Daddy Tucks me In; Or, a Submissive Fantasy Comes True

One way my husband wants me to surrender to him is to reveal to him how I am feeling about him and our Dominant/submissive sexual arrangement, so I am developing the habit of writing down our sexual experiences and how I feel about it.  I call it my “chronicle” (and the basis for this blog).  Today, when he gets home from work, he tells me that after he read my chronicle at his desk, he headed straight to the bathroom masturbate.

“In all the years I’ve worked there, I’ve never done that,” he says.  “But I was that stirred up.”

He tells me he wants me to cook dinner topless, and ties me in a rope harness so that my breasts are squeezed in loops of rope, my bare titties jutting out.  I love the feel of it, love the way his eyes follow me around the kitchen, love the submissive trigger of rope.

Still, something is stopping me from getting too deeply into a submissive space.  Maybe it’s the novelty of cooking topless?  No, I think it’s my self-consciousness.  I feel more than a little ridiculous as I chop onions and jalapeno peppers with bare, jutting breasts.  What an odd sight I must be, middle-aged me, with my imperfect body on such flagrant display.  Even as it turns me on, it also inhibits me from letting go like I want.  I am disappointed in myself for letting my insecurity take precedence over his pleasure.  But I don’t know how to stop it.  I know there is no way I am going to eat like that, so I put my shirt over the harness to eat dinner.  Yet, as soon as we are done and I settle onto the couch beside him, he tugs at the shirt.  “Off.”

I peel the shirt off, and my breasts are now faint pink from being squeezed so tightly by the rope.  He drops his head down to put one of my nipples in his mouth, then yanks his head back in surprise.  Blog30Quote1“My mouth is on fire.”

I laugh.  I must have touched my nipple after chopping the jalapeno, and now he’d gotten a mouthful of the spice.  I get up to go to the kitchen to watch them off.

Survivor starts on TV, and I go back to lie down on the ouch with my head on his lap. As we watch the screen, he idly plays with my rope-squeezed breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers, pinching them.  It is ohhhhhh, lovely lovely, waves-of-warmth, fuck yes perfect.  My whole body soon feels electrified, and still he plays and pinches, pleasure ratcheting up and up and up…  I feel as if he is plucking me away from myself and throwing me up into heaven.

I never asked for it – he is doing it for his own pleasure I’m sure – but I am so profoundly enjoying it, that it doesn’t feel like submission at all.  It feels like he is submitting to my own secret desires.  I am suddenly confused, who is submitting to who?

It is a conundrum that has been nagging at me lately.  When he is giving me such intense pleasure, I feel my own sexual will bursting back to life, yes Daddy, give me more of that, more more, I need more.  My words start as a plea, but come out sounding like a command to my ears.

As I lay there, panting with the intensity of the pleasure, I ask him, “How is this submission?”

“It’s okay if you get off on it,” he says.  “I’m your Daddy.  That means I want to take care of you, spoil you, make you happy.  It doesn’t mean I’m not in charge.”

As if to prove his point, he twists my nipples, making me gasp and arch my back in sharp beautiful pain.  Then he pulls me across his lap and spanks me shockingly hard.  As I take the pain, my mind shuts off immediately, goes blank, quiet, peaceful.

“I know you need me to be rough sometimes, too,” he says.

“Yes, Daddy,” I say, my behind on fire.

And just like that, he has made my conundrum dissolve away into his generous Daddy love.

He unties the rope, takes me to bed. He tells me to kiss him all over, show him how I love him.  And I do, sweetly, thoroughly.  We continue in a slow tender dance of lazily exploring each other with mouths and fingers, anywhere and everywhere, arm pits even.  There is an innocence about it that moves me greatly, to be able to feel so free of boundaries, to have such permission to touch each other anywhere.  Places never touched before, or even considered sexual before, are now charged with erogenous energy.

