When I attended the Toronto premiere of the documentary The Artist & the Pervert, which centers on the relationship between esteemed kink educator Mollena Williams-Haas and her genius dominant Georg Haas, the most striking scene to me by far (if you’ll pardon the pun) was a spanking that took place on the couple’s sofa.
It was the casualness, the everydayness, of the spanking that piqued my interest. This was not a thoroughly negotiated, carefully prepped scene; this was a moment of unrehearsed tenderness between two people who happen to be kinky. Watching a few playful swats devolve into a heavy beating felt equivalent to watching a vanilla couple melt from a chaste peck into a desperate, groping kiss. It was romantic, but not dramatic – unconventional, yet normal.
I’ve dreamed of this type of day-to-day D/s for years. Knowing it would manifest differently in reality than in fantasy, I’ve nonetheless daydreamed about cleaning a partner’s kitchen in an apron and lipstick, curling up at a dominant’s feet while they hold my leash during a Netflix marathon, getting tucked in and told a perverted bedtime story by my devious daddy. I enjoy blazing-hot kinky erotica as much as the next sub, but it’s stories of this type of habituated dynamic that really fascinate me. What does kink look like when early passions have calmed and comforting routines have set in?
Earlier this week, on a depressed and lethargic afternoon, I laid with my partner on their couch. We kissed mid-conversation, and as the kiss deepened, I turned to face them and laid my legs across their lap. Thus enabled, they raised their fist and began – gently at first, and then more insistently – to land a series of hard punches on the meaty part of my ass.
We kept kissing as I mewled my steadily increasing pain against their lips. Their fisted hand felt solid, warm, safe. They held me tight with their other arm, keeping me still, so they could hit me just the way they wanted to. I felt myself relax in their arms, a pretty puddle of masochism and submission.
This spanking didn’t lead to sex, just as plenty of romantic (and even erotic) kisses in vanilla relationships don’t develop into fucking. It was the perfect crystallization of the casual D/s I’ve wanted in my life for years. It was not showy or even particularly sexy; I think I was wearing pajama pants. But it reminded me that this kink thing we’re doing is for keeps. Sure, some couples’ kinky dynamics fade as their relationships age, just as many couples of all stripes go through periods of sexual monotony or even “bed death.” I have faith, though, that the two of us will be able to keep fitting together like perverted puzzle pieces this way for as long as we both want to. We’re so good at it still, even now that the shine has worn off my collar and the word “Sir” no longer feels crisp and new in my mouth.