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.

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 …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inner Battle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surrender Is Sweet

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

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

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

A Dominant by Any Other Name

My husband and I are new to the practice of power exchange.  The energy of it is thrilling, but it strange, and maybe even dangerous.  We feel as if we’ve grabbed hold of a tiger by the tail, and we’re not sure how to tame it.

But others have gone before us, there is much advice to be found online, and thank goodness for that.  The volume is comforting; as long as we are following a well-worn path, we cannot possibly be that weird.  In fact, more the opposite, we are discovering a not-so-secret tribe where people are much happier than your ordinary, predictable all-things-equal couple.

I discover an entire genre of literature on BDSM.  I order books.  I subscribe to fetlife.  I study websites with names like dominantsoul.com, I print out pages for him to read.  He is across town, at work in his cubicle, stealing time to do the same.  We become familiar with a new vocabulary, and concepts such as safewords, subspace, sub training, and sub triggers.  I am not crazy about some of this language, it gives me the vague feeling I am being drawn into a cult.  But it also seems vitally important that we understand these concepts, and use the right words, in order to gain entrance into this intriguing world.

We find that submissives, or subs, usually call their dominants, or doms, by some symbolic honorific, “Sir” being the most common.  I cannot imagine calling my warm, enveloping Michael such a cool, remote word. “Master” is also much used, often in a slave relationship, but I do not see myself as a slave.  Pleasure concubine, okay.  But not slave.

I run across a few sites where the sub calls her dom by the title of “Daddy,” and this seems a much warmer word, and fits with the stepfather fantasy with which we began our foray into spanking and my surrender.  But the word also seems to apply to a specific category of BDSM, in which the sexual satisfaction is derived from the sub acting like a young girl, playing with dolls and toys, a girl wants her Daddy Dom to color with her and feed her treats.  That idea did nothing for me at all.  Maybe I would just have to be a sub who called my dom by his actual name.

We stumble upon numerous online stores devoted to BDSM gear.  I am not tempted.  Most of the implements of torture look too severe, and I care nothing for the outfits of leather and latex.  Maybe because so much of it looks biker-ish, or maybe because I have never cared about fashion or clothes in any sense.  Michael doesn’t seem particularly motivated by the costuming of it all either.  Even in our vanilla life, I did not think to wear sexy lingerie, and he did not think to ask for it.

But we do find many images of bondage that catch our attention.  I feel a spark of excitement especially if the woman looks spread open, unable to close her legs.  There’s something about the symbolic openness of it.  For me, it’s about the position she’s in; for Michael, it’s about the rope. He thinks the elaborate ties look like art.  Now I’m tempted.  I order rope from a BDSM site, then order books on rope bondage from Amazon.

Call Me Daddy

But that evening, we decide we don’t want to wait for the rope to arrive.  We decide to make the half-hour drive to the adult toy store and buy some rope for him to try out on me.  In the car on the way there, I ask Michael what he thinks I should call him.  Does he feel like a Sir?  Like a Master?

“Or,” I say with a small laugh, “Do you feel like a Daddy?”

He doesn’t laugh in return but seems to give it serious consideration.  “I don’t know. Would you want a Daddy?”

My heart squeezes a little at this, and I feel how hot my face is as I tell him the truth, that I have fantasized about a Daddy figure doing wicked things to me over and over throughout my life.  That I have craved the feeling of being taken care of and protected and sexually “instructed” and soothed and nurtured.

Then I admit to him something I hadn’t even consciously taken much note of myself – that I have, in fact, had many fantasies of calling him Daddy.

“It seems to be a powerful idea for me,” I add.

“Then,” he says, “You should call me Daddy.”

My heart starts beating hard, and I open my mouth to try to say it, but I cannot make myself say the word, I cannot.  Instead, I seem to be crying, and I don’t know why.  Part of it is relief, but part of it is also the terrible feeling of being exposed in my most strange and secret longing.

He reaches for my hand, squeezes it.  “Never mind.  You don’t have to call me that.”

“No, no, I want to, I do,” I say.  I wanted to be able to call him some name that symbolized his dominance anyway.  “I just can’t say it yet.”

“Well,” he says, “then whenever you’re ready.”

We get to the video store, and I walk in behind him, feeling rattled and exposed.  I am sure I will never be able to call him Daddy.  I am 50 years old, it would be absurd.  And I feel more than absurd as we shop for rope and bondage videos.  I cannot even look at the stuff as I follow him blindly.  He asks if I want to try some nipple clamps.  I nod vaguely.   “Which ones?”  I point to the first package I see, I don’t care, I just want to go.

Back home, he makes us drinks, while I unpack the bag.  What I don’t admit is that now that we have rope, I am scared of being tied up.  I have always panicked when any man held me too tightly or tried to hold me down to tickle me.  Why on earth did I think I would like that?

He pulls me into the bedroom, tells me to take my clothes off, and then get on the bed on all fours.  But I am now in a nervous state, not really ready yet, but okay, I am submissive now, right?  I don’t argue, I obey.  So he spanks me and fingers me, and just when he gets going and I am starting to feel excited, he stops, waits, then starts again.  It is frustrating me, it throws off the build of pleasure.  I ask what he is doing.  He says he read on the internet that a dominant should “hold back orgasms” from his submissive in order to gain greater control of her.

