I’m not talking about OCD.
I’m talking about this. I’m talking about — to save you the trouble of following the link to one of last week’s posts — wanting to be hurt and dominated so badly that your self-interest is compromised… Read the rest of this entry »
When I dreamt of BDSM, after I admitted to myself that, “Yes, Virginia, I am a sexual submissive and crave domination,” I had a lot of images about what a relationship would look like. Or more properly, I had a lot of images about what the trappings of the relationship would look like.
I didn’t know who that relationship would be with — because if it wasn’t going to be with my wife, I don’t know who it would have been with. I wasn’t about to cheat on her, and contrary to some people’s opinions, I was honest enough to admit that seeing a professional would have been cheating. It would have been sex. And I certainly didn’t think my wife was going to be open to the idea of BDSM — sweet, kind, Mary Poppins-loving housefraus do not just decide that they’re dominants. (Thank God I was wrong there, right?)
But the relationship had a certain color and shape in my mind. There were certain trappings. The title of this blog comes from one of them: boots. I have a big boot fetish. Leather boots, brown or black, zippers or laces, shin-high or knee-high or thigh-high, it doesn’t matter. I knew that if I was going to be dominated, my Mistress was going to wear boots. I mean, even my vanilla wife used to put on a pair of boots to rev me up, so there’s no doubt that my Mistress — if I ever found one or had the opportunity to be dominated — was going to wear some leather boots.
For the record, I haven’t seen a pair of boots on my wife since our second scene. When she was trying to please me and not worried about her pleasure so much, she popped on the boots despite the fact that she loathed them. She doesn’t like them at all — she feels like she’s going to topple over while pegging me in them, and she prefers her foot worship to involve her feet, not some sexy second layer of dead animal flesh. The boot fetish is about me, and domination is about her: so guess whose preferences take precedence? Not the sub’s, baby. When she became my domme, the boots that she so readily wore before went right back into the shoebox.
Corsets. Merrywidows. Garter belts. Leather and lace and vinyl. So sexy. These items of clothing are part and parcel with the image of the domme in popular culture. I knew that if I was ever dominated, my Mistress was going to be kitted up in sexy fetish wear. I was going to touch it and lick it and worship it, and she was going to make me come on it and then force me to lap up my mess. That’s the outfit, and that’s what dominant women do, right?
Um, not really. My wife has worn one corset for me a couple times, and for my birthday took pictures of herself in another, but she finds them constricting and hot and really, this is about her, right? So why is she bound up and miserable while I’m the one supposed to be suffering for her? My wife’s willing to play dress up, but she restricts herself to a plaid Catholic school girl skirt and a plain white blouse and some knee-highs, and I think she does it less because I used to think slutty Catholic girls were hot, and more because she can get in and out of it in about two-minutes flat, and the fabric breathes easily.
Pale skin, heavy makeup, piercings, and fetish-model looks. That’s what I envisioned, but it’s not on the list either. When we switched a couple of months back, she dyed her hair red at my behest — a nice, rich, red, not too crazy. It brought out her insanely blue-green eyes, and along with the makeover I arranged for her in order to upgrade her business attire, made her look super-hot, so she kept it. But my wife doesn’t look like any of the models on Kink.com or any of the girls on Suicide Girls. She looks like a soccer-mom who’s relaxing after a long day at work, albeit by beating the shit out of her husband with a flogger. “I shouldn’t have to put on makeup to hit you with a switch, dear,” she says, and again, we slide back to the truth of it all: I’m the sub. It’s about what she wants to do, and if she doesn’t want to wear pancake makeup so she can look like a 20-year old fetish model, if she just wants to look naturally beautiful the way she does, without any airbrushing — so to speak — I should suck it up.
Notice a trend here? These are all things I expected out of my domme. These are all expectations and requirements I had about the woman who was supposed to be my master. I created this image, and what this image was, was basically more appropriate for a male dominant dressing up his sub than for a submissive male expecting to serve and worship. And that’s not how it works. Maybe if I got a pro-domme and paid her some cash to dress up to fit my fantasies, I’d be looking at some pale beauty in PVC and boots.
That’s not how it works with me at home. So all of the decision-making rests with the wife. And if her image of what a domme should look like is naked with a pair of socks on in the winter to keep her feet warm, well, then, that’s what I get.
