Pussy Galore; Or, Why Do I Want to be His Sexual Object?

The other night as I headed into our bedroom, I found my darling Daddy Husband watching the James Bond movie, Live and Let Die.  Like many men, he loves watching the obviously dominant James Bond seduce sexy women into submission.  As I looked at the screen, I said something about how young Jane Seymour was in that movie – a little young for the much older Roger Moore, I thought.

Michael said “Who, you mean Pussy Galore?”

“That’s not Pussy Galore,” I said.  “That’s not her name.”  (For the record, Jane Seymour played Solitaire.)

“They’re all Pussy Galore to me,” he said.

I felt a flash of knee-jerk anger, which I hid behind a laugh.  “Really?” I asked.  “You watch all these Bond movies, and can’t be bothered to learn their names?  All those women, they’re all basically just pussy to you?”

He tilted his head back and forth, which I interpreted to mean, Yeah, pretty much.

I felt myself filling up with a righteous rant, but before I could speak the first word, I realized how silly it would be to blame him for looking at women as sexual objects when I have openly encouraged him to treat me as one.  As in, I literally do not want him to seek my consent, but treat me as a sexual object for his gratification.

He has taken me up on this with great enthusiasm over many months now.  A few weeks ago, he told me how much he enjoyed grabbing my head and forcing my mouth down on his cock to his preferred rhythm.  “It’s like you’re not even there,” he said.  “It feels like the essence of using you.”

I was thrilled to hear him say this; and at the same time disturbed to hear him say it.  I thought, If anyone hears you say that, we’ll be kicked out of civil society.

This is not an easy time to come to terms with my appetite for sexual surrender, let alone write about it in this blog.  In fact, I haven’t written about it for many weeks now as the year-long storm of media attention toward sexual harassers has reached a fever pitch.  Blog32Quote1It started last year with Donald Trump’s Access Hollywood tape about his zeal for pussy-grabbing, and has continued on through Roger Ailes and Bill O’Reilly losing their jobs for their own zeal.  And lately with Harvey Weinstein and others being outed as perverts who prey on women, I cannot go on Internet without running into one anguished tale after another.

Lately, when I sit down to write another detailed description of our latest D/s bedroom exploits, I feel myself freeze up with… I don’t know, some kind of guilt, or… Is it a feeling of complicity?  In writing about how much I crave objectification from my husband, I worry terribly I could be abetting the sexual harassers who seem to be making so many women miserable in the workplace and in their lives.

I can, of course, point out that I only desire to submit to my husband, not just any male who crosses my path.  I can point out, as every BDSM practitioner does, over and over, that the entire dynamic requires clearly stated consent. And I can point out that in exchange for my submission in the bedroom, my husband has become my fierce protector, and treats me with extraordinary care and respect in all other areas of our married life.  And I have no doubt that – despite his joke about Pussy Galore – he does not look at womenkind as nothing but a bunch of sexual receptacles.

But none of that would hide the fact that I really, really crave being a sexual object for him.  And that most of my life I have sometimes enjoyed the little frisson of energy that comes from being viewed as one by others.  I don’t know if that is primarily a biological urge (certainly sexual attractiveness must have played a big part in our species’ survival through the imperative to procreate), or if I have been trained to it by the culture, or both.

What I do know is that after a wretched adolescence in which I was completely ignored by boys, I came to feel there was nothing so painful as being invisible to the opposite sex.  Since growing into my body, I have always dressed up for parties hoping to be flirted with and lusted after by other men.  I have gone home disappointed if that didn’t happen.  And I confess that I have often implicitly encouraged workplace sexual attention through laughter at inappropriate jokes and remarks, and even the acceptance of the odd groping here and there.  Rather than making me feel victimized, it somehow always made me feel like I was wielding power over these hapless men who could not control themselves around me.

I learned this attitude from a mother who dismissively waved away any idea of sexual attention as “bad.”  As a 12-year-old with brand new breasts, I’d been cornered by one of her friends in our bathroom, and grabbed and pulled tight against him.  I watched in the mirror as his face went slack and his hands roamed over my chest. When I told her about it, she didn’t get outraged.  She told me “boys will be boys,” that’s how they were, and I could expect some of them would try to get handsy with me.  She told me she’d warn him off, but that I might as well be “flattered” he found me attractive.  Oh, okay then.

