Submissive Holy Grail; Opening for Daddy

Daddy finally – finally! – gets his cock in my ass.  For an actual minute.  I’ve already spent an hour face down across his lap with him spanking me and playing with my holes and sticking progressively larger butt plugs in me.  They are the soft, more flexible ones that aren’t so rough on delicate tissues.  First the medium sized one, oh hurts a little, but I think I like it.

I lay there on his lap, cheek pressed against the couch cushion, soaking in the feel of ultimate penetration.  He eventually pulls it out, and I think he’s done.

No, he says, Daddy’s gonna slide the biggest one in, babygirl.

I brace myself, struggling to relax into it as I feel him push the large plug into me, stretching me…  Well, kind of odd and uncomfortable, but… not bad.  I got on my knees on the floor with the big one in me to suck on his cock, oh I felt so full.  And so owned.

There is such sweetness in offering up my ass to whatever he wants to do to me, whether it hurts or not.  And now, he tells me, what he wants is to get his cock in there.  I swallow thickly, worried.  I am already sore from the plugs, don’t feel ready.  But whatever Daddy wants, Daddy gets.  And so I get on all fours on the couch, grip onto the arm, and he shoves his way in.

It hurts.  A lot.  Jagged little streaks of pain.  An unnatural invasion so it seems.  But I can take it.  I like taking it.  I like the rude visceral surprise of it.  I breathe, breathe, as he moves around just a little bit.  Then he’s pulling it out.  I am almost disappointed it was so brief.

But it feels like a triumph.  We are both incredibly turned on by it, and when I get up off the couch, he comes after me, backs me up against the wall of the hall afterward and kisses me and yanks on my nipple until I come.

Afterward, we go out dancing, have a blast, so high on each other, so crazy in love.  We come home and feel asleep in each other’s arms on the couch…

This morning he tells all he can think about is doing me in the ass.  “It’s a huge domination high,” he says.  “I want to try again.  Go wash up.”

I want this, too, but my hole is sore from the breach of my behind last night.  Do I tell him I can’t?  The thought makes me want to cry.

My ass is the last part of me that has not cooperated in submission.  Oh, my pussy is completely conquered, it opens for him, welcomes him, craves him, wants him, comes for him.  My pussy is a willing slave.  But my ass, it doesn’t want to give, still a gate that wants to stay locked, stopping me from giving him everything.  I resent my ass its resistance.  Blog33Quote1I look at our collection of butt plugs as the tools to open the gate, I crave to have him put them inside me, train me open, to take him.  I sometimes think about putting them in myself, try force myself to open for Daddy.

That’s the phrase I use in my head, “Open for Daddy.”  I first encountered it on a submissive wives blog a week or so ago, where a woman posted her despair because she couldn’t withstand the anal sex her dominant wanted.  This other woman talked about how painful anal was for her at first, but eventually he trained her with many hours of butt plug wearing.  Now, she wrote, “I keep my ass lubed all the time so master can use it for his pleasure whenever he feels like it.  Now it always opens for him real nice.”

I have been taken by this idea.  And I am now determined that my ass should open for Daddy.  So I go wash up, make myself clean.

But when I go back into the bedroom, my fear is still nipping at me. I crawl on top of Michael, bury my face into his neck and tell him so.  I’m afraid I can’t take it.

Don’t worry, he says, I’ll get you ready.

And so, as I lay there on his warm chest, breathing into his neck, he reaches down, starts stroking my behind, he pulls one of my knees up, pries one cheeks open… and oh God, the way he touches me.  Stroking the edges of the hole, slow, soothing, gentle, relaxing knowing.  He slides one finger, then two fingers inside me, oh so gentle and yet with all this skill and familiarity, gently stretching me wider.

I completely allowed and relaxed and it changed the sensation for me, not painful anymore, but this aching deep pleasure that was so unexpected.  Up until now, any time he touched me there was a sort of hot turned-on, pain-pleasure sensation.  To have it become pure melting pleasure, radiating pleasure, and no pain whatsoever, well the world turned upside down.  I felt as if everything I previously knew about myself was wrong, my whole body had been transformed.  And Daddy the man who transformed me.