“Well, that’s dumb,” I say, not hiding my annoyance.

He stops, says he’s done.  He lies down on the bed and I lay my head on his chest, say I’m sorry.  He says I don’t have to apologize, he is feeling weird and out of sorts.  I admit I feel the same.  It is the first time in weeks that the ever-building sexual energy between us has sagged.

I am suddenly afraid that this D/s thing we have just begun is impossible to sustain beyond fantasy play, and could already be over.

We get dressed and go to the couch to watch the bondage movie we just bought, and it is at first entertaining, and mildly stimulating to watch the girls be tied up.  There is something about helplessness that most certainly turns me on.  But then the dominant in the movie sticks gags in the women’s mouths.  I cringe.  I do not like the sight of gags, the drool coming out of the women’s mouths, it disturbs me.  I am now very much turned off.  I shut off the video, tell him how much I hate it.  He just sits there in his funk, not saying anything.  The energy between us has worse than sagged, it’s gone entirely flat.

Wow.  It all really seems over, just like that.

I pick up the nipple clamps from where I’d left them on the coffee table.  I start swinging them around by the chain.  I say, “I wonder how these feel?”

He just shrugs, takes another sip of his drink.  I strip off my shirt, and hesitantly start putting the clamps on my own nipples.  The sensation is intense at first, but it doesn’t really hurt for long.  I lean back, feeling kinda sexy with my nipples pinched prominently between the clamps, the chain hanging between them like jewelry.  The sight seems to rouse Michael, he reaches over to start tugging my pants down.

I lie back onto the arm of the couch, allow him to pull my pants off.  He says he’s going to try something else he saw in those videos, starts slapping my bare pussy with his open palm.  It doesn’t hurt exactly, at least not much.  It feels all sting-y nice, and I like it.  Then suddenly he is up on his knees, looming over me, fingers shoving hard into me, pumping like mad, hard and pounding.  The submissive switch in me turns on, my mind goes quiet, peaceful.

I ask him if he will turn me over his knee, I crave that most submissive of poses, love my face pressed into the couch while he shoves his fingers into my pussy from behind.  And he does, oh he does, ramming slick fingers into both holes, rough and sweet, while I lie there and take it, while I open up and melt away, flesh rendered into soft yielding liquid.  I love this stuffed full feeling like I love nothing else in life, the swirling molten sensation is so deep, so urgent, it feels like the essence of life, the impulse of life, energy opening up within me, all hot and wavy radiant, I am burning like the sun.

As my orgasm rushes through me, I finally gasp out, “Yes, you’re my Daddy, you’re my Daddy, you’re my Daddy.”  It doesn’t feel absurd to say it at all.

Raw, Soul-Scorching Sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it looks hot,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Putting Sexual Submission to the Test

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keys and Unlocked Locks

On the Verge

Get down on your knees, he says when I walk in the door, and I laugh.

I laugh because this is the first time my husband has given me a sexual command, and it feels strange and unfamiliar to be told what to do.  I laugh because it also feels like roleplay, and roleplay is silly, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pull it off.  But I especially laugh because we have suddenly, unexpectedly, found ourselves on the verge of entering a Dominant/submissive relationship and I feel a bubbling kind of joy that he’s willing to give it a go.

But after I laugh, I obey.  I get down on my knees, and I suck on his cock while he sips his drink, my first blow job on command.  It feels both momentous and not so different than any blow job.  No, wait, there is something different.  For once I don’t have to analyze whether I am in the mood to do it or not, or wonder whether he wants it or not.  I just do it, and keep doing it, until he tells me to stop, no thought required, pure in-the-moment physicality.  It is a relief, and I feel good about it, feel good about his moans of pleasure, his enthusiastic kisses afterward.

It makes us feel close, and puts me in a nice frame of mind as I go to the kitchen to make dinner.  He pours me a drink, and we talk while I cook.  We ask each other, are we really going to do this?  Are we really going to give a Dominant/submissive relationship a try?  The desire seems to have sprung from nowhere; neither of us can recall longstanding urges or fantasies about such a thing.  Even my step-daddy spanking fantasy was more about the being stimulated from the sting-y hot spanking rather than the submitting.

Later, I will find clues in my past that I’m primed to respond well to a dominant man.  But up until this past week, I felt perfectly happy with the egalitarian relationship of sexual equals between Michael and me.  Make that more than happy, I was thrilled with our sexual relationship, and more fulfilled than I’d ever been.  So why try to introduce what seems to be such a backwards, caveman thing into our seemingly perfect union?

As I go through the motions of cooking, turning back and forth from stove to the granite-topped island where Michael sits on a tall stool, I ask him this.  Why do you think we’re we so compelled to conduct our sexual life like this now?  We arrive at the same conclusion:  Once one finds a safe place to be honest one’s deepest desires, the truth about what feels good and right will rise to the surface and spill out.  And on this day, it feels good and right to me to offer him my submission.  I am happy that he is so enthusiastic about accepting it, although I half-believe he is doing it to make me happy.

