Why We Don’t Use the Language of BDSM

In our early days of exploring D/s, Michael and I spent a lot of time online, exploring BDSM sites and learning the language and lingo from others who’d been immersed in “the lifestyle” for ages.  It was very comforting to discover we were not alone, that this path had been traveled many times and found wonderful.  We soaked up the new language, and tried it out like people with a phrasebook getting ready to journey to a foreign land.  Should we try going to a ‘munch’? I’d ask, then laugh at this unfamiliar word.

But over time, we’ve found ourselves dropping the words, and eventually drifting away from material written for a BDSM audience.  Most of it feels designed for people who are in it for the fetish aspect, people who primarily use bondage and discipline to get off.  Of course, there’s nothing wrong with getting off good and hard; Michael and I have been getting off plenty.  But we feel ourselves primarily motivated by the desire for greater intimacy, greater authenticity.  Blog34Quote1When 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.

“Safe, Sane, and Consensual” slogans also don’t seem to resonate with us or do “safewords,” or rules of “aftercare.”  These concepts are clearly important, even necessary, for pursuing sex between strangers or the uncommitted.  But they feel irrelevant and overly complicated, two married people who know and trust each other completely.  At least for us.

“Respect for emotional safety” is another phrase we encountered a lot, but this somehow this puts me off as well, I’m not sure why.  Who can object to emotional safety?  Yet, I wouldn’t be doing this if I wanted emotional safety.  The further we go in our power exchange journey, the less we feel like clinging to safety and the more we want to turn ourselves over to the perils of the unpredictable and unknown.

Most BDSM literature strongly encourages two people to be specific with each other about what activities we want, and don’t want, all spelled out beforehand.  And we did at first find that bracketing BDSM activities in a “scene,” and discussing expectations, allowed us to know when to behave a certain way.  That was helpful in our first weeks, when we often felt a little lost as we tried on this new way of relating.  We constantly wondered, how do we move in and out of dominating or submissive behavior?  Is it time for this now?  How do we live normal life and this other life at the same time?

Yet, we quickly realized we were better off allowing our D/s life to unfold spontaneously – unplanned, no scene, just following the impulse of the moment.  Most our attempts to plan a specific scene made it all feel mechanical, a game, and we couldn’t relax into it.  And of course, reality rarely goes according to plan anyway, or feels like one expects it to feel.  Planning a detailed scene more often led to disappointment than pleasant surprise.

We do, of course, spend a lot of time talking about it all.  We still make brief forays online, and tell each other about the images and ideas we find intriguing.

“I love the idea of being tied up naked on the couch,” I will tell him.  “With legs splayed open, being unable to close my legs, just stuck there, exposed, on the couch, while we watch TV.”

Michael will nod, hmm, interesting.  But we will not set up a specific scene to do this.  He might one evening to decide to tie me like that if the mood strikes him.  Or, he might not.  Or, he might put his own twist on it.  Sometimes his version is not anything I would have imagined for myself, let alone thought to spell out.  And that is exactly how I want it.  In fact, I find it irritating if he asks me to spell out anything or tell him what I want.  To me, the whole point of being sexually submissive is to surrender to his desires, not mine.  I don’t want responsibility for any of it, I want to be free of having to think about it.  To me, submission is pure freedom.

David Deida best describes the dynamic we try to live now.  He advises the dominant man to “listen not to what your beloved says she wants, but what love tells you she needs.”  He says that a man can ignore what his woman says she wants if love demands it.  It’s an audacious assertion, and it goes against every tenant of the ‘safe, sane and consensual’ BDSM canon.  But this seems to us the only way it works for us.

Like this morning, I wake up with my husband’s hand reaching between my legs.  Before D/s I would have pushed his hand away, I am sore from too much sex already, and not at all in the mood.  But of course, before D/s he wouldn’t be reaching at all, he’d have waited for me to wake up, might have tried to measure my receptiveness before whispering, “I want to touch you.”  Then he’d wait for my assent, which I may or may not have given after a torturous mental assessment of my mood and desires and weighing the costs of refusal.  Would he be discouraged from offering if I didn’t accept?  Would he worry I don’t find him desirable anymore, or that I don’t appreciate his generosity?

But let’s say I assent and open my legs to him.  Before D/s, Michael would then finger my pussy with this sweet sort of reverence, a respectful and loving touch that responded to every move of my body or sound I made and gave me lovely orgasms well-spaced apart.  Before D/s, he only rarely touched my ass, and even then only hesitantly, carefully, as if not quite sure what to do with it.

