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.