I begin to grow sleepy and lie on my side, with him curled behind me. He slowly starts caressing my behind, his fingers moving to softly along my crack.  I sigh, and relax and open…  And then, oh then, with one moist finger, he begins caressing my bottom hole.  And I do mean caress, the lightest strokes against the oh so sensitive hole.  Blog30Quote2I have never been touched there like that, so slow and gentle and loving.  The tender intimacy of it makes my heart beat hard.  The pleasure of it suffuses me with glowing heat.  My eyes fill with tears.

I am ready to cry because Michael has discovered my deepest desire without me ever speaking it aloud.  I think I’d once mentioned I had a fantasy of “my Daddy tucking me in,” but I never told him what being tucked in meant to me.  But in my fantasy, which I’d lately been having nightly – in a strange and secret longing that I barely understand – I imagine that after I turn over to go to sleep, my Daddy slips in behind me and whispers in my ear that I have been such a good girl that he is going to make me feel good as I fall asleep.  Then he softly strokes my pussy, like petting a cat, slipping a finger into me just a little bit, stirring me slowly.  I sleepily tell him it makes me feel nice, and then he says, “I can make it feel even better.  I am going to touch your special spot now.”  Then his finger eases back until he is stroking my asshole, achingly soft.  As he does, he is whispering, “Shhhh, just lie still and go to sleep now baby,” and I do, I relax into the sweet warmth, and drift off, feeling so loved, so special…

Now he is doing exactly that, and it feels a hundred times sweeter than I could have imagined.  And then I do start crying because I am so blown away that he knows me so well that he is now able to pull my desires straight from my mind, without me even speaking them.  I also cry that he is loving me so freely and so expressively, and because I am about to fall apart from the keen pleasure of it.  I try to tell him what this means to me, but my voice does not work, trapped inside me by the lump in my throat and the loving sweetness he is still stroking into my the most intimate and vulnerable part of me.

It is, without a doubt, one of the most profound moments of my entire journey with him.  I am undone.

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.

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

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.

Raw, Soul-Scorching Sex

In these early days of our D/s life, I am lucky I don’t have a lot of work on my plate, and after Michael goes to work I can just float in this new perspective on “us,” try to grapple with his change in our relationship, this change in myself.  The feeling of coming home to myself as a sexual submissive has been one of the greatest shocks of my life, and I am now obsessively curious about the entire subject.  I want to know:  How many women really live this way?

I google “dominance and submission” and find a blog on Tumbler which is nothing but gifs that show a muscled guy – we never see his face – manhandling different women during sex.  In short five-second clips, he pounds them mercilessly with his cock while they are tied up.  Pounds them while forcing their heads down on the bed.  Pounds them while slapping their faces, or while grabbing them by the neck and choking them.  I have never watched internet porn before, and I have never seen anything like this.  These are offensive images; abusive and awful images.  These are images in which people should probably be arrested, and laws prohibiting them passed.  And they turn me on intensely.

After all our attempts to “raise sexual energy” through complex Tantric exercises and visualizations, and feeling little but laughing discomfort, now the mere sight of a woman being forcefully dominated unleashes a torrent of sexual heat in me.  I go through image after image in a kind of sick fascination, appalled at myself for how excited I become looking at them.  Those images do not look like love.  What is happening to me?

That night, Michael comes home from work, again has me on my knees after he walks through the door.  The cock-sucking ritual is oddly calming.  Then he asks me what I did all day, and so I nervously show him what I found online.  While I cook dinner, he sits on the couch, going through the images of rough, dominant sex for a good 15 minutes, not saying a word, giving nothing away.  He is so quiet, I regret showing him the site.  I am embarrassed, I have just revealed how base I have become.  The whole relationship suddenly seems threatened.  I want to go rip the computer away from him. I want to cry.  What is happening to me?

“Come here,” he says.  I go sit on the couch with him, barely able to look at him.

He points to the images on his computer screen.  “Is this what you want?” he asks.

I can only shake my head, shrug, nod, all at once.  “I know it looks bad.”

