The Progressive Sub: My Submission Is a Feminist Statement

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*stands up*

My name is Zelda O’Bannon and I’m a dirty, submissive slut.

*Awkward silence. This is an AA meeting.

Whoops.*

I love to be spanked, ordered around, forced, teased and tortured. I like the feeling of a long, hard cock all the way down my throat, my nose pressed against his pelvic bone, his balls against my chin. I love being taken and used from behind, forced to cum over and over again.

I like relentless men, violent men, dangerous men. Pretty women. Various genders and identities in between.

And yet, I’m also a big, fat, raging feminist.

This is the part where you chime in: How the fuck do you manage that? After all, female submission is all about playing up the power imbalance, right? How can someone who seeks to abolish such a thing possibly also really love getting off to it?

If that shit dropped your jaw, allow me to do you one further: I fucking love to cook. I find my zen in scrubbing bathroom floors. I would rather delicately prepare a 5-course dinner and clean up afterward than I would ever mow the lawn or change the oil or man the manly thing that only men are traditionally acknowledged for manning.

See, there’s this crazy thing about submission that nobody seems to get but is 100% part of the lifestyle’s allure: the submissive, at all times, is entirely in control.

It’s so simple that it almost doesn’t make any sense at all. Being a submissive is firstly, about acknowledging one’s power over one’s own body. I own my body. I am its master. I decide what goes in it, around it, in it again, and again, and again, and OH GOD YES, YES, PLEASE FUCK ME YES!

And it’s only after I acknowledge that power that I can relinquish it to someone else. After all, if my body isn’t my own, then its certainly not mine to give– so when I say, “Please Sir, take my tight little pussy with your big, hard rod,” I am firstly letting Sir know: this is my pussy, and I am giving it to you. I am submitting to you. These are my gifts to you: my obedience– my consent– myself.

Blindfolded

Good girls don’t need to see what’s going on.

“Kneel,” he tells her, and she obeys.

She’s a good girl.

She does what Daddy says.

“Eyes on the ground,” he tells her.

Maybe not such a good girl after all: she looks up.

He smirks down at her. “We’re still working on following orders, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, cheeks flushed. She hates looking down. He only lets her speak when spoken to; her eyes are her only form of communication. She wants to gaze up at him adoringly, tell him how she loves him in a flutter of eyelashes.

Instead, she lowers her eyes and stares at her reflection in the black shine of his shoes. Her hair has fallen over her cheeks, hiding her face. Her collar encircles her neck, a delicate silver choker. Her leash is an elegant string of pearls that hangs before her and leads up to his hands. Her breasts are bared. Her hands are behind her back. In her dark reflection, she looks every bit the slave that she’s meant to be– but it’s too late for that now. She knows her Daddy better than that.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her.

When she does, she feels cold silk against her eyelids.

The world has gone dark, but her other senses are heightened now. She can hear her own heart thrumming, quick like a bunny’s. She can feel the cold, hard tile of the floor beneath her, bruising her knees with her every move.

She can sense him move before her.

His hands smell like coffee and ink. She can smell them as he runs his fingers through her hair, stirring up the scent of her shampoo. Vanilla and roses. She smells as sweet as he is masculine, but her scent is light, and his is strong.

The smell fades as he withdraws his hands. She hears the sound of a zipper.

He pulls her closer.

“Open your mouth, girl,” he tells her.

She’s a good girl.

She does what Daddy says.

His cock is hard and demanding against her lower lip. When she flicks her tongue out, she tastes the salt of his pre-cum, slick and still warm from his body heat.

He pushes in, and she takes him. Her mouth is wanton, wet with longing. He pushes deeper, and she feels his foreskin pull back as it slides against her open lips. The underside of his cock, the sensitive ridge that connects head and shaft, smooths against her tongue, in and in and in, and then back out. She hears Daddy’s breath hiss. She knows then that she’s pleased him. He loves the feel of her tongue.

As his cock slips back out of her mouth, she draws in a breath. Her heart is racing with excitement. She knows what comes next.

He presses in again, harder this time. He is no longer relishing the warm wetness of her mouth. He’s only taking now, taking the mouth that he owns, the tongue that serves him, the lips that worship him. He uses her mouth like it was made only for his pleasure. In the moment, she believes it: she was made for this. She was made for him to fuck and him to own, him to use as he pleases.

In another thrust, he takes her throat.

There’s the old choking sensation, the inevitable panic as he pushes past her gag reflex and down her throat. She can’t breath, and he knows this. He’s waiting for the signal, the three quick taps against his thigh, but she doesn’t give it. She can take it. She can take whatever her Daddy gives her.

He wraps one hand around the back of her head– leverage. The other, he wraps around her throat. She imagines he can feel it, the way his cock bulges beneath the skin of her neck.

He ravages her and she loves him for it.

And just as she fears she has neared her limit, he withdraws. The first shot of cum lands against her lips, all salt and musk. The next finds her cheek; another still shoots all the way across her face, from forehead to jaw. He presses his cock back into her mouth for the final few spurts. His seed is sweet, salty, sour– a whole palette of flavors that he paints her tongue with.

He replaces his cock with his fingers, wiping the cum from her face and feeding it to her. Not a drop is wasted. She loves her Daddy’s cum. She licks his fingers clean.

When the blindfold is removed, he’s smiling down on her, soft and sweet so she knows that she’s done a good job.

“I’m afraid that we’ve stained my tie,” he says with a laugh. She watches as he examines the length of cloth that was covering her eyes: his favorite tie, the black silk one she picked out for his birthday.

“I’ll wash it,” she offers, but he shakes his head no.

“Let the housekeepers deal with it,” he tells her. He helps her up and she leans against him. Kneeling for so long has made her knees weak. “You did too well today, darling girl. I want to pamper you now.”

She smiles. She loves being pampered.

“How’s your throat?” he asks, but before she can answer, his lips are on hers.

“A little sore,” she admits when he finally pulls away.

“We’ll get you some tea with honey,” he says.

He holds her against him like a small kitten, pressing her cheek to his chest until she can hear his heartbeat through the linen of his shirt. It’s strong and steady, just like he is, and she slows her breathing until it matches her own.

Who the Hell is Zelda O’Bannon?

If this was a romance novel, it’d be raining right now.

But this isn’t, and so it’s not. At some point, I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m not a woman of romance novels. I do not sigh forlornly. I don’t pine after brooding, dark-haired English gentlemen. My feet are not dainty, my features are not delicate, and my near-death experiences rarely, if ever, come from catching cold after getting caught in the rain.

Being a romance novel heroine is all good and well for the women who can hack it, but I’m not that kind of woman. In reality, I’m the kind of woman that romance novel heroines hear their friends whisper about. I’m the plot device that serves a sole purpose of causing other, more socially minded and appropriate characters to become utterly appalled. I’m the girl who blows the hero in a dimly lit alleyway right before he goes off to profess his undying love to someone else.

What can I say? It’s a gift.

And the thing is, I don’t even mourn the fact that I will never be a Jane Eyre or a Lizzie Bennet anymore, because in reality, all of that pining and sighing seems like it would wear on a woman, not to mention the fact that I would look perfectly ridiculous in a fucking bonnet. If you want something, dammit, you go get it yourself. There’s no shame in the wanting– even when it’s forbidden. There’s no time like the present to stop waiting around for some handsome, rich man to take you to O-Town and start getting some for yourself.

Or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve gotta come to when you’re not a romance heroine and it’s not raining.

I’m Zelda O’Bannon, and I’m here to break all of your rules.

Expect me.