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

My life has become an erotic novel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hypnotic Love Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am living in an erotic novel.

Lap Time; Or, Awakening to the Desire for Sexual Surrender

Aching, Throbbing, Wanting

In the days following our “Got caught watching porn by Daddy” role-play, my once barely-noticed fantasy – lurking at the bottom of my awareness – rises from the deep and overtakes the surface.  My mind becomes possessed by the image of myself draped face down across Michael’s lap, panties pulled down around my knees, him sliding his fingers into me while we watch TV.  That one, omnipresent image starts emanating hot-and-bothered chemicals throughout my body.  Add that to being newlywed in love, and a fresh dose of hormone replacement, and I feel more sexually juiced up than I’ve felt in years – maybe ever. “Aching” might be the word to best describe it – aching, throbbing, wanting with a kind of desperate edge.  All day.

One evening after dinner, I tell him how antsy I feel.  “This must be what a 17-year-old boy feels like. I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t get some relief. Help me, please, please, pretty please?”

“And how would I do that?”

I am sitting beside him on the couch, I stare down at my hands, and wish he could read my mind.  But he can’t.  I have to say it, and I do, in a breathless rush.  “I lay on your lap, you put your fingers in me, and you stir them around like you do, relieve the pressure.”

He smiles, pats his lap. Oh so game, my husband.

I slip out of my pants, and happily throw myself across his legs.  We can do this, because for the first time in decades, I have no children living at home.  And for the next hour – a whole hour! – I lay face down over his lap, cheek pressed into the couch cushion, head turned to the TV, my legs wantonly open as far as I get them without falling off his lap, while he lazily slides two fingers in and out of my throbby, needy pussy from behind.   Oh, the sweet relief.  Oh, the orgasms.

The next night, we repeat the ritual, this time for two hours while the TV drones on and we both half watch, half ignore it.  Two actual hours.  That is how generous he is, how kind.  And how deep down scary horny I am.  I literally cannot get enough, my vaginal walls engorged and hot and needy.  I lay there in a receptive daze as he slides fingers in and out of me, and stirs them around, sometimes pounding them into me good and hard, sometimes taking a break to give me a little slap on my bare ass.  Oh heaven, heaven, my mind settles into a buzzy humming.  I am mind-body-everywhere soothed and stimulated all at once.

I have never been shown such focused sexual attention by my lover, and I cannot believe my great good fortune.  I am giddy with it, I married this guy!  I get to keep him!  I also cannot believe that after several orgasms, I still feel insatiable, want more.  I am becoming a little unhinged with it, and increasingly embarrassed.  I feel like a mindless begging slut; no, worse, like a mindless animal.

Again, one reason might be the too-high-dose testosterone pellet dissolving in my hip.  But then again, maybe not.  Later, I will receive the same dose and not have the same reaction, so maybe it really is the newly-released power of living my fantasy with my new, overtly sexual and sexy husband.

But whatever has brought on this feverish aching, I can’t bring myself to ask for more hours of fabulous fingering, can’t bear the idea that it might seem like a chore to him.  Yet I feel like I still need something inside me, need to be stretched, need to be filled…

A Trip to the Adult Store

We take a trip to the adult store, and buy a giant dildo, and some ben-wa balls.  It bothers me that the chatty woman at the register will know that I can’t get enough, and so I hide in the lingerie section, staring sightless at the headless mannequin bodies wearing skimpy lace, while Michael pays for our items.  When we get home, I lay breathless on the couch, legs open, so he can slip the silver ben-wa balls inside me.  I hold them in as I cook dinner, and we watch a movie.  The pressure is sublime, soothes my ache, at least for that moment.

Early the next morning, the ache is back, stronger than ever, and before he even gets in the shower, I whisper in the dark, “Please, please make me come.”

His fingers go back inside me, and I cannot get enough, even though now I am getting very sore.  As his fingers pound and pound my pussy, I grip his wrist, urging him to pound harder, I tell him I’m sorry, I can’t help it.  He tells me he loves me insatiable like this (oh thank God).  He tells me he loves giving me what I need.  Then he gets on top of me and fucks me hard and harder, aggressive, pulling my hair, and I let go, no will, no thoughts, filled and satisfied.  And feeling oddly peaceful and safe in the midst of the storm of his rough passion.

