Daddy Tucks me In; Or, a Submissive Fantasy Comes True

One way my husband wants me to surrender to him is to reveal to him how I am feeling about him and our Dominant/submissive sexual arrangement, so I am developing the habit of writing down our sexual experiences and how I feel about it.  I call it my “chronicle” (and the basis for this blog).  Today, when he gets home from work, he tells me that after he read my chronicle at his desk, he headed straight to the bathroom masturbate.

“In all the years I’ve worked there, I’ve never done that,” he says.  “But I was that stirred up.”

He tells me he wants me to cook dinner topless, and ties me in a rope harness so that my breasts are squeezed in loops of rope, my bare titties jutting out.  I love the feel of it, love the way his eyes follow me around the kitchen, love the submissive trigger of rope.

Still, something is stopping me from getting too deeply into a submissive space.  Maybe it’s the novelty of cooking topless?  No, I think it’s my self-consciousness.  I feel more than a little ridiculous as I chop onions and jalapeno peppers with bare, jutting breasts.  What an odd sight I must be, middle-aged me, with my imperfect body on such flagrant display.  Even as it turns me on, it also inhibits me from letting go like I want.  I am disappointed in myself for letting my insecurity take precedence over his pleasure.  But I don’t know how to stop it.  I know there is no way I am going to eat like that, so I put my shirt over the harness to eat dinner.  Yet, as soon as we are done and I settle onto the couch beside him, he tugs at the shirt.  “Off.”

I peel the shirt off, and my breasts are now faint pink from being squeezed so tightly by the rope.  He drops his head down to put one of my nipples in his mouth, then yanks his head back in surprise.  Blog30Quote1“My mouth is on fire.”

I laugh.  I must have touched my nipple after chopping the jalapeno, and now he’d gotten a mouthful of the spice.  I get up to go to the kitchen to watch them off.

Survivor starts on TV, and I go back to lie down on the ouch with my head on his lap. As we watch the screen, he idly plays with my rope-squeezed breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers, pinching them.  It is ohhhhhh, lovely lovely, waves-of-warmth, fuck yes perfect.  My whole body soon feels electrified, and still he plays and pinches, pleasure ratcheting up and up and up…  I feel as if he is plucking me away from myself and throwing me up into heaven.

I never asked for it – he is doing it for his own pleasure I’m sure – but I am so profoundly enjoying it, that it doesn’t feel like submission at all.  It feels like he is submitting to my own secret desires.  I am suddenly confused, who is submitting to who?

It is a conundrum that has been nagging at me lately.  When he is giving me such intense pleasure, I feel my own sexual will bursting back to life, yes Daddy, give me more of that, more more, I need more.  My words start as a plea, but come out sounding like a command to my ears.

As I lay there, panting with the intensity of the pleasure, I ask him, “How is this submission?”

“It’s okay if you get off on it,” he says.  “I’m your Daddy.  That means I want to take care of you, spoil you, make you happy.  It doesn’t mean I’m not in charge.”

As if to prove his point, he twists my nipples, making me gasp and arch my back in sharp beautiful pain.  Then he pulls me across his lap and spanks me shockingly hard.  As I take the pain, my mind shuts off immediately, goes blank, quiet, peaceful.

“I know you need me to be rough sometimes, too,” he says.

“Yes, Daddy,” I say, my behind on fire.

And just like that, he has made my conundrum dissolve away into his generous Daddy love.

He unties the rope, takes me to bed. He tells me to kiss him all over, show him how I love him.  And I do, sweetly, thoroughly.  We continue in a slow tender dance of lazily exploring each other with mouths and fingers, anywhere and everywhere, arm pits even.  There is an innocence about it that moves me greatly, to be able to feel so free of boundaries, to have such permission to touch each other anywhere.  Places never touched before, or even considered sexual before, are now charged with erogenous energy.

I begin to grow sleepy and lie on my side, with him curled behind me. He slowly starts caressing my behind, his fingers moving to softly along my crack.  I sigh, and relax and open…  And then, oh then, with one moist finger, he begins caressing my bottom hole.  And I do mean caress, the lightest strokes against the oh so sensitive hole.  Blog30Quote2I have never been touched there like that, so slow and gentle and loving.  The tender intimacy of it makes my heart beat hard.  The pleasure of it suffuses me with glowing heat.  My eyes fill with tears.