And it’s okay — I’m not complaining. Naked and no boots or makeup gave me the best orgasm of my life a week ago, and so it’s not like I’m going to complain. But it’s interesting how the reality differs so drastically from the idolized dream.
Reading my last post and talking to my wife — who has suggested I come up in two weeks, God bless her — I started thinking about the raw, stinking need coming off of that post. And it made me realize something I want to talk about, even just briefly:
I trust my wife.
When I get horny and needy and the safety mechanisms get turned off, when I want to take it to the Nth degree, I can trust her. I don’t have to talk about where my line really is, I don’t have to discuss where the boundaries are, because she knows. She knows that what I say I need and what I can handle are too different things. She’s in control. Because as out of control as I get, she never loses hers.
When she was flogging me last week, I kept giving her the thumb’s up sign from my awkward position, jabbing my thumb upwards — More. More, harder, on the anus, on the balls, on the cock. Hurt me. Make me bleed. I’m dizzy and I’m in what I assume is subspace, and my head is in a state where I would let her take a branding iron and mark me forever like a side of beef. But she went as far as she wanted to go, and no further. She knew what she wanted to do, and when she got to where she was content, she stopped. I wanted to bleed and cry and bruise and not sit right for a week, and she took me to just the right spot and…stopped.
I can’t imagine what this would be like if we hadn’t been married for twelve years. I can’t guess what this would be like if we had to negotiate this. I can’t fathom what it would be like if I had to tell her, or I couldn’t trust her, or I doubted her.
But I don’t, because she knows me. I trust her, because I know, deep inside of her, is a person who’s always wanted to be in the spotlight, always wanted to be in total control, always wanted to be strong and self-assured and totally at ease. A superstar. And when we’re playing, the girl who was pushed aside by her parents, and who’s hidden her incredible candle under a bushel basket — that average housewife disappears and in her place is somebody who is selfish and caring and in total control.
No matter how fast I try to take us, she’s the one driving, and so I’m safe at whatever speed she wants to go.
It’s been a week since my wife left, a week and a day since our last scene. It’s four weeks and five days until we see one another again.
And I don’t know that I’m up for it, because right now I am wracked with need. Need for her to dominate, need for her to hurt, need for her to fuck and use and control and spit on me.
When I get like this, all of my safety mechanisms shut down. When I fantasize about her, I want pain — I want to be punched, cut, burned. I want to drink her piss. I even want the bridle with the face straps that we’ve only used once. I want an extra-tight ballgag and I want to skip the belt and the flogger and go right to the riding crop and the switch.
Right now, I want nothing so much as to cry when she’s finished. Big, choking, gasping sobs of release.
I’m hard and I’m jumpy and I’m agitated and all I want is her presence, her control, her fist in my hair and her gaze in my eyes.
Fuck. Four and a half weeks is an impossible amount of time. I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I spent the last week working my ass off, fourteen hour days wherein I run myself ragged, and all I want when I come home is to sleep and be dominated — not in that order. To be taken, and then to have her lay next to me and hold me and for me to just slide into a coma that’s equal parts exhaustion and contentment.
She punched me the last time she was up here, right in the ass, and it hurt and ached and when she spanked and flogged me I’m pretty sure the combination of all three is what built up the bruise that was on my ass. And all I can think about right now is being forced to stand at attention, arms at my sides, as she uses my arms and legs and upper chest as a punching bag. Big, solid blows. Thump, thump, thump. Broken up by face slaps. Oh, shit, that’s hot.
She got off on punching me, but I think she’s afraid of where it will take us. Every time we’ve talked play since she left, I’ve brought up punching, and she says she’s willing so long as we skip the face — she doesn’t want any obvious marks. I told her I’d tell everybody I fell, and we laughed uncomfortably, because we’ve both done social work, and it’s just so twisted that we’d use that awful excuse ourselves. But that’s where we’re at: abuse as pleasure. She yells and she hurts and she demeans, and just thinking about it makes me want to set the laptop down and masturbate until I come.
But I can’t do that without asking her permission nowadays, can I? I’d have to call, and ask. “Please, ma’am, can I come?” And then she’d hesitate, and ask if I’ve been good, ask if I deserve it, and that’s the first-step on our little trip, isn’t it? Even over the phone, a thousand miles away, she controls me. She owns me. And I’ll want more, need more, until I’m begging her to get away and call me and dominate me over the phone.
