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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How a Spanking Fantasy Was Born

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

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

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

“Interesting,” says my husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?  You really want to do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Finally Get Spanked 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.