A Pandemic Project: Taking the Shame out of BDSM

The Rest of 2020

My mother likes to tell me that God laughs at plans. I always found that to be a very bitchy sentiment, but, well, here we are. In the midst of a pandemic. 

Not to make light of it, but seriously, I can’t be the only one who was happy to have a little more free time. I was burnt out at work, so all this time with Jack and the kids in my beautiful house was beyond welcome. 

We certainly had plenty of house projects and we would go a little psychotic learning to balance our macros, but we had some fun, too. And I’m not just talking about the Minecraft board game that we all obsessed over. I’m talking about what would happen when we shut our bedroom door at 9pm every night.

We’d been dabbling in BDSM stuff for years.

In our early years of marriage, I discovered a website called Literotica. It featured user-submitted stories, organized into categories. Whenever we didn’t have a ton of time for sex and wanted to forgo foreplay for fucking, Jack would often suggest that I “go read a story” to warm up. It was no secret between us that fifteen minutes of reading the right content could spur my desire into action. 

Even so, I was shy about telling him exactly what happened in those stories. I mentioned the submissive woman being tied up and mercilessly teased, but I didn’t talk about the way that the dominant man spoke to the woman. I didn’t talk about how humiliated she felt when exposed. I didn’t tell him that I grew sopping wet reading about a woman wearing a collar, being anal trained, crawling around on all fours, and/or forced to suck her dominant’s friend’s cock. 

Of course, Jack figured out that something in those stories was insanely arousing; after all, he felt me immediately after reading. But I didn’t give all the details, because I was ashamed of my arousal at those dark feelings. 

I didn’t want to admit that when he led, I envisioned him as my dominant, my master, sometimes in a dungeon. I would do anything he suggested, and just thinking like that could fuel my desire for a full hour’s sex session. Obviously he noticed that, too. 

But no — I wanted to get turned on by Jack’s hot body and pretty face. I wanted to be aroused when he brought me flowers and loaded the dishwasher and complimented my hair. I wanted to be “normal.”

I certainly wasn’t going to suggest doing anything kinky during my pregnancies. Sometimes I’d slip and let those thoughts moisten my lady bits, and it felt so good but so gross, too. There I was, with child, getting turned on by torture. For shame.

Then I was done with babies; I’d embraced my body and my sexuality. I was fucking liberated. I told Jack everything I was thinking — it’s hot when you guide my head during blowjobs — it feels weird when you twist my nipples. The more outspoken I was about my desires, the better our sex life got. And the better our sex life got, the closer Jack and I became. I felt ready to act on all of my fantasies. 

This was timed perfectly with our first lockdown. 

Jack didn’t have the same submissive fantasies as me, but that’s a good thing in this case. I needed him to be my Dominant. And since his interest in BDSM wasn’t as innate as mine, I needed to be very clear in terms of what turned me on.

Jack listened with an open mind. When I first brought up a website of products to show Jack exactly what I was thinking, he viewed the page with scrutiny and then grabbed my wrist. “I guess I do like BDSM,” he said, winking, as he placed my hand on his boner, easily felt through his jeans. 

We had already had quite a collection of toys and equipment — the fuzzy ties, the more robust under-the-bed restraint system, the riding crop, butt plugs, a hard gag ball, kegel balls, some blindfolds, and a plethora of different types of vibrators. 

Over the course of that pandemic spring, we also invested in a wand vibrator, which became a mainstay in our sex life, bringing forth responsive desire to start and then, when I use it on my clit while Jack fingers my G-spot, the most explosive, constant stream of oozy ejaculatory orgasms that money can buy. Now accepting sponsorships, Peak.

We purchased more props — that is, toys that don’t vibrate or get inserted. This was stuff to get us specifically in our BDSM mindsets, to make me feel restrained and/or objectified. We added a spreader bar, nipple clamps, and a more appropriately sized (smaller — wtf was I thinking before?) butt plug. Over the next couple years we would continue to add to our collection with a lacy blindfold, a collar and leash, a harness, a sex swing, and various styles of gag balls, all of them squishier than my old one.

We were having a good old time, but it kept coming back. Shame. Guilt.

There I would be, tied up and getting wet just from my restraints alone, when that annoying voice in the back of my head would ask all the worst questions. Most notably, what the fuck was wrong with me?

I wanted so badly to get turned on by the stories in Literotica’s “Romance” category, but I craved the content located in “BDSM” and “Nonconsent/Reluctance.” I love Jack with every fiber of my being, but a love note from him doesn’t arouse me. Meanwhile, if he sends me a text indicating that the gagball will be used tonight…fist bite, people. Fist. Bite.