“I think it looks hot,” he says.

I am surprised. And somehow even more unsettled.  What is happening to us?

That night when we get in bed, we are both in an agitated, over-excited state.  He reaches over in the dark to put his hand around my neck like in the images I showed him.  He squeezes tightly.  And after the first instinctual moment of fear, my brain goes smooth and flat and peaceful in a submissive “yes.”

I have just learned what a submissive trigger is.  Now I know how a female lion feels when a male clamps his teeth on her neck so he can mount her.  I know why she looks so hypnotized, so sedated.

Michael is breathing hard as he lets go.  “How did that feel?”

“I loved that.”  I turn to press my face into his neck. “But doesn’t doing that seem disturbing to you?”

He laughs low.  “It should.  But it doesn’t.  It just gets me hot.”

He then puts his arms around me, tells me in no uncertain terms that he is very comfortable taking ownership of my sexual will, that it feels good and right for him to dominate me.  I grab onto his hand and kiss it in gratitude.  My questions fade away, and I fall asleep happy.

Putting Sexual Submission to the Test

It is still deep dark and I sleeping soundly when I feel a hand wrap around my ankle and pull my legs apart, and I wake up to him looming over me, shoving his hard cock inside me.  I am startled.  Okay, now here is a true test of how submission really feels to me.  I have no time, no chance, to tell myself a story or fool myself about it.  Surprised awake, my true feeling is all right here, immediate, unfiltered.

And what do you know, I feel nothing but acceptance of what is happening.  I would have expected at least annoyance at being awakened from such a nice sleep, but no, I just let go into whatever Michael wants to do to.  It isn’t about me, or how I feel, or my arousal.  It’s simply lying here in sweet peace while my husband pleasures himself with my body.  And he is clearly feeling pleasure; in fact, he is working himself into a frenzy, fucking me hard, penetrating me to the core with hard relentless thrusts.  I lie beneath him, still and yielding, as if asleep.  Oh, it is lovely to feel this no-static peace, to feel my excitement slowly building, to revel soundlessly in the lust and love he pours all over me.

His mouth swoops down onto my neck, my breasts, kissing, biting my nipples.  It hurts, and I feel a struggle rising in my mind to lie still, to not resist, to not stop slap him off and say, “Too rough!”  He starts working his way down my belly, biting, like an animal devouring me; I don’t like my belly touched; I am self-conscious; he knows that, and I am tightening up more now, the word “no” starting to form itself.  Then again, I remember, I am submissive now, I have no choice, just allow, allow…  I let go into the “yes” and then whoosh, a powerful jolt of electricity shoots through me.  Suddenly I am thrilled by the little pulls of pain and over-stimulation, thrilled by the feeling of animal wildness in him.  And I am aroused even more by the uncertainty of what he might do to me, and knowing that I trust him anyway.

My trust in him is an alive thing now, flexible, accommodating, my “yes” repeating itself in my head, my body taking up its beat, yes, yes, hurt me, take me over the edge of what I can stand, please use me, dissolve my will completely…  His orgasm is loud, convulsive, I feel its echo inside me.  I feel elated by this glimpse of wildness in both of us, the catharsis of it, and the calm that follows.  I curl against him like a cat, it feels as if my nerve-endings have been completely restrung, I am all but purring.

As he is getting dressed for work, I am mesmerized by him.  His eyes catch me and I can’t look away, he is a god to me, a magician, the master of my body.  I also feel a delicious vulnerability, knowing I will do anything for him, share any part of myself he wants to gain access.

He kisses me goodbye, and disappears out the door to the garage, and I just stand there in the hall for the longest time, transfixed by the spell he cast over me.  Then I am overcome by a strange need to cry, a combination of desperate helpless love and being overwhelmed with “too much.”  Too much sensation, too much soreness, too much exposed-ness, I don’t know what exactly.  After the frenzy, I crave to be still within myself, absorb everything that has happened.  I start toward the bedroom to lie down again, and feel I can barely walk.  We have had a lot of truly passionate and meaningful sex since we met.  But we have never had raw soul-scorching sex like this.

