Journey Into Submission

a bdsm love journal

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One of the patients on “House” last night was named Tucker. I’m pretty sure it was a repeat but I’m thinking that the last time I saw it I wasn’t dating the man I call Tucker. Maybe it stuck in my head somehow and percolated up to the top when I was searching for a name.

Tucker is the only man I’ve dated who spent time “doing something” with me and the girls. In celebration of my elder girl’s birthday the four of us (two grown-ups, two girls) went to a popular children’s museum here in town. We have all spent time together at my home prior to this but this marked our first expedition out into the real world as a group.

Everyone, I am pleased to say, did wonderfully. The children were well-behaved, listened to both of us fairly often, and treated Tucker with respect and kindness. I was relatively relaxed, managed to keep up with being in the middle of my ultimate power dynamic (below Tucker, above the girls), and didn’t lose track of anyone at any point. Tucker was… well, Tucker was pretty amazing, actually.

For a man who does not have children of his own and who does not spend any appreciable time around other people’s progeny, he seems a natural. Many of the qualities that make him so well-suited to being my Dominant also serve him very well when dealing with my children. He treats them with the same directness, compassion, and even-handedness with which he treats me. He is consistent, reasonable, funny, open, reliable, and they know that he can be trusted. He mirrors my attitude toward guidance, discipline, proper decorum and manners and is quick to back me up when either of the girls goes astray under his watch.

There are very few men to whom I would entrust that most precious part of my heart, the part that walks around in the form of two young girls, but Tucker is among that tiny group. He told me, later that night when we were discussing the day, that my safety and that of my girls is more important to him than his own. He takes the responsibility and privilege of being a part of their lives very, very seriously and will do nothing to squander their trust in him. He is so diametrically opposed to the way Michael lived his life, in every fiber of his being and every move of his body, that I cannot help but throw random thanks outward to the world, universe, and god for putting him in my life.


Some weeks I spend more nights with Tucker than I do with my daughters.

Over a two week period my girls stay with me a total of seven nights – three the first week, four the second week. That leaves me with a total of seven nights when I used to sleep here all alone. Now I either stay with Tucker or he spends the night here with me almost every single one of those formerly lonesome nights.

I didn’t realize the extent of Tucker’s involvement in my previously solitary time until he pointed it out. We were talking in my bed late one night and Tucker brought the math to my attention. I tried to dismiss his numbers with my usual feigned (and funny) self-assurance and know-it-all attitude. Then I paused and he knew I knew he was right. It knocked me a little sideways when I thought about it seriously the next day.

It has been almost precisely five years since I last lived with someone other than my children. In sum total I have only spent one month out of my entire life co-habitating with someone to whom I was not joined in holy matrimony and that was due only to the lapse between my college graduation and our wedding date. And I’m not sure that that one month even really counts because my mother was staying with us the whole time. Something about maternal supervision kind of ruins the newness of living with someone in a committed relationship.

Spending this much time with Tucker, having him in my space for several days in a row, is clearly a new experience for me. Over the past few weeks I have even lent him the use of my spare housekey for various reasons related to convenience and divergent timing in us arriving at the same location. Once he was scheduled to work later than he wanted me staying up so I gave him the key to let himself in without me having to get up to answer the door. Twice when I was sick he tucked me in bed at a reasonable hour and then went to visit his best friend. I gave him the key so he could return at his leisure and I could enjoy my drug-induced slumber.

Now I am considering the combination of both of these developments. Tucker and I have a standing understanding that we will spend at least two nights, and most likely three, together every week. I have no reason to keep my spare key for myself and no one else to whom I would feel safe giving it. So why not combine both into one and let him keep the key?

But like I asked him, is this something that I am taking too casually? A major step I am bypassing for the sake of convenience? Is there more to giving a man your key than that of which I am aware, having not done it in quite some time and certainly not for these reasons? Should I be making a bigger deal of this and waiting until a more appropriate time? Or is love, desire, and time spent together reason enough?


The four easy ways Tucker could tell I was really sick this weekend:

I wasn’t wearing socks when he came over Friday evening.

I didn’t wear sexy underwear or a bra the whole weekend.

There is still a large, untouched piece of chocolate pie in my refrigerator.

And, my kitchen was a mess.

It was only this morning when I made it downstairs before he did and started making pancakes and cleaning the kitchen that he thought I might be getting better. Never ones to let something as mundane as a head cold get in the way of fucking, we’d been having sex almost as much as usual. I especially loved the “I’m barely awake but I’m really hard and horny so let’s get this over with and go back to sleep” fucking Saturday morning. When I complained that coming made my head hurt (sinuses and pressure and all that) Tucker let me go easy on myself, but that didn’t stop him from doing what he wanted to do.

He brought me soup, juice, and crackers Saturday evening because I was too worn out to even think about cooking or going anywhere. While we were eating he made a joke about taking care of me and how such a thing might not be allowed by certain hard-line M/s lifestyle folks.

“I wouldn’t be allowed to get sick,” I countered teasingly.

“No, it would just mean you weren’t really a slave,” he said.

“Right. It would be proof that I’m not a ‘twoo’ slave,” I laughed, thinking of the ridiculousness that flares occasionally on Fetlife about what a “true slave” is and what she does.

“Well, I for one am glad I get to take care of you,” he said.

“Why is that, Sir?” I asked.

“I like taking care of my toys. If one of them gets broken I don’t get to play with it,” he explained.

“Of course! That makes perfect sense. I like that you can take care of me, too. Otherwise I’d probably have to go find a sister slave to fill in for me and make sure you were taken care of,” I said.

