappled shade of a tree to kiss, and kiss, mouths wide open, licking each other’s tongues.  I lean against him, head tilted back, everything glows.  This connection we are feeling, we are sure no one else in the world has ever experienced it.

“Can you see the hunger in my eyes for you?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.  “Can you see the adoration in mine?”

He smiles.  “I can’t help but see it.”

I turn to keep walking, and look back and he is standing, not moving, eyes closed.  “I’m soaking you in,” he says.

Later, we have a picnic on our back patio under the bare, kinked branches of the oaks.  Cheese and crackers and grapes.   He leans to stick a grape in my mouth, then slides his finger past my lips after it.  I sit on the patio, sucking on his finger to the beat of the throbbing between my legs.

I am living in an erotic novel.

Ode to a Dominant Daddy – The Power of Context in Sexual Submission

Even though I can’t get the word out of my mouth, merely thinking of my husband as my Daddy leads to hot urgent sex on the couch.  Afterward, we head off to bed, and he falls asleep quickly, but I can’t let go of my inner tension over this new element.  I fear we have made a terrible mistake by framing our fledgling D/s life in such pseudo-incestuous terms.  Yes, the word Daddy is a common title for dominants in the D/s world.  Even outside the D/s world, I’ve heard lots of wives call their husbands by the pet name of Daddy, and seen it in dozens of movies.  Yet the idea of calling Michael that grips me with a fearsome power, along with an equally fearsome…  I don’t know what.  It’s not embarrassment or shame exactly (well, okay a little), it’s more intense confusion over the discovery of this dormant longing in me.  I get up and go to my computer and do some Google searching.

The Darkest Fantasy

It doesn’t take long to learn that, historically speaking anyway, Daddies getting sexual with their daughters, and daughters getting sexual with their Daddies, is not a new idea – or even all that shocking.  I find historian Lloyd DeMause arguing that incestuous longings are universal, as is the act.  He refers to an old Indian proverb:  “For a girl to be a virgin at ten years old, she must have neither brothers, nor cousins, nor fathers.”  There is even an example in the Holy Bible:  Genesis 19 describes how the daughters of Lot (of Sodom and Gomorrah fame), got him drunk on wine, and climbed into bed with him.  I come across that reference in a blog post titled: “The Darkest Fantasy”    (themonogamishmarriage.com)

The female author of the post writes that after reading that biblical account, “It became a fantasy I frequently revisited as I masturbated my way through childhood.  I kept imagining what must have been going on in the minds of those young women.  In my imagination, they were both repulsed and excited by this horribly wrong thing they were doing.”

That author is not alone in deriving excitement from such an idea.  Nancy Friday, who wrote frankly about women’s fantasies in the 1973 bestseller, My Secret Garden, devotes an entire chapter to “incest” fantasies, centering largely on father/daughter combinations.  The pull of such taboo reveries, said many commentators of the time, was all about “the irresistible lure of the forbidden.”

My online wandering tells me that not much has changed since the ’70s.  The erotic Daddy/daughter trope pops up so often in the fantasy landscape as to be almost mundane.  On the amateur erotica website, Literotica, the second most popular category is “Incest/Taboo.”  There is an entire sub-genre of DVD porn geared toward men who fantasize about getting it on with a pubescent stepdaughter.  Meanwhile, women are the audience for “stepfather romance” erotica.  There are literally hundreds of downloadable ebooks on Amazon with titles like Craving Stepfather, Shhh, Don’t Tell, Pleasing Daddy, My Alpha Male Stepfather, Homeschooled: Learning to Please, and my favorite, The Mystery of Fate: The Heart Wants What it Wants.

I am comforted to discover this vast cache of erotic material.  It reassures me that Michael and I haven’t strayed too far off the beaten path of fantasy.  Yet, despite the ubiquity of the Daddy/daughter model, it is clear that in our culture at least, it is still considered dark and twisted, whether one keeps the fantasy hidden in the privacy of one’s mind, or enacts it with a partner in role-play.  I come across a Dan Savage column that responds to a “married white guy” in his 50s who describes a role-play based on his wife’s ‘script’:  “I yell at my “bad” daughter (my wife) over some infraction and send her to her room.  Later on, I sneak in and tell her that she could “make Daddy very happy” if we were to do some “secret, special things” together.  I usually end up fingering her still-virginal butt while “forcing” her to suck my dick.  Then I roll her over and rape the hell out of her.  She absolutely gets off on it.”