Now, there have been times in my life when I have felt anger at my mother’s dismissal of what was clearly sexual abuse.  But most of the time I believe she did me a great favor, teaching me that I can interpret such events any way I choose.  And so, when I began working in a field where men far outnumbered women, I chose to not feel victimized or even uncomfortable, despite all manner of inappropriate words or actions.  Blog32Quote2I laughed a lot, made good friends, felt part of a team, and was generally known as “cool chick” for my lack of uptight censure of them.  Not that I didn’t sometimes pay a price for my tolerance of bad behavior.  When a male supervisor made up stories about getting me in the sack, those stories that were believed.  And if I had ever been raped, I suspect the consensus among at least some of my coworkers might have been that I had somehow asked for it with my easygoing attitude.

Would they have been right?  If a woman doesn’t set up hard boundaries against being cast in a sexual light, is she inviting abuse?  Worse, is she failing to protect all other women who have been — or might in the future be — grievously harmed by abuse?  Most of the commentary I see online lately is very black and white, as if the answers are obvious.  Women are victims and men are predatory pigs.  And when it comes to a true predator like Harvey Weinstein, and the women who suffered at his hands, a black-and-white picture is right and necessary.

But most of life unfolds in gray areas, and it strikes me as unhelpful to pretend otherwise.  The determination of where sexual power lies, at least since the sexual revolution, is not at all black and white, but murky, and fraught, and complex.  Men have generally struck me as beggars for sex, made biologically desperate by their stronger need, and sometimes sadly comical in the way they will bow and scrape in order to “get some.”  I’ve seen plentiful signs that many men resent their lack of power in the sexual arena, and so when they find themselves in a position of power in the workplace, some are clearly willing to use that power toward a sexual end.  A few even make criminals of themselves.  But I think it’s fair to recognize that men can be confused by mixed signals, such as the way women dress to invite sexual admiration – a point which fashion designer Donna Karan recently made and was immediately punished for in the court of public opinion.

But of course, women are beggars for power where they can get it, and sexual power is easier to come by than any other.  We like to blame the culture for making women into sexual objects, but no one forces girls to put on short skirts, or show off our cleavage, in order to invite the male gaze.  We do it, I believe, because it makes us feel a certain kind of power.  And certainly, many men must have also found that while some women are offended by workplace sexual attention, others overtly welcome it.  Or even if they don’t actively court it, many are willing to brush it off without being unduly disturbed.

Just this week in The Atlantic, a writer talks about working for years with a magazine editor who was well-known for his sexually inappropriate manner with the women who worked under him.  She tolerated it without too much trouble it seems, and even felt fortunate to be working with him for other reasons.  But now she – and other women who also worked there – regrets that tolerance.  She writes that many of them are feeling “guilt-ridden” and complicit, “for not having been stronger or braver; for not having stood up for themselves and demanding more respect.”  Why didn’t they?  Because, she says, it was “complicated.”  Meaning, it wasn’t a black-and-white situation, it was gray.

I have read again and again that we are no longer supposed to say, “boys will be boys,” and give them a pass for bad behavior.  This has been important in dealing with black-and-white crimes, but it has been disastrous in the gray areas we navigate every day.  I worry we have taught ourselves and our daughters to feel traumatized by any and all sexual attention, and at the same time, cast a net of shame over men for seeing women through a sexual lens.  A quick look at social media shows how many men feel angry and alienated from women because of it.  I think they instinctively know it’s not just a “men are assholes” problem, it is also a “women want it both ways” problem – and this blog reveals that.

And that’s where my guilt comes from, because I’m not supposed to admit it.  I’m not supposed to admit that I want to be wanted in a sexual sense by men just as much – if not more – as I want them to respect me for my work.  But, if we humans really are subject to a hierarchy of needs, as many psychologists suggest, then our biology-driven need for sexual regard and connection, however we define it for ourselves, is always going to be more urgent than other legitimate “higher” needs.  (Hence, the downfall of so many prominent figures because of tawdry sexual entanglements.)

