Owned... But Married

"Are you ready for bed?"

"What?"

I glance up, away from the computer screen, and meet his eyes. This is my husband of almost 23 years. I adore this man. He is the father of my children and my best friend.

I type a couple farewells to my group chat and a second chat with my friend from Colorado. I close the laptop, stretch, and get up.

He comes into the room, walking around to his side of the bed, turning off the overhead light as he goes. He pulls his shirt off and lies down on his back. His eyes are closed and I roll onto my elbow, facing him. "Tired, I take it?" I ask.

"A little bit. Long day."

"I know."

"Why, what's up?"

"Nothing. Unless you felt the urge to ravish me."

He laughs. "I'm tired. Maybe tomorrow."

"Okay."

It's the usual conversation. He is tired. He was falling asleep on the couch all evening. His eyes are a little bloodshot from it. I reach up and turn off the lamp, doing my "pancake impersonation" and flipping over, pulling the body pillow with me. I slide one arm under the head pillow and wrap the other around the body pillow.

"Good night."

"Good night. I love you."

"I love you, too," I said, letting my eyes slide shut.

It's the usual nighttime routine. I do love him. Very much.

*

But I always had this sense there was something more, some itch that had to be scratched if you will.

I always liked being dominated in the bedroom. Nothing too crazy, but I like giving up the control.

Sex in general was always a bit of a struggle for me, thanks to the fundamentalist upbringing I'd had.

Orgasms were still tricky. Various medications along the way made it hard for my body to respond the way it "should." So, although sex is still fun and feels physically good, climaxing is not always going to happen. But that's okay. It's no one's fault.

The best way to get me close to a climax is to engage my mind. So, chat rooms and various other methods of talking to people would help. Usually I would get a little revved up then chase the husband around for a while. It generally worked out well.

I would also write stories. Started off as a blog, then moved it to a publishing company. Then they went under so I put them on Literotica. Friends and I called them "The Kinky Stories." I would post them and get off mostly on knowing how much people liked them.

And I would take years off in between. I would get busy with life. Kids, work, husband, family, all of it. So time would pass and I would more or less forget about "The Kinky Stories," and Literotica, and all of it. But things would get stressful, or sometimes even just too boring, and I'd be back to it. It would be cyclical to a degree.

This last time was different. I was different. Everything in my life was different. I'd gotten hurt. Out of work. I couldn't do what I wanted to. Too much time on my hands. And I wasn't doing well.

I turned back to Literotica to fill some time. Rediscovered the chatrooms. I became a bit of a "regular" during the days. During my vacation time, I tried having a d/s relationship with someone that crashed and burned. I don't think he's a bad guy, and I want him to find happiness, but clearly he and I were never meant to be a "thing." It essentially blew up because I was getting a consult for my eighth tattoo. He didn't like tattoos, or piercings, or dyed hair, or anything remotely "unladylike" which was basically... Well, me. He'd wanted me to wear pink nail polish, never dye my hair, never listen to the music I like, etc. When I went for the consult, he told me I was: Contrary, tiring, argumentative, willful, stubborn, and bitchy. I would never be a submissive. I wasn't ever going to find anyone that would put up with me.

*

So I went back to one-off conversations for the most part. I clicked with a few people in non-sexual ways, and that was actually fun and very much welcomed.

There was a man I'd seen on a lot, but never talked to. No real reason not to, just never did. I'd read his profile a few times, and I admit it was intriguing, but for whatever reason, I didn't act on it. Until I did.

I just sent a regular message, telling him that his profile was interesting and I was interested in a quick session of "roleplaying." So, we chatted a bit. And I followed his directions in a session.

Truthfully I don't remember a lot of it. We talked about a red swimsuit that I liked to wear and soon enough I was in a heightened sense of arousal -- so much that I had to ask him permission to orgasm. I remember having an orgasm, which was different enough on its own. I liked him. He was confident and he had this... Aura or feeling about him, for lack of better word.

We started talking a bit off of Literotica, and one night I got drunk. I don't remember much about that night honestly. It was not one of my "better" moments.

The next morning, I sent a message to the man, apologizing for disappearing and whatever else I may have said or done while drunk. He accepted the apology but wanted me to do something for him. I wasn't his submissive. I didn't like the idea of doing anything for him. But I heard him out. He wanted something so utterly ridiculous that I almost ignored it, or at least just told him no.