This morning, as my dominant, he touches me sooooo differently.  His hands are so confident now, no hesitation, no permission asked.  He is no longer careful, measuring my response in the same way, as if trying to read what I want.  Blog34Quote2He 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 can barely catch my breath, his fingers are pounding me so hard, opening me, pussy and ass.  I am completely surrendered to it, no resistance, and I can feel energy gathering between my holes, oh yes there is a root chakra, I feel it literally spin open, then whoosh – a conflagration.  Racing fire, the entire tree of my nervous system lights up in a flash, burns up my body in a beautiful searing rush.  Fuck.  Then my body locks up in some kind of overload, I push his hand away from me, scramble to sit upright.

My mind is so dazed by that intense flash that all I can do is stare up at him dumbstruck, while the embers the fire still drift through me.  I want to describe it to him, but I don’t know how.  My words are incomprehensible.

This is not a scene. We are not playing a game. These surges of sexual heat keep exploding between us unplanned and unexpected, carrying us away.  No moment is predictable anymore.  We are surprising each other always.  And my pussy is so damn sore that I will be feeling it – warm and throbbing – all day long.

Ass Training; for the Ultimate in D/s Sex

This morning, I slip off back to sleep after Daddy goes to work, and I dream that he has decided to start “anal training” and come back into the room to slip a butt plug in my ass.  We have been talking about it so much lately, my growing desire to surrender to this ultimate symbol of his domination and the problem of how to get my ass open enough to be able to take his cock.  But however much the idea excites me, just a finger or two is about all I can handle, anything bigger hurts so much that my behind clenches up in resistance.

I have printed out actual “submissive ass training” instructions off the internet that require a graduated series of butt plugs, and flushed with embarrassment as I handed it to him a few evenings before.

I tell him I am embarrassed that this is how I am spending my mental energy.  Really?  I say.  This is the biggest problem in my life right now?  We laugh as we talk about it, our “first world problems.”  Imagine, I say, if I could put all this mental energy into actually doing good in the world instead of trying to figure out how get your cock up my butt.  I look at all the people on Fetlife, and I am agog at the ingenuity that goes into constructing gadgets and contraptions for sexual stimulation.  What if those people put their minds to doing something useful with that ingenuity, too?  Then again, what if more people were focused on getting off sexually rather than raping and pillaging the earth, inventing useless things, bombs, airplanes, starting wars?

But whether I approve of myself or not, this is where my mind is going, this seems an urgent and vital thing.  My Daddy must fuck me in the ass or I cannot be happy.  Blog31Quote1And this morning my dream seems so vivid and real that when I wake, I am unsure whether really happened, and I reach around and touch my behind to make sure there is truly no butt plug there.

I open up my email to write Michael and tell him about my dream.  But he has already written me that he intends to begin my ass training over the weekend.

“We’ll begin on the couch tonight,” he writes, “after I apply the usual discipline, gentle anal massage, sensual, relaxing, after which I’ll ease a slightly larger plug inside.”

I cannot wait for him to get home.  I helpfully put the tray of graduated sizes of silicone butt plugs on the coffee table.

He comes home crackling with sexual energy, puts me on my knees, I suck his cock.  He sits in a chair, he wants to show me silly cat pictures on the internet.  So I sit on his lap, and he shows me.  At first I feel too huge and silly to be draped across his lap, but then I snuggle in, to be close to him always intoxicates me.  I am nervous and giddy I tell him; you are so powerful over me; I don’t know what you’ll do.  I hope you’ll never tell me what you plan to do; I just want to be in a receptive state.

We kiss, he whispers his “sweet Daddy nothings” in my ear, plays with the edge of my underwear.  Then: take them off baby girl.  I splay wide on the chair in front of the living room window while he goes down on me.  The window is open I can see the neighbor in the front yard, I try to be quiet as he makes me come with his tongue on my clit.

Then he tells me I am going to lick his ass for him.  Oh my God, I am so excited for this, “this is my treat for being good,” I tell him.  He gets naked, I play with his ass, licking, sucking, fingers.  And the whole time I am thinking of the tray of plugs on the coffee table.  Soon it will be my turn.

Then he does me, oh my god he does me, fucks me so hard.  As he is pounding me from behind, pressing my head down on the mattress, I ride this spike of excitement, being carried by the intensity of it, and then finally can’t seem to keep up with the intensity, and I feel a switch go off in me, everything in me releases, becomes passive empty open.  I lie there taking it, completely mindless and peaceful, an object in truth.  When he is done, I can barely move so deep is my peace and serenity.

Later, after dinner, he ties me up in a breast harness.  I keep asking for it to be tighter, tighter.  And when he is done it is uncomfortably tight around my breasts, but not painfully so, just enough to keep me constantly aware of it, unable to get in a truly comfortable position.  I am constantly achingly aware of my bare breasts being pushed out, aware of the rope, the feeling of being tied, owned, oh my god it is stimulating.  And he can’t stop playing with them.  “I am fascinated with your titties,” he says as he grabs them, sucks on them.

