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.

Becoming Daddy’s Girl When You’re No Longer a Girl

The morning after I first call my husband Daddy, it is Saturday, he wakes me up in the dark again by climbing on top of me, and I think I will lie there in peaceful silence again.  But I find out quickly that Michael is not in a peaceful mood, he is pure animal this morning.  He is strong, muscled, heavy, and he is a force on top of me.  I can barely catch my breath, caught in the storm of his lust, wave after wave of lust.  He pounds me hard, holding me tight by my neck.  Then he flips me over onto my hands and knees, and pounds his cock into me from behind, smacking my ass at the same time, hot jolts that ratcheted up the excitement in my body.  And just like in those little domination gifs, he shoves my head down as he fucks me, holding it hard against the mattress.

I know that if someone happened to be watching us at that moment, it would look alarmingly wrong.  I cannot believe how I like it, this thing that looks degrading from the outside, yet feels so kind.  To have my head pushed hard against the mattress is somehow a grounding thing, an anchor that holds part of me still as I am caught up in the wave of animal lust.  Then he grabs a hand full of my hair, pulls my head back.  I am wide open accepting, I am only vaguely aware of the pain in my scalp.  He is so excited by the pulling of my hair that he shudders to an orgasm.  After he pulls his cock out, I am lying flat on my stomach, his fingers shove inside my pussy, and he keeps finger-banging me, with little growls, then slides two fingers in my ass, it hurts a little, but I relax, keep letting go, oh wonderful.  It is all is raw pleasure, being held down, controlled, smacked.  Let go, no thought, just feel, here now now now, yes.

He flips me over and again, spreads my legs open, slides his fingers into me again, stirring me, opening me, so hot blood engorged open yielding.  He holds my head still, whispers in my ear, he tells me he wants all of me.  Then his tongue plunges into my ear, stiff and warm, it feels like sexual penetration of another sort.  I have never felt sexual excitement in my head, he is penetrating my mind almost, I am so hyper-excited that I come hard in an electric whoosh that I feel all the way into my feet.

After two hours, my nervous system is overwhelmed, I am completely conquered into submission, and I cannot stop looking into his eyes as he lies beside me, facing me.  I feel hypnotized.

I try to say, Thank you Daddy.  But it comes out as, “Thank you, Da……”

I can’t say the word.  Although I had happily called him Daddy the night before, and made mental peace with the idea, I somehow cannot bring myself to say it in the light of morning.  It makes me swell up with some unnameable emotion that will take me awhile to unravel.

The Inner Battle

As we get up and get dressed, we are both overwhelmed by the strength of the storm between us. We wander into the living room.  But instead of heading to the coffee maker, we both end up sitting dazed on the couch.

He says, “I’ve never felt out of control like that.  I was in a frenzy.”

“Yes,” I say.  “Frenzy is a good word for it.”

We are both revealing our most basic animal selves to each other, and it is wonderful and terrifying all at once.  I am thrown off balance.  I do not recognize either him or myself.

We assure each other we are okay.  But even though I keep opening my mouth to say the word, “Daddy,” it stalls in my throat.  He, however, is saying it frequently, referring to himself in the third person as “Daddy,” and it gives me a little twist of annoyance each time.  I want to tell him to stop, although I don’t know why, when the night before it was so clearly what I wanted, what I felt was right.  Why can’t I say it?

As the day wears on, I fall into an uncomfortable funk.  We decide to go the movies, and I ride along in the passenger seat wondering what is wrong with me, am I just tired from being overstimulated, from being off balance from all the emotion of the past week?  I don’t want to admit it is because maybe I don’t like the Daddy Dom thing after all because he clearly likes it.  Then we get out of the car and he grabs me by the wrist, pulls me along across the parking lot.

And there it is again, this sudden letting go inside myself, this surrender to power.  And I realize this is also a submissive trigger, to be pulled along by the wrist, rather than walking side by side, hand in hand.  It is also is a very Daddy specific trigger, it takes me back to being a little girl, being pulled along by an adult.  Suddenly I am having no problem at all feeling like Daddy’s girl, and in the dark movie theater, I snuggle up against him, and I find myself taking his thumb into my mouth, sucking on it, and it feels soothing to me, like sucking on a pacifier.  He moans and whispers to me that I am a good girl, and I am so warm and pleased.  I would love to suck on his thumb the entire movie, but I am afraid other people will see.