I had come to believe my true self was located inside my pussy, that sacred spot, and I think that is still true.  I have sometimes felt very aware of it being the literal spot where my soul meets flesh, and I still feel it is the seat of my soul, and the opening to my heart.  Blog33Quote2Oh but it is not the seat of my body, that is in my ass, my bodily self begins there, I never knew that before this moment, never felt it so palpably directly touched and moved… Daddy has found the physical me in a way I have never been found or known before, and I want more.

I am gasping on his chest, waiting for him to tell me it’s time, time to turn over so he can enter me.  But he doesn’t do that.  Instead, he kisses me, says, “I’m going to give you more time to be ready.”

I groan, then roll off him, laughing.  Hoist by my own petard.  I don’t know if he’s decided to wait to be kind to me, or if he’s not ready yet himself.  I think of him as all-knowing and powerful, but the truth is, he has zero experience in ass fucking, maybe he’s not that confident.

But whatever the reason, that’s the last time I’ll tell him I’m afraid to take it.

 

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.”

Who Likes It Rough?

This afternoon I find myself in a jagged mood for no reason.  Some sort of hormonal anger where I feel like throwing things (do throw things, my hairbrush, my sandal, go bouncing off the couch).  I send Michael a message that I won’t be there when he gets home from work, I’m headed to get a drink at the bar round the corner as I’m in no mood to be submissive tonight.  I add that the only way he’d get me to submit would be to wrestle me into it.  I write it like a joke, but I am actually issuing a challenge.  I’m craving the peace of submission to calm my feeling of aggression and secretly hoping he will wrestle me into it.

But he gets home before I can get out the door, and he can see the challenge in my face.  My husband rises to the occasion, and says, “Discipline must be maintained, on your knees.”

I feel a flare of “You jerk, I just told you I’m having a hard day.”  But then I get on my knees and suck his cock, with pleasure, but also with a toothy roughness.

His makes a noise of alarm and I look up at him and smile.  “Am I scaring you?”

He laughs uncomfortably.  “You’re scaring the hell out of me.  That’s enough.”

I admit, I’m satisfied he didn’t let me slip out of submitting to him, which I tell him later at the bar.  We drink and eat and laugh, and by the end of dinner, my jagged mood has subsided.  But still, the idea of him wrestling me into submission has taken hold of me.  And when we get home and he says he’s going to tie a breast harness onto me, I say, “Make me.”

And so begins a wrestling match, me pushing him away and letting my momentary rebellion free.  It is delightful.  And quick.  He subdues me oh so easily, holds me down with a grip like granite, any attempt to move is impossible.  He is stronger than I imagined and it is thrilling to me, I am dazzled by his strength.  Blog24Quote1I somehow thought that if ever a man was determined to have his way with me, I’d be able to fight like hell and be able to free myself.  But now I know this is an illusion.  Until this moment, I honestly did not realize men intrinsically had such raw power over me.  For the first time I understand how consciously gentle most men are with their women, which is touching and thrilling on a whole other level.

Now I am feeling wonderfully subdued and ready to submit as he ties me in a breast harness.  He tells me he is going to spank me, and me, half-drunk from our time at the bar, I say,  “And then what will you do to me?”

He says, “Nothing.  We’re taking a sex break because yesterday you said you’re getting too sore.”

My excitement deflates.  “Who cares what I said yesterday?  You’re just going to spank me and get me all hot and bothered and then nothing?”

“That’s right,” he says.

My jagged anger rushes back with a vengeance, and I’m maybe more than half drunk because I start ripping the clawing at the harness, trying to get it off.  “Well, then you can’t spank me.”

“Don’t take that off,” he says firmly.

I yank my arm away. “How dare you tell me I’m too sore!  I’m the only one who knows if I’m too sore!  You can’t tell me how I feel!”

Then he starts yelling, too.  “Don’t take that off!  I’m the Daddy!”

One might think this is where we’d laugh at how absurd this moment.  But no.  I just keep yelling.  “Not even my Daddy can tell me how I feel!”

I am unwinding the rope now.  He sits down and tells me I am topping from the bottom.   I snort, “Oh horrible me, just wanting you to fuck me.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m not about to get aroused now.”

