Why FemDomme Supremacy won’t work for me.

This is the first time I think I’ve written about something other than me and the wife and our play-habits. 

 As a brief aside, I need to come up with some clever name for my wife, because referring to her by her role in the marriage is a bit off – I feel like it diminishes her a bit because of the value we attach to wife as an inferior or an equal, and she shouldn’t be diminished.  She’s the whole damn show for me, the axis mundi, the princess who makes me beg.  If I were feeling particularly shameless, I’d give her one of those capitalized titles, like Mistress or Master, Queen, Goddess.  But those names sound awesome in the bedroom while I’m getting pissed on, but kind of cheesy outside of that rarefied environment.  (I’m convinced that 99% of all sex is cheesy outside of the bedroom.  There are bloggers who can talk about that stuff and make me hot as hell, but it’s a rare talent.)  I was thinking about calling her Antonina, after the wife of the general Belisarius, since I go by Belisarius on Fetish Lore, and I go by Belisarius specifically because he was a strong, powerful man who rumor claims was the utter slave of his wife.  But Byzantine history bores the shit out of everybody but me and sounds super-affected, so maybe not.  Or perhaps I’ll just use her porno name, or an initial, or something else.  Regardless, it can wait til next post.

 Anyway, everything I tell you in this blog is true except the bits about my work, and that’s true, just left entirely vague to protect my real name.  I suspect anybody who knows us in real life would be able to put together UndertheBoot with my real identity in no time just based on dates we visit each other.  I fib about what I’m doing in private to real life people – on this blog, I’m dead set on being honest.  But for the most part, I’d be surprised if any of the 30 people who read this blog are any of the people who know me in real life, but still, the Internet makes it a small little world.

 Anyway, back to the topic: I’ve said before that I don’t know that I could easily sub out to another Mistress, or buy into the whole FemSupremacy “women are better than men and a man’s natural place is to serve thing.”  I think I might be able to have another sub around me and my wife, but even that’s very theoretical, like, a year away, before we feel that comfortable enough to even think about other people occasionally making appearances.  But we’re talking about dommes, and one of the reasons why I don’t know that I feel comfortable around other dommes is because, fundamentally, I don’t trust a lot of other women to the degree necessary to do this stuff with them or expose myself while I’m doing this stuff with my wife, because I don’t trust myself to pick them. 

With the sole exception of my wife, the women I’m drawn to in relationships and friendships fit a certain profile: tough, strong-willed, pretty, borderline bipolar, and fiercely possessive of me.

 I have a friend right now who is a really dear friend.  She’s my girl.  In the absence of my wife, she’s somebody I spend a lot of time with.  She’s gorgeous, but I’m not really attracted to her, because she’s very mercurial.  One hour we’re buddies, the next hour she’s leaving me alone in her apartment to go do something because she’s pissed at me or somebody else.  She invites me everywhere, and we’re great pals, and we have a ton in common, but…she fits the profile.  And she’s great as long as she’s the focus of my attention.  But if one of my female acquaintances comes along, she, and I quote, “shoots daggers at them with her eyes until they leave.”  There’s definitely an ownership vibe  there, but it’s a high school ownership vibe. 

This is who I know I would be subbing out to if I ever went looking for another domme.  This is who I attract, and who frankly would attract me if I weren’t happily married.  And it’s unhealthy.  And it’s why I don’t buy into the whole “female supremacy” thing — I dig on strong women.  My wife is a strong woman, and I literally worship her.  But a lot of the strong women in my life are not “healthy” strong, they’re “kind of broken” strong, and I know that on some level, I can’t tell the difference between the two until things have already gone dysfunctional.  Part of me fantasizes about my wife and I finding the local scene or going off to the big city and finding other people to mix with and maybe even play around, but I know that I just don’t trust myself around other women, because I get these false flags off of the wrong girls. 

Now, is my docile friendship with these possessive girls related to my submissiveness on some level?  That’s what I’m working through as I write this. I don’t know — that is the $100,000,000 question.  I think I’m a nice guy outside of the work place.  My job places a premium on me enjoying the scent of blood in the water and a certain cold-blooded predatory nature, but it’s something that’s wholly focused on my work, and in my personal life I’m easy-going.  My wife complains that I let friendships go until they’re beyond salvaging, that I don’t complain until it’s too late to save anything, and I suspect she’s right.  But I don’t associate that with my submissiveness — to be honest, my relaxed attitude is a product of growing up in Southern California, and my submissiveness is deep and dark and limitless, a product of an entirely different part of me.

Now, my wife — she’s not threatened by these friends.  A) We’ve been married for ten years.  B) She strongly suspects that these fierce and unyielding girls are tame little pussycats in the bedroom, and not capable of whipping me with a belt until I turn red or wearing a strap-on and breaking my ass in half.  C) My wife is, perhaps because she’s so nice and sweet, very, very comfortable in her own skin.  And most importantly, D) she knows the nature of my submission better than I do — she knows I need to trust and to feel safe before I allow myself to be diminished, before I allow myself to be annihilated by her will, until I’m just something that obeys and begs and hasn’t a scrap of pride.  I want to be broken when my wife and I play — I want to be nervous and fearful and filled with all sorts of nasty feelings about myself because I’m begging someone to sodomize me and to whip me all over and to bind me and to just…utterly…own me. 

In short, she knows that my submission has to be earned.  Once you’ve got it, I’m yours, absolutely, but there’s a certain threshold you have to cross until you get there.  Not every woman gets to call me bitch and have me lick her feet.  We’re equals until I trust you enough to let you own me, and that knocks me ever buying into female supremacy wholesale.  And that’s why I think this pattern of weird friendship has nothing to do with submissive me — I like these girls.  They’re good friends.  But none of them have what it takes to make me beg. 