He turns me over his knee on the couch for my spanking, and with each blow he yells out and shudders, he says he feels like he could orgasm that way, it so turns him on.

I stay across his lap as his fingers begin playing inside my pussy.  A finger slips into my ass.  And here it comes, I think.  My throat feels thick with anticipation.  But he doesn’t do anything more than that.  I squirm impatiently across his lap.  Has he forgotten?

I lie there sulking for a good five minutes, deprived, cheated.  I finally reach out, slap my hand onto the tray of plugs and grab one of the medium-sized ones, then twist around to hold it up to him.  Oh I am topping from the bottom, but I can’t help it, I want this badly.

He laughs and nods, ah okay, and goes about the long slow business of caressing my nervous asshole, and then pushing the wide bottomed plug in.  It takes some effort; I keep trying to relax and open and take it in.  It is not really that big, but it feels HUGE.  It stretches me, feels both uncomfortable and incredibly hot.  I feel invaded, subdued.  He keeps caressing the area around it, keeping me relaxed.  Oh, I sigh and wiggle and smolder, feel so turned on it is excruciating.  He starts to take it out, but I say no, I need to leave it in so it will stretch me.

I move back onto the couch, lay up against him.  Oh, but there is no way to get comfortable with that thing inside me.  I feel some cramping sensations, like I have to go to the bathroom.  So now I am both strangely turned on and turned off at once.

Why is it the idea of having something in my ass is so much more pleasurable than the actual feel?  It as to be because of the submissive quality of it, the discomfort makes me feel deeply submissive, deeply surrendered.  Blog31Quote2So here I am, in love with the idea of being fucked in the ass, but struggling with the pain.  I ask him to take it out, he pulls and pulls, but my ass is so tight around it, it is not giving.  I think, oh fuck, it is going to rip me up.  Finally it comes out with a sudden pop.  Wow, he says, that sucker was in there.  It makes us laugh, I come up off the couch in wave of laughing embarrassment.  I say, “Now I have to go recover my dignity.”  I go wash the thing.  Oh, my ass hurts.

Soon we go to bed, he says he wants me again, but I am smarting and stinging down there, so I put him in my mouth and make him come.  He cries out, louder than I have ever heard him yell.  He tells me it was one of the most intense orgasms of his life.  He is 54;  I am 51.  We had intense exciting sex for the better part of six hours.

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.

Being ‘Loved to Smithereens’ Through Dominance and Submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twists and Turns on the Road to Becoming a Sexually Submissive Wife

Monday morning, Michael has an early meeting, and I let him think I am still asleep as he kneels on the bed to kiss me goodbye.  Even if we had time to talk, I don’t know what I’d say.  I have no idea what happened to our determination to establish a D/s relationship, it seems to have drifted off.

I think maybe it would be wise to let it go.  I have no interest in fooling ourselves and pretending something is real if it’s not.  I feel I need to be honest with myself about whether we are better suited to enjoying power exchange in roleplay fashion, when we are both in the mood for it.  Would that be so terrible?  Isn’t that pretty much how most people dabble in BDSM stuff?  They “play” with it?

But, I think as I roll over to his side of the bed, if we honestly do want to try to live a D/s relationship, then maybe we should educate ourselves on how to better do that dance.  Maybe read more BDSM books about how a submissive can learn to let go of control, and how the dominant stays in control.

Then again, that backfired the other night, when Michael tried to follow advice he’d read online about delaying a submissive’s orgasms.  Following someone else’s way of dominating me only irritated me, jolted me out of the spell, and sent him into doubt about what he is doing.  So what is the solution?  I don’t know.  I get out of bed with no idea what I really want.

Childishly, I feel that the gift of my submission was found wanting and rejected the other night, and it hurt.  Even more childishly, I want to take my ball (body) and go home.

Woozy and Wobbly

The irony is, Michael is my home, I have now experienced him as the Daddy I need/want to go to for comfort and understanding when I am feeling hurt and lost.  I want to tell him about the storm in my head and heart, and isn’t that what a submissive is supposed to do, share everything?  Blog16Quote1But at the same time, I feel like if I impose these thoughts on him, that would be a very un-submissive thing to do.  It would feel like trying to control the situation instead of letting him take control.

I make coffee, trying to decide whether to share my disquiet with him.  I go to my computer and find an email from Michael, which he must have written as soon as he got to his desk to let me know of his own disquiet.  He tells me he is feeling “woozy and wobbly,” experiencing some whiplash over the “speed of our recent exploration over all things sexually edgy.”  Then he asks me how I am feeling.

