How Submitting to a Dominant Daddy Allows Me to Inhabit my Body

For the longest time, Michael has been openly calling me his baby girl, and referring to himself as my Daddy.  He is able to say the words with an unabashed confidence that I cannot yet match.  Most often I still call him “Daddy” only under my breath, barely audible.  Oh, I call him Daddy in my mind continually, no problem, I write it here in this chronicle with ease.  But I still feel silly when I say it out loud in the space between us.  Well, unless in throes of sex, when the word bursts out of me, as if tired of being pent up.

I don’t know why this hesitance, this embarrassment. It seems to be a common enough longing in women.  I look up “Daddy Dom” in Amazon, and come up with hundreds of books, erotic novels in which a stepfather (usually) is the romantic hero, and teaches his curious teenage stepdaughter about her body, about her sexuality.  I wonder if this triggers some sort of universal archetype in our minds.  It is definitely the mental framework we have built for our particular expression of dominance and submission. Michael is my stepfather figure, and I am the girl who needs him to sexually teach and care for me.

In so many ways, I feel that this is what he is literally doing for me.  While I had a definite model for sex as good clean fun growing up (Thanks, Mom), I did not have a good model for sex as an expression for love.  And for most of my life, sex and love have never been very well-connected.  Blog35Quote1I 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.

In our first relatively vanilla year together, Michael helped my body learn to experience sex as the full expression of love.  Through his loving care and acceptance of my body, he helped me shed inhibitions, open up to him, and trust him deeply.  But that was only the first part in a much bigger journey.  Now, in handing my body and sexual will over to him as my husband and looking at him as my dominant Daddy, I feel like he is literally teaching me how to inhabit my body, inhabit my sexuality.

In tying the rope around my breasts – especially when it is so tight I have to stay aware of them sticking out so bare and vulnerable at every minute – he alters my perception of them.  In his constant pinching and sucking of my nipples, he is giving me no choice but to feel my own breasts in a sexual way for more than just brief moments.  After hours in that harness, I am achingly aware of the sexual purpose of my breasts, my body.  And for the first time in my life, I feel I am finally connecting to myself as a sexual creature, someone designed by nature for the purpose of sex and love.

In giving myself sexually to my husband, he is giving me my sexual self back to me.  And now I understand why that first day I submitted to him, I was so rocked by the feeling of ‘this is who I really am.’  I’d assumed I was feeling that way about being submissive, but now I believe I felt that because submitting to him makes me feel so sexual, so alive and present in my body.

Paradoxically, in this dynamic that seems like such a game on the surface, I can finally stop looking at sex as a game.  I don’t think this ever would have happened for me in a normal marriage of equal partners.  My own strong-willed version of myself, my culturally induced hostility to my body, and my disconnected relationship to sex all got in the way.

Now, several months into D/s and power exchange, I am for the first time ever in my 51 years, walking around comfortable with my body, comfortable being without clothes, even preferring to be without clothes when Michael is home.  It feels miraculous, this change, as if I have finally been granted permission by a loving generous father figure to own my sexual nature, inhabit my true self.

The question that has been lurking at the back of my mind is:  Am I too caught up in this discovery to interpret it correctly?  Is sexual submissiveness the only way for me to get there?  Is that truly who I am underneath it all, what I need long term?  Is it even possible to live it long term?

It takes true effort to keep the dynamic alive, the 50/50 relationship is so much a part of us and our default way of relating.  We are pretty high on the D/s dynamic at the moment, but we are burning very hot, the intensity is overwhelming, and I can’t help but wonder:  Will we burn each other out before we figure out how to keep it alive in a sustainable way?

Last night I got a little bit of an answer to my questions.  After several days of being distracted by ordinary life and work and kids, the D/s dynamic sort of faded away, and by the weekend, we had drifted into our ordinary husband and wife way of being, doing not much on a Saturday, having dinner at the lake, watching a funny movie.  It was 9 o’clock at night when he surprised me by saying it was time to lay across his lap.  I laughed, a little uncomfortable.  I was not in the submissive mindset at all, and it felt suddenly silly to pull off my pants and lie across his lap.  That feeling of silliness gave me a moment of worry, oh shit, this isn’t really me, is it?  I am a grown woman, an intelligent person, am I really going to go through with this absurd ritual every night?