Afterward, he gets up and goes and gets in the shower.  And I lie there naked in bed, feeling ravished, and content.  I wish it was possible to always feel this serene during sex, always feel this safe and cared for, and my imagination catches fire with vivid images of him taking control of my body, fucking me into submission like he just did.  I have a sudden, fierce desire that he will do that from now on, ravish me at will, and that I will somehow not be allowed to say no, that I will have no choice, that I will be allowed to become his sexual receptacle.

I don’t yet understand why this idea so compels me, I just know that when he comes out of the bathroom dressed for work, I want to express my desire, the feeling is swelling in me, a clutching urgency in my chest…  But I have no words yet for this new, still-forming hunger, and I’m not sure how to explain it myself, let alone him. I cling to him as I kiss him goodbye.  He must sense some of the unexpressed need I am feeling because he asks me if I’m okay.

I nod, half in tears, half laughing.  “I’m wonderful.  I love you.”

I start the day in a daze, wishing I could shake myself out of it.  I try to work, not very successfully.  An hour later, I get an email from him.  It says:

I am consumed with thoughts of imposing my will on you.  You face down, flat on the bed, legs splayed, me fucking you into submission, … your slutty self wanting, begging, whimpering, … stiff cock, fingers, toys, tongue … I own your sexy ass, baby, .. you need me … you are willing, grateful, obedient, catering to my every sordid sexual whim … my dutiful wife … complete surrender, a powerful turn-on.

I read these words and I fly out of my chair and I walk around the house, heart pounding.  He knows what I want, he knows.  And he seems to want it, too, has found the words, has written them down even.

I feel a shift happening between us, it feels big, I need to pay attention to this, understand this, we need to understand each other.  I sit down at my computer again to write him back, but I am nervous.  I am unsure of the tone to take, stay playful?  No, I need to honor this, tell him how I really feel, how big it feels inside me.

I start by calling him a spooky mind-reader.  I tell him how it makes me weak with wanting to be the object of his desire.  I tell him how wildly it turns me on the more assertive and aggressive he becomes.  I admit how vividly I had been fantasizing that very morning about being “completely available and wordlessly submitting to your every whim, anything, anytime, any place, no question.”  I confess my hope that he will take control of me like that, “every now and then, not every day, but some days.”

I feel I have to add the clause, “not every day,” because I fear I sound demanding. In fact, to even confess my desire at all feels too demanding, and I become almost apologetic.  “To ask for it doesn’t really seem very submissive.  It has to be at your will not mine.  It has to be something you want to do yourself, take for yourself, assert yourself.  It’s not powerful to me if I only play at submitting, the power comes in when it is your idea, when it’s real.”

Shimmering Possibility

And that is how I leave it.  I hit send, and we both go on with our day, our words of longing left hanging between us.  I feel the energy of it, can almost see that energy, a shimmery thing of possibility, stretching in the air over town between our house and his office building.  My whole body feels caught up in it, captured by the sudden raw physicality of our connection, beyond anything I have felt before, ever.

I go to the grocery store in the afternoon, excited, jumpy.  I knew he’ll be home by the time I return, but I have no idea what he’ll say, how he’ll react to the words I’ve written him, what will happen.  Will we pretend we hadn’t written those words, in silent acknowledgement that to expect a wife to be literally sexually submissive in 2015 is unrealistic?  Or will we laugh it off, let it become an every-now-and-then role-play game in the name of hot sex?

His car is in the driveway when I get home.  I carry the grocery bags in, and find him sitting in his chair in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand.  I give him an uncertain smile, say hi.

He gives me that smoky look of his.  Says, “Come here.”

I set the grocery bags down and walk over to the chair to stand in front of him.

“Now,” he says. “Down on your knees.”

I laugh in relief.  Then I obey.

How This Feminist Became a Sexually Submissive Wife

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

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

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

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

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

The Joys of Sexual Polarity

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

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

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

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

A Woman’s Right to Submit

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

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

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

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