From where I sit, one reason the problem of sexual harassment has become so charged is because we do not allow ourselves to tell this whole complex gray truth about it.  Perhaps that is why I am so drawn to, and so comforted by, sexual submission in my marriage.  I have always found peace and pleasure in understanding that boys will be boys, and being willing to relate to them on that level.  It feels simple and honest, everything out in the open.  My husband wants pussy galore, and I consent to let him have it and don’t make him feel badly for it.  I give my sexual power over to him, and finally oh finally, there are no more layers of confusion to get in the way, no more guilt, or resentment, or conflict between needs.  Just two bodies and raw sex.  Just sweet uncomplicated fucking.  And somehow from that flows the richest spring of love and respect I have ever known.

So… politically incorrect or not, I have decided I will keep writing about it.

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.

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.

Turning Off the Static; Or, the Peace of Sexual Submission

Electric Energy 

The morning after my “I am sexual submissive” revelation, I wake with new identity and a new body.  It doesn’t feel like the normal body I am accustomed to inhabiting, a body often numb and easy to ignore as I go about my day.  It has now been jolted awake by an influx of electric energy (thank you, sexual polarity) and hot blood.

As I lie under the blankets in bed and watch my husband button up his shirt with his talented fingers while gazing at me, I feel warm and heavy and full everywhere.  Blood is engorging me – between my legs, in my belly, my breasts – making my skin hot and sensitive to delicious waves of anticipation as I wait for my goodbye kiss.

We do not mention what happened the night before.  I’d think it was a dream if I didn’t feel so profoundly woke up.

After he leaves for work, I lift my unfamiliar body from the bed, and walk around the house trying to get used to the feeling.  I settle down with my coffee in the living room, staring out the window for a long while in a kind of half-smiling daze.  I do not see the twisty oak branches that stretch over the house across the street; I only see the sexual images dancing through my mind.

I finally open my laptop, and write Michael that I feel strangely exposed by the way he claimed me the night before.  I tell him he how he laid me bare, then gave me a new identity.

“I don’t know where this D/s path will lead,” I continue, “or what shape it will take or how far to push it.  I don’t even know for sure how you feel about it today. I just hope the dynamic is also good for you, and that you are willing to keep exploring in that direction.  I realized very powerfully last night that I don’t want it just to be a game or a role play.  I want to literally turn my body over to you, place myself in your wonderful loving hands.”

I do not do anything but wait, in that chair, until his response comes a few hours later:

Oh, make no mistake, our experiences were equally deep and profound.  I’ll admit that I didn’t know quite what to expect going in, .. a hot little sex game maybe, but ‘taking’ you on our couch last night was a true revelation, .. a dizzying, mind-bending, altered state revelation that somehow, impossibly, seemed to shift our soulmateship™ to another higher plane, .. I’ll never forget the ‘knowing’ expression in those eyes of yours as you gave yourself to me so completely.

I always thought of myself as a nice normal guy, sexually and otherwise, so last night was both thrilling and unsettling, .. I so ‘got off’ on the power dynamic, the absolute control, the incredible surge of sexual energy derived from ‘owning’ you, .. your blind obedience to my every request, .. I had no idea I would revel in that power so totally, didn’t know I had that ‘edge’ lurking inside, .. but there it is, undeniable, .. gets me so hard even now.  So, shake-off that “strangely exposed” feeling and know that you are well loved and safe and in exactly the right hands, .. you belong to me.

Sexual Smoke

After hearing back from him, I am galvanized.  We are in agreement, I am going to continue in submission, he is going to dominate me.  I am not just a new me, this is now an entirely new relationship, a new us.  I have given up control of it, of me, and together we are stepping into the unknown.  Suddenly, I have no idea what our evenings will be like now, all our familiar routines have gone up in a puff of sexual smoke.  I feel excited and anxious, barely able to stand the slow drag of time until he comes home.

