Domestic Discipline Shameful Yearnings

I want my husband Greg to spank me. To feel his power over me, all encompassing. Punishing me. He is stern, cold, determined—unmerciful. Confident. Whipping me with a switch he had sought himself in the yard. His power breathed through me rendering me breathless and completely subjugated. Submitting because I knew I had to and also because deep down I wanted to offer up my freewill, entrusting myself to him, the one who I love the most. He said I had no choice—I can’t remember what my crime was, what I was being punished for, perhaps cheating? But deep down I yearned for his punishment. To feel his masculinity assert itself. His control over me left me wanton. He was so strong, powerful and in control in a way I had never seen--his self assurance made me weak in the knees as he stared through me from the bottom of his eyes, with a determined duty. He was resolute, but it was not cruel, not without love—it was out of love.

I woke up disorientated, aching, burning to be punished by him. To be tempered, to be pushed down, to feel and be completely powerless and helpless before him. I want him to hurt me. To punish me. To take something to my ***. To break me. To do it truly, not playfully, so that I know I deserve it so that I feel truly repentant. And if not repentant at first, then at least I will feel his control; his control to punish me thoroughly—to end the punishment when he is satisfied regardless of what I think, to overpower me, to subdue me completely. I want him to spank me when I am out of my own control. When I say terrible things and don’t consider anything else.

I no longer feel inwardly ashamed because I have learned how much this is feminine hardwiring. I have never wanted to be punished so badly by a man as I do from him because he is more of a man than any man I have ever known or seen or read. He is my man. It’s a desire I long to share with him because I love him and trust him and he is my husband. Once I realised how intimate and erotic it was to be punished, more intimate than sex itself, I knew I would never let Kayden do it again. That I would only share that with my husband—except that the man who ended up being my husband can be so ashamed and awkward about anything kinky—he is so ashamed that he fantasizes about overpowering women. If only he could become comfortable with that natural, carnal side with a willing partner.

I know I am not a terrible person, but I hate myself afterwards, after I lash out and break down. I long psychologically and sexually for his instinctive will to protect me and own me and love me at all costs no matter what the requirements, or the harshness with which it must be delivered. I never thought I would actually want to or have the courage to engage in this fetish, but with him it is different. I want to share everything with him. I feel like I am hiding a shadow part of myself from him.

He is the only one I would trust. It would be different than the night Kayden bent me over his bed and whipped me with his belt for flirting with another guy at the bar. It would be more intimate because Greg and I are more than lust—we are the universe.

I wish he would punish me for that night I went out with Kayden and Jessica and John. When we talked more than I will admit and he bought me a beer and I drank it. How I wanted to hang out with him longer—not because I love him; I’m not even attracted to him, but because it was exciting and risky and mostly because of the attention. I want to confess these things because I feel guilty; I yearn for him to know—everything—that there are no more secrets. That he punish me as well for the night I stayed out with Kayla.

I want him to be resolved enough to punish me hard enough to make sure it never happens again. To hit me. To slap me, to spank me hard enough so that I cry and do not think it would be exciting anymore. I ache to feel his authority—to learn and know that he is man enough to make me regret it deeply. To set his boundaries—the way I have set mine.

I am not sure if he even knows that side of him exists. I have seen glimpses of it—subtle, but undeniably real when he is angry. Even when he is not angry, his intolerance to nonsense flicks a switch on, and he gives commands with a calm, but menacing resolution like he is and has always been a General in the army. It arouses me. Deeply. For days, I linger on his words, the countenance on his face, his tone and I elaborate the details, mould them to my liking and imagination as I lay on my belly under the covers strumming myself. I think back to the calm control he is able to master when he takes a stance and I am not truly angry myself and am able to breathe in his authoritativeness.

We both pretend he is playing in these moments, but deep down I can see that disciplinarian extraordinaire; that built-in, innate part of him—his leadership skills, his intuitive logic, his confidence and the way he is aware of all things occurring around him—sometimes I feel like I have married a military black ops soldier. Then again soldier isn’t the right word. He doesn’t follow orders; he follows his instinct. The instinct that always knows when something is up—that feeling he says he gets in his solar plexus.

