Chapter One

How It All Began

You’ve probably read somewhere that any woman who wants to be a submissive or a slave to a man must have “father issues”. Well, I’ll go ahead and admit that I could probably be the poster-child for father issues. My mother is presently in her seventh marriage, so you can bet I grew up with some pretty warped ideas about the purpose of men in the universe. And I watched for decades, and certainly during my formative years, men seemingly change who my mother was. Mom was downright chameleon-like to be what she thought the man wanted, so that she might win the marriage proposal. Then every husband fell off his white horse—some sooner than others—and the tell-tale sign that it was happening was when Mom started rolling her eyes at him. Oh, yeah…I could always tell that the man was in for a quick-but-painful fall from grace when I saw the first eye-roll or two. The writing was on the wall that she no longer thought the man measured up to his pre-marriage persona. It never seemed to occur to her that she no longer did either. She would date very dominant men; then, once the ring was on her finger, try to control them. That’s when the real fun began in our household. You can surely imagine the fireworks that ensued as she suddenly changed the status quo and started trying to call the shots.

My brother and I were raised in our formative years by an emotionally cool, rigid, machine-like stepfather who required absolute obedience. To him, all issues were black or white; opinions and feelings had little or no value to him. And he took things so far in his punishment of us, that had his treatment been meted out in this day and age, he would most likely be in prison.

Did I respect him? Outwardly, I had to. I also feared him. And my brother, who received the worst treatment of all, not only feared him, but hated him. He was the only father I knew up to that point in my life, however, and I thought all fathers were like him, so my little-girl brain told me all fathers must cause terrible pain to their children. I was his favorite, even when his children from a previous marriage came to live with us. And I loved him. Yeah, it was complicated.

And I’ll just get the rest of the issues out of the way before we proceed. Was I sexually abused as a child? Yes, I was. I do not, however, believe this “drove me” into the 24/7 submissive lifestyle I’m in now. You can find this opinion on the internet: women who submit to the extent that female subs and slaves do are screwed in the head because of dysfunctional relationships with their fathers. Right. Just like all lesbians have been sexually abused by men, and all gay men have mother issues. I’ve read it all, believe me, and I don’t care what my so-called diagnosis is. I’m not a sick, desperate-for-a-man’s love doormat. I’m not weak or incompetent. I’m very well read and very well educated. I had a career for twenty-five years. I’m a great money manager. I love to learn. I’m highly committed to the environment and to animal rights. I’ve taught myself to be an excellent cook. If you met me, I’d probably come across to you as a busy, fairly organized, intelligent, happily married woman who has her act pretty damned well together. But, yes, I do have father issues. I’ve seen six step-fathers come through the revolving door of my mother’s life with men.

I’m sure if the above information was analyzed by a psychiatrist, it would most likely be determined that I was emotionally damaged enough as a child to destroy my capacity for “normal” intimacy. All I know is that I appear to be wired differently than most women, and my true joy and fulfillment come from dedicating my life in obedience and service to a man I trust and adore more than anyone on the face of the earth.

But it wasn’t always like this. I made the biggest mistake of my life when, at the age of twenty-one, I got married. And it should come as no surprise that my first husband was very much like the stepfather I described above. On the second day of our honeymoon — our fifth day of marriage — my new husband and I were sitting in the hotel coffee shop in Ixtapa, Mexico, and I burst into tears. What a lonely, loveless, sexless, boring, stressful honeymoon and marriage we were already having. We’d had sex on our wedding night, but he’d claimed from then on that he was too constipated from the anti-diarrheal pills he was taking (to prevent a reaction to the water while we were in Mexico) to have sex again anytime soon. My wisdom teeth were doing this weird, cutting-in thing they did a couple of times a year, but I was pretty comfortable on pain pills. And I wanted sex, damn it. But my husband could do nothing but lay around and complain about his digestion.

My mother had begged me not to marry so young, and to please at least finish college first. But she was already in her fourth marriage, so why would I accept marital advice from her? My new husband was ambitious, intelligent, nice looking, funny and a good dancer. I didn’t see what more I was supposed to want, and I vowed to show my mother by example how marriage was done. Besides, things had been okay enough, even sexually, while we’d been dating, so I reasoned that my stress and frustration would diminish when we returned to our new apartment and established a daily routine.