But I didn’t say any of those things out loud, I just obeyed, lay across his lap.  And then came his hands pulling my panties down…  Then came that vulnerable feeling, and the building anticipation…  And then came the hot smacks of his hand…  Blog35Quote2And 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.

I was elated to have my moment of doubt so decisively chased away, to have the grown woman who lives only in my head brought back to my body and put back in my proper place.  I spent the rest of the evening tight against him, held in his arms, floating in the feeling of submissive serenity.  And knowing I have given my trust to the right man.  And feeling the most amazing relief that I don’t have to worry about how to sustain it long term, that is his job.  My only job is to submit to what he asks, no matter my mood of the moment, and he will keep liberating my true self.

Daddy will take care of me.

My Submissive Frenzy

Deep submission, says David Deida, allows a woman to experience her own “uninhibited sexual essence.”  Well, I’d say the man knows what he’s talking about.  In the few weeks since I submitted my body to my husband, I am have become so fucking uninhibited, and my sexual longings have become so intense that it’s freaking me out a little bit.

While I have been reading Deida’s lovely spiritual book about sexual polarity, Michael has been giving the problem of how to keep me in a submissive headspace some internet research.  He has found numerous pages of suggestions on how to train a submissive.  Now he emails me an agreement, a contract of sorts, where he outlines his sexual expectations of me.  We have talked about needing a container of sorts for what we are doing.  I’m amazed at how far we have evolved in this complicated business in such a short time, and I click open the document, excited to read it.

It doesn’t take long.  He lists only a few instructions:  Wear his shirt while he is at work.  Wear Ben Wa balls inside me for an hour a day.  Suck his cock when he gets home.  Reveal to him everything I am feeling.  Blog19Quote1Lovely things all, and it will make me happy to do them.  But this spare list doesn’t seem enough to keep me in a submissive state for more than a few minutes, let alone long-term.  Why is there no mention of spankings?  Or of whippings?  Or a butt plug perhaps?  What about rope bondage?  Nipple clamps?

I am terribly disappointed, and then annoyed at myself for it.  The whole point of submission is to please him, not to get him to please me.  But it puts me in a state of worry, regardless.  Is this how basic his needs are?  What if our sexual appetites are not well matched as I thought?  From this worry, I move to feeling disgruntled:  Yeah, he says he is going to meet my sexual needs, but the reward of fingers in my pussy twice a week isn’t going to do it.  I am so turned on by all this, I am in a constant state of ache, feel a desperate edge of need to be used and used, somehow, anyhow.

I come across the term “submissive frenzy,” and immediately recognize I have a raging case of it.  Sub frenzy, say women who have been there, is a state of mind, common to new submissives, in which they feel an overwhelming need to have all their desires fulfilled.  As in immediately.  As in it takes over one’s entire mind, leaves no room for anything else.  That’s exactly how I feel right now.

The words of warning about sub frenzy I find online are mostly concerned with new subs not putting themselves in danger within the wider BDSM community.  Not giving themselves to a dominant they barely know.  Not exercising enough caution with strangers.  But since I am married to my dominant, that is not something I need to worry about.

The most immediate problem in sub frenzy to me is how exposed it makes me feel to my husband.  All of my deepest desires, and all of my darkest, neediest corners are on vivid display to him.  While in the middle of heated sex, it is thrilling to feel so open, so known, so accepted.  But at every other moment, it is feeling increasingly uncomfortable, even scary.