I walk out to the car in momentary peace, but on the way home, the tension that has churned in my mind all day returns.  I feel pulled by the deep desire for Michael to be the Daddy, my Daddy, and yet also feel myself pushing away from it.  To call him “Daddy” feels like a pretense I don’t know how to make real.  I don’t want any falseness in this relationship, any silliness.  How can I think of myself – middle-aged me, so large and unwieldy – as his girl?  It feels absurd. It feels impossible.

Later, as I make dinner, the inner tension and tiredness makes me feel brittle.  He is practicing knots, so he can tie me up.  I feel a struggle inside me, I don’t feel like being tied up, I want to say no, and if I do?  This whole dynamic will fall apart.  It all suddenly feels fragile, and the tension in me escalates.  I am upset because I feel I need to make a choice whether to let him tie me up or not, and if I make the wrong choice, then this whole marvelous adventure is finished.  I hate this static.  I hate having this power.

This thought makes me laugh out loud.  Oh right, I remember now.  I have agreed to surrender power, I don’t have to make a choice, I don’t have to figure out this Daddy thing right now, I just have to do what Michael wants, that’s it.  No choice, no resistance, no struggle.  My mental tension falls away, I am instantly at peace.  It is stunning, how instant that peace.

Surrender Is Sweet

I make us some drinks.  And when I am good and buzzed, I stand in the living room, naked from the waist up as we follow along with our new “basic bondage” video.  His arms go around me, again and again, drawing the soft rope around me, wrapping me up.  I feel like a true object, still and peaceful as a statue, as he ties me in a beautiful rope breast harness, with my hands trapped behind me.

When he is done, I am amazed, it feels so good, the rope tight around my breasts, I feel held.  I walk around with my bare breasts jutting out, and go into the bathroom to admire his handiwork in the mirror.  Oh, I am beyond amazed by the waves of warm delicious feeling radiating from my bound breasts throughout my body, tranquilizing my mind.

I want to know if I can lie on his lap while I am wearing the harness, and he gives me permission.  I lie my head on his leg with the TV on and he reaches out to idly play with my over-pronounced nipples.  Dear God the sweet heat of it.  He gets turned on, and fucks me there on the couch.  And I still don’t say the word Daddy, but I think it, oh yes I think it, he is my daddy, giving it to me for my own good.

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.

Raw, Soul-Scorching Sex

In these early days of our D/s life, I am lucky I don’t have a lot of work on my plate, and after Michael goes to work I can just float in this new perspective on “us,” try to grapple with his change in our relationship, this change in myself.  The feeling of coming home to myself as a sexual submissive has been one of the greatest shocks of my life, and I am now obsessively curious about the entire subject.  I want to know:  How many women really live this way?

I google “dominance and submission” and find a blog on Tumbler which is nothing but gifs that show a muscled guy – we never see his face – manhandling different women during sex.  In short five-second clips, he pounds them mercilessly with his cock while they are tied up.  Pounds them while forcing their heads down on the bed.  Pounds them while slapping their faces, or while grabbing them by the neck and choking them.  I have never watched internet porn before, and I have never seen anything like this.  These are offensive images; abusive and awful images.  These are images in which people should probably be arrested, and laws prohibiting them passed.  And they turn me on intensely.

After all our attempts to “raise sexual energy” through complex Tantric exercises and visualizations, and feeling little but laughing discomfort, now the mere sight of a woman being forcefully dominated unleashes a torrent of sexual heat in me.  I go through image after image in a kind of sick fascination, appalled at myself for how excited I become looking at them.  Those images do not look like love.  What is happening to me?

That night, Michael comes home from work, again has me on my knees after he walks through the door.  The cock-sucking ritual is oddly calming.  Then he asks me what I did all day, and so I nervously show him what I found online.  While I cook dinner, he sits on the couch, going through the images of rough, dominant sex for a good 15 minutes, not saying a word, giving nothing away.  He is so quiet, I regret showing him the site.  I am embarrassed, I have just revealed how base I have become.  The whole relationship suddenly seems threatened.  I want to go rip the computer away from him. I want to cry.  What is happening to me?