My husband’s parents struck me as dignified, cultured people, and did they ever like to party! (Hindsight Translation: Third-stage alcoholics.) Little did I know, I had married a terribly damaged person, a man for whom intimacy was too risky and frightening. And had I not rushed into marriage, time would have revealed that wanting to snuggle with him on the couch would make him feel boxed in, wanting to run errands with him every weekend would make him feel smothered, and asking for sex every day would cause him to yell, “I am not a machine!”

I tried to stay up late with him every night, waiting for him to tire of television, or I laid awake in bed in hopes of seducing him before he fell asleep. After a few months of this, I was so bone-tired exhausted, I could hardly make it to work every day. If we did have sex, it was rushed and unsatisfying; I knew he just wanted to get it over with. I would often cry when we finished, knowing the next time might be weeks away.

I also knew the problems between us had to be my fault. I wasn’t trying hard enough, or maybe I wasn’t giving him enough space. The apartment wasn’t immaculate. I wasn’t a good cook. I wasn’t doing something the man obviously needed me to do, but he wasn’t talking. So, I switched into high gear on all counts. When he came home from work every night, I was wearing something sexy, I’d fixed my hair and make-up, and the apartment was spotless. He would drop his briefcase at the door and ask what was for dinner.

After a year of marriage, he finally told me the reason he didn’t want to have sex with me was because it took me too long to have an orgasm. My embarrassment and humiliation were so all-encompassing, my desire for him dissolved in a heartbeat. But instead of having the courage to file for divorce and run like a woman possessed, I silently declared war. If he didn’t want me sexually, then I didn’t want him more.

I tried to have a one night stand with a Russian guy who barely spoke English. But my little Russian had been so drunk, he couldn’t even enter me.

“I fail as man,” he said.

I was so riddled with guilt, and the cold light of day had me scared so straight, I vowed never, never, ever to even think of screwing around on my husband. I spent weeks on end wondering if I’d caught a sexually-transmitted disease.

I was positive my husband could smell my guilt from a mile away, but he’d been asked to transfer to California, so his attention was diverted from me even more than usual. Surely a transfer was what our marriage needed, I thought. He’d be making more money, so there would be less stress on our marriage, and a clean start might finally put us on the right foot. We even agreed that it was time to start a family. My husband would have to have sex with me at least a few times a month if I was going to get pregnant, though, and I was no longer sure I even wanted that. At this point, I was still too naïve to know that a married couple truly can have great chemistry and sex between them. All I’d witnessed in my mother’s marriages was a quick decline in compatibility a few months after she married a man. And so I thought the world’s marriages were all pretty much like mine, and it wasn’t as if my husband was beating me or running around on me.

Six months after the move to California, I landed a great job working for a boss who was both brilliant and funny. He’d get me laughing so hard, I thought I was going to fall out of my chair, pee in my pants, or maybe do both at the same time. Picture a somewhat stocky John Cusak, complete with the soupy brown eyes, and that was my boss. His wife was about eight months pregnant when I first accepted the job, and he mentioned he’d stopped having sex with her once she’d started to show.

Within several months, my boss and I were in the habit of having lunch together every day. So one afternoon we’re at Jack-in-the-Box—our usual haunt—and he’s telling me how he gets his little son to stop crying.

“I press him really close to my chest, and I hold him so tight he can barely move.”

I said, “I wish you’d do that to me.”

Two days later, we sneaked away at noon and had sex in my unmade bed. My boss came; I didn’t. Part of it was my yapping Chihuahua, which I’d neglected to toss out of the bedroom before we started. I returned to my office afterward — rumpled-looking, unsatisfied and stressed. Both of us were married, his wife was pregnant with their second child, I was trying to get pregnant by my husband, I was committing the big no-no of sleeping with my boss, and we weren’t even using protection. But he’d flipped a switch in me. I’d found a man who seemed to think I was intelligent and pretty, a man who at least wanted to hold me and make love to me. I’d gotten a new bicycle, and I was hell-bent on riding it, regardless of the dangers it posed.