How Dominance & submission (D/s) Leads to More Sex. A Lot More.

Everybody Loves Raymond

Since discovering my sexual submissive self over two years ago, it is almost impossible not to see relationships through that lens as they play out in popular culture or in the news.  For example, I recently saw a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond, in which poor Raymond is desperate to get laid but can’t get his wife to agree to sex.  He feels angry and resentful, she feels pushed and resentful… Well of course, I couldn’t help but think they both would be soooo much happier if she’d just submit to her horny husband already.  My wonderfully horny husband is never desperate to get laid.  And we are never angry and resentful toward each other.

On Tuesday of this week, I stumbled across an article in the New York Times that announced, “Americans are having less sex.” (https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/08).  A recent study found that in the last twenty years, sexual frequency of sex has declined for all Americans, but especially married couples (from an average of 67 times per year in 1989, to average of 56 times per year in 2014).  Meanwhile, young people are not getting it on as much as older generations did at the same age.  Millennials, says the article, “are having less sex than any other generation previously.”

The authors of the study could not say why sexual frequency had declined, but guessed it could have something to do with technology intruding into our lives and stealing our attention away from each other.  However, I suspect it is more likely because young women today have been brought up in a feminist era that allows them to feel fine about saying “no” to sex.  In fact, they are pretty much obligated to say no if they don’t feel like it.

Just Do It Anyway

I once suggested to a 20-something family member, worried that her boyfriend would leave her because she hadn’t wanted sex in months, that if she wanted to keep the relationship she might want to “just go ahead and do it anyway.”  She was horrified at the suggestion, and said her boyfriend would never agree to it anyway.  “He would never want me to have sex with him if I wasn’t really into it.”  Okay, then.

I run across feminist advice daily on the internet to girls on resisting the “cultural brainwashing” that tells women they should feel obligated to sexually satisfy boys, and focus on what they really want.  I have seen so many version of this – especially lately in response to the Trump ‘pussy-grabbing’ political flash fire – that the advice has now become its own form of cultural brainwashing.  I have even read essays that suggest sex that happens without our full arousal is basically a traumatic event.

It is one thing to point out that women have the right to determine what happens to their own bodies, but we also need to look beyond that point.  We need to ask what happens to our relationships when we listen only to our own moods, satisfy only our own needs?  Are women really happier people when they have sex only when they feel like it, regardless of their partner’s needs?  My family member did not seem happy; rather, she felt her entire relationship in jeopardy, and felt something was “wrong” with her that she didn’t want sex often enough.

I quickly find another article on CNN about a study that explores couples who buck the trend of less sex and actually have more sex. So what is it that determines how often a couple has sex?  The study concluded that it is the personality of the woman, and whether she is “agreeable.” (http://www.cnn.com/2016/05/25)

The study’s authors say that because men want, and initiate, sex more often than women, women are by default “the ‘gatekeepers’ of sex within relationships.”  The higher a wife rated on openness to experience or agreeableness (my translation: submissiveness), the more often the couple had sex.  The husband’s personality, on the other hand, was not a predictor of sexual frequency.

My experience of the world (and numerous marriages) tells me that a woman who says “yes” to her husband’s sexual needs, despite her own level of desire, is going to have a happier more peaceful relationship, not to mention she will feel better due to the many health benefits of sex (https://www.alternet.org/sex-amp-relationships).  The result is that she will be happier herself.

