So last year my Daddy husband Michael and I started posting excerpts from a book we had been writing about our – at that point – two-year ecstatic journey into BDSM. I imagined eventually posting the whole book, which covered the first six months our experience. Oh those glorious first six months! But then … the #MeToo movement happened. It became more and more difficult for me to reconcile the cultural moment of women’s empowerment with my writing on the joys of sexual submission. And now we have the whole Brett Kavanaugh mess, a Supreme Court nominee who is accused of sexual assault, a dramatic reckoning which is unfolding as I write this…. The timing could not be worse for what I wanted to express.
Now – to all those who have wondered and asked– sexual submission has remained the basic dynamic of our relationship. We still know that is the most fulfilling way to conduct our sexual life. But this year we have also taken a little break from that, not because it doesn’t work for us (oh it works!), but because of the most mundane of reasons: health issues.
Ironically, one of my first inklings of my health problems was thanks to BDSM. Over the last year I had developed a fondness for being spanked outside in nature. I loved the extra layer of vulnerability, the excitement of the risk of being seen … But one day earlier this year, when my sweet Daddy sat down on a tree trunk in the nearby woods to turn me over this knee, the spanking did not feel good. It jarred me, and there was no pleasure in the pain. I rose up angry, saying, “Too hard!” He laughed and sort of brushed it off, saying he spanked me with the same force he always did. Which only made me even angrier. We can’t do this anymore, I said, if you’re not going to hear me.
I should have known that if I can’t take a good spanking, then something is wrong. And as it turns out, there was a reason why my pain tolerance had disappeared. And, after many long months of uncertainty and medical tests, I finally underwent brain surgery six weeks ago. Needless to say, we have not indulged in our preferred way of sexual loving for most of this year. But we miss it intensely. And we frequently talk of our hope of resuming that part of our relationship when all is healed …
But I have to say, that after all the years of building trust and communication through sexual dominance and submission, our relationship has been able to weather this stress amazingly well. My husband is still my sweet Daddy who takes care of me. And I still find him the most amazing man in all the world, worthy of worship. Our bond is strong. And maybe someday in the not distant future, I will go back to finishing that book, and posting our experience.
In the meantime, thank you to everyone who has written to us. We wish you well on your own journey.
Isn’t it my job as a human being to be responsible for my own body, my own choices?” The price of shirking that responsibility to become submissive suddenly seems very high. I am dragging my feet as I head back up the concrete steps to my front door.
To resist would only cause more pain, so there is nothing I can do but submit completely, go still and relax and accept him into me. His cock holds me impaled, motionless, gasping, full.
My body obeys, but now mind is starting to say, too much, too much. After another orgasm, (or two?… yes two, his tongue in my ear) I feel myself starting to squirm away, nerves raw, too much.
I have consented to it, craved it, wanted it. Oh I very much wanted to “fall apart and re-form” myself around him. But now it is freaking me out. Any last vestige of a role play game is completely gone. And I feel unexpectedly bereft because I have lost my husband, lost Michael.
I was plenty sexually adventurous, but I also remained distant from the act, and from my own body’s participation in it. It seemed like a game I’d play on occasion, a grown-up game that made me laugh. But most of the time, I’d feel so disconnected from my body that I’d pretty much never let my lover see my body naked if I could help it.
And my mind went quiet and still and peaceful, as it always does. It did not feel absurd at all, but necessary to me. It felt essential. And when it was over, I thought yes, yes, yes, this is who I am, this is what I need, Daddy knows what I need, I am so lucky to have him.
When we use phrases like “scene” or “play,” it seems to imbue our power exchange with the artificiality of roleplay. We don’t see ourselves as “playing” at D/s, we see ourselves as loving each other. I feel a stark difference between becoming a servant to the heat of BDSM sex, and through hot BDSM sex becoming a servant to love.
He already knows me inside out, and his fingers move inside me the way HE wants, deep and hard and insistent. And right now, I feel taken by his fingers in the same way he can take me with his cock. He no longer keeps respectful distance from my ass, but plunges a finger in that hole, too. Oh and no more waiting for space between orgasms, either, they blend in to each other. They are orgasmic rushes now, building, and building…
I look at our collection of butt plugs as the tools to open the gate, I crave to have him put them inside me, train me open, to take him. I sometimes think about putting them in myself, try force myself to open for Daddy.
Oh but it is not the seat of my body, that is in my ass, my bodily self begins there, I never knew that before this moment, never felt it so palpably directly touched and moved… Daddy has found the physical me in a way I have never been found or known before, and I want more.
It started last year with Donald Trump’s Access Hollywood tape about his zeal for pussy-grabbing, and has continued on through Roger Ailes and Bill O’Reilly losing their jobs for their own zeal. And lately with Harvey Weinstein and others being outed as perverts who prey on women, I cannot go on Internet without running into one anguished tale after another.
I laughed a lot, made good friends, felt part of a team, and was generally known as “cool chick” for my lack of uptight censure of them. Not that I didn’t sometimes pay a price for my tolerance of bad behavior. When a male supervisor made up stories about getting me in the sack, those stories that were believed. And if I had ever been raped, I suspect the consensus among at least some of my coworkers might have been that I had somehow asked for it with my easygoing attitude.