I don’t know how my poor, sexually awakened body withstood such a constant, heightened state of arousal. All I could think about was the next time I could be with him. We had far too few opportunities to be together, and our time was soon further limited by my being transferred to another floor at the office. It felt as if my every thought revolved around devising a way to catch sight of him, have lunch with him, or even just talk to him for a few minutes. I went home every night and pretended that all was fine, when in fact I felt I might die if I couldn’t be alone with my boss. I hardly ate, and lost ten pounds I couldn’t afford to lose. I barely got any work done. My feelings were so intense and so desperate, and my raging sexual need for him went unsatisfied. I’m truly surprised I didn’t have a mental breakdown. I would have had sex with him in an office supply-closet if I had to, and even suggested the possibility to him. Alas, no.

About six weeks into the affair, the company we worked for went through a huge upheaval, and most of the employees found jobs elsewhere, my boss included. Although his office was only a block away, he may as well have worked on the Moon. He was trying to adjust to working for a new company and he surely didn’t need a lovesick mistress complicating things by placing demands on his limited time. I only called him twice; the rest of the time I just waited for him to throw me some sort of bone. One day, just before he and I were to have lunch, he called and said he’d been doing some thinking. He said he felt a tremendous amount of guilt over sleeping with me when his wife was pregnant, and he couldn’t…

I didn’t even hear the rest. My heart was being torn out of my chest, and I was positive that all hope for happiness had just left me. But my interjections while he explained himself must have made me sound like a crazed cartoon character.

“Sure! Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Fine. Yes. Fine. Oh, I understand, I really do!”

I don’t think I could have sounded more upbeat and disconnected if I’d been doing knock-knock jokes at a funeral. But I simply couldn’t stop myself.

“Thanks so much for calling, and you have a nice day, you hear? Bye now!”

For weeks, I wandered around in a daze. Not only had I been dumped, but after numerous tests and months of frustration every time I started my period, my husband’s and my slow-learner specialist declared us hopelessly infertile. It would be impossible for us to have children together, and if I’d been smart I would have been delirious with joy. On top of all this, I’d accepted a new job. I knew within the first five minutes of sitting at my desk that I’d made a horrible mistake. And I couldn’t even keep a lover, so I must have really sucked at that, too.

About two months later, my ex-boss called and asked me to lunch. He said he just wanted to talk. I waited for him at the top of a long set of stairs in front of a downtown Los Angeles cafeteria, and watched him walk toward me from the end of the block. His athleticism made his walk graceful and slightly cocky at the same time, and I loved seeing those broad shoulders and big biceps that used to enfold me. At the top of the stairs, he reached out to hug me. I flinched and backed away.

“It’s okay,” he said. I let him hug me for a nanosecond.

While we were eating lunch, I tried to tune out a waitress dropping glasses, busboys slamming dishes into bins, silverware clinking on plates, and that weird hum a hundred or so voices make. The whole time he said his piece, I watched that gorgeous mouth of his and was able to hear him whisper, “I don’t see why we can’t be friends.”

He was back in the saddle—my grateful saddle—within forty-eight hours. Several weeks later, he broke up with me again. A few weeks after that, we ended up having sex in his car in the parking garage where he worked.

As I was repairing my make-up, he said, “Guess what? My wife’s going to have another baby.”

“Huh?” I said dully, studying my lipstick in a compact mirror.

“Just found out. I’m going to be a father again. Isn’t it great?”

“What the hell did you go and do that for?” I yelled.

“I really like kids,” he said.

What a pathetic, desperate fool I’d been. How little he must have thought of me. That was a defense? That was an answer? That piece of crap response? THAT? He liked kids? Just how long had he been trying to get her pregnant? I thought back on the times he’d dismissed me, asked me to lunch, lured me back in, broken up with me then called, only to have me fall for it all over again. What a weak, needy, gullible, amoral, desperate, naïve, doormat, idiot slut-lump of flesh I’d been.

But I can’t say the man ever lied to me. The realization so thoroughly seeped into my brain: he and I would have no future together; he never said we would. I had no promises, no ring, no nothing, I’d been so sure we had enough of a foundation on which to build a happy life, and thought all I needed to do was be patient, wait for him to come to his senses and leave his wife. But just because every fiber of my being had cried out for what he gave me, it didn’t mean his feelings were as intense as mine. The curtain was down and the show was over.