“Oh thanks, now I’m an erection killer.”  Then I storm off to the bedroom.

I throw myself on our bed.  And that’s when the absurdity hits me.  I am a silly person.  I am also a terrible submissive.  He comes in and I apologize, and we finally laugh at ourselves then, at our drunken brawl.

Feeling a little better, we lie there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.  “Are we going to just go to bed now?” I ask.

He says no.  He sits up against the headboard, tells me to lie across his lap.  I start to crawl over to him, talking as I lay myself across his lap, “Yeah, but are you doing this because you think I want you to?  Is this me topping from the bottom?”

He doesn’t say anything, just roughly drags my panties down.  His hand came down on my ass with a resounding smack, shockingly hard, blistering hot.  My questioning mind shuts off.  He delivers ten spanks that leave me gasping and squirming in pain.  Blog24Quote2I barely have to time to catch my breath before he flips me over and holds my face down against the mattress.  He kneels over me and shoves his cock into my mouth.  He fucks my mouth hard, cock filling my throat until I can barely breathe.  I cannot move, cannot do anything but lie there, relaxed, an empty accepting sexual receptacle.

I am vaguely aware that if anyone else ever treated me like this, it would be appalling, traumatic.  But because it is him, because I have surrendered, and am making my surrender literal.  My mouth yields, my mind smooths out, calm, while my body fills with blood and heat.  Being fucked rough and rude by my husband is a primal thrill that satisfies like nothing else, like scratching a deep itch I didn’t even know I had.  And oh I get off, I get off …

My Submissive Frenzy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Handmaid’s Tale, Bill O’Reilly and the “Stages” of Sexual Submission

The first half of 2017 is not an auspicious time to start a blog on sexual submission.  Maybe a few years ago, thanks to the success of the 50 Shades of Grey series of books and movies, my story of sexually submitting to my husband would have fit the cultural moment.  But since Donald Trump exploded on the national scene and traumatized American womankind with his unapologetic pussy-grabbing ways, there has been a mass cultural outcry against any kind of suggestion that women be treated as sexual objects.

Since Trump’s winning campaign, I have run across story after story online written by women describing their histories of sexual abuse by men who feel themselves entitled to their bodies.  And since his election, women have been knitting themselves pink “pussy hats,” and marching in city after city to protect their rights.  Meanwhile, one of the most buzzed about shows that have premiered on TV lately is The Handmaid’s Tale in which society literally takes ownership of women’s bodies for the sexual/procreative use of the most powerful men in the community.  And last month, conservative blowhard Bill O’Reilly followed Roger Ailes out the door at Fox News due to his serial sexual harassment of female coworkers.

I look at this cultural landscape and wonder what has possessed me to publicly write about my decision to become sexually submissive to my husband.  I often feel my own mother’s ghost – proud sex-positive woman that she was – rolling over in her symbolic grave that I am so idiotic as to hand my sexual agency over to a man and then brag about itBlog18Quote1And I frequently squirm from the waves of disapproval I imagine coming at me from countless feminists – past, present and future – not to mention the appalled feminist in my own head.

I know the treatment of girls women as sexual objects is very real, and very harmful, not just in America, but especially other countries where such views are sometimes enshrined into actual law.  But perhaps it is because I am experiencing the joys of submission at the worst possible time in Western culture that it is important to write about it.  What is happening in the news sets the best possible stage to make a distinction between the abusive and dehumanizing sexual domination of women, and a loving kind of sexual domination that elevates a woman, and creates a path for deeper union.  Michael and I have strongly felt the distinction since embarking on our spontaneous D/s journey, but it took reading the work of David Deida for us to fully understand it.

In his books, Deida describes three stages of how men and women relate to each other.

Stage One is the “Dependent” Stage, where each person needs something from the other, the “traditional” relationship in which the man is dominant in all things and trades his protection of a woman for sexual favors and the care of his children.  In a Stage One relationship, the man is king of his castle, and may keep his woman under control with threats of violence or financial deprivation.  In a Stage One relationship, a woman’s right to sexual consent is meaningless as she is in no way a man’s equal, nor even really a whole person to him.  This is old school sexual domination, and that is what Trump and O’Reilly embody with their reigns of sexual intimidation, and what The Handmaid’s Tale portrays.