He did the sexy commanding the other day with the laundry. He told me to come over there and that he wasn’t going to take any of my lip either. If he had gone the extra step and threatened to spank me—and meant it—I would have creamed my pants right there.

I want him to make me feel I am his. To mark me with his hands or with an implement, to whip me and hurt me till I have no more guilt, no more shame and then to absolve me of my sins that night. I crave his voice ordering me across his lap, pulling me across, bending me over the side of the bed. To make me uncomfortable, but completely bare. Exposed and completely vulnerable beneath him and my trust is in him to make me truly repentant and for him to forgive me fully. He is unmerciful and immune to my pleas and sobs, my manipulations; his only goal to remind me of my place—to show me the balance.

The balance that teeters too much to my side and makes me feel like I have too much power, too much control or freedom sometimes. The balance that I overthrow when I go on rampages and when I throw tantrums because I have lost something. The balance that crashes and plummets like a comet when I say cruel things to him and he is too scared to say anything back or stand up to me.

The balance that is being lost today; the balance that sets rules and limits for us both--the ones he cannot set or he risks being called a chauvinist. I want him to be rutheless at all costs because he cares enough to not give up on me, but to fix me, to fix us and not walk out. My own Fixer-Of-All-Things. I want him to be a man. I want to be a woman.

To be made a woman; to be forced back into my femininity. I want to be made to surrender. I do not want him to punish me kindly and capsize the minute I cry out in pain, but to be determined and strong. To correct me until that has been accomplished thoroughly. There is nothing more liquefying than feeling a man’s strength, his love, his firmness, his sternness to set and remind of the limitations and boundaries.

I crave this domination—this surrender, the most when I am stressed at work and I have too many jobs and too many decisions and I feel like I have to bring out my masculine qualities to compete and survive. Men will never understand what a mind **** it is to try and reconcile your femininity in a man’s world. The desire to cry at work turns into anger, which isn’t normal for us or so I have read, and so it makes so much sense that this is why women come home and take it out on everyone instead of shutting down the way men do. We aren’t wired to shut down. We’re wired to express, but after a day on the battlefield I can’t even begin to reach down and find that feminine core that is like a grain of sand in a dark abyss. The tears won’t come. I feel angry instead. Sad music won’t even do it. I feel like a woman trapped in man’s body and I can’t shed the layers of that uniform to save my life—it’s like it is nailed and super-glued to me. It was when I came across the feminist blog. She called herself the disciplined feminist and confessed that when her husband spanked her after a bad day at work one day—their world changed. It’s like someone hit the reset button on her gender she said and she was able to process and purge that day and the masculinity that came with it. She could become a woman again.

I want to go back to the primal passive force I was designed to be. The great receiver. Receptor. There is no shame in it I have learned. Feminism shouldn’t be about becoming a man. It should be about being cherished and treated with the same rights as men. By becoming men we have lost it—sold ourselves out to the patriarchy. We will have created a patriarchy with more men. What we need are more women. The world needs us in our core—not the overcoats we adorn for battle.

I want to be a woman and feel feminine over his lap, subjugated and helpless. I feel like if he was not afraid to or if would lay a belt across my *** a half dozen times than perhaps we could take that wedge away that stands between us sometimes. And he could feel empowered again, that he is not a cuckold, that I do trust him to take control, to regulate, to guide, that I do look to him (though I wont admit it aloud) for guidance, for boundaries—for discipline. He has no idea how much I seek his counsel to tell me how much to spend. Not to swear. To be careful on the roads. That I need him to do this—a need I cannot admit—not in all of my deepest feminist capacities.

‘I don’t want to hurt you or make you cry’ he said once when I told him I wanted him to hit me hard enough to make me cry. If only he knew crying is not the enemy; not crying is the menace to femininity—a practically endangered species in the Western World.
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Jan 12, 2013