He moved out of state a few months later. My husband casually asked about him one night when we were at a restaurant, celebrating my birthday. I confirmed that he’d moved away.

“Thank god that affair’s over,” he said.

I said, “You mean to tell me you thought I was having an affair but you never said a word?”

“I knew you’d be back when you were ready,” he said.

Well ain’t that a kick in the head. I concentrated on finishing my dinner without looking too sheepish, and he began talking about FCC Regulation issues he was dealing with at work.

My ex-boss visited me at my home a few times thereafter when my husband was out of town. We ended up in bed. When I moved to Arizona, I met him at a nearby resort where his company was having a meeting. We ended up in bed. He said he’d be back for another meeting in the next few months and would call me. I never heard from him again.

He once said, “You know, no matter what happens between us in the future, I don’t think a day would go by when I didn’t think about you and wonder how you were doing.” And I truly think it’s a rare day when I don’t do the same.

I left my nightmare job and took another, only slightly less nightmarish one. The owner’s son asked me one day when we were in the coffee room, “If I promise to buy every item of clothing you let me watch you try on, would you let me take you shopping?” I poured a cup of coffee and went to my desk. My boss and I would sometimes go to lunch with him, and she would often tell him to stop staring at me. My cool, calm indifference must have driven him crazy, but I look back now and see that he wasn’t even on my radar. He was obviously terribly hot for me, but my head was too far up my ass to notice. Let’s see: he was wealthy, successful, from a good family, single, hot for me and AVAILABLE. But I was busy thinking… thinking about… what the fucking fuck was I thinking?

My husband and I moved out of state. I was desperately horny again, and developed the hots for a very religious man who didn’t believe in sex outside of marriage. But we were both certified hypocrites, and our interpretation of the Bible apparently told us we could kiss and grope, but we couldn’t actually have sex per the William Jefferson Clinton definition. So while he was trying to navigate which acts would only be minor transgression in the eyes of his Lord, I was trying to get him worked up enough to fully transgress, knowing it would be better for my libido for him to just ask forgiveness later. My efforts were almost successful once, but he ended up coming in my hair instead of in me. I went home that night, rumpled-looking and unsatisfied, with the left side of my hairdo looking shellacked. A few nights later, I told my husband I wanted a divorce. When I told my so-called lover what I’d done, his face registered abject terror, and he ended the relationship by simply never calling again or returning my pages.

I recommitted myself to my dead and sexless marriage, and vowed never, never, never, ever again to screw around on my husband. And I backed it up this time: I enrolled in seminary. How such an unfaithful little horn-dog like me ended up in seminary is, as we say here in the south, a whole ‘nother kettle of fish. As part of my efforts to reduce the level of my blatant hypocrisy, I quit drinking and smoking.

Quitting smoking caused me to gain, like, fifteen pounds in fifteen days. I received a marketing letter in the mail from a personal trainer, and was able to book an appointment with him the very next day. Oh my god, what a physique. Oh my god. I could swear I actually smelled the testosterone wafting around this man, and it sucked me in faster than a heroin habit. At the third session, I asked what he would charge to let me run my hands over his gorgeous muscles. I really did. He probably thought I was joking. I really wasn’t.

I started working out with him four times a week and soon was in the best shape of my life. I no longer smoked, or drank alcohol; I ate no junk food whatsoever, I cut out all sugar from my diet, I took vitamin supplements, and by god if I didn’t feel like a million bucks. And the sex drive I’d tried to shove down under booze, cigarettes and marital resentment came roaring back like a freight train. I imagine every place I went; men could smell my fume-cloud of horniness.

He and I talked so well together. We were comfortable with one another. Just seeing him when I walked in the studio each time never failed to excite me. Things started to get sexual between us during workouts. Keep in mind, this was a private studio, and he and I were often the only trainer and client there. He loved seeing me do any stretching exercise that had my ass up in the air, and he would step behind me to enjoy the view. He once slipped his hand into my work-out shorts and I flinched.

He said, “You let me touch you any time and in any way I want.” He added, “And you’re no longer allowed to wear a bra or underwear under your work-out clothes.”

Another time, he said, “Some girls need to just be quiet and do as they’re told.” I laughed my head off, as no man had ever spoken to me like that before, but I knew immediately that he’d struck a chord in me.

