Shopping Sprees.

My wife lets me do the shopping, for a couple of reasons. 

First, toys are going to be used on me.  The strap-on, she signed off on it, but really, her attitude is that it’s going up my ass, so I should pick it out.  We went to a fetish store for a lot of other things — her first corset, shackles, handcuffs — and the rest of it we had picked up in local stores, like the dog collar and the little tag on it that says whose property I am.    

Like good little perverts, we’re adding to our toychest.  She got a PO Box — just in case her family snoops through her mail — and wending their way to her are our first ball gag, gaily colored because happy colors make me more comfortable while I’m getting hurt; our first flogger, again, in a nice purple; and two beautiful outfits. 

One is standard pro-domme fare, and I’m unapologetic about it.  She let me pick it out.  ”What do you want me to wear while you’re being my slut?” she asked, and it’s this beautiful leather corset with no cups, so her breasts can stand free.  My wife is stunning - she’s beautiful and curvy and has the nicest breasts I’ve ever seen, and just the thought of them there makes me weak in the knees.  Her hair is short and normally brushed down, but when she’s dominating me she spikes it out into this crazy and wild hairstyle, part butch and part fashion-model, nothing like the buttoned-down conservative look she goes for normally, and it makes me quiver.  The thought of her, my mistress, kitted up like that — oh, my, God.   

 The other outfit, though — I’ve decided to embrace her naughty/nice paradox.  It’s a white bridal corset, with a white veil, white g-string, and white garters.  Not only does it feed into my 14-year old White Queen from the X-Men obsession — and someday, I shall write a blog post about all of the wonderful BDSM throwaways in ’80s X-Men comics from my youth — but it feeds into this whole virgin bride/domme thing.  Pure, innocent, unsullied, but mean, vicious, in control. 

Which brings me to my other point, tonight — my wife read my last blog post and said, “I love the Wicked Queen thing.  It gives me all sorts of ideas.  What’s the name of the book you were talking about?”  I tell her.  

She vows to go out and read that scene.  I ask her what the wicked queen motif makes her think about. She lists some wonderful adjectives — cold, controlling, powerful — and then she says, “And I hate to say it, ‘mean.’” 

It’s weird to me, but my wife doesn’t want to be mean.  When she’s not dominating me, she says it over and over again — “I don’t want to be mean or humiliating.”  I don’t tell her, but she is mean.  And mean is good.    I like mean.  She’s mean when she makes me crawl, she’s mean when she fucks me from behind and calls me her bitch, when she makes me gag on her cock, when she hits me with the belt until I’m red and hurting, and mean when she watches a porn while I’ve got a sheet over my head so she can focus purely on the sensations to her sex while I go down on her.  I like mean.  I want mean.  I, dare I say it, need her to be mean.   

A month or so ago, we were in a hotel room and she was having me ride her.  She smiled up at me adoringly in pleasure, cooing about what a good boy I was, how much pleasure I was giving her.  She had the kindest, happiest smile on her face.  And then, she crooked her finger at me to lean in.  She likes to be kissed, and her eyes sparkled as I leaned in toward her… 

My face got a foot away from hers and her hand lashed out, catching my cheek and making my face turn red with pain.  My ears were ringing, my cheeks flushed with pain and shame, and I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure that I came right then and there, and I know for sure that it pushed me over the edge from comfortable screw into “Omigod, I have never been this hot in my life.”  Mean is good.  

Because she gets to be mean to me.  She’s my princess, my mistress, the woman who gets to use me, hurt me, piss on me, rough me up.  And mean is, during her daylight life of soccer-mommery and the caring professions, the one thing she’s not.  She’s patient, and kind, and the idea of her smiling up at me with that patient, joyous face even as her hand snaps up across my cheek as hard as it can go — it’s incredible.  It’s cruel.  She lured me in knowing full well I’d innocently lean in, and then she hurt me.  

I don’t think she realizes how much I want her to be cruel to me.  To be selfish.  I like it when she torments me.  Hell, I need it.  My last trip was wonderful, but it lacked a certain something until she put her long, luscious legs through the straps of her cock, pulled it up, and became cruel and hard and totally self-centered.  I remember the way she stroked her cock while I went down on her, kissed her toes all the way up, the way her eyes closed and it became about her.  Because I’m happy when it’s about her.  I’m happiest when it’s about her, frankly.  Because believe me, I’m getting mine when it’s about her — I’m hard and drowning in pleasure when it’s all about her.   

I know you’re reading this, honey — and that’s what I want.  Cruelty.  Meanness.  Selfishness.  Be self-centered.  By doing so, you’re pleasing me more than you could ever imagine.