He wanted me to organize my panty drawer. Panties on one side, folded of course, with the bras next, also folded, then socks, then pajama pants. All folded and organized. By a certain time that morning. With photo proof.

I just stared at the screen for a few minutes. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream. Again, the no-hangover superpower was in effect. I felt fine. Maybe a little thirsty. If anything, I was a little insulted. I wasn't a child. This man sure as hell wasn't my father. I got up and got some water, muttering under my breath that it was stupid. There was no point. Why bother? I'd apologized. What else could I do?

So I found myself sitting on the floor of my bedroom, the pantry drawer pulled out in front of me. I took everything out of it. It was all in a jumbled pile. I'd never cared about a panty drawer. I didn't care about a panty drawer. This was stupid.

Those thoughts kept running through my head as I organized and folded. Why was I even doing this? But his words kept going through my mind. He wanted me to think about how I'd acted. Was I willing to do this for him? For some random guy I met on Literotica of all places?

Yet, as the drawer got neater and more organized, I felt something else. I felt some weird sort of pride. Not just because I'd managed to weed out some very old and stretched out panties and socks, but because I'd done the job I'd been given. I'd done it even if I wasn't sure of the reason. And something about that felt almost... Good.

I sent him the picture of the drawer and he replied quickly, telling me I'd done a good job and that he was proud of me. For some ridiculous reason, that meant more to me than anything anyone had said to me in a long time.

*

Things moved along. He asked me in an email if I wanted to be his submissive, that he wanted me to write him back explaining why. And I couldn't. I just couldn't do it. I was a failure at being a submissive. I'd learned that. The summer dom had told me I wouldn't ever be a sub, after all. He had said I was "contrary, irritating, stubborn, and argumentative." I knew I wasn't worth the trouble.

So I told him that. Maybe not in so many words, but I told him it was too scary. That I wasn't able to do what he wanted me to do. And he told me to think about it. To consider it. And to eventually write my answer down, even if it was a "no." Writing it out seemed to be important to him and it came to be special for me as well.

I was known for writing. I love writing. It's always been a passion of mine, but this was different.

And of course before Sir would take me on as his submissive, he shared the seven simple rules he had for me. The number one rule was no orgasms without his permission, and he controlled my sex. All of it. Being married this presented a little bit of a problem. I do love my husband and enjoy the physical intimacy of sex, even if the orgasms aren't guaranteed. But Sir allowed me to have sex with my husband on two conditions: I must always tell him when my husband and I had sex, even if it was the morning after, and if told no sex, then no sex it would be.

The interesting twist to this is that there would be times when he would tell me to initiate sex with my husband.

I don't remember exactly what I wrote. I wrote that I was scared, terrified even. I was afraid to let him down. Afraid to try again. I didn't want to get attached to anyone else. It never worked. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to. So I sent him the letter, telling him that although I was scared, I wanted to try.

I wanted to be his submissive. I wanted him to be my Dominant, even if I wasn't entirely sure what that meant. Something about this man drew me in. I hit the send button and waited, my heart pounding so fast I could see it in my eyes.

I don't remember all of the conversations from the beginning. I was trying to do what I thought I was supposed to do. He would say "Pardon me?" a lot, usually if I answered a command with an "okay." It meant I was supposed to say, "Yes, Sir." Sometimes he would hold his finger up during a video chat and say it. I would blush and want to kick myself. But I learned. One thing about being a student for so long. I knew how to learn.

But something was happening to me along the way. Yes, I was learning the general "rules" for being a submissive. That was easy enough. Keeping the snark down was harder, but I was learning. He had told me before that the biggest "punishment" would be more mental than physical. Standing alone in a corner with my thoughts in complete silence would be worse than any paddling on my ass.

But other things were changing, too.

*

"Good girl."

Thank you, Sir.

It doesn't matter how many times I read that, or how many times I hear it. My heart speeds up every time. My cheeks get hot. My nipples harden. My clit throbs.

But it's more than that. Even if the physical reaction is immediate, strong, and amazing, it's nothing compared to the feeling I get inside.

Something about those words get me. Every time. I feel like the Grinch when his heart grows three sizes. I feel full, valued, cared for.

