The Joys of Rough Sex

Daddy and I have been writing each other all day about my desire for him to force me to submit, how I crave rougher, and I am full of bravado as 5 o’clock nears. But once I hear the garage door open and the rumble of his car in the garage, I am suddenly scared, nervous. And when he walks in with those smoldering eyes that tells me he has been working up a head of sexual steam all day, I think I actually gulp.

“Come here,” he says.

I walk toward him, and his hand claps onto my shoulder and he pushes me hard down onto my knees so forcefully that it makes me lose my balance a bit. Zing. I am instantly turned on just by that little bit of force, that one moment of being overpowered.

After I suck his cock, he pulls me to my feet, and I move a little wobbly into the kitchen to make dinner. As I cook, he begins unwinding the rope in the living room, looking over to me with a small smile that looks positively ruthless to me, and gives me a little shiver of fear, and a big wave of anticipation.

Our attempts at small talk are interspersed with small bursts of stray laughter from me.

“Is someone nervous?” he asks.

“Someone is very nervous,” I answer.

“You should be,” he says.

After we eat, he begins binding my breasts in a harness.

It is such a singular thing, to stand mostly naked, while he puts all that focus on me, and winds the rope around me in this slow hypnotic rhythm. It settles me completely into my body and my sexual self, while at the same time making it explicit that my body is his.

“Now,” he says. “Your spanking.”

He pulls me to the couch and pulls me over his lap, none too gently. My squeezed tight breasts are pressed painfully into the couch, and while I am trying to get comfortable he smacks my ass hard, very hard. Way harder than usual. I don’t know why it shocks me, how much it hurts. This is what I wanted, right?

It seems not at all what I want when the blows land. I am flinching, and moaning, trying to scramble away. But he shoves my head down onto the couch, holds me still, spanks me brutally until I am in tears. I think, how stupid am I, to invite such a abuse. I don’t like this!  But only moments after the last spank, my body calms, and I am swept by the sweetest surrendered feeling to his power over me.

With my ass still burning hot, he tells me to lie still on his lap and relax. I am only too happy to obey, still face down on the couch. He reaches for the lube and starts stroking my bottom hole. This is when he most truly becomes Daddy to me, when he penetrates me there, gently probing, opening me to his fingers while I lie helpless across his lap. My mind is so convinced only a Daddy could be allowed to do that, or would want to do that, would be so careful gentle and yet so insistent. It is hard to lie still for it, accept the intensity of his fingers pounding into my ass, the too-much-ness of it. I want to squirm because it feels like an invasion, a wrongness, and it hurts.

But oh my god the pleasure that comes as I allow that pain, and submit to that piercing pressure. I have a mental image of those expanding circles that artists draw in the ocean to show the traveling of a sonar waves. I feel round shafts of the most deeply satisfying pleasure pulsing through me.

But ass penetration is not just physical pleasure, it rivets my mind as well as my body, my mind literally cannot move any more than my body can, and my mind craves more even when my body is saying enough, I can’t take more. Then he slides another finger in, and I feel myself keep opening, allowing, almost swooning, fuck yes. And I know, I KNOW this is what Daddy love feels like, to be so essentially and personally taken and invaded and penetrated to the core.

So he has prepared me, and stretched me, and even though I feel so incredibly open, he tells me I am tight, and he is going to put a plug in. I lie still and breathless as he pushes the fat, clear silicone plug into my throbbing behind. It feels more hard and painful and cold than his fingers, but satisfying still, to be on the edge of what I can stand, to feel myself stretched and full. And his fingers go in my pussy, oh I am full everywhere, I feel ecstasy building, I am dissolving …

And then a dark pain, deep in my ass, BAD pain, his fingers pounding into my pussy are pushing the plug too far in, I turn my head in alarm, start yelling, “Ow, ow, ow!” my hand shoving at him to stop. The TV is on, he cannot hear me at first. It is getting worse, I am in a panic, kicking my feet, yelling louder, when he finally stops. “It hurts!  You’re hurting me!”

