Journey Into Submission

a bdsm love journal

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Me: Would you still sleep in my bed if I got a pink comforter?

Tucker: I might make you squirt all over it.

Me: So I’d have to take it off and wash it?

Tucker: Exactly.

Me: I’m guessing it’s probably not such a good idea then?

Tucker: Nope.

And so I still have my green comforter (which I still adore as much as the day I got it). This is the first time I have not changed my bedding with the onset of a new relationship but I think it is a good indicator of my stability and sense of self. I like what I picked out a few years ago. I spent a lot of money on it and planned for it to last. I’m not going to discard it just because Michael decided to hightail it out of my life. He doesn’t deserve to have that significant of an impact on anything more important than a blade of grass. And only then if there are no bugs depending on it for food or shelter.


I have allowed Tucker to insinuate himself into my life. Little bits and pieces. Little reminders and signs everywhere in my house and my day. A morning text message sent at the same time every day. His toothbrush and contact case in my bathroom. His shirts on the back of my bedroom door, waiting to be needed and ironed. His messages on my phone throughout my day. His shampoo in my shower. His boots in my entryway, cleaned and awaiting his return. A chat window open every evening. His knife in its own place in my kitchen. His pants in the sewing room, waiting to be hemmed. He is here even when he isn’t.

The biggest physical sign of this is probably the table by my bed. For the first time since I have lived here someone is actually staying with me often enough to deserve their own bit of bedside real estate. Tucker needed a place, other than my crowded windowsill, to put his phones, his glasses, and his water so I created a space. I designated a piece of furniture just for him and he uses it appreciatively.

All of this is comforting, distracting, and unnerving at the same time. I alone have been the sole adult inhabitant of this dwelling since it was built. I have decorated, furnished, cleaned, and maintained this house on my own. I have made it a home by myself. Having Tucker here reminds me of just how perfectly tuned to its occupants this space has been – he literally does not fit my layout in several places. I distributed the furniture and accessories with the needs of a small woman and two girl children in mind, not taking into account the comfort of a large man.

Now I am reconsidering my living space. I am wondering how I can help Tucker feel more comfortable here. I am debating the necessity of trading in my worn-out love-seat for a larger, nicer, comfier couch. I am thinking about rearranging the furniture in my bedroom to allow more room for him and his overnight bag. Tucker has requested none of these accommodations but I have watched him, noticed where he is comfortable and where he is not, and I feel a tug toward helping him enjoy being here as much as I do.

This leads, of course, to the thought that eventually we might share a living space. Not this space, obviously and for many reasons, but somewhere else where he and I would merge into we. I do not proceed very far on this train of thought because I am afraid of jinxing our chances of getting that far, but I do wonder how my books, his paint ball equipment, our computers, my daughters and cats, and all of his kinky gear would get along together. It sounds like the setup for a rather hilarious sit-com if you ask me.


This isn’t exactly how I pictured it would go. I always figured I would go out with a blaze of glory – announcing some grand plans for my future, reminiscing on my past, and closing the blog gracefully.

Instead I find myself happy, busy, and absent. No rosy descriptions of love and adoration and satisfaction. Just the passage of time to mark my settling into a relationship that fulfills so many parts of me. No angst or conflict or soul searching (oh, those still happen… they just happen less violently and less often than in the past). Just time spent doing what I like to do with people I like.

Work has finally, after nearly nine years, spilled over into my home life. I take work home with me – not the kids, just the preparation, communication, and documentation – for the first time in this career. My classes fit themselves into spare moments and lunch hours. Time spent with Tucker takes up the vast majority of the rest of my time.

Things come so easily with Tucker. I count on him in so many ways. It scares me, quite often, how well we fit together and how similar our hopes and desires are. Fear of success has come to roost on my shoulder – not just in terms of this relationship but also in terms of professional achievements – and I walk with the weight of it bending my back. Stress has always been my constant companion but now it is affecting how I sleep, how I eat, and how I feel.

How ironic that the stress I seem to find mandatory in every relationship comes this time not from internal drama or mismatched aims but from our very fear of things working out perfectly satisfactorily. Tucker loses sleep when thoughts of the future crop up at late hours. I push aside dreams and fantasies of my life because I don’t want to think about the possibility of us ending up happy and fulfilled by each other and our lives. We both love our jobs, we are both secure in who we are and what we want, we both have similar outlooks on life and the world, and we have both found something completely unexpected in the other.

