“Don’t look at me.”

I’m in the middle of my week home, which means in addition to Thanksgiving turkey and family time and visits to relatives, I’ve also been fucked, flogged, whipped with a belt, struck repeatedly with a riding crop just about everwhere, cuffed, shackled, sodomized, urinated on, and gagged…

 So far, the hottest thing that’s been said to me happened while my wife was shoving a dildo into me with one hand while smacking my ass with the other.  I’m on my knees, my hands cuffed and extended far out in front of me.  I’m wearing the new ball gag, and all I can do is drool and make gutteral noises while she violates me.  I turn to look at her, and she says:

 ”Turn the fuck around.  Don’t look at me.  You don’t get to see me while I do this.  Face the wall.”

 That, in a nutshell, is what this is all about.  I’m bound, I can’t speak, I can’t voice my thoughts, I can barely think because when she’s not hitting me with her free hand or the crop she’s stroking my cock, while continuously pounding my ass with her toy.

 ”Turn the fuck around.”  I can hear it like she’s saying it in my ear.  All night long on Thanksgiving, we’re around relatives and she’s the kind and dutiful wife, so sweet, so happy, smiling, helping in the kitchen. She’s classy, wearing just the right amount of makeup, dressed comfortably but nicely, never saying anything rude or untoward.  But at that instant, I’m trussed up, gagged, and penetrated.  Used.  Objectified.  “Deprotagonized,” as they would say if I was a character in a book.  I’m a character in her story.  She’s got the power, she’s got the control, it’s her time.  Her scene.  She’s the lead…I’m the romantic interest in the torrid sex scene.

(Afterwards, when we talk about it, we both find out that the other came close to orgasm when she said the part about me not getting to look at her.  “I want to lift my leg up on you and masturbate until I was coming all over you,” she said.)

Instead, she rolled me onto my back and started riding me, my hands cuffed way above my head, soft grunting sounds coming out of my ball gag.  She was facing my feet, because that’s her favorite position for control, and she started fucking me with the dildo again as she rode me, forcing my legs up and driving in my ass with it.  The pressure on my cock and my prostate, from being ridden and being penetrated, it’s so intense.  The sounds coming out of the gag get both higher and more guttural. 

For the second time in my life, I came as my prostate was stimulated, and I never believed the stories about a male g-spot, but hot-damn, they’re true.  When I come, it’s like my soul is leaving my body.

She gets up, cleans herself off, then uncuffs me and ungags me.  “I love the ballgag,” she says.  Another taboo, another thing we were both scared of, out the window. I can’t say anything but ask her how it was for her, trying to get her to talk while I wait for my soul to come back to my body.  Is this subspace?  I don’t know.  It’s like an afterglow times ten. 

I’m at my most submissive.  If she let me, I’d sleep at her feet, like a dog.  Instead, she holds me, my head cocked on her shoulder, her face above mine.  Her breasts are within leaning-in distance, I could dip my head and try to kiss them, but I know what would happen if I did: “Did I give you permission for that?”  And the thought of that, her evincing more control over me, it wakes me up, I feel my soul come back and my cock stir.

 I’m allowed to look at her now, and so I do.  Her eyes, her smile, her tousled hair, and I realize again that I love this woman.  I love my wife.  I love my Mistress.  I like being the co-star in her show when we’re playing, I like being the victim and the slave.  Love it. 

She gets up and checks on our daughter, asleep across the house, then comes back with a drink for me.  We fall asleep, and for me, anyway, it’s the best sleep of my life, crooked into my Mistress’ arm.

 Perfect.