Later (back in bed for more fucking and a quick nap) I expressed my sincere appreciation for all Tucker had done for me.

“I like taking care of you,” he whispered as I held my palm against his cheek. “It’s the way it’s supposed to be. How long has it been since you’ve had someone take care of you like this? Mother’s don’t count, it’s their job.”

I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes against the easy tears I felt and pouted out my lips a little.

“That long, huh?” he asked. I shrugged and curled more tightly into him. No one, save perhaps my husband on rare occasion when we were married, has ever brought me soup and juice and tucked me into bed. Tucker does so many things, so naturally, that it always surprises him when he finds out he is a unique gift in my life, but I never fail to notice it.


Sucking cock with a stuffy nose seems pretty pointless to me.

I mean, when I have Tucker’s cock in my mouth a great deal of our mutual enjoyment is my reaction to the taste and scent of him so close. If I am so stuffy that I can’t breathe through my nose and therefore can’t smell or taste anything I might as well have a banana in my mouth. It just doesn’t do anything for me – other than his enjoyment of the sensation. But I can tell when I am not completely into it he isn’t either. Having a stuffy, snotty girl with her mouth on your cock cannot be the most attractive thing in the world, especially when it is so far from the norm.

In case you can’t tell, I’m sick. My one big cold of the season has taken hold and laid me low for a few days. I don’t really remember much about the first evening I came home from work early and crashed… it is a blur of cold medication, confusing text messages, a very brief and rather surreal visit from my girls, and lots and lots of sleep. I think I ended up staying in bed for about nineteen hours before I came out for food and even then I couldn’t deal with anything more complex than a can of mixed fruit and eventually an english muffin.

Tucker has been taking care of me since yesterday evening – making sure I eat, get plenty of rest, and generally take care of myself. He came over to put me to bed early, went to visit his best friend who lives close by, and came back sometime in the middle of the night and snuggled into bed with me to keep me warm.

“Are you going to be okay with missing the party tomorrow?” he asked as we cuddled on the couch before he left.

“Nooo… I don’t wanna,” I whined. We’d been planning to go to a party hosted by one of my co-workers – my first chance to introduce Tucker to my vanilla friends – and I didn’t want to miss it.

“I know. But if you’re not feeling any better I’m not going to let you leave the house. Have you decided about your appointment?” he asked, referring to my bi-weekly meeting with Gwen.

“No, I think I’m going to see how I feel in the morning. I already told Jennifer I’d call her tomorrow,” I said. My eyes were closed and I was breathing heavily through my mouth as I leaned against his chest.

“You won’t be going anywhere if you’re like this tomorrow,” he said. Even in my exhausted and oblivious state the tone of his voice and absolute possession of my time and agenda made me all warm and fuzzy inside. There was no quibbling about what I might want to do, or who gets to make the decisions, or why going to the party even in less-than-perfect health might be a good idea. He just decided and I acquiesced.

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered and sniffled again.

“Time to get you to bed. Let’s go upstairs,” he said gently.


Tucker managed to surprise me with a lovely dinner out on Valentine’s day without ever having to lie to me.

This says more about him, and the reasons why I have become so very fond of him, than perhaps anything else.

When Tucker showed up at my door Friday night, as expected, I was dressed and ready to go out without ever suspecting that we were going anywhere except for a quick bite. I had taken a shower, done my hair and make-up, and was wearing something dressier than my usual jeans and sweatshirt. The amazing part is that he was able to be completely honest with me to get me to do these things, he just didn’t volunteer a few tiny pieces of information.

When I asked, earlier in the day, if I should eat before he came over he replied that we would go out and get a quick bite to eat after he arrived. This usually means neither of us is in the mood to cook and last Friday he couldn’t have been more right. We were both exhausted from staying up too late the night before and I was perfectly willing to let someone else prepare something for us.

Then he reminded me to take a shower and wear something cute. When I asked why, what I was dressing for, he said it was just because he likes me to look nice when we go out to eat. I mentally shrugged and did as he asked because I know from experience that this is absolutely true – whether we are going around the corner for sushi or downtown for a fine dining experience Tucker likes me to reflect well on him and I love doing it. I put on a nice pair of pants and a pretty sweater, did my typical date makeup, let my hair down, and called it good.

When he showed up in the dress shirt I had ironed earlier in the week I protested with a feeble “Hey!” He’d never told me why he wanted the shirt ironed and I’d never asked. I’d assumed it was for an event the night before but when he showed up in something different I just figured he’d changed his mind. It never occurred to me that I was ironing it for him to wear on a special date with me.

Without ever misleading, deceiving, or lying to me, Tucker got me exactly where he wanted me. He respects my need for truth, and his own conviction that the truth is nearly always necessary, too much to inject any small amount of deception into our relationship. He has never tried to keep anything from me or evade any of my questions. He has never told me something and then not followed through. The degree to which the truth is conveyed in his words is a constant reminder to me of how genuine and trustworthy he really is. I have, bit by bit, let go of the fear that Michael brought into my life – fear of being disappointed, mistreated, and misled. Fear based on real experiences and real reasons.

I truly believe Tucker would rather hurt me honestly than mislead me with a lie. He would rather tell me something I don’t want to hear than cover it up with platitudes and false assurances. He is so much the opposite of Michael that my heart is finally starting to accept that I can trust him with every part of myself. I can trust that Tucker won’t try to make me happy by saying what I want to hear. I can trust that he won’t lead me down the garden path and then abandon me when the truth springs to life. I can trust him.

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