He quickly discovers that the plug has ENTIRELY disappeared inside me, round handle and all have gone too far up my ass. From ecstasy to horror in ten seconds. True horror. I am scared so scared, I fear I have to go to the emergency room to get it taken out, I will become a joke, the humiliation will be unbearable.

But Daddy keeps his head, and calmly works his finger in after it and plucks it out. He seems to take it in stride.

I do not take it in stride, I am so upset by this turn, mortified by it.  My butthole hurts bad, I have no clue if it is seriously damaged (it isn’t), and I am pretty well hysterical, half laughing half crying.  But he is saying shhhhh, pulling me onto his lap, comforting me.

But I am done, and I am sure that my solicitous husband will stop now, release me from sexual obligation for the evening, allow me to recover my composure. But this is not my husband, this is my Daddy, and what Daddy wants, Daddy takes. And when I say I am done with anal training, I give up, he will not hear of it.

“We are not giving up, baby girl,” he says. Already he is pushing me back over his lap and sliding his fingers back into my pussy. I have the uncanny feeling that it doesn’t matter what I feel, literally does not matter, my body does not belong to me, and he is going to finish what he started. And yes I am still excited after all, and his fingers keep sliding in and out of me, stirring me, and the orgasm comes fast, and then another … And then he tells me to turn over onto my back and he fucks me until his own orgasm makes him groan loud. He will later tell me that it was the fuck of his life.

Afterward he cleans between my legs with the towel, that tender Daddy task that makes me so feel like a girl being taken care of, makes me know I can trust him. He lies over me, sucks on my pushed out titties, then, his face charged and wild like I have never seen, he grabs the front of the breast harness, and lifts the top of my body, shaking me with growls of ownership. I feel like a rag doll, helpless in the grip of his powerful hand, his powerful possessive love. Being shaken like that pushes me further in a submissive trance, I feel my head fall back in the stunned peace of subspace.

Finally, Daddy pulls me to my feet so he can unwrap the ropes. It is a long luxurious process, he cradles me close, and the feel of rope sliding across my body as well as his tender hands keeps me in that space for a long, suspended while …

I was not wrong about more force bringing me more satisfaction, more surrender.  I could have never imagined being so close to someone, so handled inside and out.  I feel consumed by him, swallowed up into him.  I had thought I was throwing myself into the D/s dynamic, did not realize how completely I would be throwing myself into him.

Who is he, this dominant Daddy of mine?  I have only barely met him. He does not even know this unfolding version of himself. I am unfamiliar with myself too, we are changing each other, becoming new people with each other. I feel so raw as he unwraps me, so at the mercy of the unknown him and the ever changing us. And so fucking in awe of how he loves me.

The Nitty Gritty of Power Exchange

So Daddy goes off to work this morning and I send him my thoughts about our little D/s moment of crisis from last night, and my epiphany on how I want to be more forcefully dominated.  More forcefully forced.  And this is what he writes me back:

Well, my suddenly rebellious teenager, you have been a bad girl haven’t you? .. So, I ask myself:  Can I be the very strong Daddy you need me to be?  Can I run roughshod over my baby girl when she gets wobbly? .. No, that’s the wrong question, .. Of course I can, .. the better question is do I want to?  A few weeks ago, I would have said, ‘no’, that’s not me, but our D/s dynamic continuously evolves and reveals and awakens, and as we peel back the layers, I am often surprised and occasionally shocked by the severity of my masculine essence, ..  I thrill at turning you over my knee and smacking your ass and cramming your face into our mattress while fucking you, .. Still, the question remains, do I want to run roughshod when you’re rebellious, when you’re reluctant?  Do I need to show you who your Daddy is in those moments?  Is that me?  As you point out, societal indoctrination to respect others is strong, .. ‘no’ means ‘no’ and all that, .. but if my cock is any indication (currently stiff), it’s definitely in my nature to impose and subdue, even when you’re unwilling, so the want is there, .. time will tell if I’m capable, I suppose.

