The Platform:
Things have to change:
I'm standing naked and blindfolded, arms at my sides in the middle of a wooden platform, I feel the presence of others but can't see or hear anything but my husband standing behind me.
I can feel the heat from a spotlight. My body trembled, and my mind raced with fear. I haven't been naked in front of anyone but my husband before, then only in the dark.
I hear my husband's voice behind me, soft and quiet, oddly reassuring. He says, "Relax little one this is for you, for us, for our marriage." "I love you," he whispered, "remember that."
I was only eighteen, and quite naive when Peter and I got married, a virgin. Raised by a strict guardian, I knew little to nothing about sex. Peter was twelve years older, well-educated, traveled, wealthy, and caring. Peters' financial firm was hired by a sharp-eyed judge who spotted something in my father's financial records he didn't understand. After hearing my father's explanation he was even more suspicious. The judge thought it best to hire an independent company to untangle the mess created by my father, thus Peter and his firm became involved. When the independent audit was completed, it was revealed that I was the "entitled party", my father didn't own anything, never did. He was given everything, his job, the house, the cars, and a very generous allowance by my mother, apparently, that was not enough. it had all been hers. It was all to come to me on my eighteenth birthday. Dear old Dad had been stealing from me since the day my mother passed.
After the dust settled and my father was out of my life Peter and I married. I don't know why. Not really. I was a month shy of my nineteenth birthday and alone, I didn't even know how to write a check. I never paid a bill, ran a household, or even picked out my clothes. I was helpless and probably hopeless. I thought Peter was my only option. But to be honest with you, I did "adore" Peter. I hung on his every word. He was handsome and everyone around him wanted to be him, or be with him.
The problem, our sex life, yeah, not so good, and my fault entirely. After listening to my guardian, for years, referring to me as what's her name, or the homely one, I had some issues.
Peter was handsome, intelligent, kind, attractive, well-built, well-liked, and admired by everyone. He thought I was pretty, no, beautiful, well, that's what he said anyway. I thought I was in love, an eighteen-year-olds version at least. My guardian was furious when Peter proposed, knowing he was about to lose everything, but I was of legal age, at least in this state, there was nothing he could do. about it.
Sex was something I knew married people did. It was a wife's duty to submit to her husband. Peter was kind and gentle in the beginning. When he asked for things like oral or anal sex or even to go down on me, I said no, and he backed off. Peter never demanded anything of me, we never discussed it. I suppose he thought with more experience I would come around, but I didn't.
Sex now is once or twice a week, most times less. He hops on "gets off" roles over and goes to sleep. I usually cry myself to sleep. I wanted to be more intimate with my husband. I wanted to do the things that would make him happy, us happy. How could I please him when I was ugly, timid, and afraid? I couldn't bring myself to talk about sex, I didn't know what an orgasm was.
Peter, I thought, was losing interest. I knew he still loved me but how long could that last under these circumstances? I knew he hadn't cheated but wasn't sure that would last either. Could Peter be happy in a sexless marriage? Things had to change. I was the one who had to change them, I knew that, but how?
Research:
To that end, I got a therapist. An online therapist that I didn't have to face. And still, it was nearly impossible. I was still unable to articulate most of my feelings. The therapist suggested I start a journal, I did, I wrote, and once I started I couldn't stop. Everything came spilling out in the greatest of detail. Fear, self-loathing, feeling ugly, unlovable, hating my own body, afraid of being alone, my fear of losing Peter all the things I couldn't say out loud finally expressed, in writing. I didn't know what good it would do but finally, it was out there.
I decided I could do more by becoming more informed about the things Peter wanted in bed. To that end, I started going to online porn sites. I kept logs of the research I did, on the sites I visited and the literature I read. I gave each site and or story a rating. Things that Peter has already asked to do. Things he hadn't asked but I was sure he would be into. Things I might do, under the right circumstances, if Peter insisted I submit. Peter never insisted, never took control. One of the subjects that grabbed my particular attention was submission. I felt a little tingle each time I read one of those stories.
Submission:
One of the stories I read about a Submissive relationship, intrigued me. This person allowed her partner complete control of her pussy, and absolute control in the bedroom. He shaved and trimmed her pussy hair making sure it was always well tended, this also included her anal area. He was also in charge of her orgasms. To be precise, when and or if she could have one. Peter had on several occasions mentioned trimming my pubic hair, being completely bare, he said, would be even better. I certainly knew this was something he would enjoy.
I loved the kind of intimacy this seemed to suggest. I also liked stories about things wives refused to do at first but the husband was insistent. In a loving and kind, but still persistent way, he would introduce his wife to new sexual acts. I kept meticulous notes on what I thought my do's and don'ts were. Dirty names and slut shaming (NO), Massage (Yes), Shaving (Yes), Spanking (Maybe), Anal (?), with every story I read. The idea of being submissive to my husband, for instance, held some appeal, however, I would not be into BDSM. I don't know if this is an actual term but I would call it a "Soft Submissive".
Soft Submission? Some will scoff, I know, but my research shows that submission is what you make of it. To date, I have fifty journals filled with do's and don'ts. In the end, it all boils down to a few simple rules. Always consensual. No physical harm (scarring, cutting, risky practices), and a deep and abiding trust in each other. The rest is up to you, do what pleases you. For me it was the softer side of submission, I wanted to please him. In bed, I wanted to say "no" and have him control me. When I refused, he would remind me of who was in charge, and "take" me in the way he wanted.
I grabbed a pair of old pants from the back of the closet one day, to do some gardening. They didn't fit. Well, they were five years old and I was twenty-one not sixteen anymore. To my mind, however, that meant I was fat. So back to dieting. My go-to activity when I was depressed. My way of punishing myself for not being good enough. And, I suppose, if I'm being honest, my way of drawing attention to myself. I lost weight rapidly, Peter began to notice. When he called me on it, I just shrugged it off. However, this latest diet created some dangerous health issues that Peter couldn't overlook this time. He decided something needed to be done.
Peter takes charge:
Peter finally took charge, he knew that I was in trouble both physically and mentally, but he still cared enough to help. Unbeknownst to me, Peter had broken the rule of all rules, he had read my journals. I suspect, he made some notes of his own. I was back to my hundred pounds and healthy again when Peter pulled out my journals, I was mortified. I got up and tried to leave but Peter stepped in front of me blocking my way, sit down, he ordered. He had never spoken to me like that before, it scared me, and yet, exhilarated me at the same time. I tried moving around him but he put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back down onto the couch.