A Stage Two relationship is 50/50, and this is the kind of equal relationship most “enlightened” people strive for today.  Each partner is independent, respected, with equal voice in all matters including sexual.  This kind of relationship is the goal of feminist efforts, and is now the model for the way we understand relationships “should” be.  But while this is a vast improvement over a Stage One relationship (and a necessary step along the way), there is an inherent flaw in the 50/50 relationship.  All that equality mutes sexual polarity.  Without two partners fully inhabiting the masculine and feminine poles, there is no more magnetic force, no more pull, and passion fades.

“Second stage men,” Deida writes, “are so devoted to their inner balance they are afraid to sweep a woman off her feet with the kind of uncompromising love that could fill her deepest desire for intimacy.  Meanwhile, a second stage woman is afraid to give a man the kind of devotional love that wants to overflow from her heart.  Both are cautious not to let go of their own boundaries or to trespass beyond the emotional boundaries of their partner.”

True, both partners in Stage Two are safe, but a feeling of flatness can pervade the relationship – and eventually, dissatisfaction.  “A second stage woman may come to realize her heart is still yearning,” Deida continues.  “A second stage man is safe but not sufficient to pierce the deepest caverns of her heart – at the very center of her life, something is missing.”

So, what is a woman to do to become fulfilled in a relationship?  Move beyond such stringent equality.  Or, at least that’s how I interpret what Deida writes next.  “She must be sucked through the black hole of her need before she can emerge like a butterfly with wings of love.  The third stage woman no longer searches for love, but rather breathes love, relaxes in love and radiates love.”

The third stage woman doesn’t feel the need to be adamant about maintaining her personal identity, he adds.  Since she already knows that she is love, she simply practices giving love, moment to moment, in the ecstasy of surrender.  Her identity is not derived from her man (first stage dependence), nor from herself (second stage equality).  “Her need for self-identity is virtually gone, so bright is the shine of her love.”

Oh yes, I think as I read these words in Intimate Communion.  My identity has indeed been swallowed up these last days of D/s discovery, surrendered along with my body to my husband’s masculine will.  And I do feel myself shining brightly with love.  I feel incandescent with it.

Of course, Deida does not once mention the phrase “dominance and submission” in his book.  He speaks more coyly, in terms of a man “taking” or “ravishing” his woman, without saying what that might look like.  And I doubt that the practices of many in the BDSM community would fit his description of a transcendent Stage Three Relationship.  Clearly, many BDSM relationships sit somewhere between Stage One, with its literal master/slave relationships, or Stage Two, with its more consensual framework of negotiated boundaries and safewords.

Naturally, I like to think that Michael and I are practicing the more evolved version of D/s.  I know I’ve found my inner experience of what is happening with us reflected in Deida’s book.  And although it will be months before I fully understand that the practice of D/s is not the destination, but a vehicle for a journey, I already have an inkling that my preoccupation with things like training and triggers and maintaining subspace is beside the point.  The point is intimate communion with each other, and the opening to love.

But understanding the distinction between Deida’s Stage One male dominance which dehumanizes women and creates an ugly rape culture and Stage Three masculine dominance that celebrates women and creates shining love is a huge gift to me.  Blog18Quote2It is a salve to the shame and guilt stirred up by the feminist chatter in my head that I am breaking the rules by sexually submitting to my husband.  After all, the feminist rules were designed to take women into Stage Two 50/50 relationships, which is a vital evolutionary leap in the way men and women relate to each other.  Unfortunately, Stage Two 50/50 is also the stage where passion goes to die.

Michael and I, we are being driven to find our way to ecstatic Stage Three, and I am grateful to Deida for describing it for us.  I no longer have to feel that I am somehow going “backwards” when I allow my husband to do what he wills to my body.  Now, I can feel that we are moving together into a more evolved sexuality, where my alignment with my feminine nature calls forth his masculine self to ravish me.  Oh, and what heaven it is to be ravished by him …

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.