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.

How Becoming Daddy’s Submissive Girl Made Me Feel Safe – And Full of Lust

My life has become an erotic novel.

This morning, still full dark, the first thing I feel is a hand rubbing my back, then grabbing my breast.  My husband pulls me close to his warmth, then whispers to me that he wants me to kiss and suck and lick his body all over.  Which I do, without question.  He is my dominant, I am his submissive, and I will do anything he asks.  Anything.

I run my tongue over him, tell him he is delicious.  He tells me I am Daddy’s good girl.   And there is that word again, “Daddy.”  I cannot help but notice it still portends silliness to me.  I don’t know how he is saying it with a straight face.  Yet as we linger in bed, light starting to fill the windows, I find myself more and more happy to hear it, because I melt, I melt.  And when he says, “Daddy is going to slide inside you now,” I am grateful, yes Daddy, yes.

I keep saying the word in my mind as he fucks me, and somehow I feel myself connecting with my younger more innocent self.  A girl.  Yes, I feel like a treasured girl being taken care of by her powerful Daddy, and I feel joy bubble up in me, and I wrap my legs around him in delight.  Blog14Quote1This is new instinct for me, have I ever wrapped my legs so playfully around him during sex?  I don’t think so, but now I cling, a girl safe in her Daddy’s arms while he gives her thrusts of pleasure.  He holds me still, hand on my neck and I feel so taken, so transported.  Sex isn’t just sex anymore, it is a journey somehow, a journey through different layers of love.

Afterward, we lie together for a long while, he holds me so close, so gently, whispering I am good girl, he will always take care of me, and I feel as if I am being enfolded into some kind of cosmic protection. I have always felt loved by Michael, hugely, but this Daddy dimension gives the love a new heft and shape and sweetness.  A new sense of safety that is palpable – it wraps blanket-like around me, holds me, shields me.  Finally, I can drop my guard and just be.

All at once, I understand the nature of the difficulty I’ve felt in seeing him in the role of “Daddy,” even as I’ve been craving him to be that for me.  I had assumed it was because I was so accustomed to seeing him as Michael, my romantic partner, lover, boyfriend, new husband.  I’d thought it too difficult to reconfigure my image of him, or the way I relate to him.  But now I see it is less how I look at him than how I look at myself.  Or rather, it is about how I feel inside myself.  When I feel tired and middle-aged and guarded, looking out from cynical eyes, I cannot get in touch with the “girl” inside me, and thus, cannot relate to a Daddy figure.  But when I let go, drop my preconceptions of myself, step out from behind my defenses, then I am open, easy, just me-in-the-moment.  (I’m pretty sure this is what Buddhists call “beginner’s mind.”)  The barrier to seeing him as sweet Daddy dissolves away.  The word slips more easily out of my mouth.

From this different mindset, I am no longer a guarded woman carefully managing a relationship with a man, continually analyzing my feelings in reaction to his behavior, continually judging how the relationship going.  I am instead a carefree girl who effortlessly accepts her Daddy’s love as a given.  I get out of my head and into my body.  I laugh more easily.  I love more easily.

Hypnotic Love Dream

Later, after we have settled into the big easy chairs by the front window in the living room with mugs of coffee, I ask him to tell me how seeing himself as Daddy changes how he relates to me.

He tells me it is very powerful to feel protective over me.  He tells me that when I am curled up next to him, he loves the feeling that he has a cherished girl to take care of and please and show deep love for.  I smile and try to describe how it adds to the dimension of safety to me, how I feel like a carefree girl again…

Suddenly I become choked up, in tears.  It occurs to me this might be the first time in all my life I have known what a carefree girl feels like.  When I was young, I did not have a father around, my parents divorced when I was two.  My mother worked, she was an actress, and the house was full of people, actors and musicians and druggies, and it was all so unpredictable, I did not always feel safe.  I was known as a “serious” child, internally guarded, and I often remember feeling hard and cold and cut off from what was happening around me.  But now here is a Daddy for me, all love and warmth and protection, and I am overwhelmed at the gift he is giving me, the way he is opening the door to healing the child I was.

He sees me crying, says, “Come sit on my lap.”

I get up, and cross over to his chair, and for a moment I again feel the absurdity of a too-big middle-aged me plopping on his lap and being girlish.  But the moment is brief, banished by his sweetness, his tenderness.  I have never felt more exposed, and we look into each other’s eyes and kiss and kiss and feel so close.

He says, “Oh babygirl, you’re getting me excited.  You need to get on your knees and suck me.”

I laugh, and squirm off his lap to kneel in front of him.  The submissive position triggers that lovely trance, that liberating trance, that allows me to be fully in the moment.  I take him into my mouth and it is wonderful, my mouth full of his hard smoothness, I am crazy for this, in love with this.  I want his cock as far back in my throat as possible.  Blog14Quote2I kiss him everywhere, cuddle up to his pulsing cock as if it my favorite toy, feeling it hard and hot against my neck.  I worship him, and we are giddy.

Afterward he tells me he feels like he is living in a dream.  He is completely present, aware of everything.  We have no barrier between us anymore, I say, nothing between us, completely open and honest, everything revealed, allowed, safe.  The feeling of acceptance is extraordinary, hot, and so sexually charged.

For the next hour, as he cooks us omelets for breakfast, we cannot look away from each other.  We find ourselves just standing staring at each other, walking around the kitchen, eyes caught.  My chest feels swollen with warmth, with love.

We go for a walk by the lake, the water is deep blue in the sun, the hills around are eye-watering green.  We go down a trail through an idyllic countryside on this cool sunny day.   Butterflies flit ahead in the path, delicate yellow and purple wildflowers bloom alongside.

“This is the land of milk and honey,” he says.

We stop in the dappled shade of a tree to kiss, and kiss, mouths wide open, licking each other’s tongues.  I lean against him, head tilted back, everything glows.  This connection we are feeling, we are sure no one else in the world has ever experienced it.

“Can you see the hunger in my eyes for you?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.  “Can you see the adoration in mine?”

He smiles.  “I can’t help but see it.”

I turn to keep walking, and look back and he is standing, not moving, eyes closed.  “I’m soaking you in,” he says.

Later, we have a picnic on our back patio under the bare, kinked branches of the oaks.  Cheese and crackers and grapes.   He leans to stick a grape in my mouth, then slides his finger past my lips after it.  I sit on the patio, sucking on his finger to the beat of the throbbing between my legs.

I am living in an erotic novel.

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

Everybody Loves Raymond

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

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

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

Just Do It Anyway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How This Feminist Became a Sexually Submissive Wife

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

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

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

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

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

The Joys of Sexual Polarity

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

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

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

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

A Woman’s Right to Submit

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

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

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

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