Take It Like A Man

Yesterday, the wife had part of the day off due to a doctor’s appointment, so we decided to have her take the whole day off and slink back to the house for a scene.

And it was glorious. One of our best scenes ever. She ran out for her appointment, I got showered and cleaned up, and when she came back, I was waiting for her, on my knees, head bowed. She collared me with her old collar — instead of my choke-collar, this one’s a thick band of black leather — and had me go through the usual formalities. Undress her. Kiss her. Some foot worship.

Then, she put the ball-gag on me and said, “Today’s the day I put you through your paces. You wanted us to find your limits? Today’s the day.”

…

The single rule in place was that if I wanted her to stop, I was to raise my hand. Otherwise, I was to be bent over the bed, eyes toward the wall, taking it like a man.

And she hit me. Oh, did she hit me. She started with the flogger, flogging my ass, then my back, then my balls, then my thighs, then my ass some more. She commented while she did it, talking about how I was bearing up well, asking if certain shots were too much.

Then, she got the belt out. “I love the belt, sweetie,” she said, “I love the noises it makes.” She beat my ass like it’s never been beaten. Then the riding crop. Afterwards, our new toy, a little plastic rod, like a cane, about three feet long and slender as a thick pencil. It came from one of our window blinds, she simply unhooked it and then I could hear it whistle through the air. This rod, I promise you, hurt me in ways that I could never have imagined. Instant welts. I don’t mark up easily, and right away, big red lines appeared all over my ass. I now know why masochists love canings.

My hand never rose once for her to stop, even when she used the rod. I bit down on the ballgag, rested my head in the copious puddle of drool that surrounded me by the end of that part of the scene, and grunted or shouted when she hit me, the sounds dulled by what sealed my mouth. But I never wavered.

Because I didn’t want to stop. I wanted her to keep going until I cried, to take the absolute most I could until my hand rose involuntarily. Because that’s what this is about — being strong. Suffering. She deals out the pain and I take it, because in taking it, I show her how much I love and adore her. I don’t want to be weak for her. I want to show her how strong my love and adoration makes me.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, it ceased to be about anything but us. The room disappeared — not literally, but all that existed for me was her voice, her hands, the pain. She tortured me, and about fifteen minutes into it, she became my world – her praise, her criticism, the sound of something hitting my flesh. At one point, she pulled me up and made out with me, kissing me around my ballgag, then shoved me back down and tortured me some more. I was dizzy, hurting and aroused, and then she finally ungagged me and started to penetrate my ass, it was almost a relief, I couldn’t even feel it, because I was just floating in the afterglow of all that hurt.

The scene went on for another couple hours of sex and domination, and the headspace followed me through most of it: the world reduced to just her, her words, her power, her praise, her cruelty. The phone rang a couple times and she’d say, “I have to make sure it’s not work,” and I’d just lay there, too drunk and stupid to move or complain or even notice she was gone until the room lit up again when she came back in it.

I didn’t feel weak. I felt strong. High. Powerful, even, although it’s a paradox. The longest pain session we’d ever had and I took all of it without using the safe-signal, never told her to slow down or hold up. I let her drive. I trusted her. It’s easy to trust somebody normally, but when you’re trusting them to hurt you, and to hurt you a lot — I don’t know, I felt so close to her. I got into that headspace where she seemed stronger, more “real” than anything else in the room.

She had said to me, after we tried switching, that she had a newfound respect for me: “I never realized how strong you have to be to take that pain. I never realized how strong you were being for me when I worked you over with the toys. How tough.” Her eyes glinted as she said it. “You’re so strong for me. It’s such a gift you give me.”

And as we lay together after our scene yesterday, me in her arms, her hands running over the spots where she beat me, she tried to explain the dominant impulse. “To have this person sitting there, and you can do whatever you want with them, and they beg for it. And they take it, they’re strong for you. For you. It’s such a rush.”

And so I wonder what it’s like to be on the other end of the lash. Does the world dim out until it’s just her and me, for her? Does she reach a different psychological space like I did?

I used to think I understood my wife, and that she understood me, back in our vanilla days. But now that we’ve opened this door, there’s a place — the place inside her that’s dominant and sadistic — that I’ll never understand. I can get close to understanding, I can mimic it — our attempt at switching proved that — but I just don’t comprehend at all what goes through her head as she beats me and dominates me. And I know for sure she doesn’t know what I go through as her pet. It’s a new distance, ironically brought into the relationship even as we get closer. But it’s okay, because in that area we can’t get into, we both fit somehow. Because of that region in her head I’ll never understand, she’s able to dominate and hurt me, which — I have no doubt about now — is something I simply need.

I need her. And she needs me. And it’s basically perfect.