I am ready to cry because Michael has discovered my deepest desire without me ever speaking it aloud.  I think I’d once mentioned I had a fantasy of “my Daddy tucking me in,” but I never told him what being tucked in meant to me.  But in my fantasy, which I’d lately been having nightly – in a strange and secret longing that I barely understand – I imagine that after I turn over to go to sleep, my Daddy slips in behind me and whispers in my ear that I have been such a good girl that he is going to make me feel good as I fall asleep.  Then he softly strokes my pussy, like petting a cat, slipping a finger into me just a little bit, stirring me slowly.  I sleepily tell him it makes me feel nice, and then he says, “I can make it feel even better.  I am going to touch your special spot now.”  Then his finger eases back until he is stroking my asshole, achingly soft.  As he does, he is whispering, “Shhhh, just lie still and go to sleep now baby,” and I do, I relax into the sweet warmth, and drift off, feeling so loved, so special…

Now he is doing exactly that, and it feels a hundred times sweeter than I could have imagined.  And then I do start crying because I am so blown away that he knows me so well that he is now able to pull my desires straight from my mind, without me even speaking them.  I also cry that he is loving me so freely and so expressively, and because I am about to fall apart from the keen pleasure of it.  I try to tell him what this means to me, but my voice does not work, trapped inside me by the lump in my throat and the loving sweetness he is still stroking into my the most intimate and vulnerable part of me.

It is, without a doubt, one of the most profound moments of my entire journey with him.  I am undone.

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.

More on the Spirituality of Dominance and Submission

I have a new hobby:  Contemplating all the ways in which sexual submission is similar to actual spiritual practices, and how it is “saving” me.

The first is obvious, and that’s the experience of surrender in the most literal way.  Eastern religions have long taught that when one is truly surrendered, relinquishing all power and control, allowing what happens without resistance, the ego momentarily dissolves and the soul is liberated.  The most interesting thing to me is that I feel most liberated when he makes a sexual demand when I am least interested in it.

I’ll be in the middle of doing something when Michael walks up to me and says, “I need my cock sucked now, babygirl.”  And I’ll feel a flash of annoyance, and think ‘oh, not now.’  But then I open my mouth and take him in anyway.  Or at night in bed, I’ll be half falling asleep and he’ll out of nowhere say, “Open your legs, Daddy needs to touch you.”  And even though I’m not ready for it, I let my legs fall open and lie still as he slips his fingers inside me.  I allow allow and let go.

That’s when I discover the pure spiritual submission in it.  Especially if gets a little uncomfortable or there is a stray bit of pain.  I surrender and my mind just abandons itself, and a feeling of freedom overtakes me, freedom from my own will, and I open into the beautiful non-resistance of the moment.  That freedom in my mind translates to freedom in my body…  It’s the only time I lose self-consciousness, when he is giving me commands, I just do it, and accept what is happening, and it becomes this spontaneous flowing thing, me following his whims, being here now, being present.

Then there is the meditative quality that comes with being spanked and stimulated, in focusing on the pain and intense sensation as it arises in the moment.  There is a book I love, called Radical Ecstasy on how BDSM is very much like meditation and can lead to enlightened states.

I also find spiritual reward in accepting the love of a man who, in such intense moments, represents god the father to me.  With his attention and approval, he frees me from guilt and shame about experiencing deep sexual pleasure.  Blog28Quote1When I open my legs for him, he doesn’t tell me I am wicked or bad; rather he tells me I am a “good girl.”  Morality feels like it is resting on its right foundation.

Actually, my whole self finally feels like it is resting on a more solid foundation.  When I submit, I no longer exist in that uncomfortable place in the large everything of my own mind, where it is all about ‘me, me, me’ and what I want and what I think.  But neither am I flung away into the fickle disregard of the rest of the world.  It is now all switched around:  I am nothing to myself, but everything to him.  It is relief.  And what relief it must be for him, unconditional acceptance, love without games, no manipulation required to fuck me, no self-doubt.  He wants, he takes, he gets, no resistance.  And he then becomes everything to me.

