In Girls , Lena Dunham's character finds herself for a moment lying on a gynecologist's table perversely fantasizing about having AIDS because it would free her from ambition, from responsibility, from the daunting need to make something of her life. It's a great scene, a vivid piece of real-seeming weirdness, which raises the question: is there something exhausting about the relentless responsibility of a contemporary woman's life, about the pressure of economic participation, about all that strength and independence and desire and going out into the world?
It may be that, for some, the more theatrical fantasies of sexual surrender offer a release, a vacation, an escape from the dreariness and hard work of equality. Which is not to say that baroque stories of sexual submission are new. Sadomasochism is, of course, what someone I know referred to as "a hearty perennial.
O's masochism begins as an intense devotion to her lover but quickly turns into something else: O begins to vacate herself; she loses her personality in the pure discipline of pain. The cool, elegant, brutal novel culminates in a scene where O is wearing an owl mask and is led on a chain naked into a party, where it occurs to none of the guests that she is human.
When Susan Sontag wrote about O, she talked about "the voluptuous yearning toward the extinction of one's consciousness. Every so often a book comes along that absorbs us and generates discussion about bondage and power, with eroticized scenes of rape or colorful submission: books such as The Ages of Lulu and The Sexual Life of Catherine M. What is interesting is that this material still, in our jaded porn-saturated age, manages to be titillating or controversial or newsworthy. We still seem to want to debate or interrogate or voyeuristically absorb scenes of extreme sexual submission.
Even though we are, at this point, familiar with sadomasochism, it still seems to strike the culture as new, as shocking, as overturning certain values, because something in it still feels, to a surprisingly large segment of our tolerant post-sexual-revolution world, wrong or shameful. One of the salient facts about Fifty Shades of Grey 's Anastasia Steele is that she is not into sadomasochism, she is just in love with Christian Grey "Deep down I would just like more, more affection, more playful Christian, more This is important for a mainstream heroine appealing to mainstream readers: she indulges in the slightly out-there fantasy of whipping and humiliation without actually taking responsibility for any off-kilter desires.
She can enjoy his punishments and leather whips and mild humiliations without ever having to say that she sought them out or chose them. It's not that she wants to be whipped, it's that she willingly endures it out of love for, and maybe in an effort to save, a handsome man. This little trick of the mind, of course, is one of the central aspects of sexual submission: you can experience it without claiming responsibility, without committing to actually wanting it, which has a natural appeal to both our puritan past and our post-ironic present.
When Maggie Gyllenhaal appeared in Secretary , a comic commentary on a boss disciplining his assistant, she was worried about a feminist reaction against the flamboyant depiction of sexual domination. But she said, "I found women, especially of my generation, are moved by it in some way that goes beyond politics. Explaining the endurance of submissive sexual fantasies, the feminist Katha Pollitt says, "Women have more sexual freedom and more power than ever before in our history, but that does not mean they have a lot of either, and it doesn't mean they don't have complicated feelings of guilt, shame and unworthiness.
But more recent studies show that the women who fantasize about being forced to have sex are actually less prone to guilt than those who don't. Fortunately, Kate is still not home. She must still be having dinner with her folks and Ethan. I watch him walk down the path and climb into the big black Audi.
I close the door and stand helpless in the living room of an apartment that I shall only spend another two nights in. A place I have lived happily for almost four years… yet today, for the first time ever, I feel lonely and uncomfortable here, unhappy with my own company. Have I strayed so far from who I am? I know that lurking, not very far under my rather numb exterior, is a well of tears. What am I doing? How was graduation?
Her voice is a soothing balm. She pauses. Please tell me. Uninvited, my tears begin to flow. I have cried so often in the last few days. I just want someone else to be strong for me at the moment. I wish I could be with you. I am so sorry I missed your graduation. Oh, honey, men, they are so tricky.
How long have you known him? How can you possibly know someone in that kind of time frame? Is he worthy of me? I always wonder whether I am worthy of him. Come home — visit with us. I miss you, darling. Bob would love to see you too. You can get some distance and maybe some perspective. You need a break. Run away to Georgia. Grab some sunshine, some cocktails. Thank you. Go and enjoy yourself. Stay safe, honey. Not the intangible, mysterious, vague hues of gray that color my world. Welcome to my world.
I approach it with caution. Hmm… sitting. All the warning signs were there, I was just too clueless and too enamored to notice. Kate comes back into the living area with a bottle of red wine and washed teacups. Funny way of showing it? How was your evening? The hot news is that Ethan may be coming to live with us after their holiday. That will be fun — Ethan is a hoot.
Well… tough. I have a couple of teacups of wine and decide to call it a night. Kate hugs me, and then grabs the phone to call Elliot. I check the mean machine after I brush my teeth. The most beautiful, intelligent, witty and brave woman I have ever met. Take some Advil — this is not a request.
I will know. Oh, not drive my car again! I type out my reply. I will need to drive my Beetle to a garage so I can sell it — so will not graciously accept any of your nonsense over that.
The reason some women love spanking so much has nothing to do with Fifty Shades of Grey.