Oh dear. What to do, what to do. He became my very personal trainer, and we did as much groping as we could during workouts and on the stretching mats afterward. But we agreed we were going to finally truly consummate the relationship; i.e., fuck each other’s brains out, and that we would do it the following week when my husband was out of town on business. It turned out to be the last seminary class of the semester, so I thought it would end early, and I promised to meet my very personal trainer at his condo afterward. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the professor had come up with the requirement that every single last one of us to get up in front of the class and speak extemporaneously about a biblical concept. And it was a large class.

Keeeeeeryst! The clock was ticking! And ticking! What is grace? What is redemption? What is meekness? What is atonement? What is…what is… what is…?

What is fucking taking so damned long? My very personal trainer is waiting to fuck me!

I quietly made my way to the back of the room, leaned down to my seminary professor’s ear and whispered that I was still battling a touch of a bad cold and wished to be excused from the rest of the class. It was hardly a lie. I really was recovering from a bad cold and I really did wish to be excused from the rest of class. Mission accomplished. I went to my car and called my trainer, who gave me directions to his condo. His bachelor pad. His love nest. His…

When I arrived, he excused himself and went to the kitchen to microwave some sort of beef dinner. He apologized, but said he hadn’t eaten in hours.

That’s okay, Big Guy. You’re gonna need your strength. Eat up. Eat your fill, you Manzilla, you!

I ended up on the couch in a weird, twisty-kind of position, with a spongy-soft penis inside me. Every athletic thrust of his hips slammed my head against the rear corner of the sofa.

“Has anyone ever made love to you like this before?” he asked.

You mean, like, while giving me a concussion?

“Um, no,” I said.

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” he suggested.

“Sure, yeah,” I said, my head throbbing.

So I laid down on the bed and we resumed our activity. After ten minutes or so, things had not progressed from the spongy-soft stage. I checked out and studied the ceiling.

Let’s see…nine times seven is sixty-three. Nine times eight is seventy…seventy…seventy-two. Is that right? Seventy-two? Nine times nine…

He finally got hard and we were done. He told me things would be better next time.

Next time? Dude thinks there’s gonna be a next time?

And so I went home, disheveled and unsatisfied, wondering once again if a working brain and a working penis were always mutually exclusive in a man.

My epiphany came while waiting at a stoplight a few days later. I was headed home after running errands, and I knew that my home was the last place on earth I wanted to be. I knew I didn’t care if I ever had a big house again, or huge credit lines, a BMW or any of the trappings that came with my being a corporate wife. I saw myself gratefully flipping burgers, and willingly living in a dark, dank apartment for the rest of my life if I had to. I would have done almost anything to avoid living one more day in my dead, twenty-three year marriage.

My husband came home from his business trip that night and I told him I wanted a divorce. Somewhere along the way, despite all the self-defeating decisions; rationalizations, married men, numerous half-hard penises, and the sense-deadening haze of alcohol and cigarettes, I had finally decided I was a woman who had a lot going for her. And I knew if I changed my mind this time, I would never again be able to summon the courage to leave my husband.

The powers-that-be at seminary told me I would have to meet with the Dean and tell him the circumstances of my divorce, for if I was not divorcing for biblical reasons, I wouldn’t be allowed to remain in school. They got to watch the door hit me in my biblical buttocks as I left seminary for good. Just as well; I’d always wanted to fuck my Church History professor. And I would never have been able to talk anyone at the seminary out of the idea that I’d submitted to temptation and let a man destroy my marriage. My marriage had been dead for decades, and it’s kind of hard for someone to destroy what is already dead. A therapist I saw before telling my husband I was divorcing him summed up all of my fears and reservations about the divorce in one sentence. She said, “If you have no spiritual, sexual or emotional connection with your husband after twenty-three years, you’re NEVER going to develop one.” I filed for divorce.

My very personal trainer and I made another attempt at sex again, and it was pull-me-off-the-ceiling hot and mind-blowingly perfect. When it became quite obvious that he and I were going to be a couple, I asked him, “What are you really looking for in a girlfriend?”

He said, “I want what every guy wants: someone who will dress up for him and be his sex slave.”

Sex slave. Sex slave. Sex slave?