Putting Me In My Place

I think a lot about how often I have come across the writing of other submissives, and they talk about being “put in their rightful place.”  They are usually talking about it in the context of kneeling, or otherwise making themselves subservient to their dominant, as if their rightful place is below him, or less than him.  But to me, the dominant is the symbolic representation of life itself.  When I turn over my body to my husband, make myself his sexual object, I come to know that we are all sexual objects, all creations of nature and its sexual impulses.  I am put in my place because I am experiencing in the most visceral way that my sense of myself as an individual being separate from nature is an illusion.  We are not in control of what our bodies feel and want, and any sense of our existence as a product of own will is also an illusion.

“We do not breathe so much as we are breathed by the universe,” said Alan Watts, the famous teacher who first introduced me to Eastern spiritual thought.  I remember how struck I was by that idea, that life breathes us, it is involuntary.  Blog28Quote2We come into the world involuntarily, our hearts beat involuntarily, our breath fills us involuntarily, our sexual organs engorge with blood involuntarily.  None of us are creations of our own will.  And sexual submission allows me to embody that, understand live that.

Nature literally creates itself through sexual union, the joining of male and female.  In surrendering sexually to my husband, I feel I am surrendering to life, to the force that created me and instilled these longings in me, and is now using me for its own purpose.  I am learning my place, so to speak.  I was put here by life to experience my body, to mate, to procreate.  D/s is teaching me that to open myself to Michael’s lust, and to my own, is to open myself to the force of nature, to open myself to life itself.

Once again, I go back to the words of Taoist sex teacher, Mantak Chia.  “Sexual energy is the commander in chief of all the cells of the body.  All cells in body and brain respond to the energy of sex, the commands of sex.  It is our original pattern.”

The BDSM Contract; Or, Do We Need to Put it In Writing?

My husband has left on a business trip for five days.  Five long days.  “Daddy’s aren’t supposed to leave,” I pouted just before he left.  Yes, he said with a laugh, I’m a bad Daddy.   No, no, no, I said as I pressed myself close.  You’re the most perfect Daddy there ever was.

It’s becoming easier to call him that, mostly.  The word still strikes me as silly, but the cherished feeling it represents is anything but silly.

We have decided that while he is gone, we will come up with a real contract we can sign when he gets home.  One thing we know from our online searches and reading is that we really should have some kind of contract to formalize our D/s relationship and sets out boundaries.  So after Michael’s first “rough draft” of a contract he sent me, we are making attempts at revising it.

We accept as a given that we must do this.  This is where I declare in writing what I am willing to let him do to me, and what I will not let him do to me, so there is no confusion.  A contract is one of those things that BDSM people boast about, proof that the D/s relationship does not undermine the submissive’s rights, but rather honors her needs and desires.  It is a symbol not only of consent, but also of the deep communication that must happen between dominant and submissive before entering such a potentially perilous arrangement.  How many vanilla people are willing to discuss their desires so thoroughly, they say.  How often do women so explicitly state what they like and dislike?   Although I have not seen the 50 Shades of Grey movie yet, I’ve read there is a cute scene in which the main characters negotiate terms across a conference table.

As I think about what the contract should say, I begin by contemplating my limits, and …  I immediately come up blank.  I cannot think of what my boundaries might be.  Okay, obviously ‘no bestiality,’ but it would be ridiculous to say that, because it would imply Michael might suggest such a thing.  Blog26Quote1I implicitly trust my husband not to do anything bizarre or dangerous to me, to know the difference between pain and harm.  He is a good person, he loves me, I don’t feel the need to protect myself from him and his desires.

I toy with writing “no humiliation,” or “no golden showers,” things that do not appeal to me.  But I reject those as well.  How do I know if such things should be a boundary if I haven’t tried them yet?  So far, I have surprised myself by liking things it never occurred to me I’d like, just about anything has felt good and exciting and even enlightening in the right context.  One of the things I most love about our D/s exploration is how we have been crossing normal boundaries and the liberation I feel when they fall.  Ultimately, I declared myself submissive because I don’t want choices in sex, and so I find myself getting nowhere in trying to come up with my limits.  I very much want him to decide the limits.