Owned.

A few times when I talk to people online, especially on Literotica, they will try to tell me I'm a "good girl" and I shut them down. I'm not "good" for them. And I'm sure as hell not their "girl." It just falls flat or makes me angry. That's when I remind them that I have a Dominant.

Remind them that I'm owned.

"You were a very good girl today. You obeyed me and made me proud."

Thank you, Sir.

*

While I don't remember all of the conversations, I remember looking at his face and meeting his eyes when he said something along the lines of, "Don't you think I care about you?"

I wanted to think that. But deep down, no. No, I didn't. Not because I thought he was cruel or intentionally mean. I knew better than that. But I didn't think I was worth his true affection or care. I was his submissive. That meant I was there to please him. And that was all. Reciprocity wasn't a given. Nor did I expect it.

He told me I was worth all of it. I was enough. I'd always been enough. I would always be enough. I wanted to believe him so much. I was so scared to believe him. What if he was lying to me? Intentionally or not, it wouldn't matter.

But I believed him. I had to. I needed to. I needed it so much. So I made myself believe him.

I never thought much about it. I've always been polite. I call people "sir" and "ma'am" all the time. Even at work, I will call people those things. I always thank people, especially waiters or custodial staff. And they earn those titles of respect.

So yeah. I can refer to people as "sir" all the time. No problem.

So why do I capitalize it with my Dominant? Hell, why do I capitalize "Dominant?"

It's more than a title. It's a Title. I can hear it in my own head when I type or think or read. I can hear it in my voice when I speak. It's something that was earned. Something that I accepted and used without question.

*

The conversations sometimes are about the most mundane things. Grocery shopping. Washing dishes. Driving to a train station. But they are still needed parts of my day. I look forward to them.

We joke about his "radio voice" because it is so relaxing. I hear that voice in my head a lot. I hear it when I read his messages. I hear it in dreams. It still always amazes me that it seems to work so well.

And for all of my troubles with sexual responses, two words from him and I'm ready to cum. I have to actually hold it off. I need his permission to cum. And sometimes he will say no and I have to wait.

How many times have I been sitting here on my comfy little loveseat, daytime or nighttime, my husband about six feet away, while I chat with my Dominant? How many times do I type "Sir" an hour? How many times do I cum without my husband's knowledge? Even though he is close enough for me to touch with my feet if I stretch far enough?

I wear the ankle bracelet for my Dominant. I follow some clothing "rules." Nothing too crazy. No panties/bras while at home unless told to wear them. I use lip gloss to put his initials, SJ for Sir J, on my shaved pubic mound at least once a day. Sometimes I wear specific bras or panties, or skirts, all to please him.

I'm owned.

I need that. It makes me feel safe. Cared for. Wanted. Sexy.

Something about doing that, serving him, pleasing him, cumming for him, mere feet from my husband makes it somehow even better. Because it feels more real.

I've accepted my position as his submissive. I've grown to enjoy my place. I accept him as my Dominant. I need him in my life. He makes my life better.

I've even accepted that he cares about me. That he wants the best for me.

I have some pictures of some waves that my Dominant sent to me. So I printed one and hung it up. And I do trace that with my fingers sometimes. It's a way of centering myself when I can't talk to him.

I still don't know if I can explain how the submission feels. It's not just giving things up. There is that part. Giving up control in some things. I like giving that up. Especially after a long day at my very demanding job. It's nice to turn that part off. To not be "Miss V the Savage" for a while. If nothing else, the act of submission lets me be cared for. Not in a physical way, not really.

I'm capable of taking care of myself. Even with the doubts and just the day to day struggles, I know I can take care of myself.

But it's also nice to know that someone is there to catch me. To be my safety net. To help me be the best version of me that I can be.

To know that yes, my Dominant does care about me. Yes, I'm there to please him, to make him happy, but helping me is part of what makes him happy. It's hard to believe it sometimes, but I know I have to. Because if I don't, I'm calling him a liar. And I can't do that.

*

"Are you ready for bed?"

"Yeah. Let me just sign off."

"Okay. Meet you in there."

And he walks away, going to the bedroom, maybe staying naked, maybe not.

*

I'm married and I love him.

I'm owned and I love him, too.

*

Please, Sir may i cum?

"Cum for me NOW."