Red wine is always more preferable to Advil. I hit send. Steele I am not flattering you. You should go to bed. I accept your addition to the hard limits. Taylor will dispose of your car and get a good price for it too. Date: May 26 To: Christian Grey Dear Sir I am intrigued that you are happy to risk letting your right hand man drive my car — but not some woman you fuck occasionally. How can I be sure that Taylor is the man to get me the best deal for said car? I have, in the past, probably before I met you, been known to drive a hard bargain.
Taylor is ex-army and capable of driving anything from a motorcycle to a Sherman Tank. Your car does not present a hazard to him. I switch off my sidelight and stare up at the ceiling. It was heartwarming to spend some time with Ray. He looked well, and weirdly he approved of Christian. Jeez, Kate and her gargantuan mouth. Hearing Christian speak about being hungry.
What the hell is that all about? God, and the car. What was Christian thinking? And then this evening, he actually hit me. What have I gotten myself into? Why is he so fucked up? It must be awful to be as affected as he is, and the thought that as a toddler he suffered some unbearable cruelty makes me cry harder. I turn into my pillow and the sluice gates open… and for the first time in years, I am sobbing uncontrollably into my pillow. I am momentarily distracted from my dark night of the soul by Kate shouting.
He flicks the switch off again and is at my side in a moment. He switches on the sidelight making me squint again. Kate comes and stands in the doorway. Christian raises his eyebrows at her, no doubt surprised by her flattering epithet and her feral antagonism. Holy crap… this is personal stuff. I stare at him blankly. He sits back on the bed as he puts on his shoes and socks. We are back to mergers and acquisitions — another degree mood swing. He frowns. Or he can see you at my place. Which would you prefer? I have a lovely new car. A drop of wine in you and you start talking, and I need you to communicate honestly with me.
In vino veritas, Anastasia. He smiles and his eyes glow with humor. I have to go. My heart leaps into my mouth. He nods slowly, and then he grins, teasing. Holy shit. He sits down on the edge of the bed. I blanch. I sit staring at him completely immobile. My insides practically contort with potent, needy, liquid, desire. He gazes at me, waiting, eyes blazing. Tentatively, I uncurl my legs. Should I run? This is it, our relationship hangs in the balance, right here, right now. Because I know it will be over if I say no. Do it! My inner goddess pleads with me, my subconscious is as paralyzed as I am.
Blood pounding through my body, my legs are like jelly. Slowly, I crawl over to him until I am beside him. Hesitantly, I clamber to my feet. He holds his hand out, and I place the condom in his palm. Suddenly he grabs me, tipping me across his lap. With one smooth movement, he angles his body so my torso is resting on the bed beside him. He throws his right leg over both of mine and plants his left forearm on the small of my back, holding me down so I cannot move.
Oh fuck. I obey immediately. Oh, how demeaning is this, demeaning and scary and hot. My heart is in my mouth. I can barely breathe. Shit, is this going to hurt? He places his hand on my naked behind, softly fondling me, stroking round and round with his flat palm. And then his hand is no longer there… and he hits me — hard. My eyes spring open in response to the pain, and I try to rise, but his hand moves between my shoulder blades keeping me down.
He hits me again and again, quickly in succession.
Holy fuck it hurts. I make no sound, my face screwed up against the pain. I try and wriggle away from the blows — spurred on by adrenaline spiking and coursing through my body. A rhythmic pattern emerges, caress, fondle, slap hard. I have to concentrate to handle this pain. My mind empties as I endeavor to absorb the grueling sensation. The combination of the hard stinging blow and his gentle caress is so mind numbing.
He hits me again… this is getting harder to take. He strokes me gently and then the blow comes. I cry out again. From somewhere deep inside, I want to beg him to stop. He continues the unrelenting rhythm. I cry out six more times. Eighteen slaps in total. My body is singing, singing from his merciless assault.
Suddenly, he inserts two fingers inside me, taking me completely by surprise.
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I gasp, this new assault breaking through the numbness around my brain. See how much your body likes this, Anastasia. He moves his fingers, in and out in quick succession. I hear the sound of his zipper and the rip of the foil. He drags my sweatpants off and then guides me into a kneeling position, gently caressing my now very sore behind.
The Lucky Ones Chapter 9: Spanked, a fifty shades trilogy fanfic | FanFiction
Like I have a choice. He moves, pounding into me, a fast, intense pace against my sore behind. The feeling is beyond exquisite, raw and debasing and mind blowing. NO… and my traitorous body explodes in an intense, body-shattering orgasm. He collapses, panting hard beside me, and he pulls me on top of him and buries his face in my hair, holding me close. He gently strokes my hair. Boy… I survived. Christian nuzzles my hair again, inhaling deeply. He picks at the strap on my camisole. He kisses my head again. We lie for a few more minutes, hours, who knows, and I think I doze.
I think about his question. My backside is sore. Well, glowing now, and amazingly I feel, apart from exhausted, radiant. The realization is humbling, unexpected. He rises. I rise stiffly and put my sweatpants back on.