My wife does, though…

Desperate Late Night Followup

My wife read my latest blog.  I like telling her things in conversation, but she and I both like the blog because it’s more personal — I’m totally exposed — and because she thinks the whole thing is really about her.  She said, “Who wouldn’t like a blog about their husband being sexually obsessed with them?”

 She read the blog, and said, “I love this.” 

Does it please you?  “Oh, yes.” 

Are you interested in all of this?  “Oh, definitely.  But…” 

What?  “But…I worry about hurting you and you not telling me.” 

Well, I want to be hurt.  “No, I mean, hurting you too much.  And you not telling me.  Because I want to hurt you a lot.“ 

Will you hurt me as hard as you want if I swear to tell you if you go too far?  “….oh, yes.”

What about the rest of the post?  “I loved it.  I’m surprised you want me to hurt your cock.”

 Does it freak you out?  “No, I didn’t say that.  I just…didn’t know how much you liked that.”

I…do.  “Good.  Because I love it.”

(I’m glowing now.)  “Honey, the thing about being marked?  About me putting my mark on you?”

Yes?  “I definitely want you to wear my mark. A tattoo.  On your back, so I can touch it while I fuck you with my cock.  So when you take your shirt off everybody can see it and I know it makes you mine.  Your left shoulder, I have this thing about the left side.  I’ll stroke it while fucking you.”

Oh…god.  “That’s right, you like that, don’t you?” 

Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  “Yes, what?”

Yes…Mistress.  “Good.  I noticed you talking about the tape.  What were you doing while you listened to that?”

Nothing.  I wasn’t doing anything.  “Good, because I didn’t give you permission, did I?

No.  “Do you want permission?”

Yes.  “I can’t hear you…?”

Yes, please, can I come tonight?  “No.  (laughs) Oh, how could I turn you down after that blog post about me?  Yes.  Definitely yes.”

Thank you.  “You know what, honey?”

What?  “I can’t believe it’s only been two months.  Are we going too fast?  Do you think the people reading your blog think we’re diving into this too fast?”

I…don’t care.  It’s right.  “I think that, too.  Go get that claddagh drawn up, and I’ll email you in the morning with a treat.”

In the beginning of the conversation, she’s a normal wife.  By the end, she’s my master.  Oh, shit, I am definitely lost in this.  She owns me.  I’m off to draw my tattoo.

Desperate late night musings

I am horny.  And by horny, I mean I need to be hit in addition to all of the sex I’m thinking of.  It’s weird how easily I went from just-a-sub-who’s-not-interested-in-being-a-masochist-at-all to being a sub-who-thinks-about-being-whipped when he should be paying attention at work. 

 I…need…to…be…whipped.  I never could imagine wanting to hurt.  I’ve decided I’m flying the wife down well ahead of schedule.  Fuck the finances, fuck the work I should be doing that weekend, I need to go out, get her a plane ticket, fly her down, hit the fetish shop, and drop an enormous sum of money on implements specifically designed to humiliate and hurt me.  I mean, it hit me about an hour ago, this wave of syrupy-rich-horniness, and it hit me in waves I’ve never felt.  I want one of those weird medical devices to hold my mouth open while she fucks my mouth with her cock and I want to be pissed on and I want to be hogtied.  I want to feel a riding crop on me, all over — my chest, my back, my thighs, my ass and oh-god-I-can’t-believe-it-but-I-want-her-to-hit-my-cock.  Not hard.  But just a quick slap.  Or ten.  Okay, maybe hard.  Maybe very hard.  No, definitely. I think I should definitely beg for some penis abuse above what she normally dishes out by clamping my penis and balls.

 I want my face slapped.  A lot.  I want to be sodomized repeatedly, and whipped while it happens, and called names, and have my hair pulled and my facial hair yanked and to just be used.  I want her to come over and over again as I pleasure her.  I just want to serve and while serving feel a heck of a lot of pain. 

 If there was a way to smuggle some wooden cross-thing-which-we-don’t-have-any-clue-where-to-buy-or-even-find into the hotel room to tie me to, and then have her hit me with this lunge-whip I’ve been eyeing, I would do it.  I need to be dominated, I need to be hurt, and then I need to do it all over again, like, ten times, until I can’t sit on my welted ass and my back is torn apart by fingernails and whipmarks.   I think I’ll spend the next few days begging for it.

 It has been a little more than two months since we started messing around with D/s, seven weeks or so since we first tried S&M and pissing and all of that lovely deviant sex.  And I need it.  I need more.  What is she doing to me?  We’ve been married for ten years, and we’ve had a passionate love life, but this - it’s crazy. Nights like this, she’s all I think about.  I am out of control.  We made a tape last time I saw her, and we couldn’t get the angles right and it’s shaky, the picture sucks, you can barely see us, but the sound — perfect. And it’s a tape of her banging my ass with her strap on while whipping my thighs and back with my nicest, thickest belt.  I listened to it tonight, just hearing her say, “You like that?” crack.  “Yeah, you do, oh, you are such a whore,” crack.   And me making grunting noises and begging.  And I would do anything to see her again.

And I want to be marked.  Permanently.  I want to wear her mark.  A piercing, a tattoo, something, something she picks out, something that I can wear all of the time, under my suit, burning into my skin, a permanent sign of her power and ownership.  I think maybe instead of a couple hundred dollars in sex toys and hurty things, I’ll spend some money on getting marked, with that claddagh tattoo I talked about getting at Christmas.  Yeah.  I mean, ten or eleven years of marriage is enough commitment where a tattoo is not a rash act. 

 Sweetie?  I know you read this.  Tell me what you want me to wear.  Please.  Mark me.  Forever.  Because welts and bruises just don’t last long enough.