Of course then I ask myself the next obvious question:  What if I’m not the very strong Daddy my baby girl needs?  Where does that leave us?

When I read this, which I basically interpret as, “ I guess we’ll see,” I feel very unsettled.  It’s not what I expected him to say.  I thought it would be something like, oh yeah baby, gonna use whatever dominant force necessary to keep this D/s ship sailing on smooth seas.  Or words to that effect. Instead, I hear him saying he is not sure how dominant he really is.  I don’t like it.  And so I write him back:

Oh Daddy, what a big self-deceiver I have been, and maybe you have been one too.  What in the world are we DOING?  Do we really have any idea of what dominance and submission even means?  I have been so busy focusing on the finer points of submission, and the sexual love juice of it, I never much thought about the domination side of things, only that I knew it was the more difficult side of it, the greater responsibility.  But I take that back – 

I have the more difficult side, because it is really me running this show.  You have said you don’t know if you are capable or not of being in true and literal control of me.  If I am not in the mood, or can’t find the submissive impulse, well you might not be able to insist.  So if there is no dominant on the other side, then by default, it is up to me and my will and my moods and my consent whether it works or not, and that makes ME the fucking dominant, jesus Christ, fucking AGAIN.  And I am PISSED, probably not at you, I think you are amazing brave wonderful to take on this crazy experiment with me at all.

But I am back where I was when I tried to play the dominant role with previous husband, and it slowly occurred to me that the whole thing was happening per his desires, the supposed submissive. I knew then it was all an elaborate play-acting game, and now it seems that no matter which way I turn, I cannot escape elaborate play-acting.  Seriously, how can we call it domination if it is at my pleasure not yours?  As I was pouting and shutting down last night over a stupid fucking butt plug, oh I felt I’d become so absurd, unable to manage my evermore intense desires.  I feel so lost and I don’t know where safety is. It’s supposed to be with you, in your solid sense of what is right for me, but the few times I have pushed it, I have felt your hesitance, you hold back, for what reasons I am not sure. It could be that it just takes time to be confident in a new way of relating.  But it also could be that it is an impossible task, in the real world anyway –

When I read D/s erotica stories, there is no negotiation for “safe, sane and consensual” scenes, there is always some set up in which the woman is given no choice at all, she is forced to submit, sold into marriage, or given to some man for some reason, or some other set up in which he literally owns her or has legal right to her body.  That is the female fantasy of submission, no choice, being owned, forced, that is where the peace lies.  But that is fiction.

I had assumed that submission and being dominated were the same experience, but they’re not.  Submitting by choice is wonderful and sexy, but if it is only by choice, then here comes all the noisy static of choice.  Do I want this, do I like this, am I in the mood for this, and so on.  There is no peace in choice for me.  Being dominated is a much different feel, a more wild and raw thing, and I am discovering I need that as much or even more than simple submission …

It can’t be only my responsibility to make this work, I can’t be the only one who is willing to cross the boundary of acceptability, the only one willing to take all the psychological risk – and oh there is risk.  I have been trying to turn my mind over to you in the most real way, and on some days it has been almost scary effective.  But what is the risk for you?  You smashing my face against the mattress when you know I like and want it?  What is the risk in that?

I don’t know if that is the right question, I don’t what I’m saying, or asking exactly.  I write you all my thoughts, but yours feel hidden to me.  I don’t know what was going through your mind last night.  You seemed upset at the idea of giving up being my Daddy.  You said you NEED to be my Daddy, but why do you need it?  We have agreed that a Daddy is protective and loving and all that.  But what about the domination part of it?  The ownership part of it?  What is domination to you?  What is it that makes you identify as a dominant?  What do you mean when you say you want me to belong to you?  What does that require of me?  What does it require of me if I do not feel like doing what you say, if I am having some mental shut down moment like last night?  Does it require I just go along anyway?  Then that means I become a pretender, a play actor.  That means all the responsibility is on me to make it work.

