Once I would’ve thought this web page called Taken in Hand was nothing more than some deluded wanker’s fantasy. I have changed thoroughly in the few days after The Slave Talk, and although I realize this has been brewing below the surface a long while, the change is still like a giant hand that dropped me suddenly through the rabbit hole. Taken in Hand has this to say about male lead relationships, and unlike before, I relate to it with my whole heart and soul.
Some women want and need to be brought into subjection. They crave the man’s control and respond positively to active control, but without active control on his part submission is impossible. These women cannot fake submission; it must be real. It cannot be a pretence, a role-playing game or a lifeless cardboard cut-out imitation. It must be from the heart and soul, no hint of artificiality, acting or mendacity. But when a man brings such a woman into subjection and thereby releases her delitescent submissiveness, the power and reality and unforced naturalness of her submission can be awe-inspiring.
I ask Wonderboy, does he like it, when I do what he commands.
Yes, he answers.
Then comes the harder question, I grimace and face down before I can utter it. Do you also like it outside the bedroom?
Yes, he answers. My cunt pulses, my heart heaves with a sudden owerwhelming feeling.
It is not him, who is making me do something. I ask him to make me do something. Everything. He’s taken to it a lot better now that I don’t really have any objections anymore. I don’t feel abused, because I now realize this is exactly what I want.
It cannot be pretended, it has to be real. Dear physics where I’ve come to. I used to be such a progressive feminist. I’m kidding, I still am. And now I have to face that in an egalitarian relationship I can give away some of my power, if I want to. I can surrender and it doesn’t make me a bad woman. It doesn’t make me a traitor to the subject of women’s libearation. I am not advocating anything – well, except for one thing.
Women have a right to whatever they desire. That’s feminism. That’s equality. That makes happy both women and men.
I know I’m not the only one, and it helps some that there’s someone pretty close who is also tackling the same need, and isn’t all too thrilled about what it seems to represent. Feministsub, who provided me with the link to Taken in Hand, has also written about a similar revelation. Go check it out too. There are as many experiences as there are women who want this or something to the effect. It used to be so hard to know what I want. I know now. This is like a door’s been opened in me. Happiness flows through my whole body warming my muscles and cradling my heart, when I think about this.
It’s not enough for me to be dominated in bed. I want to be held in hand. What a beautiful way to say it. I need to feel taken care of in a most intense kind of way. I want to surrender control, slowly and step by step, to my husband. I don’t yet know what that entails. I’m not ready for a lot of it, and some of it might never be willing to explore. (Him fucking other women would probably be a thing like that.)
But even financial autonomy seems a possible token for surrender now. Yes, this freaks me out too, so you don’t have to jump on my throat for saying it out loud. I made a small test while we had guests yesterday. I left my wallet at home. I never do that. Correction, I’ve never done that. I’m determinedly equal about paying, even so that I’ve ended up treating a lot more than my partner. I felt so loved that I probably never have. I don’t actually know, if Wonderboy realized why I did it, but I have a hunch that maybe he did. Because he owns me.
Once I got the words out of my mouth, he stepped to the plate without hesitation. This is what happened after The Slave Talk.
I did the dishes naked in high heels. You know what I felt? I felt content, exhilarated, pleased, being cared for, being loved… and I felt dominated. I was in a sub state of mind (cue old jazz here) and it felt weirdly right. He drank wine and played guitar in the other room and I rushed the dishes, but I was paying more attention to detail and the cleanliness of the kitchen than usual. I needed everything to be perfect, because… I was scared of him? No, not quite. I wanted to please him so bad.
When I was ready, I stayed in the doorway of the music room and said I was ready. He commanded me to kneel in front of him on the carpet and wait once he’s finished. He’d go to check on my work, when he was good and ready. Gowd, I ate that up and stumbled in front of him in those heels I can barely walk in, probably with eyes like saucers. He’s were too. He wasn’t indiffirent, his breath was tense, but he was making me wait.
Finally he went to the kitchen and stepped on water that had escaped from the sink. I honestly breathed in loudly, when I saw it. His irritation was palpable when he commanded me back in the kitchen, and he didn’t stand aside while I wiped the floor naked, but stood there watching me grovel at his feet. I did it as well as I could. He opened his fly and took out his cock. It was already hard as rock, which made my heart jump, and he put it straight to my throat only to move my head aggressively against it from the base of my skull.
He then after a while of choking on his cock commanded me to the bedroom. I don’t remember the spesifics, but I got a permision to go to the bathroom. Maybe this was making me nervious, but I most certainly needed to pee before this hard, commanding presence did whatever he meant to do to me.
Okay, so I was on the bed, he was on the bed. There was this huge electric current between us I’d never felt before. He handled me with assertive hands, but I don’t actually remember how we fucked. In the end he was thrusting in me from behind and he kept talking me through it. It was… intense. He was so sure of himself that he made me completely submit without the slightest hesitation.
Moan like a porn actress, he commanded me, and I did. I looked back at him, threw my hair and moaned, sighed and did all the nasty implausible things the women in porn do to fake enthusiasm and pleasure. And I could feel him getting harder and harder, his voice stumbling over words with big gulps of air and saliva.
Later he tells me that he got off on it, because it sounded so fake. His twisted desire was to make me fake pleasure for him, because, really, what could be more humiliating and degrading? What could prove his ownership over me more piercingly? He did a lot of things to me, all of which felt new although most of them were familiar. He came violently, but like recently I didn’t, so he decided to lick me teasing me and denying my right to come. I did, though, but he gave me a permission well before. Today he didn’t.
The days after that have been full of negotiating, revealing new things and fucking – but also talking about emotions. This is not something you can do lightly, or when you’re tired. And that became the next problem.
After we’d had the scene and the sex and everything was eerily extatic, we talked about it. Him owning me.
I’d never thought I’d say this, but… Wonderboy’s going to buy me a collar. A nice, necklace like black collar with maybe a small cross on it. He will put it on me and then it will be his decision. I’ll be owned in no uncertain terms.
I can’t wait.
I’m so out of the closet, I can’t talk to any of my friends or family anymore of what’s happening with me. Why am I so happy, content and extatic? Because I’m owned, goddammit! I’m owned.
This I wrote on Feministsub’s blog,
This is a good thing! I feel such freedom and peace of mind. Everything I’ve had such a hard time voicing, everything I’ve been so torn about, all the things that just didn’t make sense, all the needs and desires I couldn’t get met whatever I suggested or whatever Wonderboy did. They are all here in me being owned by him.
It makes my heart sing.