I ran to The Source Of All Things for advice and education: The internet. Please keep in mind that this was ten years ago, so most of what I found there was, of course, highly romanticized, and so much of it, to be perfectly honest, struck me as downright silly. I mean, the names people came up with for each other! It all sounded like a stupid game to me at the time. Also, I would find personal ads for people looking to use and abuse others in ways I found downright nauseating (and still do). Looking back, I can see that what I was reading provided either a highly romanticized view of sexual slavery and submission, or a view of what I could only call abuse.

But one thing that initially resonated with me about slaves and submissives was the collar. I told my boyfriend/trainer about the idea, and then was off to Pet Smart. I’d measured my neck before leaving the house so I wouldn’t have to try on the collars in public. I found and bought a sequined collar fit for the most spoiled poodle, and brought it home. My guy seemed to really like it but, looking back, I recall that I didn’t wear it that often.

Well, back to sexual slavery. Is it any wonder that I was drawn to the idea of 24/7 sexual submission? After twenty years of hardly any sex at all, I ended up with a man who was downright insatiable in that area and, believe me, I was more than willing to oblige. He’d wake me around 3:00 AM for sex, then we’d go at it again when he came home from his training studio for lunch, and we were ready to rock and roll again before going to sleep every night. No joke. And the only time we didn’t stick to our schedule was when we were traveling, or one of us wasn’t feeling well, or I was on my period. No matter what the circumstances, we were always ready to get back in the saddle, and it was like this for about two years before we slowed down a bit. We could hardly watch a television show together without him telling me to take off my pants and get on my hands and knees for him. I’d finally hit the sex jackpot.

Sure, I could have refused him sex at times, but I never wanted to. Feelings previously unknown to me surfaced, and a switch was flipped when I found he was entirely dominant in the bedroom. I loved the vulnerability, trust and feelings of deep femininity that arose when I obeyed his every direction. And something I’ll never forget: one of our first times together in bed, he told me to say, “Yes, sir” when given an instruction, then obey him. Instead of laughing, or grabbing my clothes and purse and telling him to kiss my ass, I felt I’d come home. It was as if I’d been waiting to say those words to a lover my entire life.

***

The first question I seemed to almost consciously ask myself upon meeting any man was a rather primal one: “Could this man protect me?” If things went to hell in a hand basket, would this man have the ingenuity, intelligence and strength to pull us through? If the answer was no, I did not find the man attractive. I didn’t care how much money or power a man had, I just didn’t find him attractive if I knew I could beat him in an arm-wrestling match. I want a man who isn’t going to back down, weenie out and slink away with his tail between his legs when push comes to shove. So when my guy came along, I saw a strong, determined, ambitious, testosterone-filled male who could not only protect me, but more than adequately run our show, as it were. And the first place he proved his ability to run a show was in the bedroom. I did ask him once if he wanted me to take more initiative in the bedroom, and he replied, “No, I like telling you what to do and having you do it.”

As far as I’m concerned, a man needs to leave the sweet, baby-talking, sensitive act down the street somewhere, and never bring it into the bedroom. There is something very primal to me in our lovemaking style. Never once have we been lazily entwined, enjoying slow, sensuous kisses, our hands softly exploring every curve of one another’s body. Things are always, shall we say, a bit more animalistic than that. I am ordered into position, and, by god, I’d better assume it. I’m told what to do and when to stop doing it. I bet you’re picturing military short-order drills. Don’t knock it until you’ve experienced it! And I can honestly say that we experiment more sexually the longer we’re together. Sex with him has never gotten boring, and my attraction to him has remained strong and constant.

I read somewhere that within the first three seconds of a man meeting a woman—any woman—he decides whether or not she is fuckable. I do look at other men, and Master looks at other women. I can point to a guy and comment on his great biceps, and Master may point to a woman and comment on her great ass. This is okay with both of us, as we appreciate people who have a nice-looking whatever, whether or not they worked for it in a gym. There are many layers to my relationship with him, and so our bond is not at all threatened. It would be far too difficult to find someone who is not only a spouse, but a best friend and an entirely compatible sex partner all in one. And it’s not every day that you stumble upon the right person to be a Dominant/Master to your submissive/slave, or vice-versa. We know that finding so many things in one person is tremendously rare, and we try to never take that for granted. The chemistry between us is undeniable, and after ten years together, it’s still really hard to keep our hands off one another. If I’m not lacking for anything, why would I go looking? In fact, last week, I had the most intense sexual experience of my life with him. The chemistry and trust keeps us really active in the bedroom, and sure doesn’t hurt in keeping me truly responsive and submissive.