The truth is, I feel in danger of becoming a freak.  I remember only too well the blue-eyed man who once played submissive to allegedly dominant me, a man who needed more and more complex stimulation to get into a state of submission.  Our sexual relationship slowly became all about satisfying his ever more ‘out-there’ fetishes instead of real submission.  When he began asking to drink cups full of my urine in the guise of “worshipping” me, I had no desire for that, but brought cups to the toilet anyway, and half the time got more on my own hand than in the cup.  I watched him gulp down my pee over and over, but because I wasn’t being honest about what I truly wanted and didn’t want, this so-called worship only made me recoil from him.

Is that the path I am on?  Where I pretend to be submissive, but really I am “topping from the bottom,” trying to get Michael to be my continual sex-giver instead of making myself available to his sexual needs?  He has said he wants me insatiable, and he’s succeeded remarkably well in getting me to that state.  I am full of fevered, explicit desires to be bound and beaten and penetrated in the guise of worshipping him.  The odds seem high that it will turn him off, he will recoil.

And even worse than my fear that he will see me as a freak, is my fear that he will eventually see himself that way, because of me.  A month ago, he was this nice normal guy, and we had been enjoying this wonderful relationship that made us both so happy.  Blog19Quote2Now, I call him Daddy, and I ‘get-off’ as he crams my face against the mattress while fucking me.  We have become weird, and everything seems full of pitfalls, difficult to navigate.

For the rest of the afternoon, I ride the waves of sub frenzy madness, whipsawing between euphoria at his first attempt to bind me in some kind of contract to him, and fear of where it will lead.  I want to squelch the fear, but I can’t.  This is a risky journey.  There is no getting around fears and insecurities.  And there is no going back either, if going back means neutral 50/50.  There is no way to go but forward and work through the fear, find the right rhythm, the right conditioning, the right mindset.  I want to believe I will learn how to settle into it.  I work hard to believe we will find our balance together, find our sweet spot.

In the meantime, he says I have to reveal everything to him, so I plan to be honest about my feelings when he gets home from work.  Then I will let it go, let him figure out what to do with it.  This thought is such a comfort that I decide to cultivate the attitude that, “Daddy will take care of it.”  My husband is in charge, he will figure everything out and make it okay, and make me feel better.  When the fear looms, I repeat these words to myself:   “Daddy will take care of me.  He will make it all better.”

A Dominant by Any Other Name

My husband and I are new to the practice of power exchange.  The energy of it is thrilling, but it strange, and maybe even dangerous.  We feel as if we’ve grabbed hold of a tiger by the tail, and we’re not sure how to tame it.

But others have gone before us, there is much advice to be found online, and thank goodness for that.  The volume is comforting; as long as we are following a well-worn path, we cannot possibly be that weird.  In fact, more the opposite, we are discovering a not-so-secret tribe where people are much happier than your ordinary, predictable all-things-equal couple.

I discover an entire genre of literature on BDSM.  I order books.  I subscribe to fetlife.  I study websites with names like dominantsoul.com, I print out pages for him to read.  He is across town, at work in his cubicle, stealing time to do the same.  We become familiar with a new vocabulary, and concepts such as safewords, subspace, sub training, and sub triggers.  I am not crazy about some of this language, it gives me the vague feeling I am being drawn into a cult.  But it also seems vitally important that we understand these concepts, and use the right words, in order to gain entrance into this intriguing world.

We find that submissives, or subs, usually call their dominants, or doms, by some symbolic honorific, “Sir” being the most common.  I cannot imagine calling my warm, enveloping Michael such a cool, remote word. “Master” is also much used, often in a slave relationship, but I do not see myself as a slave.  Pleasure concubine, okay.  But not slave.

I run across a few sites where the sub calls her dom by the title of “Daddy,” and this seems a much warmer word, and fits with the stepfather fantasy with which we began our foray into spanking and my surrender.  But the word also seems to apply to a specific category of BDSM, in which the sexual satisfaction is derived from the sub acting like a young girl, playing with dolls and toys, a girl wants her Daddy Dom to color with her and feed her treats.  That idea did nothing for me at all.  Maybe I would just have to be a sub who called my dom by his actual name.