“You just have to tell me what days you’re in that kind of mood,” he says.

I give him a half-smile as I load salmon and rice onto our plates.  “The whole point is not to have to consult my mood.  The whole point is for you to take whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“So you’re saying every day,” he says.

“I’d guess that’s the only way it works.”

He nods seriously.  “Every day then.  You’ll submit to me.”

I nod seriously in return.  “I will submit to you.”

We gaze at each other, then both laugh as we carry our plates to the table.  I wonder, even if we try to do this seriously, how will it ever not feel like a game?

I am about to find out.

Primal Surrender

After dinner, I head into the den to sit on the couch, and my rear has barely touched the cushion when Michael says, “Take off your pants.”

I don’t feel quite ready for sexual intensity yet, would really like a few minutes to exhale, relax.  But then I remember, it doesn’t matter what I want.  And that in itself stops my inner dialogue.  My mind goes quiet.  I take off my pants.

He bodily grabs me, throwing me off balance and puts me across his lap.  He pulls down my panties, spanks me sharp and hard, spreading fire over my behind.  Oh it is so sweet hot.  He parts my legs, then once again he works his magic with his fingers moving deep in my pussy, he is wickedly expert at this now, knows exactly how to bring me to a fever pitch of grunting moaning excitement.  No choice, no choice, my mind chants in a hypnotizing mantra that makes me let go even further.  I feel the whole of me opening, being soothed and healed.  By the time he is finished, I am gasping for air, dizzy.

He tells me to turn over, and I lay beneath him on the couch, gazing up at him, feeling warm/hot/full everywhere, as he lowers himself on top of me.  He shoves his hard, hard cock into my inflamed, engorged pussy, and pounds me – passionate, aggressive, demanding, fucking me hard, looking right into my eyes.

“You’re mine,” he growls as he fucks me.  “This pussy is mine.”

He grabs my leg and hauls it up over his shoulder, spreading me wider for him.  I allow, let go, and his eyes, his manner, are so full of possession, I do feel owned, I feel it viscerally, to my core.  I have never felt anything like this primal surrender of my body up to my lover, this intense opening, no resistance.  And as he thrusts into me, repeating the word, “Mine, mine, mine,”  I drop away, it is profound, I am just gone, like I imagine the sea recedes before a tidal surge, I feel the wave gathering, building…

It breaks, I feel a whoosh of electric heat shoot up straight through my groin, so piercing it shoots up through my belly into my chest.  I feel full of heat, the most golden light, I am incandescent with love, and overwhelmed with this exploding pleasure…  It was not an orgasm, it was something else entirely, and for a moment I feel like my heart has stopped, I am sure I am dying, killed by ecstasy.

When he is done, and I finally fall back into myself, I am babbling and incoherent, can barely breathe.  I come up off the couch, wobble into the bathroom, and I sit down on the toilet in the dark.  I am trembling, laughing and crying all at once, literally shaken to the core.  And I have the very clear thought, “This is who I am.  I am submissive. And I am his.”

This is a stunning revelation to me, not because I didn’t know the idea turned me on, but because it felt like such a strong and irrevocable sexual identity.  Who I thought I was no longer feels true; my entire sense of self and my relation to my husband has transformed in an instant.  It feels like a religious conversion, a spiritual realization that will somehow save my soul.

I know that when my mind calms down, I will have a hundred questions to work through.  But I also feel certain that however my understanding of what is happening evolves, I will never doubt the hot truth about myself that just shot through me on the couch with my husband.

I repeat it to Michael when I get back to him.  “I’m a submissive.  You’re my dominant.”

“Yes, baby,” he says, and the religious feeling comes over me again. I feel enthralled with him, humbled as if the presence of a holy being.  It reduces me and I start to cry, really cry, with this sort of happily hysterical laughing edge.  He holds me throughout, his arms are strong and tender, and I feel so known and safe and cared for.  I apologize for crying, but what else can a girl do when her whole mind-body-self, her whole life, has just been broken open?

Later, in the bedroom, as we hold on to each other, I try to explain how it felt almost like the very first time we made love.  After our first naked encounter a year earlier, I’d told him in a long, heartfelt letter that it felt like my heart had, for the first time in my life, unlocked itself.  You, I wrote, hold the key to my heart.  Now I know he holds still another a key, the key to my body, which is somehow a key that also unlocks my soul.  This sounds over the top even to me, and I know I sound scattered as I talk to him about it, I am feeling things I don’t know how to understand or put in words yet.

He falls asleep, one hand possessively holding my breast.  But I am awake for a long while, feeling at least one certainty sinking into me:  There is falling in love – and it is amazing – but there is something even more profound than that exchange of feeling, and that is the exchange of sexual power.  I am suddenly, and thrillingly, aware of the vast difference between belonging with someone, and belonging to someone.  I cover his hand over my breast, loving the weight of it, loving him, the man who holds my keys.