The Switch That Wasn’t

So, my wife wanted to experiment with switching. She wanted to know what it was like to bottom-out for me, to have me own and dominate her, to hurt her, just like she does me. Ostensibly, she wanted to do this because she wants greater insight into what I want — presumably, what I order her to do will be things I want her to order me to do. This takes place the day before the events of my last entry, just to put it into context.

The morning began one of the best peggings of my life, and then when that was done, with her unwrapping all of our new toys and showing them to me. Ball-gag. Reins and bit. Flogger — purple, leather. Riding crop — purple, 18″. Corsets, one white and shiny, the other black with the cups cut out.

She starts with my belt, the toy from last trip. Solid blows on my ass, then my back…. “Oh,” she moans, “I have missed this belt.” I ask if she wants me to count out, and she says, “I want you to shut the fuck up and take this. Any other questions?”

Next comes the crop. It hurts differently than the belt. The belt is long stripes of fire across my ass or my back, whereas the crop is pinpoint — bang. Bang. One cheek, then the other, then the back, then the thigh, then the other thigh, then the cheeks again. It stings like a bitch, but she loves it. She starts doing it faster, machine-gun shots to my ass, one cheek five times, then the other five times, then the first one one, boom-boom-boom.

It hurts so much I stop feeling my cock, but every shot brings another trickle of precome. I can’t stand it. It hurts so bad, and then she hits the point between the end of my spine and the top of my ass, and it hurts. I leap off of the bed, rubbing my ass, and she’s laughing so hard, and then I’m laughing, tears in my eyes. She has me lay down again, gets some good shots in, then pulls my hair back and smacks my cheeks with the flogger. They sting, I’m worried about her hitting my eyes — but I trust her. I trust my Mistress. She won’t hurt me. She won’t hurt her good boy.

The flogger comes out, and she’s a natural with it, whipping it back and forth across my skin, each shot more diffuse than the crop but so beautifully hard. I love the flogger on my back — it hurts, but there’s something very Spartan-manhood-rite about taking it. I can feel it slashing my back and my ass, and it’s great because I can feel my cock still, every shot making it throb. I’m full-on getting off on pain now, her power manifested over me in the form of hurt, administered by her hand.

I want to be marked by her. I want bloody ribbons and redmarks. I want to ache throughout the day. I want to need salve. But I don’t mark up easy, no matter how hard she hits.

She climbs on top of me and rides me, my back stinging where she’s hit me over and over again. My back’s on fire from our combined weight, my cock feels like Heaven, and then she lets me climb on top of her and, as she puts it, “Bang me like a whore!” The pain and the pleasure are one now, and I look in her eyes and see that evil smile and there I go…coming. “Make me pregnant,” she says. “Fill me up with your baby. Make me your pregnant mistress.” I want to so bad…

Afterwards, she’s finally ready to switch. “Hit me once with the crop to see how it hurts before we start.”

“How hard?” I ask. “As hard as you hit me? Or just a mild sting?”

She looks panicked. “Not as hard as I hit you. Just…enough for me to feel it.”

I feel weird. She’s been dominating me for an hour now. While I was “banging her like a whore,” she let me suck on her toes, and she kicked the whole morning off earlier with a pegging of incredible skill. It’s hard — no, nearly impossible — for me to even think of controlling her, ordering her, collaring and hurting her, after she spent a half hour after breakfast pounding my ass with a 7 and a half inch fake cock. Hell, before she even pegged me, she had me choke on her cock, it’s head rubbing against the back of my throat until I gagged and she took pity and just had me suck the first half of it.

She has the power. I’m just a fucking dog, a fucking slave. I raise the crop and she flinches. “Don’t hurt me too much,” she says softly. All of a sudden, everything’s weird. I let the crop down, not hard, nowhere near as hard as she’s been whipping me. But she yelps and holds her ass, hopping up and down. I’m miserable. I don’t want to dominate my Mistress. I want to be dominated.

She looks at me. I look at her. “I don’t think you’re going to make a very good masochist,” I say, “and I make a lousy master.”

She nods. “You’re right. I can’t stand that pain, and I don’t want to submit at all.”

“So no switching?” I say brightly.

“No,” she says. “Things are perfect the way they are.”

I wonder how we’ll get the feeling back we had all morning, before this abortive attempt at role reversal, and then she pushes me onto the ground, laying out something underneath me. “Hold still, honey,” she says, and spreads her lips and pisses all over my head, my chest, my cock. And things are back to normal again, and perfect…