We stumble upon numerous online stores devoted to BDSM gear.  I am not tempted.  Most of the implements of torture look too severe, and I care nothing for the outfits of leather and latex.  Maybe because so much of it looks biker-ish, or maybe because I have never cared about fashion or clothes in any sense.  Michael doesn’t seem particularly motivated by the costuming of it all either.  Even in our vanilla life, I did not think to wear sexy lingerie, and he did not think to ask for it.

But we do find many images of bondage that catch our attention.  I feel a spark of excitement especially if the woman looks spread open, unable to close her legs.  There’s something about the symbolic openness of it.  For me, it’s about the position she’s in; for Michael, it’s about the rope. He thinks the elaborate ties look like art.  Now I’m tempted.  I order rope from a BDSM site, then order books on rope bondage from Amazon.

Call Me Daddy

But that evening, we decide we don’t want to wait for the rope to arrive.  We decide to make the half-hour drive to the adult toy store and buy some rope for him to try out on me.  In the car on the way there, I ask Michael what he thinks I should call him.  Does he feel like a Sir?  Like a Master?

“Or,” I say with a small laugh, “Do you feel like a Daddy?”

He doesn’t laugh in return but seems to give it serious consideration.  “I don’t know. Would you want a Daddy?”

My heart squeezes a little at this, and I feel how hot my face is as I tell him the truth, that I have fantasized about a Daddy figure doing wicked things to me over and over throughout my life.  That I have craved the feeling of being taken care of and protected and sexually “instructed” and soothed and nurtured.

Then I admit to him something I hadn’t even consciously taken much note of myself – that I have, in fact, had many fantasies of calling him Daddy.

“It seems to be a powerful idea for me,” I add.

“Then,” he says, “You should call me Daddy.”

My heart starts beating hard, and I open my mouth to try to say it, but I cannot make myself say the word, I cannot.  Instead, I seem to be crying, and I don’t know why.  Part of it is relief, but part of it is also the terrible feeling of being exposed in my most strange and secret longing.

He reaches for my hand, squeezes it.  “Never mind.  You don’t have to call me that.”

“No, no, I want to, I do,” I say.  I wanted to be able to call him some name that symbolized his dominance anyway.  “I just can’t say it yet.”

“Well,” he says, “then whenever you’re ready.”

We get to the video store, and I walk in behind him, feeling rattled and exposed.  I am sure I will never be able to call him Daddy.  I am 50 years old, it would be absurd.  And I feel more than absurd as we shop for rope and bondage videos.  I cannot even look at the stuff as I follow him blindly.  He asks if I want to try some nipple clamps.  I nod vaguely.   “Which ones?”  I point to the first package I see, I don’t care, I just want to go.

Back home, he makes us drinks, while I unpack the bag.  What I don’t admit is that now that we have rope, I am scared of being tied up.  I have always panicked when any man held me too tightly or tried to hold me down to tickle me.  Why on earth did I think I would like that?

He pulls me into the bedroom, tells me to take my clothes off, and then get on the bed on all fours.  But I am now in a nervous state, not really ready yet, but okay, I am submissive now, right?  I don’t argue, I obey.  So he spanks me and fingers me, and just when he gets going and I am starting to feel excited, he stops, waits, then starts again.  It is frustrating me, it throws off the build of pleasure.  I ask what he is doing.  He says he read on the internet that a dominant should “hold back orgasms” from his submissive in order to gain greater control of her.

“Well, that’s dumb,” I say, not hiding my annoyance.

He stops, says he’s done.  He lies down on the bed and I lay my head on his chest, say I’m sorry.  He says I don’t have to apologize, he is feeling weird and out of sorts.  I admit I feel the same.  It is the first time in weeks that the ever-building sexual energy between us has sagged.

I am suddenly afraid that this D/s thing we have just begun is impossible to sustain beyond fantasy play, and could already be over.

