I'm A Secret Real-Life 'Babygirl.' These Are The Erotic Experiences Nobody Suspects I Crave.
If you met me at a cocktail party, you probably wouldn’t find me remarkable. I’m middle-aged, attractive but not in a flashy way, a casual dresser, not someone who generally turns heads. When we talk, you might discover that I went to a Seven Sisters college, have a successful career and own a home in a nice part of Los Angeles. If you’re particularly observant, maybe you would notice the slim silver chain I wear around my neck, the two interlocking circles nestled in my collarbone. To you, it might seem like a subtly elegant piece of jewelry, but to me, it is the symbol of my submission, the collar that signifies I belong to “Daddy.”
Like Nicole Kidman’s character in “Babygirl,” I am the submissive in a D/s dynamic. But, unlike in the movie, the age gap with my partner goes in the other direction (he’s older than I am) and is not particularly significant, especially in this town of barely post-pubescent starlets on the arms of executives old enough to be their grandfathers.
In vanilla company, Daddy and I play the role of equals; we are both intelligent, well-read and possess similar progressive values. But behind our public facade lies our real, raw selves: the strict but nurturing paternal figure and the sweet but untamed little girl. No one would ever guess that my apparent self-discipline (drinking water, flossing daily, going to bed at the same time each night) are simply me following Daddy’s rules. They certainly wouldn’t believe that I allow him to tell me what panties to wear and when I have permission to touch myself.
And, of course, if I break a rule, well, there are consequences. I might be forced to write lines or stand in the corner or, most commonly, I am spanked ― sometimes over Daddy’s knee, sometimes with my hands placed down on a chair, sometimes lying across a bed, but always with my skirt flipped up, exposing my bare flesh to his chosen chastisement. Sometimes he uses his hand, sometimes a belt or brush, sometimes one of the many straps or paddles we’ve collected over the years. On the flip side, I am often the recipient of Daddy’s praise, earning myself rewards or the always-thrilling sound of my favorite two words: “good girl.”
Why does someone like me desire this type of relationship? Is it because, as books and movies so often suggest, I have to be in charge at work and in family life and thus want to relinquish control in my relationship? That may be a nice side effect, but the truth is that this dynamic is something I wanted long before I had a career or a family. Like Kidman’s character Romy, I have had these thoughts of dominance and submission since childhood, and for me they are not connected to any trauma or life event. The thought of being punished by a loving caregiver has lit up my brain since I first saw “The Old Woman in the Shoe” in my illustrated book of nursery rhymes, and my fascination with discipline continued throughout my life, serving as the constant fodder of my masturbatory fantasies.
The only trauma I experienced was, sadly, my own reaction to my fetish. Similar to Romy in “Babygirl,” I did not accept this aspect of myself and tried to stuff it deep down, afraid even to mention it to my intimate partners. It was only the pandemic and subsequent shutdown of the world that provided me enough mental space to come to terms with it, aided by a deep dive into the world of fan fiction, where I discovered I was not at all alone in my desires.
It was there that I learned about myriad things I had never encountered, like praise kinks and orgasm control and DDlg (Daddy Dom/little girl). Thus began my journey toward self-acceptance, the path that eventually led me to meet my partner, who was on a similar journey, having recently divorced his wife after deciding he wasn’t up for a lifetime of denying his sexual desires.
Of course, as much as my partner and I may have accepted ourselves, the true nature of our relationship is not exactly something we can flaunt in polite society. Some of my closest friends know I’m “kinky” or “into BDSM,” but I’m sure they imagine me at a dungeon wearing a leather bikini and being flogged (or flogging someone else) on a St. Andrew’s cross, not the tamer reality of me in a babydoll dress with my nose to the corner, hands folded behind my back, Daddy watching me from his armchair to make sure I don’t disobey. The former scenario does nothing for me, while the latter makes my knees weak just thinking about it.
This kind of power exchange is electrifying for both of us: the knowledge that I am a strong, independent woman, that I don’t have to do any of this, and yet I submit to his authority willingly. Still, I’m sure some reading this will think I have some kind of Stockholm syndrome or have done crazy mental gymnastics to convince myself that my lifestyle isn’t anti-feminist. But the truth is I don’t really care what they think. I lived most of my life listening to society’s messages and feeling unhappy and unfulfilled.
In my former relationships, I was always hiding something, and how can you be authentic with a partner when you can’t be honest with yourself about what you want? (Like Nicole Kidman’s character in the movie, you may end up suddenly snapping and screaming at your husband that he has never even given you an orgasm after decades of marriage.)
When I met my current boyfriend (in an online kink space), we started off knowing each other’s deep, dark secret, the one we had always hidden from the world, and from there it was easy to be vulnerable. And the more we explored dominance and submission, the more trusting we had to be with each other and the more we had to communicate. Suddenly, after years of feeling broken and unable to sustain a relationship, I found I was able to experience love in a deeper and more fulfilling way than I had ever even imagined. (And, yeah, the orgasms are pretty great, too.)
So when you meet me at that cocktail party, maybe you will notice that there is a calmness and contentment in my demeanor, a youthful glow when I laugh, a confidence when I speak. Maybe you will see how I touch the chain at my neck and blush a little, meeting my partner’s eyes across the room. Maybe you will wish you had what I have… maybe.
Colleen Ryan is the pseudonym of a writer who works in the entertainment industry in Los Angeles.
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