Well yes, I think when I read it, I am sure she does get off on it.  That script is pretty close to my lifelong step-daddy fantasy, too.  But while this man takes part in the role-play, shame impinges on his pleasure, and he has written Savage over his concern that it’s “creepy” and that his wife’s ‘script’ might also be based in truth.

Although he is ordinarily an open-minded proponent of experimentation without guilt, Savage answers that all incest role-play has a “high-creep quotient.”  He then echoes what seems to be a common assumption that such fantasies might come from real life abuse in the past, and that such “deeply creepy fantasies” allow women to reenact their traumatized past, and have some control over the outcome.

Wrongfully Judgmental

The assumption that such fantasies are somehow more disturbing or “sick” than any other types of fantasies strikes me as wrongfully judgmental.  It implies that I should feel shame for something that rises from what feels like an innocent place within me.  And to ascribe such a fantasy or longing to brokenness from a crime against me is also irritating.  Such judgment also conflicts with a large 2008 study which showed that BDSM enthusiasts hadn’t experienced any more childhood sexual abuse than the population at large, nor were they any less mentally healthy (jsm.jsexmed.org).  All kinds of fantasies grow in people’s minds.  Would anyone say a threesome fantasy rises from some trauma?  How about a foot fetish?

Not that my own childhood was free of inappropriate sexual touching.  At the age of six, I – like way too many children – was inappropriately touched by a male relative over the course of a year.  My memories of it are a jumble of disjointed images and feelings, but it didn’t involve violent penetration, nor was it at the hands of my father or stepfather.  It was wrong, it was confusing, yes, and I wish it hadn’t happened.  I also recognize how it led me to struggle with sexual boundaries as a teenager.

Still, I did not grow up feeling victimized or traumatized.  Perhaps thanks to my exposure to my mother’s freewheeling sexual attitudes, I’ve always understood that human sexuality spills over the nice neat lines we like to draw, and I never thought to turn the uncomfortable fondling that happened to me into a dark and ruinous story about myself.  I do not make light of anyone else’s feelings of trauma over childhood sexual abuse, and I strongly support their right to interpret and voice it however they feel it.  But in the process of reaching peace with my own abuse – and especially to reach peace with an abuser who sat at the same table as me every Thanksgiving – I steered away from the roles of victim for me and victimizer for him.  It just didn’t serve me.

I suppose many a psychologist could insist that my Daddy fantasy is the result of me trying to overcome my particular abuse, but I know better.  And I think all the writers and readers of the “stepfather erotica” genre also know better.  Or the writers and readers of doctor/patient erotica.  Or teacher/student erotica.  Or boss/employee erotica.  Or cop erotica.  There is something essentially hot – very, very hot – about submitting one’s body to a strong male with some measure of power.  And then there is the lovely feel of that strong male granting one permission to be sexual.  To be called “Daddy’s good girl” for enjoying sexual touching, to be told it’s okay and nothing to be ashamed of, carries great power, and opens the door to intense pleasure – well, for me at least.

I end up at a comforting article on Psychology Today that tells me how silly it is to impose dark meaning on sexual fantasies given their mysterious and spontaneous origins.  So I close my computer and go slip back into bed next to my strong loving Daddy Husband.  Although in these beginning days I will have to ward off waves of embarrassment that I feel such an urge to frame Michael’s dominance of me in a Daddy/daughter context, the truth is, it doesn’t feel ‘wrong’ to me at all.  The truth is, it feels natural and right.

The truth is, as I curl up next to his sleeping form, I suddenly love the context of having a Daddy lover, strong but benevolent, firm but loving, a man who adores me and protects me and takes care of me.   I lie there feeling safe and unconditionally loved and profoundly turned on.  The truth is, having my own dominant Daddy feels wonderful.