We get dressed and go to the couch to watch the bondage movie we just bought, and it is at first entertaining, and mildly stimulating to watch the girls be tied up.  There is something about helplessness that most certainly turns me on.  But then the dominant in the movie sticks gags in the women’s mouths.  I cringe.  I do not like the sight of gags, the drool coming out of the women’s mouths, it disturbs me.  I am now very much turned off.  I shut off the video, tell him how much I hate it.  He just sits there in his funk, not saying anything.  The energy between us has worse than sagged, it’s gone entirely flat.

Wow.  It all really seems over, just like that.

I pick up the nipple clamps from where I’d left them on the coffee table.  I start swinging them around by the chain.  I say, “I wonder how these feel?”

He just shrugs, takes another sip of his drink.  I strip off my shirt, and hesitantly start putting the clamps on my own nipples.  The sensation is intense at first, but it doesn’t really hurt for long.  I lean back, feeling kinda sexy with my nipples pinched prominently between the clamps, the chain hanging between them like jewelry.  The sight seems to rouse Michael, he reaches over to start tugging my pants down.

I lie back onto the arm of the couch, allow him to pull my pants off.  He says he’s going to try something else he saw in those videos, starts slapping my bare pussy with his open palm.  It doesn’t hurt exactly, at least not much.  It feels all sting-y nice, and I like it.  Then suddenly he is up on his knees, looming over me, fingers shoving hard into me, pumping like mad, hard and pounding.  The submissive switch in me turns on, my mind goes quiet, peaceful.

I ask him if he will turn me over his knee, I crave that most submissive of poses, love my face pressed into the couch while he shoves his fingers into my pussy from behind.  And he does, oh he does, ramming slick fingers into both holes, rough and sweet, while I lie there and take it, while I open up and melt away, flesh rendered into soft yielding liquid.  I love this stuffed full feeling like I love nothing else in life, the swirling molten sensation is so deep, so urgent, it feels like the essence of life, the impulse of life, energy opening up within me, all hot and wavy radiant, I am burning like the sun.

As my orgasm rushes through me, I finally gasp out, “Yes, you’re my Daddy, you’re my Daddy, you’re my Daddy.”  It doesn’t feel absurd to say it at all.

The First Time I Told My Husband My Fantasy About Sexual Submission

We had been married five days the first time my husband spanked me.   I don’t know what it was about the marriage license that made me feel safe – or emboldened – enough to tell him about my longtime fantasy about being turned over a man’s knee and spanked.  But in the open space of peace that followed our legal union, on our first Friday night together as a married couple, I sat with him on the couch in our den, a glass of whiskey cold in my hand and warm in my face, and said, “Maybe we should try role-playing.”

Michael, my husband, nodded seriously. “Maybe we should.”

Now this is a guy who, at the time I met him, I described to my sister as, “white bread and buttoned-up.”  As in, he wore boxy, dry-cleaned shirts buttoned up tight to the neck, with a white undershirt underneath.  As in, he parted his hair on the side and combed it down, like a kid from the Eisenhower era on Picture Day.  This is a guy who worked in the same corporate job for 30 years and had stayed faithful to his first wife, (who, like an Eisenhower wife, did not work), for nearly as long, despite only being offered missionary position on the sexual menu.  He called sex “making love,” never fucking; he called body parts by their proper clinical name, “penis” and “breasts.”

I think it would be fair to say that at his first scent of me, his buttons popped open.  Our first time alone in a room, he loomed assertively over me on the couch with a smoldering gaze and said, “I have to have you.”  Or something to that effect.  Then he proceeded to expertly take me.  I’d  never been taken that in such a confident, masculine way before. The experience was so moving, I cried.

In our first year together, 53-year-old Michael was like a man set free from sexual prison, game for anything.  Oh so game.  Underneath those boxy shirts I found a hard, muscular body, a Greek god kind of body, smooth, muscled, perfect.  His cock was big, continually hard, perfect.  I literally never saw it soft until months into our relationship.  (How old are you again? I’d laugh.)  We were hugely in love, hot physical love, and did it constantly, everywhere, in every position, as if we’d discovered this amazing thing called sex ourselves.  We quickly embraced toys, porn, naughty outfits, tie him up, tie me up – yes, we said, absolutely.  Tantric massage class that required him to get naked in a roomful of other naked men – sure, he said, why not?

