Vanilla. Guys say it like it’s a dirty word, like they are bored to death. Like if you are not wearing leather chaps and screaming “take it bitch” there’s something missing; the spark just isn’t there. When people assume vanilla, I just smile a secret smile, for I know the truth of it. A vanilla daddy can be as dominant as any leather queen. A Vanilla relationship can be as possessive as any headcase with a whip collection. Like the ice cream, vanilla is subtle-- classic, smooth, often complimented by a hint of bourbon, or lemon, or crème de menthe. Vanilla has nothing, if not taste.

Take my marriage. I’ve been with my Daddy Brad for 5 years. We look like any two clean cut gay men- he’s a little older and bigger than I am, more distinguished. I’m the boy next door. And I am his wife. No, I don’t do drag, or wear curlers and a housedress. But I do wear what he tells me to. Don’t get me wrong, it’s almost always something normal—a blue polo shirt, chinos, a pink cashmere sweater with his initials stitched into the breast. Or maybe designer jeans and a worn white t-shirt. Maybe on some special nights, a pair of skimpy panties underneath, the silky material pressed smooth against my shaved pussy, where my balls would be if I had any, against the tiny bump of my dick curled within. What I’m wearing has no special significance, not the way a bdsm flag or a leather collar does. Except for that I wear what he tells me to, every day. And as we go about in public we are both very aware of this, an invisible, inscrutable intimacy, connecting us much stronger than a pair of flashy handcuffs, long forgotten and left to gather dust in an empty bedroom drawer.

I love being naked on my back, my perky tits pressed up against Brad’s soft t-shirt that smells like cologne and cigars, that smells like him. I feel his strong hands on my inner thighs, guiding them open to make room for his body on top of mine. As he lays on me I wrap my legs around his waist and slip my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It’s my favorite position to be in, where I’m unable to move or dislodge him from mounting me, completely receptive to him. I can do nothing but submit in this position, and this makes me so hot. He leans down and kisses my lips and I rub my cheeks against his stubble and sigh in contentment. With his body close on top of me I cant reach my little dick, but I don’t even care. I need him close, need to feel him pressed against me, holding me tight, more than I need to reach my dick. When he reaches down between my legs he feels my little dick curled up small, but moves quickly to my pussy which is so wet and juicy from the way he handles me. He slips two fingers inside, feeling my soft wet spot open up for him, working his fingers in and out, stretching his boy’s pussy til I’m moaning deep into his mouth and gasping, needing more, needing to be filled. Daddy Brad kisses my neck and ears, and I shiver at the touch of his hot breath. His fingers slip out of me and I feel the blunt head of his thick cock pressed against my slit, his shaft rubbing the head of my baby dick, spanking it until I thrust my hips up against him and whisper in his ear, begging him to enter me.

This was the hardest part for me, from the beginning. Letting go of my dick-- my need to cum with it, on my schedule, on my terms. Now I know better. Now I know how good it feels to have him on top of me, between my legs, holding my thighs open with his body, his chest pressed close against mine, his cock stiff against my smooth mound, his mouth kissing my cheeks and neck, letting me know how much he cherishes me, that I belong to him. It doesn’t even matter to me whether I cum every time we have sex anymore. I never would have believed I would hear myself say it, but just being held in his strong arms, just being a vessel for his powerful cock fulfills me in a way I never thought possible. When he fucks me in the missionary style it reminds me that he is in control and my role is to be receptive for him, to lay beneath him like a wife should and enjoy the sensation of pleasing his cock as it slowly fills my slit to fullness, moving inside me, rocking me back on my hips. Lying on my back, exposed, vulnerable, receptive, trusting him, there for him, accepting him, accepting his authority, accepting his power, accepting his dominance, being pinned under my man's imprisoning weight, unable to escape until he allows it, looking up at him with soft submissive eyes as he enters me in a superior position –just feels physically and psychologically right. Soothing. When he then kisses my neck and fondles my tits and whispers in my ear, every nerve of my body comes alive.

Eventually he decided to get my dick pierced, and attach a long thin leash, so he could jerk me off that way-- tugging gently on it while he rides me like I’m his woman.

With Brad lying flat on top of me I cant even see my little dick at all, just feel the gentle tugging on my leash and the feeling of my Daddy’s thick cock filling me up, making me all warm and gooey inside. I love the feeling of his dick moving inside of me, getting bigger and stiffer, pumping away, knowing that I’m giving him pleasure. These days I’d rather get fucked than jerk off -- I need his dick between my legs that bad. And the idea of him shooting off inside me gets me so excited I can almost cum from that alone.

“Yea…Baby you want Daddy to come inside you?” God, yes! I need it so bad, I need to feel possessed by him. I moan into his mouth helplessly and squeeze my wet boypussy around his throbbing cock. The thought of him squirting me full of his sperm fills me with ecstasy, and I gasp and cling tighter to his shoulder muscles, waiting to hear his cry, to feel his balls empty as he shoots his load deep inside my body, filling me up with his cum and DNA. “Yea, don’t worry baby daddy’s got you…mmm yea my good boy.” As his cock floods me with hot seed my pussy ripples in an orgasm of it’s own, and he collapses on top of me, holding me tight, kissing my face as I squeeze him closer and run my hands through his hair, my eyes sweet with tears. He kisses my eyelashes as fondles the necklace I wear, that he bought for me, a simple gold lock on a chain. He wears the key on his keyring.

My husband Brad doesn’t only make the decisions about what I wear. He also controls our finances, and I’m always sexually available to him. Even if we are having a disagreement, he can choose to pull my shirt up and play with or suck on my fat nipples, rendering me speechless and squirming. He can pull my pants down, shove my underwear to one side and plug my hairless slit with his cock til I squeal. He can play with my little dick or lock it up. He can take me over his knee and thrust two fingers inside my warm wet hole to keep me still while he lightly spanks me. Often I cry when he spanks me, not from pain, but vulnerability. After a spanking I am all loose and weak and shaky, ready to submit to whatever he wants, to be taken in his loving arms and roughly plowed by his cock.

But others don’t see this. They see a clean-cut couple. They see two men making love. They see a tiny gold locket. They see vanilla, but they have no idea what vanilla can mean.