That evening as it grows dark, I hear the rumble of his car pull into the garage and my heart leaps.  He comes through the door and I become jumpy and giggly, unsure how to act, how do submissive women act?  I don’t know the answer, and my uncertainty grows as he kisses me hello.  Is that who I really want to be?  Am I just kidding myself?  Is this just a stupid game?  Will it harm our lovely and kind relationship of mutual respect?

He can sense my disquiet as he kisses me hello.  He takes my hand and pulls me to the couch to sit and says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I lean onto his chest, spill out all my questions. He laughs as he listens, he is sweet and calm and confident.

“This feels right to me,” he says. “Does it feel right to you?”

I cannot deny that it does.  Beneath all the questions I cannot yet answer, there is no doubt this is what I want.

He tells me take off my pants.  My mind immediately calms, and I obey.  He tells me to open my legs.  I obey.  He shoves his fingers inside me again, stirs them around.  I lay there, allow, yes.

Again, I am amazed at how calming it is to just do what he tells me to do.  To simply obey is like throwing a switch that turns off the tension around sex in my mind, a tension I didn’t even know was there until now. I never realized how pervasively I have always felt mental “static” around sex, created by the constant analyzing of my own mind:  Am I in the mood?  Do I feel like doing it?  If he asks, should I say no or yes?  Will he feel hurt if I say no?  If I’m in the mood, should I initiate?  What if I initiate and he doesn’t want to?  What if I initiate and he can’t get it up, will I be responsible for making him feel bad about himself?  Is he going to initiate if he wants it, or have I made him reluctant with too many rejections?  How are we going to negotiate this transaction?  Such questions with uncertain answers generate non-stop mental noise and insecurity around what should be a simple loving act.

Now, I am finding that to just submit shuts down the questions, turns off the static.  I am released from the uncomfortable grip of my judging and analyzing mind, released into mindless obedience, released into peace, into pleasure. Turns out a submissive woman doesn’t have to act a certain way at all; submissive women is able to just be.

Later, as we lie pressed tight together in bed, we talk about how all this seems too good to be true.  It is such a radical departure from the rules both of us have always followed about consensual sex.  It feels like some referee is going to come in and yell foul, or send us off to be punished.

But no, we are making are own rules now, following our instincts, following love, following peace.

“I can do anything I want to you,” he says with a tone of wonder.

“You can do anything you want,” I repeat.

It feels like we have an amazing secret that wraps us in a warm, protected bubble as we fall asleep.  Yes, this feels right to me.  Yes, yes, yes

The First Time I Told My Husband My Fantasy About Sexual Submission

We had been married five days the first time my husband spanked me.   I don’t know what it was about the marriage license that made me feel safe – or emboldened – enough to tell him about my longtime fantasy about being turned over a man’s knee and spanked.  But in the open space of peace that followed our legal union, on our first Friday night together as a married couple, I sat with him on the couch in our den, a glass of whiskey cold in my hand and warm in my face, and said, “Maybe we should try role-playing.”

Michael, my husband, nodded seriously. “Maybe we should.”

Now this is a guy who, at the time I met him, I described to my sister as, “white bread and buttoned-up.”  As in, he wore boxy, dry-cleaned shirts buttoned up tight to the neck, with a white undershirt underneath.  As in, he parted his hair on the side and combed it down, like a kid from the Eisenhower era on Picture Day.  This is a guy who worked in the same corporate job for 30 years and had stayed faithful to his first wife, (who, like an Eisenhower wife, did not work), for nearly as long, despite only being offered missionary position on the sexual menu.  He called sex “making love,” never fucking; he called body parts by their proper clinical name, “penis” and “breasts.”

I think it would be fair to say that at his first scent of me, his buttons popped open.  Our first time alone in a room, he loomed assertively over me on the couch with a smoldering gaze and said, “I have to have you.”  Or something to that effect.  Then he proceeded to expertly take me.  I’d  never been taken that in such a confident, masculine way before. The experience was so moving, I cried.