I’m not going to say it’s good that she’s away from me — it’s not, it sucks — but right now I don’t feel safe. Days like today, I have to masturbate over and over again, thinking about her: her tits, her eyes, her voice, her power. Think about obedience. Licking her ass on command. Letting her dominate me utterly. And my fantasies get more extreme, until I’m thinking of being a human punching bag, or thinking of her cutting my skin with a knife and licking the shallow cuts, or think of the head harness on the bridle or a mouthful of pee. Being overpowered with her cock. Not safe fantasies at all, but nasty, dirty, personal fantasies that end with me shuddering at what finally made me come.
Dizzy and hungry and owned. That’s what I am. Dizzy and hungry and owned, and I need something that I simply can’t get.
Four weeks, five days, and several hours. I don’t know if I’ll make it.
I’ve been working 14-hour days, and coming home too tired to actually blog much, which is a shame. Somewhere deep inside me, I have a ton of blog posts brewing, but a lot of my time is spent talking to my wife about what she’s going through as she becomes more at ease with her dominance and my submission — especially as our relationship becomes ‘routinized,’ for want of a better word.
So I asked my wife to write a post about her side of it all, and she wrote a brief bit. It’s short, but I think it gives you an idea about what’s going through her head, and how her past informs what we’re doing. Hopefully, if the feedback is good, she’ll write some more — I keep pressing, but I’ve kind of given up all insistence rights lately, what with her controlling whether or not I get to have an orgasm nowadays…
So, without further ado:
Here goes…
I don’t know if any other Dommes/Doms have had this experience, but I’d like to share mine. As the younger sibling of what would now be labeled a “special needs child,” I was pushed aside and put on the back burner most of my life. I was an average student, a good friend, a dutiful child. I felt like I was nothing spectacular. No one expected much from me, and I was rarely encouraged to work toward anything but mediocrity.
In fact, on several occassions, I was given the “you’re only setting yourself up for failure” speech when I found the drive within me to succeed at something, with the unspoken point being, “because you’re simply not good enough.”
As long as I can remember, I’ve been overweight. With my weight (and upbringing), came low self-esteem. I didn’t feel worthless, just not very worthy. Until I met my husband. For the first time in my life, someone believed in me. Me. Plain old me. Someone believed that I could do whatever I dreamt of, be whatever I wanted. And he was attracted to me. Really attracted to me. It was such a change from what I was used to. That encouragement and unconditional love was, I truly believe, one of the driving forces behind me diving head first into BDSM.
Last year, after twelve years of marriage, my husband confided in me on a road trip that he was a submissive and wanted me to dominate him. And I was all for it, even though I didn’t realize what it entailed.
BDSM gives me an outlet like I’ve never had before. I can be strong, dominant, mean, commanding…all those things I’ve always wanted to be, but had to suppress, without fear of repercussions. That’s what I want. And, that’s what my husband wants for me.
I want to be able to be assertive, or even aggressive, to get or do what I want, instead of worrying about anyone else’s wants or needs. At the same time, it’s been very difficult for me to take on this new role whole-heartedly because of the “it’s all about me” factor. It’s never been all about me before. Not even with my husband. Not because he wouldn’t let it be about me, but because I didn’t know how to let it be about me. That may sound like martyrdom, but I assure you, it isn’t. I truly didn’t know how to be selfish.
But after about 6 months of fairly intense, albeit sporadic (due to distance and lack of privacy), BDSM, I am finally fully invested into selfishness. And I love it. I still experience the occasional setback, but who wouldn’t? Thanks to my wonderful husband’s incredible way with prose, and his devotion to the lifestyle we’ve chosen, I am able to see my acts of selfishness in writing on his blog. Talk about a power trip!
I have never before experienced such a rush as when I read what he writes about me, about us, in his blog. It is such an incredible feeling to know that someone thinks that much of you that they’re willing to write about you in their personal online journal. For everyone to read. I’ve even found myself thinking, “I wonder what he’ll say about this in his blog?” after a scene lately. I’m a bit obsessed with seeing my thoughts, words and actions in such a poetic form. I think we’ve created a monster…or let one out of the bag after 30+ years!
“Objectification.”
No, wait. That’s not what I wanted to talk about yet.
What I really mean to say is that my wife should be writing this blog now. I’ve suggested it — giving her a password and a username and access to the blog and letting her write about her feelings and what she’s going through. This is her trip, as much as mine, and lately — this last visit especially — I’ve gotten the feeling that it’s her trip more than mine.