I’d thought this bedroom-obedience could easily transfer over to everyday life. I could not have been more wrong. I was nowhere near ready for that level of focus or selflessness. But I didn’t know this at the time, and told him it was what I wanted. I’d devoured every bit of information I could find on the internet, and had even found a book or two to instruct me. Full of all this information, I launched my personal jihad of training assault on him. You have never seen anyone top from the bottom as I did, although I didn’t even know what that meant at the time. I was helping him, right? I was showing him how he had to act to be a Dominant, and he needed to act like the Doms on the internet acted, or else we weren’t doing it correctly, right? While I fantasized about him changing into black leather every night, following me around and taking a strap to my ass for the smallest infraction (Oh my god, but it does sound good, doesn’t it?), the poor guy was being inundated with so much information and so many demands, he soon put his foot down and said, “I don’t want to be a Dom!” He said if I wanted to be a sub, I could just do it on my own and be very obedient to him. He added, “This isn’t our life! It’s just something we do every now and then!”

I was crushed. Oh, how little the man understood! Oh, to only make him understand the part I required him to play! Oh, what to do? Oh, the drama! So the next day, while he was at work, I had a private temper tantrum and threw away the small number of toys I’d acquired, which he obviously wasn’t keen on using on me anyway. What I wouldn’t give to have that leopard-design, fuzzy swatter back! In the trash it went—all of it. Books, articles, toys. Goodbye, lifestyle I shall never have! I shall have a hole in my heart always!

Well, a few weeks later, I was back to my old tricks. I told him I wanted his control and guidance in my life. He seemed okay with trying again. Then the phone rang. It was my neighbor asking if I’d go for a walk with her. I said sure. When I hung up the phone, he said he didn’t want me going out for a walk, and he would rather have me spend the time with him at home that evening. I told him I understood, and called my friend back to cancel.

Actually, that’s not what happened. See, that is what a good submissive would do, but I was a real head-up-her-ass, wannabe sub, remember? So, get this: I told him to stop being so controlling, and I went for a walk with my neighbor.

I vowed to do better, and asked him to please punish me when I disobeyed. Soon after, we were in the shower, and I smarted off to him. He slapped me hard on the butt and told me to cut it out. I realized the error of my ways and learned to accept the discipline he delivered when he saw fit.

Actually, that’s not what happened. See, that is what a good submissive would do, but I was a real head-up-her-ass, wannabe sub, remember? What really happened was that he slapped me hard on the ass and I yelled at him to cut it the hell out.

So, you can see how the start of my submissive path was a rather craggy one, with potholes I painstakingly dug myself. But I truly did remain entirely submissive to him in the bedroom. Every day, every week, every year. I only refused him sex once, and only because it was moving day. We had an entire moving van of furniture and belongings unloaded in our new home here, and we were well into unpacking, no joke, almost one-hundred-and-fifty boxes. So, you know, it’s not like I was tired or anything, or maybe a little stressed, especially since my brother was staying with us due to being in between apartments and having no place to go, and let’s also not forget that this aforementioned brother was not doing a damned thing to help and was only using up our food and oxygen, but around four o’clock, Mr. Big Man said he wanted a blow job. I checked the level of alcohol in my paper cup — real drinking glasses had not been located yet—and told The Demander of Blow Jobs, NO.

This did not go over well, and we ended up getting into a fight. Seriously! He said, “But I want one!” All I wanted was another drink and maybe a good night’s sleep. He never did get that one, particular blow job.

Well, believe it or not, I fell so in love with Mr. Demanding that I married him. And I grew to adore, respect and trust him as no other person on earth. Somewhere along the way, I committed to the quest for 24/7 submission yet again. I vowed to entrust him with my well-being, and knew with all assurance that he would always have my best interest at heart. I wanted nothing more than to dedicate the rest of my life to obeying him and pleasing him. I’d found a dominant male I truly respected.

And I have more than made up for his terrible blow-job deprivation on moving day.