Well, after that email, I’m even more uncertain about what I want, what to do.  I shut my computer and head outside to walk around the block.  I feel foolish for getting so swept away by the game, for taking it too seriously.  No, it’s worse than that.  Feeling foolish eventually fades without lasting harm.  My fear is that we have made a terrible error with our D/s exploration, and now have left ourselves open for lingering disappointment that might never go away.  How can we possibly go back to our 50/50 relationship and consider that to be deep enough?  We have tasted a way of relating that feels much more profound, we have seen ourselves and each other in a radically different light.  We can’t possibly go back.  And yet, I do not see an easy path forward either.

I don’t know what to tell him.  I feel in over my head.  Dominance and submission is clearly a delicate balancing act for which I am too emotionally clumsy.  I can’t seem to figure out how to properly navigate the vulnerability of it all.

Finally, a comforting thought comes:  I am the submissive, it is not my job to figure it out.  My job is simply to have faith in my dominant Daddy, and the way he loves me, and the connection between us.  Yes, I think in relief, I just have to trust my husband.  Trust that he will recover from his whiplash, and I will recover from my trance-breaking panic, and the dynamic will reassert itself and unfold as it should.

How wonderful this thought, how wonderful to imagine letting go, to not have to figure it out.  How sweet to understand I don’t have to worry, because he is in charge, not me, and he will come home and tell me what to do.  I get back to my computer and write him my thoughts.  I am honest about my fears and reservations of the past few days, and tell him I am ready to turn the problem over to him.

But, I add at the end, “I wonder if we should be thinking through this more carefully, to realistically consider the challenge of what we are doing, rather than impulsively following the throb of cock and pussy?”

I nervously wait for him to get home from work.  The moment he comes through the door, he sets his computer bag down, walks straight toward me, then grabs my wrist and pulls me in the living room.

“Pull your pants down,” he says.  “I’m going to spank you.”

This is exactly what I wanted.  I wait for the trigger to kick in, wait for the urge to obey.  But… it doesn’t come.  Instead, I feel myself pulling away.

“I can’t,” I say, almost in tears. “I’m not in a submissive space anymore, I lost it.”

“Well if I spank you, it’ll come back.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” I say.  “I need to feel connected to you first. I need you to talk to me.”

I can see him considering, wondering whether to try to force me over his lap.  He is strong, it would be easy.

“Remember what all the web sites say?” I ask.  “The submissive first has to offer submission.  Only then can the dominant take it.”

He is irritated, tells me I seem to want it both ways.  I want him to act dominant, not let me squirm out of being submissive, but I also want it to be on my terms and conditions.  I tell him he’s right, and I don’t know how to reconcile that.

We sit down, start a real conversation, going over what happened the night of the rope panic, and my worry that it is impossible for us to do this in real life.

He says, “Well, we have to figure it out.  I’m not giving up on this.  I don’t want to go back.  I don’t think I can go back.”

“I know,” I said.  “I don’t either.  But I don’t want to keep going the wrong way and screw it up.”

He agrees that he needs to better understand the psychology of taking control of a submissive, and how to keep me in the submissive state.  I suggest we wait to try again until he reads more on the subject.

We agree to wait a week.  We actually shake on it, making each other laugh.  We will try to educate ourselves about the finer points of D/s and then start again.

I make dinner while he reads one of the books I had ordered the week before, The Control Book, by Peter Masters.

Afterward, we watch TV for awhile, and I lay with my head on his lap like I always did as “regular” wife, instead of face down across his lap as a submissive.  It feels sweet, but it also feels muted and dull compared to the heated frenzy of the week before.  And the whole evening I feel oddly fake.  I have my Daddy there in the room with me, but I am pretending I don’t know him, or who he is to me, or what I actually want from him.

I look up at him.  “Do you miss it?  The submissive wife?”

Yes, he says, as he plays with my hair, he misses it.

Later, when we go to bed, we talk in the dark, marveling that we both feel as we have been driven from the Garden of Eden and all it’s pure and primal uncomplicated lust.  Blog16Quote2We note the irony that it is the so-called “sin” of D/s that makes us feel like we are in paradise, and how politically correct sexual equality pulls us away from paradise, makes everything equal and plain and flat.  The difference is stark.

But we once again agree to wait a week to try anything D/s again.  He wants to be more prepared to “train” me, and keep me in a submissive state.  We are stirred up from our talk, hot for each other, but not yet ready.

In the morning, I miss him grabbing for me, treating me like his object, telling me what to do.  We both say we are craving to go back to the “real” us.  That we feel this way surprises me.  How can dominant and submissive be who we feel ourselves to truly be only a little more than a week into it, unless we have always been that on some level?

Before Michael leaves for work, he kisses me goodbye, drives his tongue deep into my mouth, which makes me groan.  Very effective trigger that.  And as he goes out the door, I know the D/s is back on.  And I know we aren’t going to wait any damn week.

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.

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.