Of course, I’m not the only one who’s figured this out.  A quick Google search confirms that in the past few years, more articles are popping up advising women to ignore our feminist cultural conditioning and go ahead and have sex with our partners whether we feel like it or not.  In Prevention Magazine, there is Why You Should Have Sex Even When You’re Not Feeling it.  At YourTango, there is For a Good Marriage, Have Sex Even if You Aren’t in the Mood.  And CafeMom came up with 11 Reasons to Have Sex When You’re Not in the Mood. (http://www.prevention.com/sex), (http://www.yourtango.com/2014228914)

Sometimes these articles point out that merely by saying yes and getting going, we are likely to find ourselves in the mood after all.  They don’t really say why that is so.  But sexually submissive wives know: submission is hot.  Thanks to the laws of sexual polarity, D/s releases a huge amount of sexual energy.  Beyond that, D/s increases trust and intimacy between two people, and grows love.  In this warm, loving conflict-free state, sex will naturally follow… and follow again and again and again.

Keys and Unlocked Locks

On the Verge

Get down on your knees, he says when I walk in the door, and I laugh.

I laugh because this is the first time my husband has given me a sexual command, and it feels strange and unfamiliar to be told what to do.  I laugh because it also feels like roleplay, and roleplay is silly, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pull it off.  But I especially laugh because we have suddenly, unexpectedly, found ourselves on the verge of entering a Dominant/submissive relationship and I feel a bubbling kind of joy that he’s willing to give it a go.

But after I laugh, I obey.  I get down on my knees, and I suck on his cock while he sips his drink, my first blow job on command.  It feels both momentous and not so different than any blow job.  No, wait, there is something different.  For once I don’t have to analyze whether I am in the mood to do it or not, or wonder whether he wants it or not.  I just do it, and keep doing it, until he tells me to stop, no thought required, pure in-the-moment physicality.  It is a relief, and I feel good about it, feel good about his moans of pleasure, his enthusiastic kisses afterward.

It makes us feel close, and puts me in a nice frame of mind as I go to the kitchen to make dinner.  He pours me a drink, and we talk while I cook.  We ask each other, are we really going to do this?  Are we really going to give a Dominant/submissive relationship a try?  The desire seems to have sprung from nowhere; neither of us can recall longstanding urges or fantasies about such a thing.  Even my step-daddy spanking fantasy was more about the being stimulated from the sting-y hot spanking rather than the submitting.

Later, I will find clues in my past that I’m primed to respond well to a dominant man.  But up until this past week, I felt perfectly happy with the egalitarian relationship of sexual equals between Michael and me.  Make that more than happy, I was thrilled with our sexual relationship, and more fulfilled than I’d ever been.  So why try to introduce what seems to be such a backwards, caveman thing into our seemingly perfect union?

As I go through the motions of cooking, turning back and forth from stove to the granite-topped island where Michael sits on a tall stool, I ask him this.  Why do you think we’re we so compelled to conduct our sexual life like this now?  We arrive at the same conclusion:  Once one finds a safe place to be honest one’s deepest desires, the truth about what feels good and right will rise to the surface and spill out.  And on this day, it feels good and right to me to offer him my submission.  I am happy that he is so enthusiastic about accepting it, although I half-believe he is doing it to make me happy.

“You just have to tell me what days you’re in that kind of mood,” he says.

I give him a half-smile as I load salmon and rice onto our plates.  “The whole point is not to have to consult my mood.  The whole point is for you to take whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“So you’re saying every day,” he says.

“I’d guess that’s the only way it works.”

He nods seriously.  “Every day then.  You’ll submit to me.”

I nod seriously in return.  “I will submit to you.”

We gaze at each other, then both laugh as we carry our plates to the table.  I wonder, even if we try to do this seriously, how will it ever not feel like a game?

I am about to find out.

Primal Surrender

After dinner, I head into the den to sit on the couch, and my rear has barely touched the cushion when Michael says, “Take off your pants.”

I don’t feel quite ready for sexual intensity yet, would really like a few minutes to exhale, relax.  But then I remember, it doesn’t matter what I want.  And that in itself stops my inner dialogue.  My mind goes quiet.  I take off my pants.