Tell me, Daddy Husband, what are we DOING?  Your phrase “time will tell” is probably the right one, it has to be allowed to unfold as it will, as we discover it.  We need time and experience to grow into it.  But still, that phrase made me want to weep. If you don’t know one way or the other, then how can you be the dominant?  Isn’t what happens supposed to be by your choice?  I know that’s not fair, I can’t allow myself the luxury of being wobbly in submission, and give you no wobble room at all.  I just know I can’t keep this up if it is essentially only a play-acting charade.  At some point we will have to face that defining moment – do you have it in you truly own me, and to be the strong Daddy I need?

Oh, I am sad you sounded so unsure.  But then, how can you not be unsure?   This is a dark and strange foreign land we have entered, nothing is as it looks on the surface …

I hit send, and then sit in turmoil for the next few hours, wondering if I am dragging us toward the edge of the D/s cliff.  I have the feeling when standing atop a hill and I can see the destination I want to get to, but I can’t see the path to get there.  Or maybe that’s not the right analogy.  Maybe it’s more like I know how to get there, but I can’t drive.  I need Daddy to drive us there.  It takes awhile, but here is what I hear back:

Well, sweet girl, what an odd twist, .. happier than ever two short days ago to full-on crisis tonight.  I’ve been a very bad Daddy, baby girl, .. “time will tell”, Jesus fuck, did I really type that phrase?  What a candy-assed thing to say.  It seemed benign enough in context, .. the D/s way of being does continue to evolve for me, but fuck, you have every right to be pissed, .. at me, not yourself.  I’ll try again in crystal clear terms:  I have an extremely masculine bent.  I prefer the ‘loving dominant’ dynamic, but I get stiff when I think about subduing you, willing or not, and I am very capable of imposing my will.  It isn’t a game or role play; it’s me being my true self, of that I’m certain.  I am the strong Daddy you need.

I close the computer, and I actually cry.  Oh, thank God.  It is only later that I realize he still hasn’t answered the most important question of all:  What exactly are we DOING?

We love BDSM. Are we Freaks?

Throughout these weeks of edgy sexual D/s exploration – no wait, it’s months now – I go to Fetlife hoping to see more people “like me.”  I want to feel normal.  And I can’t look away.  Well, I can easily scroll by all the exhibitionist girls with stilettos and waxed pussies trying to lure people to their web sites.  It’s the normal looking people that absorb me for hours – a little overweight, showing off whippings, ass fistings, their flesh red and bruised and cut and bleeding, jizz and cum everywhere.  All stunning in their torture extremes, boastful of those extremes – look at what I can take.

Oh yes, I am absorbed, but none of it makes me feel better about much milder me, nor does it make me feel more normal.  My fascination makes me fear of going that far, becoming freakish.  I like a little spanking, a little nipple clamp maybe.  Blog31Quote2I like the submission mind game.  But I don’t like the idea of going over some dark line, getting lost in freak territory, becoming unrecognizable and unreal to myself.

Up until now, David Deida and his writings, like Intimate Intimate Communion has provided a wonderful framework for me to understand what is happening with me and my Daddy husband, helped me understand why our exploration in ravishment and surrender are so thrilling to us, and why it has so dramatically opened hears and bodies to each other.  Yet nowhere in what I have read from Deida so far does he talk about BDSM or dominance and submission.  He talks about the masculine partner loving his woman “forcefully” and “even aggressively,” and how the feminine partner can yield to this energy.  He talks about going after “the style of intimate relationship that best serves our expression of love.”  He says “every desire, every taboo must be embraced and then converted, by love.”  But he will not describe what all that may look like.  He recommends embracing the taboo without naming the taboo.

To me, it seems he is referring to power exchange.  But his writing is very airy, almost in the vein of romantic poetry.  He doesn’t bring it down to earth.  And so his advice is lacking in practical applications.  It is not “implementable,” as one poster who is familiar with work wrote on a message board I discovered.