It is not all champagne and roses but the growing pains we experience have none of the magnitude to which I am accustomed. Tucker and I have a real chance at a real future. There are no third parties, no grandiose daydreams, no promises of some day. We have now and for as long as we choose to be together. That is frightening and overwhelming to me most days.


“There are only two reasons I let you put your dirty socks on my table,” I said boldly. The lurch in my stomach at seeing what amounted to Tucker’s laundry on my dining room table fueled my bravery.

Tucker looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“And what might those be?” he asked indulgently.

“One, because you’re bigger than me,” I started. “And two, because I don’t get to tell you what to do.”

He chuckled and took the dirty pair off the table and put them on his lap. He left the clean pair where they were, just to see what I would do.

“Is that your way of telling me what you don’t want me doing?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir, I guess it is,” I admitted. I watched as he put the socks on and picked up a boot. He held it up to the light and appraised the scuffs on the toe. He raised an eyebrow and looked over at me.

“I was going to take care of those this weekend, wasn’t I?” I mused out loud.

“Yes. You were,” he said. He glanced at the clock and back at the boot. “How long does it take?”

“I don’t know. Probably not that long. I can at least get started.” I got up from the table and fetched the shoe polish and cloth from the shelf. Tucker handed me his boots and I headed to the couch where the light was brighter.

“Why do I always seem to end up doing this in my bathrobe?” I asked as I sat down and touched the cloth to my tongue. As I explained to Tucker, the only way I know to shine boots is with spit. I learned this method when I was in military school and it served me well for four years so I am not inclined to mess with a good thing. It looks rather undignified – watching me spit on what is basically a dirty rag cannot be appealing – but it gets the job done and remarkably well at that.

“Were you wearing your blue one last time?” he asked. (My blue bathrobe lives at his house. It was his gift to me for Christmas.)

“Yes, sitting in your kitchen. I remember wondering what your roommate would think of me,” I said. Tucker laughed and turned back to watching the last few minutes of the second quarter of the football game.

I focused on first one boot and then the other, working the polish in and buffing it off until the leather started to shine. Tucker is not one for a high gloss on his boots so I left off when they were merely glowing. He complimented me on my efficiency and pulled the boots on. My girls were expected home in a matter of minutes but Tucker and I were both procrastinating his leaving.

“I should get going,” he finally said. He disentangled himself from my embrace and stood to gather his bags. I was loathe to let him go after a weekend spent together but I knew real life was calling and our little bubble of isolation was fading away by the minute.


I’ve never been the inspiration for so many people wearing so many fine and fancy clothes before. Not even at my wedding. That was very small and very informal, except for my gown and my ex’s suit. Being the reason several dozen people dressed up and flaunted their finery, including Tucker, was breathtaking when I found out.

Tucker and I arrived at the party in our nicest attire – he in slacks and a dress shirt, me in a strapless satin gown – and were greeted warmly by several of the guests. This is the same party Michael kept me from attending, where Tucker and I first played with something other than rope, and where I realized, a month later, that I was falling more in love with him.

The host made his way towards us, resplendent in his tux, and gave me a hug.

“You,” he announced, “are the reason for this party.”

“What? Me?” I asked, glancing at Tucker. He shrugged, as uninformed as I was.

“Yes, you. A few months ago at an event you were wearing something very similar to this,” he gestured at my dress, “and when I complimented you, you told me how much you enjoy dressing up.”

“Yes, I remember that,” I replied.

“So I decided we needed a night where everyone dressed up just as much as you do,” he continued.

Tucker leaned down to give me a kiss and smiled secretly at me. He has told me time and time again how much he enjoys the fancy dresses and shoes I wear and the way I stand out from the usual black leather and latex most everyone wears to fetish and bdsm parties. The fact that I almost refuse to wear black and own nothing made of either leather or latex endears me to him and has inspired him to want to dress up more himself.

I thanked the host with another hug and took Tucker’s arm to make the rounds of the party. I’d been fussing with my dress and complaining about being cold and uncomfortable ever since Tucker picked me up but when I started again he cut me off.

“You are not allowed to complain about your dress again tonight,” he warned. I looked up at him and saw he was serious.

“Yes, Sir,” I said. I understood his rationale, without him having to say anything. Complaining about my dress when I was the very reason I was wearing it would be ungrateful and churlish. The hosts deserved better behavior than that from me, and Tucker was tiring of my lack of manners. I vowed years ago to not end up like my mother who cannot be content no matter how perfect the situation and this was one small step toward that end.

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