We had phone sex today. I was at home, she was in the car, and she told me a wonderful story about her dominating and hurting and objectifying me, and the climax involved her drinking my blood, which we’ve both become kind of dizzy-hot-need-to-try-it about. My blood.
And the thing of it is, normally phone sex is about me. (I’ve written whole posts about how that brings me out of the moment sometimes.) My wife doesn’t masturbate often, she doesn’t get off on narratives. So sex story time has always been about me, and when I climax, story-time’s over. The stories are aimed at me — tailored for me — and she always insists I give her a “plot” to follow.
And today, I gave her the barest bones of a plot, but what followed was all her — what she wanted. What she was going to do to me. She cut me, she tortured me, she gave me head, she had me propped up like an object. Although the story was for me, it was all about her. I never gave her that plot, never told her to add the elements she did. Those came out of her psyche.
And so did our last scene. I’ve wondered in the past if I top from the bottom, or whatever it’s called. I’ve wondered if it’s my needs driving the relationship. I’ve wondered — and my wife has, too — if it’s me or her running the show. She gets to wield the whip, but if it’s my desires that she’s fulfilling, my wishes that are coming true instead of hers, how honest is the relationship as domination/submission?
But the last trip — our last few discussions — our relationship’s evolution — it’s leapt off of the rails. And by that I mean, if the relationship was being driven by me subtly as I explored the online BDSM scene and suggested things and pushed us toward them, then it’s out of my control now. She’s the one running the show. She’s the one who’s exploring her own power and her own needs and what she wants. And in me, she has a test-subject and a willing victim to work on. She’s really coming into her own.
And on the one hand, this is the best thing for us. It’s perfect. This is what I want — for her to drive. To be my owner. To be my controller. On the other hand, it makes me — as blogger — feel kind of irrelevant. I’m now being acted upon. I’m now being … I don’t know, a slave. A receptacle for whatever’s going through her head. And while it’s what I want, I feel more and more the last week that I’m telling her story, repeating what she says and commenting on it. Is that what this blog is for? Does she really need a biographer? Or has the blog gotten us through our wobbly first steps, and now it’s up to her to drive?
Which brings me back to the word of the day: Objectification.
My wife gets off on it.
She spoke to me today in her horny, swoony voice about the way that she deliberately used me as a table during our anniversary scene. How she loved just making me rest there on hands and knees and be a common household object while she piled objects she needed on top of me. I told her I want to be a couch next time and she giggled. A couch with a cock, wouldn’t that be perfect?
You can see the progression as the relationship has progressed and she’s gotten more at ease with objectifying me. It all started with her creating that game of hers, where she would cover me up with a sheet and make me go down on her while she watched porn on my laptop, headphones on, forbidding me to speak or do anything to distract her. Me, as vibrator. As time has moved on, in our more intense scenes, she’s eschewed contact with me — don’t look at me, she’s said. Don’t talk. Wear the ballgag.
When she gets into her headspace, sometimes — now always — she wants less of me. She wants an object. Something to hit. Something to control. Something she can hurt. And I want that, too. I’ve talked a lot about this need to be annihilated in her presence, and it brings us closer together as she desires a blank slate for her to write upon. I want to be nothing. I want to not exist , except in terms that she defines.
That’s a heavy concept, I know: I want only what attributes she grants me. I want to be only what she lets me be. If she wants to objectify me, if she wants me to be the faceless co-star of her BDSM porn, I want to be that. If she wants to degrade and humiliate and diminish, then I want to be degraded, humiliated, and diminished.
This is why I loved it when she climbed up next to me in our last scene and told me what to do next — what to be — what to work toward.
It’s sick and twisted and strange that I want to be nothing, to work toward the goals she wants to set and be the person she wants me to be — who thankfully is close to the man I want to be — but it’s who I am. It’s how I’m wired. And I’m okay with that. I’m okay with surrendering to her will, because when it comes to her, surrender is the sweetest word in the world.
Six months to the day from our first real, successful scene. And to celebrate, I had the best sex of my ever-lovin’ life.
We had some friends we trusted babysitting the baby tonight, because they wanted to give us time alone. Once our daughter was safely entertained, my wife and I headed back to the hotel room.