He bodily grabs me, throwing me off balance and puts me across his lap.  He pulls down my panties, spanks me sharp and hard, spreading fire over my behind.  Oh it is so sweet hot.  He parts my legs, then once again he works his magic with his fingers moving deep in my pussy, he is wickedly expert at this now, knows exactly how to bring me to a fever pitch of grunting moaning excitement.  No choice, no choice, my mind chants in a hypnotizing mantra that makes me let go even further.  I feel the whole of me opening, being soothed and healed.  By the time he is finished, I am gasping for air, dizzy.

He tells me to turn over, and I lay beneath him on the couch, gazing up at him, feeling warm/hot/full everywhere, as he lowers himself on top of me.  He shoves his hard, hard cock into my inflamed, engorged pussy, and pounds me – passionate, aggressive, demanding, fucking me hard, looking right into my eyes.

“You’re mine,” he growls as he fucks me.  “This pussy is mine.”

He grabs my leg and hauls it up over his shoulder, spreading me wider for him.  I allow, let go, and his eyes, his manner, are so full of possession, I do feel owned, I feel it viscerally, to my core.  I have never felt anything like this primal surrender of my body up to my lover, this intense opening, no resistance.  And as he thrusts into me, repeating the word, “Mine, mine, mine,”  I drop away, it is profound, I am just gone, like I imagine the sea recedes before a tidal surge, I feel the wave gathering, building…

It breaks, I feel a whoosh of electric heat shoot up straight through my groin, so piercing it shoots up through my belly into my chest.  I feel full of heat, the most golden light, I am incandescent with love, and overwhelmed with this exploding pleasure…  It was not an orgasm, it was something else entirely, and for a moment I feel like my heart has stopped, I am sure I am dying, killed by ecstasy.

When he is done, and I finally fall back into myself, I am babbling and incoherent, can barely breathe.  I come up off the couch, wobble into the bathroom, and I sit down on the toilet in the dark.  I am trembling, laughing and crying all at once, literally shaken to the core.  And I have the very clear thought, “This is who I am.  I am submissive. And I am his.”

This is a stunning revelation to me, not because I didn’t know the idea turned me on, but because it felt like such a strong and irrevocable sexual identity.  Who I thought I was no longer feels true; my entire sense of self and my relation to my husband has transformed in an instant.  It feels like a religious conversion, a spiritual realization that will somehow save my soul.

I know that when my mind calms down, I will have a hundred questions to work through.  But I also feel certain that however my understanding of what is happening evolves, I will never doubt the hot truth about myself that just shot through me on the couch with my husband.

I repeat it to Michael when I get back to him.  “I’m a submissive.  You’re my dominant.”

“Yes, baby,” he says, and the religious feeling comes over me again. I feel enthralled with him, humbled as if the presence of a holy being.  It reduces me and I start to cry, really cry, with this sort of happily hysterical laughing edge.  He holds me throughout, his arms are strong and tender, and I feel so known and safe and cared for.  I apologize for crying, but what else can a girl do when her whole mind-body-self, her whole life, has just been broken open?

Later, in the bedroom, as we hold on to each other, I try to explain how it felt almost like the very first time we made love.  After our first naked encounter a year earlier, I’d told him in a long, heartfelt letter that it felt like my heart had, for the first time in my life, unlocked itself.  You, I wrote, hold the key to my heart.  Now I know he holds still another a key, the key to my body, which is somehow a key that also unlocks my soul.  This sounds over the top even to me, and I know I sound scattered as I talk to him about it, I am feeling things I don’t know how to understand or put in words yet.

He falls asleep, one hand possessively holding my breast.  But I am awake for a long while, feeling at least one certainty sinking into me:  There is falling in love – and it is amazing – but there is something even more profound than that exchange of feeling, and that is the exchange of sexual power.  I am suddenly, and thrillingly, aware of the vast difference between belonging with someone, and belonging to someone.  I cover his hand over my breast, loving the weight of it, loving him, the man who holds my keys.