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.

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

Rhett Tames Scarlett; Or, the Desire to Be Dominated

The Ecstacy of Surrender

One of the most iconic love scenes in movie history is in Gone With the Wind, when Rhett Butler overcomes the resistance of Scarlett O’Hara, scoops her up into his arms and carries her up to bed… to presumably force her to submit to his sexual lust.  Cut to the next morning, Scarlett waking up smiling and happy and even singing in bed.  Finally!  After watching their power struggle over the years, now we are hopeful two star-crossed lovers can finally be together in peace.  Then Rhett enters the room, and instead of kissing her and sealing their truce, he expresses regret for his crude behavior.  Scarlett’s happy bubble pops, and they once again fall back to battling each other for the upper hand.

This scene is much loved by romantics – and often reviled by feminists. If I do a Google search for “Rhett Butler” and “dominance,” I find numerous feminist screeds – some vehement, some more vaguely scolding – against what is considered an obvious example of our cultural glamorizing rape.  For example, the author of a book called Love Does No Harm, says this scene presents a “dilemma” to people of moral conscience in the way it eroticizes male dominance and female submission.  It is a patriarchal choice to “portray” the power dynamic this way, says the author.  As if the movie-makers had imposed a perverse frame around what happened between Rhett and Scarlett.

That is, in fact, the feminist argument, that we are culturally conditioned to believe male dominant behavior is sexually exciting.  “In a million books, movies and perfume ads,” says the author of Love, Honor and Negotiate, we are inundated with images of “a powerful and passionate man, bent over a woman who, weak with rapture, is arched back in his arms…”  As if such images have nothing to do with women’s true longings, or how sex might naturally unfold between a man and woman.

These authors are suggesting that a woman who does not recognize that Scarlett was raped by Rhett has been brainwashed by our culture.  But did Rhett really rape Scarlett?  Scarlett clearly didn’t think so.  In the movie, we see her smiling and luxuriating in what happened the night before.  In the novel, Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell describes Scarlett’s feelings about it:

He had humbled her, hurt her, used her brutally through a wild mad night and she had gloried in it.  Oh, she should be ashamed, should shrink from the very memory of the hot swirling darkness! A lady, a real lady, could never hold up her head after such a night. But, stronger than shame, was the memory of rapture, of the ecstasy of surrender. For the first time in her life she had felt alive…

Ah yes, the ecstasy of surrender.

Clearly, Scarlett was not raped, and most women instinctively know this, despite what might be considered the cultural counter-programming of feminism.  We, like Scarlett, might feel we should be “ashamed” to admit it, but Clark Gable as Rhett Butler can still send us into a swoon of longing for a man to sweep us off into a “wild, mad night.”  Well, Clark Gable not just as Rhett, but as any of the dominating males he embodied so well.  I’ve watched him throw Claudette Colbert over his shoulder and whack her on the ass, or pick up Joan Crawford and spank her with a hairbrush while holding her mid-air, without even having to sit down.  (Later in the movie, Joan Crawford shows him she is ready to be with him by actually handing him a hairbrush.)  Same goes for Cary Grant.  Remember how he face-palmed Katherine Hepburn and pushed her onto her ass in Philadelphia Story?

Or, think about Burt Lancaster chasing Deborah Kerr up the beach in From Here to Eternity.  She falls onto the blanket, lies submissively waiting as he looms over her, then he falls on top of her, gives her a ravishing kiss.  She lies there as if in a trance, sighs and says, “I never knew it could be like this.”  Oh yes, the glory days of Hollywood were full of dominating males, and you knew once a hero spanked the heroine, with her kicking and hollering to the playful music, they were destined to reach their happily-ever-after. Even all the way through the early 80’s, the macho men of the silver screen, epitomized by actors like Jack Nicholson, would take charge of their women in a hands-on way.

Meanwhile, on the print side, Kathleen Woodiwiss practically invented the historical romance in 1972 with her “bodice ripper” novel The Flame and the Flower, and it’s dominating hero.  I read it as a teenager, not knowing how controversial the first sex scene in the book (in which the hero forces himself on his soon-to-be-love) would eventually become.  I only knew it thrilled me, and throughout my teenage years, I devoured romance novels just like it, one after the other after the other.

But feminism has in many ways won the argument, at least on the female side.  While action movies, video games and ads directed at men still push images of submissive women, no mainstream romance intended for women – whether in print or on the screen – now celebrates a dominant man in the bedroom.  Only jerks or villains treat women in such a way.  Female sexual submission has been shoved from the mainstream to the fringe, and is now reserved for BDSM porn, or naughty erotic novels.  Although, once in awhile, some of those naughty erotic novels, like 50 Shades of Grey, explode in popularity and hit the mainstream anyway.

It is definitely a conundrum to feminists that, despite decades of female empowerment and consciousness-raising, so many women still become aroused at the idea of sexual male dominance.  And it is now a conundrum to me, the first time I get down on my knees before my husband in response to his sexual command.  However thrilled I am in this moment, I am not oblivious to the harm done by the sexual objectification of women in our culture.  And in the months to come I will often have to beat back the disapproving feminist voice in my head, and give myself permission to do what my body tells me it wants.  Cultural conditioning cuts both ways, and feminism is sometimes as guilty as patriarchy in telling us that we cannot trust ourselves or our desires.

Feeling Electrified

At this moment though, kneeling in front of Michael as he unzips his jeans, I am experiencing a thrill unlike anything I’ve known before.  I feel electrified.  I feel alive. How wonderful to discover that all the rapturous language in movies and romance novels is not just reserved for fantasy, but can made real.  
And not made real by the arrival of some impossible, fictional hero, but made real with my own sweet husband.  As Scarlett O’Hara realizes about Rhett Butler the morning after he ravished her, a man she’d been married to for years: “The man who carried her up the dark stairs was a stranger whose existence she had not dreamed.”

Right now, I know how Scarlett felt, because the man sitting in the easy chair with the drink in his hand, watching me with his smoldering gaze as I take his cock into my mouth is now new to me.  And he’s reminding me very much of Rhett Butler – unpredictable, powerful, irresistible.  I don’t know what will happen between us next.  But like Scarlett, I know I am going to glory in it.