“Come here,” he says.  I go sit on the couch with him, barely able to look at him.

He points to the images on his computer screen.  “Is this what you want?” he asks.

I can only shake my head, shrug, nod, all at once.  “I know it looks bad.”

“I think it looks hot,” he says.

I am surprised. And somehow even more unsettled.  What is happening to us?

That night when we get in bed, we are both in an agitated, over-excited state.  He reaches over in the dark to put his hand around my neck like in the images I showed him.  He squeezes tightly.  And after the first instinctual moment of fear, my brain goes smooth and flat and peaceful in a submissive “yes.”

I have just learned what a submissive trigger is.  Now I know how a female lion feels when a male clamps his teeth on her neck so he can mount her.  I know why she looks so hypnotized, so sedated.

Michael is breathing hard as he lets go.  “How did that feel?”

“I loved that.”  I turn to press my face into his neck. “But doesn’t doing that seem disturbing to you?”

He laughs low.  “It should.  But it doesn’t.  It just gets me hot.”

He then puts his arms around me, tells me in no uncertain terms that he is very comfortable taking ownership of my sexual will, that it feels good and right for him to dominate me.  I grab onto his hand and kiss it in gratitude.  My questions fade away, and I fall asleep happy.

Putting Sexual Submission to the Test

It is still deep dark and I sleeping soundly when I feel a hand wrap around my ankle and pull my legs apart, and I wake up to him looming over me, shoving his hard cock inside me.  I am startled.  Okay, now here is a true test of how submission really feels to me.  I have no time, no chance, to tell myself a story or fool myself about it.  Surprised awake, my true feeling is all right here, immediate, unfiltered.

And what do you know, I feel nothing but acceptance of what is happening.  I would have expected at least annoyance at being awakened from such a nice sleep, but no, I just let go into whatever Michael wants to do to.  It isn’t about me, or how I feel, or my arousal.  It’s simply lying here in sweet peace while my husband pleasures himself with my body.  And he is clearly feeling pleasure; in fact, he is working himself into a frenzy, fucking me hard, penetrating me to the core with hard relentless thrusts.  I lie beneath him, still and yielding, as if asleep.  Oh, it is lovely to feel this no-static peace, to feel my excitement slowly building, to revel soundlessly in the lust and love he pours all over me.

His mouth swoops down onto my neck, my breasts, kissing, biting my nipples.  It hurts, and I feel a struggle rising in my mind to lie still, to not resist, to not stop slap him off and say, “Too rough!”  He starts working his way down my belly, biting, like an animal devouring me; I don’t like my belly touched; I am self-conscious; he knows that, and I am tightening up more now, the word “no” starting to form itself.  Then again, I remember, I am submissive now, I have no choice, just allow, allow…  I let go into the “yes” and then whoosh, a powerful jolt of electricity shoots through me.  Suddenly I am thrilled by the little pulls of pain and over-stimulation, thrilled by the feeling of animal wildness in him.  And I am aroused even more by the uncertainty of what he might do to me, and knowing that I trust him anyway.

My trust in him is an alive thing now, flexible, accommodating, my “yes” repeating itself in my head, my body taking up its beat, yes, yes, hurt me, take me over the edge of what I can stand, please use me, dissolve my will completely…  His orgasm is loud, convulsive, I feel its echo inside me.  I feel elated by this glimpse of wildness in both of us, the catharsis of it, and the calm that follows.  I curl against him like a cat, it feels as if my nerve-endings have been completely restrung, I am all but purring.

As he is getting dressed for work, I am mesmerized by him.  His eyes catch me and I can’t look away, he is a god to me, a magician, the master of my body.  I also feel a delicious vulnerability, knowing I will do anything for him, share any part of myself he wants to gain access.

He kisses me goodbye, and disappears out the door to the garage, and I just stand there in the hall for the longest time, transfixed by the spell he cast over me.  Then I am overcome by a strange need to cry, a combination of desperate helpless love and being overwhelmed with “too much.”  Too much sensation, too much soreness, too much exposed-ness, I don’t know what exactly.  After the frenzy, I crave to be still within myself, absorb everything that has happened.  I start toward the bedroom to lie down again, and feel I can barely walk.  We have had a lot of truly passionate and meaningful sex since we met.  But we have never had raw soul-scorching sex like this.