I haven’t blogged in a while because things have been a bit rough around here. My professional life is in a chaotic state; my personal life is in a state of transformation; I’m a handful of months away from moving back north to live with my wife and daughter, which will mean job-hunting and house-hunting for a new place for us to live; and in general, I haven’t had time or access to any kind of pleasurable BDSM experience. No phone sex with my wife, no dirty emails, no flirting on the phone. (In point of fact, it’s been hard for us to touch base at all, which is a major problem — there’s always a distraction on one of our ends.)
My wife and my daughter are coming into town next week, and we’ll be spending the week in a nice hotel room, since the place I live in is nowhere near big enough for three people. (It’s essentially a tiny, tiny room that I rent for next to nothing.) The problem with the hotel room is that there’s not much privacy, and we don’t have many people we know down here we trust to watch our little girl, so time to frolic alone while she gets babysat will be at a premium, if we’re going to get any at all.
And we may not get any at all. Yesterday, my wife suggested we just forget about any rough play involving the usual toys at all, relying on straight sex and old-fashioned pain to get the job done. “I can hurt you without a whip, darling,” she said, “and it’s not like we’ll have time for any of that, anyway.”
And I have to admit, in the midst of a couple of weeks of pure chaos and relationship problems, the news that the toys weren’t coming down with her hit me like a punch in the gut. I don’t need the toys, but they’re a symbol of this new journey we’re on. I know she can hurt me without them, but the idea of no pegging, no flogging, no caning…it’s the straw that’s breaking the camel’s back. I want my sex, dammit. I want my beating. With all this stress going on, I need my beating — I need to be beaten. I need the release that comes with being the object of abuse, that comes with the sting of the lash and the dull ache of the welts it leaves. I need her to bring me to that state where the real world fades to nothing, and my world consists only of HER.
I know it’s selfish. I know it’s about me, me, me, when it should be about her, her, her. But I can’t help it. I spend my days being strong and driven and successful, and I fucking need to be weak. I need to be hurt. I need to be forced to submit as she heaps humiliation on me. I’m a bad BDSM stereotype, the strong-business-type who wants nothing more in his private life than to be the victim of some dominatrix. And I’m half ashamed that I’m so needy and so hooked, that when the time comes for push to come to shove, all my platitudes about this personal journey we’re on being “about her” are being thrown out the window.
The weird thing is, the more distant a scene alone with her is from becoming a reality, the more I dream of her. Rape fantasies, where she holds my face down into the bed and fucks my ass. Bondage fantasies, where she secures me with rope or chains and then leaves me there while she goes about her business — me, powerless; her, in control. I’m horny and I’m exhausted and I’m just strung out from too many balls in the air as my job here comes to a close, and the thing that’s gotten me through the last six months of work and shuttling back and forth isn’t there for me right now. BDSM is our outlet, her overpowering me is my permission to let it all go, to admit that all of my stress and my worries are capable of being shed like a skin if she commands it. She holds the key to the best stress relief I’ve ever had in my life — she holds my release in the palm of her hand. And she’s denying it to me.
And the submissive part of me says, “That’s her prerogative. She’s the master. I’ll take whatever she gives, and I’ll be grateful, because that’s what I agreed to when I gave her my submission; when I let her know how much I need her; when I gave her control over my orgasms.” And it’s true, but here, on my blog, I can say it: I am so frustrated….she has become the greatest drug I ever experienced. There simply aren’t words to describe how much I need her to be my Mistress again. And to feel myself reduced to a complaining child, a vexed lover, a needy submissive…to see that on some level, I’m hypocritical about how it’s all about her desires: it’s an eye-opener. And not in a good way. I need to be stronger, more obedient, more accepting that she calls the shots.
Need. God, I’ve never needed anything so much in my life. All of that passion and desire are, for the first time in our relationship as Mistress and slave, being diverted into frustration. And it’s awful, because I am a junkie for her.
I know I sound awful and petulant and miserable, but I once promised to tell the truth about everything but my real name and job here, and this, right now, is how I’m feeling.
PS: I apologize to all the people who’ve replied to threads and I haven’t gotten back to. Things have been a mess, and I’ll catch up this weekend.