Before our wedding, I happily and hornily played out whatever erotic scenario I thought a formerly sexually-deprived man might want, and never once felt anything was lacking.  But somehow, after our impulsive trip to Reno to tie the knot, I feel something new:  a long-hidden want, pushing up in my mind, ready to reveal itself.

But first, I describe for him where I felt this want came from.

How a Spanking Fantasy Was Born

“Okay, so one day when I was about twelve,” I begin, “I found my mother’s stash of porn magazines in her bedroom, and I was looking through them, getting pretty aroused.  Then my stepfather walked in and caught me.”

I let that sit for a beat.   “Go on,” says my husband.

“Well, I remember having this flash of thought at the time, Oh no, he’s going to spank me.  Even though I was too old, and he no longer spanked me anymore, the idea gave me a visceral jolt of heat.  And when he didn’t spank me, just sent me out of the room, I felt… disappointed.”

“Interesting,” says my husband.

“So, I’ve had this fantasy ever since, about being spanked by my stepfather.  And not just spanked.  More than that. After he spanks me, he…”  I can barely say it.   But I do.  “Then he, um, fondles me.”

I can’t believe I’ve confessed this.  Not the fantasy aspect of it exactly, it is probably benign enough to admit to enjoying the idea of being spanked and manhandled.  It is even trendy lately, with the movie version of 50 Shades of Grey about to come out the following weekend.

But to role-play a father figure molesting me, and physically act it out?  Well that feels like a different thing – politically incorrect – insulting to actual victims of molestation.  And by asking him to imagine himself as a father figure violating his stepdaughter, well that feels like pushing him to place himself in the “pervert” category.  I know by now my new husband is not at all buttoned up like I first thought, but I also know he is a highly moral person as well.

But now I have opened that door, and I keep talking.

“So if we do this role-play thing, I could pretend to be a kid watching a porn movie, and you could pretend to be my stepfather who comes home and catches me.  And you make me lay over your lap so you can pull my panties down and spank me…  Then you feel bad, and so you try to make it all better by putting your fingers inside me.”

I wait for a response, excruciating heat (is it shame?) now burning down my neck.

My husband’s face is still serious as can be.  “I could do that.”

“Really?  You really want to do that?”

Now there is a hint of smile at the corner of his mouth, a kind of ironic smirk that I find incredibly sexy.   “Yes baby,” he says.  “I really want to do that.”

Now I talk faster, letting my entire fantasy, and all its details, spill out.  “You feel bad because you realize I am just curious about sex.  So you want to satisfy my curiosity and show me how it feels to be touched ‘down there.’  You’ll do that while I lay face down on your lap with my panties down around my knees, and I’m unable to move.   And you are going to tell me I have to be still, that I can’t tell anyone, it’s going to be our secret.”

He considers this a moment.  “Now you’re turning me on.”

This seems too good to be true, that my twisted little private fantasy might also appeal to him. “You’re not just saying that?”

He takes my hand, places it over the erection pushing against his jeans.

I jump up, energized, I am giggling, breathless.   I gulp more whiskey, tell him I’m going to go change, can he please put a porn DVD in the player?  Then I will come back into the living room, and he will give me a few minutes to watch the movie, then pretend to be “Daddy” coming home and catching me.

I go in the bedroom, change into a little, black dress that no 12-year-old girl would wear, but it’s the only dress I have.  I am excited and embarrassed all at once, this is ridiculous, I know.  But we are going to do something we have never done before.

I Finally Get Spanked 

I go into the dim living room, sit on the couch, and wait, impatient.  I am not even slightly interested in the bad porn playing on the DVD.  I hear him come in.  Michael gasps in mock outrage, “What are you doing!”