Shame and guilt are so stupid. If no one is hurt by it, why does it matter how I like to get my kicks? Where did I get the idea that I was unhealthy and broken?

Jack reassured me that it was fine, but I needed more. I needed an expert, and I remembered Esther Perel’s Mating in Captivity. I reread the entire thing, but I focused on the parts about dominance and submission. I figured some stuff out, and I pushed Submissive Shame to the curb.

So why did submitting to Jack get me all hot and bothered? Because it’s play. It’s the opposite of our real life.

Enjoying BDSM doesn’t mean I endorse sexual slavery nor that I’m not a feminist. It does mean that I trust my partner enough to submit to him on my terms. It’s playing with power. For someone like me, who has a shit ton of responsibility on her plate, it can be a relief to relinquish control during sex. 

I know that Jack cares about me deeply. He verbally compliments me to no end throughout the day. He tells me what he likes about my outfits in detail. He flatters my intelligence. He demonstrates his commitment, loyalty, and love by asking exactly how he can support me throughout the day — “Would you like it if I loaded the dishwasher now?” “Do you want me to vacuum or take the dogs for a walk?” “What time would be best for me to work out today?” 

The independent introvert in me will never be able to match Jack’s level of attentiveness. My female friends are jealous, but also big enough to applaud my amazing husband. Our male friends beg us to tone it down around their wives, afraid that they’ll be held up to these high standards. I’m a lucky woman, and I know it.

Yet I don’t always enjoy sweet, loving sex with this guy. Why is it that Jack’s affable behavior doesn’t do it for me in the bedroom? Why is it that when he asks me what I want and if it’s good for me, I get turned off? Why does being massaged make me feel sleepy more often than sexy? 

That stuff, to me, just isn’t erotic. I need to separate that part of my life to get my mind in the game. I enter into eroticism with Jack by shifting my mind from suburban mom to submissive sex doll. That’s how I play.

We start with sexual negotiations. For us, this tends to be an ongoing conversation, one that’s become more detailed over the years. 

I begin nearly every sex session with Jack with a conscious switch of my mindset to submissive mode. I’m the one who consents to submitting, so technically I still have all the power. All I need to do is say my safe word — red — and he’ll stop or change course. I trust him to treat me well. In turn, I love to prove this by entrusting him with my body, my time, and my pleasure.

Jack’s mindset switches, too. He assumes an attitude that he suppresses during the day — his dark side. He’s quiet during sex. He is more likely to intuit what I want than ask me. His words are commands, sometimes even threats. When I see him frowning, serious, intense, unafraid to rough me up or discipline me, I become deeply aroused. 

Sure, I want Jack’s hugs after I’ve had a bad day. I want him to hold me when I cry. 

But during sex, I often like feeling all the ways that I don’t like feeling in real life. Humiliated, objectified, like a total piece of meat. I love when Jack forces me into a pose that feels degrading, almost animalistic. I love when he grabs my face and turns my head in the direction of his cock or his eyes, wherever he wants me. He puts his fingers in my mouth and I feel myself growing hotter. He rubs his dick on my face and I find myself rejoicing at its smooth skin, growing eager for him to shove it so far down my throat that I gag. I want him to laugh at me, to tie me up spread eagle and admire my naked body. I want him to pat, nearly slap, my cheek, and tell me that I’ve been a good girl.

It’s not always easy for me to switch into this mindset, though. Life is complicated. There’s always a lot to think about, and I’m an overthinker. And that’s where the props help me.

They bring me to the present moment. 

Bondage is my favorite, with hogties and ropes and cuffs that physically force me to accept whatever Jack offers. Blindfolds help me focus on the sensation of touch, and nipple clamps keep me keenly aware of my vulnerabilities. A collar and leash objectify me, reminding me of my role in that space and time. A gag ball silences not only my voice, but somehow my nagging thoughts as well. 

Yes, this is what I enjoy after a long day of work and parenting. During sex, I don’t need to think about any of that. I focus on the pleasure of being alive. Through the magic of eroticism, being Jack’s sex slave makes me feel transcendent. 

But I have a confession to make. We rarely play in what I’d consider the BDSM “realm” until we’re both done and satisfied. It’s usually on me — I break character, but not always mindset. I might push aside the bondage gear or remove my collar. I might climb on top of him or guide him to that perfect position on top of me.

Jack doesn’t complain. He follows my lead for a while, sending me to the stars until I couldn’t possibly go there again. Then he directs me as he wants me, and I become his sweet little slut for just a little bit longer, long enough to bring him a fraction of the joy he’s just brought me.

Everyone is happy and consenting this entire time. No shame in that.