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.

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

Everybody Loves Raymond

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

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

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

Just Do It Anyway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keys and Unlocked Locks

On the Verge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am about to find out.

Primal Surrender

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

How This Feminist Became a Sexually Submissive Wife

I consider myself a feminist, proudly so, passionately so.  I am liberal, far into mid-life, I believe in equal rights, equal pay, equal opportunity.  I have my own career, I earn my own money, keep it in my own bank account, and I certainly make my own life decisions.  I have written dramatic defenses (literally dramatic, as in TV movies) about treating people, especially girls and women, with respect and dignity.  Which is why it took me many nervous months to decide to write the words in this blog, to feel right about publicly advocating for female sexual submission within marriage.

Wait, I cannot say I feel completely “right” about it.  I have been writing this during the months before the 2016 election, when Donald Trump’s hostile sexism and open disdain for women has been making news each day.  His Access Hollywood audio-heard-round-the-world of bragging about his sexual assaults on women, grabbing them “by the pussy” without their consent, has made headlines and started a national conversation about how women are frequently traumatized by a male sense of sexual entitlement to their bodies.  Many anguished accounts from sexual assault victims have popped up all over the media, while on the flip side, many unapologetic men started the hashtag, #repealthe19th, expressing their desire to take away a woman’s right to vote.

So, of course, I feel conflicted about what I am writing here, especially since Trump won, leaving women to feel, yet again, that our society is just fine with sexual harassment.  I am needled with fears of how my words might be interpreted. I know how hard women have fought in our culture – and are still fighting today – against being seen as sexual objects.  I do not want to present any kind of word or idea that can be interpreted as justifying rape culture or viewing women as second class citizens.

But, because I am a feminist, I feel the need to stand up for my truth, and my truth is this:  I submit to my husband sexually.  Whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, he gets it, no hesitation, no choice in my mind.  I am not talking about the pop culture version of Dominance and submission (D/s), with it’s 50 Shades of Grey trendiness and elaborate protocols – although I do believe the 50 Shades phenomenon tapped into a true feminine longing for erotic surrender.  Nor am I talking about the thriving BDSM subculture one sees on Fetlife and other sites, a fetish community that celebrates implements of pain, extreme images of female subjugation, and ways of thinking that do not speak to me and my desires (I am not a dirty little cumslut whore).

My form of sexual submission is much more quiet and deep and, I hope, more evolved than the pornographic stereotypes.  It does not involve “scenes” or props or costumes or safe-words. (Not that props and costumes aren’t fun once in awhile.)  This power exchange dynamic evolved spontaneously between my husband and I, arising from our instincts and desires of the moment.  It was only later that we began to use Dominance and submission language as a way of framing what was happening to us, and discussing it with each other.  The basic D/s model has proven useful to us, creating a symbolic doorway or path that allowed us to work our way beyond the egalitarian 50/50 style of sexually relating that we previously understood as an “enlightened.”  We still use D/s language, for lack of anything better, and still use the D/s framework as a symbolic container for the way we conduct our sexual life.  So, I will continue to write these words from a D/s standpoint.

The Joys of Sexual Polarity

To me, my submission is not a kink (not that there’s anything wrong with getting kinky), but a natural expression of my true sexual nature. I ran across a study (Jozifkova, 2012) that states sexual arousal in response to dominance might be hardwired into women as a way to ensure the survival of the species.  Apparently, cavewomen understood that having babies with the dominant male of the clan improved the odds of her children making it to adulthood.  I certainly believe myself to be hardwired for it.  When I submit my body to my husband I can feel myself in alignment with a potent energy that flows the more it yields, a phenomenon which the Tantric philosopher David Deida helped me understand with his theories about the masculine and feminine and sexual polarity.

It was also Deida who helped me understand the important difference between what he calls “Stage One” Dominance, which is fueled by a male self-centered control of the female, and what he calls the more enlightened “Stage Three” masculine dominance that serves the fulfillment of the feminine.  In fact, it was reading his book, Intimate Communion, in the early months of our power dynamic exploration, with his gorgeous language about the joys of being “ravished,” that gave me the intellectual grounding I needed to let myself go into my first true experiences of sexual ecstasy.

Beyond all that, submission turned out to be an expression of love for my husband that has created deep intimacy and built great trust between us, creating a more peaceful and satisfying union. I would even go so far as to say that I experience D/s as a spiritual devotion, maybe even a spiritual path, which teaches me how to deal with a self-important ego, and how to surrender to the rhythms of physical life.

Because of these surprisingly positive and profound impacts on me and my marriage, I do not want to keep my submission hidden, or hold it within me like a shameful secret.  I very much wish someone had told me about the joys of sexual power exchange decades ago.  I think I would have had fewer relationship issues, happier marriages and a much happier life. Perhaps there are other women who might not have considered submission beyond naughty fantasy, but who might be as transformed by the strange magic of D/s as I have been.  It is for those women I am sharing my experience.  As Clarissa Thorn writes in the S&M Feminist, “Openly acknowledging, owning, and discussing your sexual preferences can help others respect those preferences – and can help others who share those preferences respect themselves.”

A Woman’s Right to Submit

Still, the worry that my words will be misunderstood and misinterpreted – or worse, used by men to justify rape or other ways of abusing the rights of women – has been almost paralyzing at times, making me stop work on these pages for long stretches at a time.  I finally realized that it is not up to me to manage how this is received.  No matter how carefully I try to phrase my thoughts, the history and cultural landscape of “women as sexual objects” is vast, and laden with mines.  I have decided to keep going, and hope that by setting down my one unique experience, nothing will explode in my face.

The irony is that I believe sexual submission would not be such a powerful experience if it was not firmly rooted in a woman’s right to decide what happens to her body.  The gift of my submission, this unconditional “yes” to my husband, would be meaningless if I did not first have the right to say no.  Feminism has worked hard for me and all women, and it won for me the right to express my sexuality in whatever way I choose – and I believe the choice to submit sexually to my husband is as valid as any other, and as empowering to me as a woman as any other choice.

Another irony of D/s is that the power ultimately flows from the submissive.  The dominant can only dominate through the permission of the submissive, otherwise he risks going to jail (thank you feminists).  I feel strongly that D/s, at least as my husband and I practice it, is a post-feminism phenomenon, and could not exist without a clear understanding of a woman’s right to her own body, and thus her right to surrender her body to her husband’s use.  The result for me has been a paradoxical increase in the amount of respect and care I receive from my husband. He feels responsible for me and my body, and while he may sometimes “selfishly” use me for his own pleasure (though it never feels that way to me), he more often spends his time and effort pouring pleasure into me.  I am a thousand times more sexually fulfilled and pleasured as a sexual submissive than I ever was with a 50/50 partner.

Of course, I do acknowledge that might have less to do with D/s as it does to the quality of the man I married.  Which is why I want to make clear that I am not advocating sexual submission in a casual way, the way it is described on BDSM sites as “playing” with others. I don’t judge those who choose to explore in that arena; it thrills many.  But I can only personally advocate submission within the safe boundaries of a committed relationship, to a mature and trustworthy person who respects women as equals, and who takes up dominance with a feeling of great responsibility and care.  So please read the words in this blog knowing they are anchored firmly in the context of real love, real commitment.