I go online to see what other people write in their D/s contracts.  I read page upon page about how to negotiate the rules for setting up “scenes,” a framework for BDSM “play,” with a repeated focus on the concept of “Safe, Sane and Consensual.”  This seems it might be appropriate for people who don’t know each other very well getting together for some hot sex, but what about for married people who have already established great trust with each other and want to throw caution to the wind in order to expand their love?  I certainly am not doing this to protect my choice, or to stay safe or even necessarily sane.  I want to risk everything for my husband, go crazy with over-the-top love for him.

Of course, on one hand, I can see how it might be helpful to set up a framework that helps one know when to behave a certain way.  And I can get the value of that, bracketing the SM in a specific scene with beginning, middle and end.  I know Michael and I have been at a loss sometimes in these first months, we aren’t quite sure how to move in and out of dominant or submissive behavior, we stumble and fumble, is it time for this now?  What do we want to do?  How do we live normal life and this other life at the same time?

On the other hand, talking about scenes and play seems to attach a sense of artificiality to our power exchange, as if it is all one big game.  We are not “playing” in bed, we are making love.  Or as Deida would say, we are “serving love.”  If I have learned anything these past weeks, the spiritual deep love dimension of our D/s unfolds spontaneously, unplanned, no scene.  Blog26Quote2There seems to me a difference between becoming a servant to sex – which is how much of the BDSM scene-negotiation and contract stuff I find online strikes me – and through sex becoming a servant to love.

I give up on thinking about limits and rules.  I decide the purpose of our contract should not be about limiting our D/s interactions, but about how to better open the door to the D/s dynamic.  How to keep him in a dominant mindset and keep me in a submissive mindset.  I think of all the things that might make me feel submissive:  being on my knees, being tied up helpless, being over his lap, exposed and vulnerable, daily spankings …  I make a list of these things, and email them to him, then immediately regret it.  I realize how it sounds like a list of demands from me, requirements of him.  It is nothing less than topping from the bottom.  And I really don’t want that, don’t want to have to judge and analyze whether my desires are being met, don’t want to have any choices at all.

I write to apologize, he writes back that it’s fine, he wants to know my desires.  And while he has no trouble thinking up what he might want to do to me, he also doesn’t see why it should be written in a contract when he can just do what he wants in the moment.   We decide to revisit the idea of a contract later, when we have a better handle on what it should say.

Only in the weeks and months that follow, we never do write a contract.  We simply trust each other, and allow the dynamic to unfold spontaneously as it has from the very first day.  Maybe one day we will figure out how to write the perfect contract for us, but so far we have managed to be in perfect agreement without it.  Lucky us.

The Ben Wa Dilemma; Or, Do Sexual Submissives Need Punishment?

The BDSM world we see on the internet is full of sexual curiosities, and, as we try to see ourselves in this new kinky light, Michael and I are feeling game to give different things a try.  First, because it’s a lot of laughing fun, and second, it might possibly turn us on, and third, because we can.  For the first time in decades, neither of us have kids living at home.  Certainly, if we thought one of our kids might walk through the door at any moment, I would not now be reclined on the living room couch, legs open, while my husband slips small, silver Ben Wa balls inside of me.

I have only worn them once before, the night we bought them, for about ten minutes while I lay next to him on the couch.  This time, he says, I am to wear them while I cook dinner.  (Wait, can one really “wear” Ben Wa balls?  Blog20Quote1Isn’t it more accurate to say I carry them?  Or, hold them in?)  So, I pull up my panties and move into the kitchen, feeling the slight pressure of weight inside my pussy when I move.  It’s nice, the constant focus on holding them in.

As I cook, he sits on the barstool across the kitchen island, and we talk about D/s, trying to define what we want it to be for us.  I have no idea how much I should be trying to hold on to the feeling of a submissive trance.  Is it even realistic to always be feeling submissive around him?  He tells me he is not interested in a full-time submissive, he’s been reading about master-slave relationships, and that holds no appeal for him.  He doesn’t feel any need to be waited on.  He is interested only in dominating me sexually.  Although, he adds, he always wants to be my Daddy, whether we are having sex or not.  He says he loves the feeling of being able to take care of me.

I walk around the island to kiss him.   He pulls me close, gropes my ass and says, “I do like the idea of training you, setting up rules for you to follow.”

He is referring to the contract he sent me earlier, and I am still not sure how I feel about it.  It was both too much, and not enough.  I head back around to the cutting board.  “You want to keep me in a steady submissive state.”

