Confessions of a Bad Submissive

Chapter One-1

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 s*x 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 s*x 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 s*x, 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 s*x 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 s*x, 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 s*x 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 s*x 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 s*x 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 s*x 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 s*x 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 s****l need for him went unsatisfied. I’m truly surprised I didn’t have a mental breakdown. I would have had s*x 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…