In our first year together, 53-year-old Michael was like a man set free from sexual prison, game for anything.  Oh so game.  Underneath those boxy shirts I found a hard, muscular body, a Greek god kind of body, smooth, muscled, perfect.  His cock was big, continually hard, perfect.  I literally never saw it soft until months into our relationship.  (How old are you again? I’d laugh.)  We were hugely in love, hot physical love, and did it constantly, everywhere, in every position, as if we’d discovered this amazing thing called sex ourselves.  We quickly embraced toys, porn, naughty outfits, tie him up, tie me up – yes, we said, absolutely.  Tantric massage class that required him to get naked in a roomful of other naked men – sure, he said, why not?

Before our wedding, I happily and hornily played out whatever erotic scenario I thought a formerly sexually-deprived man might want, and never once felt anything was lacking.  But somehow, after our impulsive trip to Reno to tie the knot, I feel something new:  a long-hidden want, pushing up in my mind, ready to reveal itself.

But first, I describe for him where I felt this want came from.

How a Spanking Fantasy Was Born

“Okay, so one day when I was about twelve,” I begin, “I found my mother’s stash of porn magazines in her bedroom, and I was looking through them, getting pretty aroused.  Then my stepfather walked in and caught me.”

I let that sit for a beat.   “Go on,” says my husband.

“Well, I remember having this flash of thought at the time, Oh no, he’s going to spank me.  Even though I was too old, and he no longer spanked me anymore, the idea gave me a visceral jolt of heat.  And when he didn’t spank me, just sent me out of the room, I felt… disappointed.”

“Interesting,” says my husband.

“So, I’ve had this fantasy ever since, about being spanked by my stepfather.  And not just spanked.  More than that. After he spanks me, he…”  I can barely say it.   But I do.  “Then he, um, fondles me.”

I can’t believe I’ve confessed this.  Not the fantasy aspect of it exactly, it is probably benign enough to admit to enjoying the idea of being spanked and manhandled.  It is even trendy lately, with the movie version of 50 Shades of Grey about to come out the following weekend.

But to role-play a father figure molesting me, and physically act it out?  Well that feels like a different thing – politically incorrect – insulting to actual victims of molestation.  And by asking him to imagine himself as a father figure violating his stepdaughter, well that feels like pushing him to place himself in the “pervert” category.  I know by now my new husband is not at all buttoned up like I first thought, but I also know he is a highly moral person as well.

But now I have opened that door, and I keep talking.

“So if we do this role-play thing, I could pretend to be a kid watching a porn movie, and you could pretend to be my stepfather who comes home and catches me.  And you make me lay over your lap so you can pull my panties down and spank me…  Then you feel bad, and so you try to make it all better by putting your fingers inside me.”

I wait for a response, excruciating heat (is it shame?) now burning down my neck.

My husband’s face is still serious as can be.  “I could do that.”

“Really?  You really want to do that?”

Now there is a hint of smile at the corner of his mouth, a kind of ironic smirk that I find incredibly sexy.   “Yes baby,” he says.  “I really want to do that.”

Now I talk faster, letting my entire fantasy, and all its details, spill out.  “You feel bad because you realize I am just curious about sex.  So you want to satisfy my curiosity and show me how it feels to be touched ‘down there.’  You’ll do that while I lay face down on your lap with my panties down around my knees, and I’m unable to move.   And you are going to tell me I have to be still, that I can’t tell anyone, it’s going to be our secret.”

He considers this a moment.  “Now you’re turning me on.”

This seems too good to be true, that my twisted little private fantasy might also appeal to him. “You’re not just saying that?”

He takes my hand, places it over the erection pushing against his jeans.

I jump up, energized, I am giggling, breathless.   I gulp more whiskey, tell him I’m going to go change, can he please put a porn DVD in the player?  Then I will come back into the living room, and he will give me a few minutes to watch the movie, then pretend to be “Daddy” coming home and catching me.

I go in the bedroom, change into a little, black dress that no 12-year-old girl would wear, but it’s the only dress I have.  I am excited and embarrassed all at once, this is ridiculous, I know.  But we are going to do something we have never done before.

I Finally Get Spanked 

I go into the dim living room, sit on the couch, and wait, impatient.  I am not even slightly interested in the bad porn playing on the DVD.  I hear him come in.  Michael gasps in mock outrage, “What are you doing!”