He tells me he’s getting a good idea of what triggers me.  “But I don’t know what kind of punishments to try if you break a rule.”  Then he gives a little moan and grabs his crotch.  “Just thinking of punishing you gets me excited.”

I, however, am feeling no excitement at this turn in the conversation.  In fact, most of the excitement I had been feeling off and on all day disappears.  Even with Ben Wa balls inside me.  I don’t know why.

“I suppose I get the concept of punishment, at least in theory,” I begin.  “But the idea of you actually punishing me?  I don’t know, it feels stupid to me.  It kind of puts the whole thing into game territory to me.”

I can tell from his face this is not what he expected to hear.

I try to explain. “It just seems silly to punish me for not following a rule, because for me to accept your right to punish me, I’d have to be in a submissive state.  And if I was in a submissive state I wouldn’t break the rule in the first place.”

“You could break the rule by mistake.  Say, I ask you to do something with your legs open, and you forget.”

“Well,” I counter, “if you make such a petty rule, then I don’t see how I can respect you, let alone submit to you.”

As he is brooding over this, I head back to him to press my forehead to his shoulder.  “I don’t want my submission to you to feel silly.  I couldn’t bear if it was a game with trivial rules.  There’s no satisfaction for me in a stupid game.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.  I realize I am not doing the best job of expressing what I’m feeling, probably because I don’t know exactly why I am feeling so let down by his ideas on punishment.  All I know is I loved the submissive trance I had been in for days, and I want it back.  It has taken the significance of the Holy Grail to me, but I feel certain that trying to follow some arbitrary rules isn’t going to get it back for me.

I try again to wrestle my vague thoughts into words.

“Honey, If all you want is sex from me when you want it, well, I can choose to give you that anytime.  I don’t need to be in a submissive state for that.  I can just go ahead and decide to do what you want.  But there’s no spiritual element for me in that, no thrill of belonging to you, and being owned, being safe.”

I raise my face to look up at him.  “What I want is that spiritual, surrendered state where it feels as if you have the unconditional right to take me.  When I’m in that state, I don’t have to make any choices at all because I am so surrendered.  That’s what eliminates all the static in my mind, that’s what gives me peace.”

His face goes soft at that.   “That’s what I want, too.  Exactly what I want.”  He reaches to cup my breast in his hand.  “So how do we get you to stay in that space?”

I tell him I’m not sure exactly, although I don’t think a silly game of rewards and punishments will do it.  I venture that the answer is probably more along the lines of “conditioning.”  Perhaps the consistent application of submissive triggers.

“Like regular spankings,” I say.  “I’ve read online about maintenance spankings every day.  What do you think of that?”

He swats my rear in response.  It makes me smile.

I tell him that him holding my throat, or pushing my head down makes me feel submissive.  If he ties me up, makes me helpless, that creates a feeling of deep submission.  Kneeling before him does it, too.

“But lying across your lap, I think that is the most submissive feeling of all,” I say.  “Or anytime you push something into any one of my holes.  Your thumb or cock in my mouth, your fingers in my pussy, or … in my ass.”   I blush furiously as I say this.  “You know, like the other night, when I was over your lap, you had two fingers in my ass, and oh my God.”

I tell him that one experience made me a firm believer in what I’d been reading online, that ass penetration is hugely symbolic of domination.  And to be penetrated in the ass is to about as submissive as one can get.  I tell him I’ve been reading about submissives being trained to butt plugs, and how that gives me an erotic jolt.

“Oh, you’re going to get butt plugs,” he says, and when I laugh the Ben Wa balls threaten to fall out.

Vaginal Wrestling

It’s time to take them off.  So I slip out of my panties and go lie back down on the couch. He slides his finger inside me to pry the balls out.  Only he can’t quite get them.  His fingers keep digging, but they’re able to hook around the balls, and it’s starting to hurt.

“You’re too tight,” he says.

What?

Now begins a determined wrestling match inside my vagina, with him working his fingers around inside me, and me squealing in pain and tightening my muscles against him.  I stand, thinking gravity will help, while he sits on the floor to reach up into me.  It doesn’t work.