I am frustrated by this.  I want a wise teacher to tell me, Yes, woman, letting your husband torture your nipples is a spiritual exercise.  I want to continue my noble project of thinking of “submission as a path to God.”  I don’t want it all to just be a perverted fetish.  For a brief while I am comforted by the idea that one BDSM devotee posits on a message board, that Deida likely considers BDSM an area to “grow through” or a “kink to be ironed out,” and that eventually a couple will discover that such extremes aren’t needed to open up one sexually.

At first, I like this idea. It calms the feminist chatter in my head that never quite goes away that I am doing something wrong by withdrawing my right to consent to my husband. I like thinking, “Okay, this D/s stuff is a phase we are moving through on the way to some greater cosmic place, a proving ground for some relationship nirvana we are on our way toward.”

But then I think, no, attributing this glorious physical heat we are experiencing as a phase on the way to something else is doing a disservice to that heat.  Why can’t the heat be a noble end unto itself?  Blog31Quote1There is a reason there are so many women on Fetlife, asses in the air, with blissed-out looks on their faces, waiting to be beaten, penetrated, loved roughly.  There is a reason why 50 Shades of Grey, by all accounts a terribly written book, is so fucking popular, even more popular than Harry Potter.  The desire to be dominated is clearly a universal longing.

To look for something beyond the immersive experience of BDSM strikes me a little like standing on top of ladder in order to look for a ladder.  I am already there.  Michael grabs me hard, and I am immediately present, immediately pulled into my body.  Immediate nirvana.

Maybe that is why I end up drifting away from the gaudy entertainments of Fetlife and start reading what surveys and studies I can find about BDSM.  According to the science of statistics, BDSM practitioners are actually happier than their vanilla counterparts.

For example, one Australian study shows that BDSM people show signs of being more psychologically healthy than the average population.  Another 2013 study, called “Psychological Characteristics of BDSM Practictioners,” explains why:  “Individuals experienced a reduction in the stress hormone cortisol and elevation in testosterone levels after kink activities suggesting that there is a biochemical enhancement for some who engage in these behaviors.”  This same study also “revealed improved measures of psychological relationship closeness in participants.  Both people who received and administered kink activities were notable for these increased measures of intimacy.”

Furthermore, “BDSM participants were less neurotic, more extroverted, more open to new experiences, had more conscientiousness, yet were less agreeable compared to non-BDSM control groups.  The subjective well-being of BDSM was higher than that of the control group, and the study summarized that people who engage in BDSM are characterized by greater psychological and interpersonal strength and autonomy, rather than by psychological maladaptive characteristics.”

Okay then.  I can stop worrying, go ahead and set aside this need to justify my sexual longings as noble and not antifeminist, and especially “not sick.”  Although I suppose this blog is exactly that, a justification, my own version of women posting their pictures on Fetlife, asses in the air, pussies exposed, look what I can take.  I am just doing it with words instead of photos.

But writing through this – and hearing back from women like me, going through what I am going through, takes me ever closer to peace with it all.  Writing this allows me to let it be what it is – the most intense sexual and love experience of my life.

Who Likes It Rough?

This afternoon I find myself in a jagged mood for no reason.  Some sort of hormonal anger where I feel like throwing things (do throw things, my hairbrush, my sandal, go bouncing off the couch).  I send Michael a message that I won’t be there when he gets home from work, I’m headed to get a drink at the bar round the corner as I’m in no mood to be submissive tonight.  I add that the only way he’d get me to submit would be to wrestle me into it.  I write it like a joke, but I am actually issuing a challenge.  I’m craving the peace of submission to calm my feeling of aggression and secretly hoping he will wrestle me into it.

But he gets home before I can get out the door, and he can see the challenge in my face.  My husband rises to the occasion, and says, “Discipline must be maintained, on your knees.”

