On the Verge
Get down on your knees, he says when I walk in the door, and I laugh.
I laugh because this is the first time my husband has given me a sexual command, and it feels strange and unfamiliar to be told what to do. I laugh because it also feels like roleplay, and roleplay is silly, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pull it off. But I especially laugh because we have suddenly, unexpectedly, found ourselves on the verge of entering a Dominant/submissive relationship and I feel a bubbling kind of joy that he’s willing to give it a go.
But after I laugh, I obey. I get down on my knees, and I suck on his cock while he sips his drink, my first blow job on command. It feels both momentous and not so different than any blow job. No, wait, there is something different. For once I don’t have to analyze whether I am in the mood to do it or not, or wonder whether he wants it or not. I just do it, and keep doing it, until he tells me to stop, no thought required, pure in-the-moment physicality. It is a relief, and I feel good about it, feel good about his moans of pleasure, his enthusiastic kisses afterward.
It makes us feel close, and puts me in a nice frame of mind as I go to the kitchen to make dinner. He pours me a drink, and we talk while I cook. We ask each other, are we really going to do this? Are we really going to give a Dominant/submissive relationship a try? The desire seems to have sprung from nowhere; neither of us can recall longstanding urges or fantasies about such a thing. Even my step-daddy spanking fantasy was more about the being stimulated from the sting-y hot spanking rather than the submitting.
Later, I will find clues in my past that I’m primed to respond well to a dominant man. But up until this past week, I felt perfectly happy with the egalitarian relationship of sexual equals between Michael and me. Make that more than happy, I was thrilled with our sexual relationship, and more fulfilled than I’d ever been. So why try to introduce what seems to be such a backwards, caveman thing into our seemingly perfect union?
As I go through the motions of cooking, turning back and forth from stove to the granite-topped island where Michael sits on a tall stool, I ask him this. Why do you think we’re we so compelled to conduct our sexual life like this now? We arrive at the same conclusion: Once one finds a safe place to be honest one’s deepest desires, the truth about what feels good and right will rise to the surface and spill out. And on this day, it feels good and right to me to offer him my submission. I am happy that he is so enthusiastic about accepting it, although I half-believe he is doing it to make me happy.
“You just have to tell me what days you’re in that kind of mood,” he says.
I give him a half-smile as I load salmon and rice onto our plates. “The whole point is not to have to consult my mood. The whole point is for you to take whatever you want, whenever you want.”
“So you’re saying every day,” he says.
“I’d guess that’s the only way it works.”
He nods seriously. “Every day then. You’ll submit to me.”
I nod seriously in return. “I will submit to you.”
We gaze at each other, then both laugh as we carry our plates to the table. I wonder, even if we try to do this seriously, how will it ever not feel like a game?
I am about to find out.
After dinner, I head into the den to sit on the couch, and my rear has barely touched the cushion when Michael says, “Take off your pants.”
I don’t feel quite ready for sexual intensity yet, would really like a few minutes to exhale, relax. But then I remember, it doesn’t matter what I want. And that in itself stops my inner dialogue. My mind goes quiet. I take off my pants.
He bodily grabs me, throwing me off balance and puts me across his lap. He pulls down my panties, spanks me sharp and hard, spreading fire over my behind. Oh it is so sweet hot. He parts my legs, then once again he works his magic with his fingers moving deep in my pussy, he is wickedly expert at this now, knows exactly how to bring me to a fever pitch of grunting moaning excitement. No choice, no choice, my mind chants in a hypnotizing mantra that makes me let go even further. I feel the whole of me opening, being soothed and healed. By the time he is finished, I am gasping for air, dizzy.
He tells me to turn over, and I lay beneath him on the couch, gazing up at him, feeling warm/hot/full everywhere, as he lowers himself on top of me. He shoves his hard, hard cock into my inflamed, engorged pussy, and pounds me – passionate, aggressive, demanding, fucking me hard, looking right into my eyes.
“You’re mine,” he growls as he fucks me. “This pussy is mine.”
He grabs my leg and hauls it up over his shoulder, spreading me wider for him. I allow, let go, and his eyes, his manner, are so full of possession, I do feel owned, I feel it viscerally, to my core. I have never felt anything like this primal surrender of my body up to my lover, this intense opening, no resistance. And as he thrusts into me, repeating the word, “Mine, mine, mine,” I drop away, it is profound, I am just gone, like I imagine the sea recedes before a tidal surge, I feel the wave gathering, building…
It breaks, I feel a whoosh of electric heat shoot up straight through my groin, so piercing it shoots up through my belly into my chest. I feel full of heat, the most golden light, I am incandescent with love, and overwhelmed with this exploding pleasure… It was not an orgasm, it was something else entirely, and for a moment I feel like my heart has stopped, I am sure I am dying, killed by ecstasy.
When he is done, and I finally fall back into myself, I am babbling and incoherent, can barely breathe. I come up off the couch, wobble into the bathroom, and I sit down on the toilet in the dark. I am trembling, laughing and crying all at once, literally shaken to the core. And I have the very clear thought, “This is who I am. I am submissive. And I am his.”
This is a stunning revelation to me, not because I didn’t know the idea turned me on, but because it felt like such a strong and irrevocable sexual identity. Who I thought I was no longer feels true; my entire sense of self and my relation to my husband has transformed in an instant. It feels like a religious conversion, a spiritual realization that will somehow save my soul.
I know that when my mind calms down, I will have a hundred questions to work through. But I also feel certain that however my understanding of what is happening evolves, I will never doubt the hot truth about myself that just shot through me on the couch with my husband.
I repeat it to Michael when I get back to him. “I’m a submissive. You’re my dominant.”
“Yes, baby,” he says, and the religious feeling comes over me again. I feel enthralled with him, humbled as if the presence of a holy being. It reduces me and I start to cry, really cry, with this sort of happily hysterical laughing edge. He holds me throughout, his arms are strong and tender, and I feel so known and safe and cared for. I apologize for crying, but what else can a girl do when her whole mind-body-self, her whole life, has just been broken open?
Later, in the bedroom, as we hold on to each other, I try to explain how it felt almost like the very first time we made love. After our first naked encounter a year earlier, I’d told him in a long, heartfelt letter that it felt like my heart had, for the first time in my life, unlocked itself. You, I wrote, hold the key to my heart. Now I know he holds still another a key, the key to my body, which is somehow a key that also unlocks my soul. This sounds over the top even to me, and I know I sound scattered as I talk to him about it, I am feeling things I don’t know how to understand or put in words yet.
He falls asleep, one hand possessively holding my breast. But I am awake for a long while, feeling at least one certainty sinking into me: There is falling in love – and it is amazing – but there is something even more profound than that exchange of feeling, and that is the exchange of sexual power. I am suddenly, and thrillingly, aware of the vast difference between belonging with someone, and belonging to someone. I cover his hand over my breast, loving the weight of it, loving him, the man who holds my keys.