Next, I bend over the couch, and he can finally get one, but not the other.  I am laughing, but I am also mortified.  What kind of cavern is my pussy that it is so stuck?  Blog20Quote2But bigness isn’t really the problem, it’s the resistance of my muscles, locked up tight around that little ball.  I have horrified visions of having to go to the emergency room to get it out.

I go back to the couch to lie down, try to relax and he again tries to pry it out.  It is now very painful, I can feel that hard ball bruising the inside of my vaginal walls.  This has got to be the most unsexy moment of my entire life.  By the time he finally gets it out, we are both sweating.

He drops the ball in my hand, and I march over to the trash can and fling it in.

“Okay,” he says, “Ben Wa balls are no longer part of the conditioning.”

I say thank you, then go off to the bathroom to try to restore my dignity.  It doesn’t work.  But when I emerge again, we are laughing so much that it doesn’t matter.  And later, as he fucks me on the couch, the ache of inflamed tenderness in my pussy, engorged with blood, adds to my excitement, and the pain-pleasure orgasm … oh my God.

Meanwhile, the contract still sits on the counter, unsigned, forgotten.

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.

The Crash; Or, When Sexual Submission is not Foolproof

As we head into Saturday evening, we are high on the electric connection our new power dynamic has created between us.  And the evening begins nicely, with Michael tying me in a breast harness.  It is like slow hypnosis, as I feel his hands move against my skin, and the rope tighten around me, I feel my body relaxing, becoming pliable.

“I feel like I’m wrapping a precious jewel,” he says, and that’s how I feel as he takes his time, making it perfect, his precious object.

He takes me by the wrist and leads me into the bedroom, then slides my panties down my legs, tells me to get on the bed.  I lie down naked in the middle of the bed on my back.  I can’t wait to feel helpless, can’t wait to feel myself fall into the net of my trust for him.  As I wiggle in anticipation, he tells me not to get too excited, this rope-tying session just for “practice,” not for sex.  But I am feeling so lovingly held in that harness, so warm and swollen with pleasure and lust, that I cannot imagine there will be no sex.

He takes my right leg, bends it, moves it to the side, then places my wrist against my ankle and starts to bind them together.  My bare pussy is now exposed, open, I can’t close my legs.  Oh this is amazing, the stuff of years of fantasies about being exposed, helpless to do anything about it, oh I am happy.  But as he continues wrapping arm and ankle together in ever more intricate patterns, I start to feel a trickle of worry.  The rope is thick, heavy, and the knots so elaborate, I start thinking about how long it could take to free me.

All at once the rope feels less like loving embrace and more like a trap.  I feel a jolt of panic, and my chest tightens with fear.  I try to breathe it away, waiting, impatient, for him to finish the knot.  When he is done, I go limp with relief, I made it, I can make it through this.  I expect him to go around and do my left side, wrist to ankle.  Instead he gets down on the floor to secure the rope trailing from the first knot to the leg of the bed.  The panic flares huge, takes hold.  Blog15Quote1It’s too much, I’m too vulnerable, too much heavy entrapment, wrapped too many times around me, unwieldy and uncomfortable.

“No, I can’t, no,” I say.  “Take it off, can you please take it off?”

He raises up to look at me in surprise.  He doesn’t say anything for a long beat.  Then, being the sweet and considerate man he is, he obliges.  He starts unwrapping me, and I am grateful, and my panic subsides, I breathe.

As soon as I am free of the rope, I sit up and grab a blanket to cover myself.  But I am already regretting asking him to take it off.  I have failed to submit, I don’t want to fail.  I still want the experience.

“Will you try again?” I ask him.

He gives a short shake of his head.  “No, I’m done for tonight. We can try again tomorrow.”

I feel an argument jump to my lips, I want to say, no, please try again, just not so elaborate and overwhelming, just a simple knot, please.  But if I argue, that will make me a double failure at submission.  It will be me trying to take control of the situation, get my way.  The rope experiment is over.

I get dressed, and as we settle onto the couch to watch TV, he seems oddly cheerful.  I suspect he could be feeling burnt out by all the intensity of the last week and actually prefers to do nothing tonight, prefers to not be responsible anymore.