I have never seen him try be an actor before, and he looks so earnest and serious.  I try to sound earnest, as well.  “Oh no, I just turned on the TV and this was on, I swear!”

Then he stands there as if not sure what to do next, and how can I take all this seriously?  I bust out laughing.  I think he will laugh with me, but he doesn’t.  “What?  Did I say something wrong?”

I wave a hand.  “Sorry, sorry, no, I can’t help it.  I’ll get it.  Go back and start again.”

He goes back out of the room, and this time, when he catches me watching porn, I give a more worthy performance.  “I didn’t put it on, it came on by itself, I swear, Daddy!”

He tells me I’ve been bad, he is going to turn me over his knee.  He sits on the couch, pats his lap.  I try to fake being sad, but I am can barely keep the laughter at bay as I drape myself over his lap, ass in the air.  He drags my skirt up, pulls my panties down, and I am hit with the feeling of true vulnerability beneath the silliness of it all.

Oh, this isn’t what I thought it would feel like.  I’d expected it to be hot and exciting, not embarrassing.  Then he spanks me while I fake cry, and well, that is kind of fun and different.  I do like the slight sting and the warmth it leaves behind, and I wish he’d have done it harder.  I feel both stimulated and disappointed, it doesn’t seem like he really has it in him to be a mean Daddy at all.

I lie there across his lap, waiting for the next part, the good part.  Even if this isn’t as exciting as I’d imagined, I am still entertained by our efforts.  He starts saying his lines – “You were just curious, weren’t you.  How’d you like it if I showed you how it feels to get excited?”

Well, I didn’t expect/want him to ask me, but I say, “Yes, please, Daddy.”

He starts stroking my bare behind.  Then again asks me, “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to pull your pants down now.”

Now I am irritated.  He’s not supposed to ask permission.  That spoils the fantasy of enjoying a forbidden touching.  I have the urge to complain, but here he is doing his best to deliver my fantasy, so I bite my tongue.

He lubes up two fingers and I feel him probing between my legs, I feel them push into my hole.  But it feels awkward, I am not really excited.  It is like being probed by a doctor.  He asks me if I like it, I don’t want to be asked, but I quickly say yes.   I lay there while he finishes playing the part, trying to focus on the porn still playing on the TV, trying to muster up some excitement, but secretly waiting for it to be over.  I am glad for the moment I can sit up and pull my panties back up.  That wasn’t hot at all.  I took that huge risk in revealing that secret fantasy for not a lot of reward.  Well, that’s not true, there is the reward of revealing something intimate about myself to the man I love and being accepted for it.  It is also a bonding thing to take a risk together, try something new.  There is also the burst of gratitude I feel that he has tried to grant me my fantasy.  What a generous man.

We have sex there on the couch, and it is sweet and I love him, and afterward we sit together to finish our drink, and we laugh at how hard it was to do that and not laugh.

“Although,” I say, “If there is ever a next time, I’d rather you spank me harder.  And not ask permission to put your fingers in me.  That sort of undermines the whole point.  I’m supposed to be helpless to prevent it.”

He nods, ahhhhh.  This is a revelatory thought for a man who prides himself on never being anything other than respectful of women.  “Okay, I’ll know for next time.”

But I don’t really expect there will be a next time.  The role-play was awkward, and lacking the excitement I’d expected.  That often seems to the way of indulging a fantasy, it never measures up to reality.  But isn’t that the whole point of fantasy?  To keep our desires safe and pure from messy, uncooperative reality?

I did, however, have a glimpse of what it felt like to be over Michael’s knee.  And I’d had some fun with it.  It just was not what I’d call a “hot.”

What I did not know then is that the problem was not in indulging the fantasy, but in the role-play aspect.  I didn’t want to just want to pretend to be under the control of my wicked too-loving Step-Daddy.  I wanted to be truly, in reality, under his sexual control. Of course, this didn’t occur to me that evening.  I would have been shocked at the very idea.

But now that the seed was planted, it was going to burst from the ground – very, very soon…