I feel a flare of “You jerk, I just told you I’m having a hard day.”  But then I get on my knees and suck his cock, with pleasure, but also with a toothy roughness.

His makes a noise of alarm and I look up at him and smile.  “Am I scaring you?”

He laughs uncomfortably.  “You’re scaring the hell out of me.  That’s enough.”

I admit, I’m satisfied he didn’t let me slip out of submitting to him, which I tell him later at the bar.  We drink and eat and laugh, and by the end of dinner, my jagged mood has subsided.  But still, the idea of him wrestling me into submission has taken hold of me.  And when we get home and he says he’s going to tie a breast harness onto me, I say, “Make me.”

And so begins a wrestling match, me pushing him away and letting my momentary rebellion free.  It is delightful.  And quick.  He subdues me oh so easily, holds me down with a grip like granite, any attempt to move is impossible.  He is stronger than I imagined and it is thrilling to me, I am dazzled by his strength.  Blog24Quote1I somehow thought that if ever a man was determined to have his way with me, I’d be able to fight like hell and be able to free myself.  But now I know this is an illusion.  Until this moment, I honestly did not realize men intrinsically had such raw power over me.  For the first time I understand how consciously gentle most men are with their women, which is touching and thrilling on a whole other level.

Now I am feeling wonderfully subdued and ready to submit as he ties me in a breast harness.  He tells me he is going to spank me, and me, half-drunk from our time at the bar, I say,  “And then what will you do to me?”

He says, “Nothing.  We’re taking a sex break because yesterday you said you’re getting too sore.”

My excitement deflates.  “Who cares what I said yesterday?  You’re just going to spank me and get me all hot and bothered and then nothing?”

“That’s right,” he says.

My jagged anger rushes back with a vengeance, and I’m maybe more than half drunk because I start ripping the clawing at the harness, trying to get it off.  “Well, then you can’t spank me.”

“Don’t take that off,” he says firmly.

I yank my arm away. “How dare you tell me I’m too sore!  I’m the only one who knows if I’m too sore!  You can’t tell me how I feel!”

Then he starts yelling, too.  “Don’t take that off!  I’m the Daddy!”

One might think this is where we’d laugh at how absurd this moment.  But no.  I just keep yelling.  “Not even my Daddy can tell me how I feel!”

I am unwinding the rope now.  He sits down and tells me I am topping from the bottom.   I snort, “Oh horrible me, just wanting you to fuck me.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m not about to get aroused now.”

“Oh thanks, now I’m an erection killer.”  Then I storm off to the bedroom.

I throw myself on our bed.  And that’s when the absurdity hits me.  I am a silly person.  I am also a terrible submissive.  He comes in and I apologize, and we finally laugh at ourselves then, at our drunken brawl.

Feeling a little better, we lie there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.  “Are we going to just go to bed now?” I ask.

He says no.  He sits up against the headboard, tells me to lie across his lap.  I start to crawl over to him, talking as I lay myself across his lap, “Yeah, but are you doing this because you think I want you to?  Is this me topping from the bottom?”

He doesn’t say anything, just roughly drags my panties down.  His hand came down on my ass with a resounding smack, shockingly hard, blistering hot.  My questioning mind shuts off.  He delivers ten spanks that leave me gasping and squirming in pain.  Blog24Quote2I barely have to time to catch my breath before he flips me over and holds my face down against the mattress.  He kneels over me and shoves his cock into my mouth.  He fucks my mouth hard, cock filling my throat until I can barely breathe.  I cannot move, cannot do anything but lie there, relaxed, an empty accepting sexual receptacle.

I am vaguely aware that if anyone else ever treated me like this, it would be appalling, traumatic.  But because it is him, because I have surrendered, and am making my surrender literal.  My mouth yields, my mind smooths out, calm, while my body fills with blood and heat.  Being fucked rough and rude by my husband is a primal thrill that satisfies like nothing else, like scratching a deep itch I didn’t even know I had.  And oh I get off, I get off …