One Year.

I just realized it’s been one year since I told my wife I was submissive, and today is the six-month anniversary of the time she let me be submissive in bed, and the five-month anniversary of the first time she dominated me.

Five-months. We’ve been doing this long-distance BDSM exploration, this revelation of our dark sides — this reveling in our dark sides — for five beautiful months.

And I can safely say, I’m where I want to be. I’m who I want to be. I feel like we’re still growing, still learning, but that I’m capable of saying, “Hey, this is who I am. I’m not just experimenting any more, not just getting my feet wet. BDSM is now part of my life. Barring unforeseen circumstances, it’s not going anywhere.”

More to the point, I can say this:

I am a slave.

I am her slave. Mistress’ slave. My wife’s slave. It doesn’t matter who I am in the real world, outside of our home. In my heart, I’m owned. Dominated. Possessed. That’s right, a possession.

We’ve reached a point where we don’t even need to be having sex. Once or twice each trip up there, we’ll be sitting on the couch, and I’ll realize I’m hers. It will hit me just how much of a slave I am, how owned I am, how I’m hers to do with as I please. And I get calm and happy and I lay my head on her shoulder, and she realizes what I’m doing — that I’m submitting, giving up my self — and she puts her arm around me. Occasionally, I’ll stroke her, kiss her, bend down and start kissing her feet. If she’s pleased, she’ll let me continue. If she’s not in the mood, she’ll order me to stop, or tug on my hair. When we’re ready for bed, she’ll tell me how to get ready, order me to brush and wash up, tell me how to go to bed. How to lay. She arranges me, controls me, and while I’m hard and dripping and so, so horny, the lack of sex makes it pure — it assures me that this isn’t just some kinky thing we do when we’re fucking, this is who we are:

Master. And slave. Mistress. And pet. Wife. And husband.

Dominant. And submissive.

In another world, we could pull off 24/7. Part of me yearns for it. I read about couples who do 24/7 and I envy them. I would love to just be her pet, all day, every day, to wear my collar all the time and just serve her. But in the real world, I have responsibilities; in our family, I have to be the strong father and husband; amongst our friends, I have to be the life of the party. But in my heart, she and I both know what I am:

Slave. Her slave. Oh, how it fucking thrills me to say that. Occasionally, we talk about 24/7 and she assures me we could pull it off: I could be strong and dominant at work, a powerful presence in the house for our daughter, the life of our social scene, and yet still bow my head to her totally. Obey her in everything. Become a pet, a dog, a slave, all the time.

I read about other submissives, male and female, and I’m jealous of the lives they live, the cages they sit in, the constant presence of their dominants, the rooms and toychests and suspension kits. I’m four months away from being finished down here, being able to go home, get our place together, and — and this makes me happy — start work on a dungeon of our own, where she can chain me up and beat me bloody and piss on me and fuck me and let me service her with my mouth and my cock.

But all that stuff is gloss. Cages and toys and dungeons are the accoutrements. What matters is on the inside. What’s important is this: I’m her slave. She’s my Mistress. Our idea of “straight” sex now is filled with pain and dominance and submission. This is who we are now: there’s no going back. Or at least, I hope not.