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.