In defense of the title “Mistress.”

It’s my birthday. My wife sent me photos of herself in the new outfits we bought, as well as some simple nude shots. They are safely buried away securely on my hard-drive, no pun intended. We were chatting on Gmail about how much I adore her and need to be dominated next week when we see each other, when, out of nowhere, she commanded me to touch myself…

I ran back to where I could lay down, and she proceeded to describe to me a fantastic scenario in which I was bent over a table, and she was hitting me with her new riding crop while masturbating me. Then she described throwing me to the ground and pissing on me. Then, as I got close to coming in real life, she started ordering me to come. “Come.” “I said COME.” Relentless orders. Demanding. Strong. Unyielding. “Come.” And I did.

Happy Birthday, right?

Here’s the thing — when she’s dominating me, I’m high on pain and pleasure and submission. I don’t think. That’s not my job. She’s told me thinking too much is a problem for me, and domination is the cure. I should be a happy little pet and just obey. Be a good boy and just take orders and don’t think. And even her talking like that makes me hot in the cheeks and hard and high and submissive.

When she’s in charge, I react, I obey, and I do what she tells me to do. My thoughts are narrowly focused on a) her pleasure, b) my pleasure or pain, whichever is going on at the time, and c) following her orders. That’s it. It’s part of why I love submitting — my brain turns off and it’s all about simple things — feeling, obeying, performing. Not thinking. Fuck thinking. Being strong enough to take the beating she’s giving me? Confident enough to weather her demands while she violates my ass? Definitely. Thinking? Screw that. It’s off the menu. I’m on as close to autopilot as I can humanly get, and if that’s subspace, then perfect.

And when my brain is on low-powered submissive slave mode, I call my wife Mistress. She’s my Mistress. And I’m her slave. And if we were in public, I would feel weird. I would feel affected and grasping and like I was “performing.” But when it’s her and me — on the phone, on chat, in person — it doesn’t feel weird. It’s perfect. Mistress is a good title because she is my Mistress. She’s my Master. She’s my Lady, and my Queen, and my Goddess, and I know those names sound cheesy in the light of day — but when I am on my knees and licking her feet and worshipping her and begging to be hit or to be allowed to make her come or sodomized or to have sex with her, when she seems three inches taller and she’s toying with my dick while skinning my back with a belt, or scratching bloody furrows in my flesh while making me hold her intense blue-eyed gaze, the feeling I feel is worship, because you worship a queen or a goddess and I have never felt anything like what she does to me before. She’s powerful and strong and I am weak and we love it.

I am unashamed for calling it what it is. I am nothing for the duration of those beautiful peaks (or valleys, depending on how you look at them) and she is the world. And if she asked me to let her cut her name into my belly with a knife, the only fucking words out of my mouth would be, “Yes, Mistress.” And when she was finished cutting her name into my belly, and she was pissing onto the bleeding symbol of her ownership — and she pissed on the wounds she scratched into me this last time we saw each other, and it was marvelous — I would thank her for her piss and try to keep from coming without permission.

I do not have the words to describe submitting to her ownership and basking in her power, but that feeling is what this whole fall through the rabbit hole is all about. Because I’m not thinking, I’m obeying, and she has all the power, and as she fucks me and calls me names, as she beats me and taunts me because she wants me to think she believes I’m too weak to take her beating, as she shoves her cock down my throat and smiles as I gag on that thick strap-on — and there may be nothing on this Earth hotter than trying to choke that cock down while looking up at her with wide eyes as she smiles cruelly at me and thrusts her hips to hit my gag reflex — I am filled with a kind of joy that nothing in my sex life has ever come close to. It is perfect and it wraps my brain and my cock and my heart in a knot, and I am nothing and she is everything, and I just want to come thinking about it.

I have resisted all of the cheesy terms of address in this blog, because they seem awkward in the light of day, and because I read the blogs of a lot of female dominants - and Bitchy Jones, and I have no idea what to call her, but thank God for her, because she’s the one who got my wife and I to try golden showers thanks to her blog descriptions — and they have been doing this longer than me, and a lot of them look down on this terms of address, and it does sound cheesy and affected when they talk about it. Really. I can’t deny it.

But this blog is about being honest for me, and honestly, she’s my Mistress. Capital “M” dominant Mistress, the female equivalent of “Master,” and if there’s nothing wrong with it when she’s tearing my ass up with a belt or her cock or her new riding crop, then there’s nothing wrong with it here, in this blog, where I’m exposing myself to the whole world. (Potentially. I think it actually works out to, like, a hundred or so people who read this. And I love every one of you, and I’ll update my blogroll to reflect all of you who have been wonderful enough to comment in the next couple days.)

I’ve felt weird because I talk all the time about “my wife” this, “the wife” that, but you know what? She’s my Mistress. I’m her slave. That’s how it works, and I don’t care if it’s affected, goddamn is it hot. It is perfect. And from now on, that’s how she’ll be here.