Variations on a Theme: It’s about Her.

I’m combining several topics, so bear with me if it gets muddled.

My wife reminded me of an email she’d sent a couple months ago, about milestones at my job. She’d laid out an incentive program: for every milestone I hit, depending on how closely I hit her goal, I’d get a scene. And the scene would involve pain, pee, prostration, pegging, and pleasure: the five Ps. But she also promised me she’d wear one of those latex or leather corsets I’ve bought her over the last five months. She feels they’re uncomfortable, and when she’s worn them, she wears them for as little as possible, just to give me a thrill. But since I hit my goal, she’ll put one on. And beat the shit out of me while wearing it. Big leather boots I can kiss and worship, her beautiful tits on display, a thong, the whole sexy dominatrix look.

Here’s the thing: I have come to want something different.

I don’t want to have my ass kicked by my wife as dominatrix. I want my as kicked by my wife as my wife.

I want her in comfy clothes: fluffy slippers and flannel pajamas. Her house clothes. Clothes that make her feel relaxed. Stuff she’d wear to the grocery store. Clothes she wears for her. Because it’s not about me. It’s about her. She’s the axis mundi, she’s the center of the world: and it’s only fitting that instead of dressing up as something she’s not, something she says makes her uncomfortable, I want her to be simply her: because she’s the one I want it to be about.

I’m a fucking submissive. I should be naked, except for my collar, unless she wants me in something different, and if she does, I should wear what pleases her. Fuck me, fuck my wants, my desires, my urge to see her kitted up like a pro-domme. Since when does what I want matter? I mean, I know she wants to please me, but I don’t want to be pleased. I want to be the one doing the pleasing. I am happiest when it’s about her.

And that brings me to the next bit: Luna, at BDSM is Love, asked a question this week.

How important is the phrase, “Good [Boy]” to you? How do you feel when it is said? Do you have other words of praise that you love to hear from your owner?

Now, I’ve been thinking about what I said about how femdom porn fails me. And I think part of where it fails me is the unremitting meanness of the porn I’ve seen. It’s all attitude, all cruelty, all humiliation (– at least the videos I’ve seen.)

The thing is, I’m down with mean. I’m down with cruel. The hottest thing my wife said to me in a while was a random fantasy she thought of while collaring me with my choke collar a few weeks ago, that was as cruel as anything she’s ever come up with. She slid it over my neck, then grasped the edges of the chain, and said, “You know what I want to do?”

I looked up at her and said, “What, Mistress?”

“I would love to heat this fucking chain up until it was glowing red hot, and slip it over your neck. Watch it burn its image into your pretty skin. You’d always have a collar on then, wouldn’t you?”

She was talking about permanent scarring, painful burning, nothing short of torture. I knew she wasn’t serious, but the thought of it — her, scarring me, just to mark me forever so that I’d always have her collar on me — I promise, with no exaggeration, that I could have come. Because it was cruel, and it was fundamentally the act of an owner.

So I’m down with cruelty. But part of submission — a whole lot of my submission — is pleasing my Mistress. My housewife of twelve years, who publicly dotes on me and lets me be the center of attention, is really my world, my owner, my master in every way that counts. A smile from her sends me into the stratosphere. When she takes pride in my obedience, when she praises my skill or my devotion or my stamina when she wields the lash, it’s like the sun coming out of the clouds. That’s submission, for me: pleasing her. And the ultimate expression of pleasing her is when she calls me a good boy.

It’s diminutive. It makes me sound like a child. It’s patronizing. But it goes straight from my ears to my brain to my cock. I remember licking her feet the first time she dominated me, and she said it, without being prompted: “Oh, what a good boy. Your wife is so pleased.” I can’t tell you what that did to me — it hit that part of me that just wants to be a fucking pet.

I especially like it when she talks about me like I’m not there: “Oh, he’s such a good boy.” I remember a girlfriend in college who liked being bitten, and I remember she had me chew on her nipples. As I did it, she moaned and talked about me distantly — “Oh, he’s such a quick learner. He’s so good at this.” Probably one of the hotter experiences I had before I met my wife.

So that’s what femdom porn misses for me: it gets the cruelty right, it gets the disdain, but it misses the praise and the pride in the slave. If I just wanted a woman to be mean to me, I can find one anywhere; I want to serve. I want to be a source of pleasure. A source of pride. The joy in a well-tamed man deep in the throes of Stockholm-Syndrome-esque subspace, loving his captor despite the pain she metes out, eager to please her in spite of her cruelty.

And that brings me to my final point: For me, all of the flash associated with BDSM, the outfits, the toys, the tricks, all of it is nice. I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on it in the last few months. I mean, I love my ballgag. (My wife reached down while whipping me a week ago, felt the precome pouring out of my cock, and then popped out my ballgag. She rubbed my precome all over the inside of the ball, then popped it back into my mouth: “How does that taste? How do you taste? You like that, right, baby?” Ballgags are great.) But all of it — and there’s so much more I want to try — is just gloss. What it comes down to is her, and me. Mistress, and slave. Wife, and husband. We could be what we are with nothing else: no chains, no cuffs, no floggers, no gags, no silicone cocks.

More than that, it’s about Her. I knew I was submissive but knew I couldn’t do it without her. She’s the one I wanted to dominate me, the one I waited for: longed for her to peg me, force me to gag on her cock, piss on me, beat me, command me. I’ve never thought about seeking out a professional, never wondered about what it would be like under another master. I’ve loved her as a wife for a third of my life, and now I worship her as my Mistress. It sounds intense, it sounds crazy, it sounds obsessive, but my wife, our marriage, it’s just gone crazily intense with this. And all of it, all of the accessories, aren’t worth a shit without her: her to wield the whip, her to peg me, her to control and command and chain me.

I don’t know if any of that makes sense. But it’s what I’m feeling right now.