(What follows is pretty graphic sex. If you don’t want to read that kind of blog, you’ve been warned.) Read the rest of this entry »
When we started experimenting with BDSM, I took the lead — if we were thinking about getting into floggers, I asked about them on Fetish Lore. If we were thinking about CBT — and just thinking about that reminds me of the session we had night before last where she hurt the hell out of me — I asked discretely or read websites. She was happy to let me do the research, happy to let me lumber around in an ignorant haze and say, “We’d like to try a singletail, what do we do?”
The other night, we were laying in bed discussing things we want to try — breathplay, knives, electrical sex toys. And I mentioned I wanted to play with some kind of electrical toy that I’d seen, and my wife said, “Yes, I researched all that.”
Me: What?
Her: I researched TENS units.
Me: TENS? How do you know TENS?
Her: I read Myles and Eileen’s posts on your blog. And then I did an internet search. It’s expensive. And I’m a bit worried about killing you.
Me: Oh.
Study on her own is just a further sign that she’s been doing a lot more thinking about what’s going on, along with her discussion of her newfound love of objectification. She’s thinking of what we’re doing in terms of “her,” experimenting and exploring on her own and figuring out what pleases her. She’s always worried that I’ve been the one guiding the relationship, suggesting what we do next, and she gets carried along by her urge to please me and because she trusts me to find things that will please her. Now, she’s finding her own way, and pulling me along with her.
One thing that’s always been off-limits have been knives — I’ve been very open that I would love for her to draw blood. Not a lot…but just to mark me with a knife.
(As a side note, when I get an idea like that in my head, you can usually blame it on another blog. I can honestly say that my first foray into her pissing on me is owed totally to a Bitchy Jones post. And me getting carved is definitely something I first thought of after looking at Curvaceous Dee’s blog, and why isn’t it on my blogroll yet?)
And when I bring up knives, my wife’s eyes go wide and her breath catches in her throat and I don’t know whether she’s intensely freaked out and horrified that I’m so sick and broken and submissive where I want to take harm to the next level; or if she’s simply aroused, whether it be by the idea of harming me or by the idea that I love her so much I’m willing to be harmed.
Turns out, it’s arousal.
She spoke openly about it for the first time the other night. “I’m afraid of permanently hurting you. I want to cut you. Really, I love the idea. But…if I slipped, if you got hurt permanently, I’d never want to play with you like that again. And I don’t know that I’d be able to play with you like we do now. I’d always be afraid of permanently hurting you.”
Is it the blood?
“Oh, no. The idea of tasting your blood makes me so…wet. I’m at the point in my head where your blood is just another one of your body fluids in my mind. I think of your blood like I think of your come. Just…yum.”
I cannot tell you how hot that gets me, knowing that she thinks that. And how happy it makes me, knowing that she thinks in terms of my safety. I feel safe trying knife play with her, but I think we’ve settled on maybe a dull knife to begin with, just maybe some scratching on my skin with a pin. Maybe tonight even, while our daughter is being babysat, and we have three or four hours to play.
The bigger question is: where does this urge to be hurt come from? Where does this compulsion to offer up my pain and my blood to her stem from? It’s not normal, is it, to fantasize about your wife holding you down while she cuts her name into you, is it? But I can’t help it. I want it so fucking badly. And the worst part is, I’m okay with it. Really. I’m just blown away that in six months we’ve gone from foot-licking to bloodletting.
Holy cow — today is the six month anniversary of our first, successful D/s session. I’ll have to write about that milestone later.
My wife arrived in town two nights ago, my daughter in tow, and due to the layout of our hotel suite, privacy has not been the problem I thought it was. Nice separate rooms, soundproofing, and an early bedtime have meant that we’ve gotten to play Mistress and slave a couple of times without having to risk exposures.
And play we have, albeit with some serious discussions sprinkled throughout. My wife has taken total control this trip — she’s the final arbiter of where we go, what we do, how I do everything from get showered to go to work. This is probably as close to a preview of what a total exchange of power would be like as I’m going to get. And she’s clearly happy with it.
And the thing is… Read the rest of this entry »
Are we into BDSM because it lets us reveal our real personalities, or are we into BDSM because it lets us pretend to be different people than we really are?
I suspect the question is badly framed — I think personalities are more than simple black-and-white, this-or-that phenomena. But I’ve been thinking about this question as I struggle with my own identity. Read the rest of this entry »