I don’t really blame him for that, and he has that right.  But I am not at all cheerful.  My submissive trance of the last week has evaporated, the delicious spell has been broken.  In my mind, newly discovered “subspace” is a magical thing, but also a black-and-white thing.  I don’t yet recognize shades of gray, it is either all there, or all not.  And now it’s not.  For the first time since we began, I’ve lost my wonderful dominating Daddy, painful sudden, and I have no idea if he will ever come back.

Quick Cool Kisses

I am all at once relegated back to being ordinary wife with her sweet and considerate husband.  I love my sweet husband, but I feel bereft the rest of the evening.  And when we go to bed, our kisses are cool and quick.

I wake the next morning, and lie brooding as dark turns to light at the edge of the curtains.  I squirm around, “accidentally” brushing against him until he stirs.

Oh, I say, sorry, did I wake you?  He yawns, says it’s okay.  I roll over to put my head onto his shoulder.  I bring up the night before, ask him how he is feeling about it, but I don’t wait for an answer.  I need to admit my feeling of failure, tell him how sorry I am I wasn’t able to see the rope experiment through.  I tell him I must need to be more slowly conditioned to being bound and tied.

“Maybe use a lighter rope next time, not so many knots?  Maybe then I wouldn’t panic.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me.  “It’s no big deal.  We needed a break anyway.”

This isn’t what I want to hear.  I repeat again, “But I failed.”

He laughs a bit.  “Oh don’t worry, your punishment will come.”

I laugh, too.  It is a good thing to say.  We had been reading about “training” a submissive, and discussing the idea of punishment.  But after my laugh fades, I sink into even deeper brooding.  I have the terrible suspicion that even though the D/s has felt very real in the past week, it is still a role play game between us.  We had been playing it well, but last night revealed that it is still a game that can suddenly become too much for me, and be dropped any time.

Before I can express this thought to Michael, he tells me to put his cock in my mouth, suck on it until he comes.  I kneel between his legs and suck him to orgasm, but the thrill of submission is no longer attached to me.  It was just an ordinary blow job, which I wanted to get done.  It didn’t make me feel all warm and adoring toward him, not like just the day before, when his cock seemed like a magic scepter, object of my adoration.

I do not tell him how the spell has broken for me.  I am too confused, don’t know what happened.  What I do know is that I don’t want the failure to be all mine.  In fact, I don’t want any of it to be mine.  And as we go about our Sunday afternoon, I am secretly assigning the failure completely to him.  Blog15Quote2I decide we weren’t able to complete the rope experiment because he decided to stop dominating me.

I tell myself that when I panicked the night before, instead of immediately untying me, he should have remained the dominant yet still-caring Daddy, and tried to soothe my panic.  He should have let me know I was still safe with him, even though I felt scared at that moment.  After all, a real Daddy wouldn’t let his little girl quit if she stumbled while trying to learn something new, say for example, riding a bike.  A real Daddy would kiss her hurts and give her sympathy, but then urge her to get back on the bike and keep trying, right?  Of course, he would.

Clearly, Michael should have tried to calm me down until I could get more comfortable.  And maybe I would have been able to calm down, and maybe I wouldn’t have.  But if I still begged to be released, and he’d decided to let me go, he should have delivered some immediate consequence for failing to submit.  If he’d done that, then I wouldn’t have tumbled out of that lovely subspace.

By evening, I am practicing in my head how I will convince him of his responsibility for the collapse of the dynamic.  How can a woman successfully submit if her dominant gives up on dominating when she gets skittish?  Even if he finds he wants only to sit around and watch TV at that moment, there must be a way he can do that and still make sure his girl stays in state of submission regardless.

As we sit over dinner, I wait for the right moment to bring it up.  But I don’t.  Because I know I am wrong.  It is not his fault.  It is, I am suddenly sure, no one’s fault, but the fault of the dynamic itself.  It is too complex a psychological interaction to sustain.  It is too burdensome a responsibility for the dominating side to always be responsible, too difficult for the submitting side to always be submissive.  My fears have been confirmed, we have been fooling ourselves into believing the game is real.

For the second night in a row, our goodnight kisses feel quick, perfunctory.  I can no longer feel the vibrant connection that seemed so life-changing just a little over 24 hours earlier.  He falls asleep, but I just lie there, curled away from him on my side, staring into the dark for long, empty hours.