I have never seen him try be an actor before, and he looks so earnest and serious.  I try to sound earnest, as well.  “Oh no, I just turned on the TV and this was on, I swear!”

Then he stands there as if not sure what to do next, and how can I take all this seriously?  I bust out laughing.  I think he will laugh with me, but he doesn’t.  “What?  Did I say something wrong?”

I wave a hand.  “Sorry, sorry, no, I can’t help it.  I’ll get it.  Go back and start again.”

He goes back out of the room, and this time, when he catches me watching porn, I give a more worthy performance.  “I didn’t put it on, it came on by itself, I swear, Daddy!”

He tells me I’ve been bad, he is going to turn me over his knee.  He sits on the couch, pats his lap.  I try to fake being sad, but I am can barely keep the laughter at bay as I drape myself over his lap, ass in the air.  He drags my skirt up, pulls my panties down, and I am hit with the feeling of true vulnerability beneath the silliness of it all.

Oh, this isn’t what I thought it would feel like.  I’d expected it to be hot and exciting, not embarrassing.  Then he spanks me while I fake cry, and well, that is kind of fun and different.  I do like the slight sting and the warmth it leaves behind, and I wish he’d have done it harder.  I feel both stimulated and disappointed, it doesn’t seem like he really has it in him to be a mean Daddy at all.

I lie there across his lap, waiting for the next part, the good part.  Even if this isn’t as exciting as I’d imagined, I am still entertained by our efforts.  He starts saying his lines – “You were just curious, weren’t you.  How’d you like it if I showed you how it feels to get excited?”

Well, I didn’t expect/want him to ask me, but I say, “Yes, please, Daddy.”

He starts stroking my bare behind.  Then again asks me, “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to pull your pants down now.”

Now I am irritated.  He’s not supposed to ask permission.  That spoils the fantasy of enjoying a forbidden touching.  I have the urge to complain, but here he is doing his best to deliver my fantasy, so I bite my tongue.

He lubes up two fingers and I feel him probing between my legs, I feel them push into my hole.  But it feels awkward, I am not really excited.  It is like being probed by a doctor.  He asks me if I like it, I don’t want to be asked, but I quickly say yes.   I lay there while he finishes playing the part, trying to focus on the porn still playing on the TV, trying to muster up some excitement, but secretly waiting for it to be over.  I am glad for the moment I can sit up and pull my panties back up.  That wasn’t hot at all.  I took that huge risk in revealing that secret fantasy for not a lot of reward.  Well, that’s not true, there is the reward of revealing something intimate about myself to the man I love and being accepted for it.  It is also a bonding thing to take a risk together, try something new.  There is also the burst of gratitude I feel that he has tried to grant me my fantasy.  What a generous man.

We have sex there on the couch, and it is sweet and I love him, and afterward we sit together to finish our drink, and we laugh at how hard it was to do that and not laugh.

“Although,” I say, “If there is ever a next time, I’d rather you spank me harder.  And not ask permission to put your fingers in me.  That sort of undermines the whole point.  I’m supposed to be helpless to prevent it.”

He nods, ahhhhh.  This is a revelatory thought for a man who prides himself on never being anything other than respectful of women.  “Okay, I’ll know for next time.”

But I don’t really expect there will be a next time.  The role-play was awkward, and lacking the excitement I’d expected.  That often seems to the way of indulging a fantasy, it never measures up to reality.  But isn’t that the whole point of fantasy?  To keep our desires safe and pure from messy, uncooperative reality?

I did, however, have a glimpse of what it felt like to be over Michael’s knee.  And I’d had some fun with it.  It just was not what I’d call a “hot.”

What I did not know then is that the problem was not in indulging the fantasy, but in the role-play aspect.  I didn’t want to just want to pretend to be under the control of my wicked too-loving Step-Daddy.  I wanted to be truly, in reality, under his sexual control. Of course, this didn’t occur to me that evening.  I would have been shocked at the very idea.

But now that the seed was planted, it was going to burst from the ground – very, very soon…