My wife and I were on the phone today, and I asked her if I could have some phone sex. I’m a little tense, and we were both in a good mood, but she demurred. “No phone sex in your future, sweetie, but I will give you permission to come today. You have been waiting for my permission, right?”
And I can’t lie — actually, I’m a terrific bullshitter, but I won’t lie to her, so I said, “Well, most of the time. But late at night, when I don’t want to call and wake you, I occasionally take matters into my own hands. So to speak.” Yay, euphemisms for masturbation. She’s got to laugh, right? Wrong…
“I thought as much.” And then her voice changed. It went from sweet and easy-going wife to Evil Queen. “Let me tell you what you can start doing late at night: You can butch up and deal with it. Because you know what’s going to happen when we move back in together and you’re horny late at night? You’re going to butch the hell up and deal with it. I get to decide when you can come. Now go take care of yourself before I change my mind and take it away.”
The Voice. Oh, how it makes me weak. Her normal conversational affect is kind; smiling; excited. She’s the kind of woman who has a smile for everyone. She walks into a room and it brightens. Her favorite movie is, I kid you not, “Mary Poppins.” She is cute as a button, the kind of happy person that most offices have — if they’re lucky — who brings in casseroles for morning meetings, who stays late to listen to people talk about their problems.
But when she’s my Mistress — oh, that changes. Her voice is strong, powerful, commanding. And there’s a seething intensity underneath it all — a vibe she gives off that there’s this kind of caged aggression that’s locked up and under control, but if she let it go, she could hurt the hell out of me. She owns the world, when she’s my Mistress. She’s cruel.
And I love it. At this point, at nearly the six month point, I am conditioned like one of Pavlov’s salivating mutts. When I hear the Voice, it ripples down my spine and removes all the bones from my neck and my head…just…wants…to…drop. To bow. To remember my place. Where’s that? At her feet, prostrate, licking her foot or her boots. Or on my knees, sucking her cock. Or on my hands and knees, waiting for the kiss of the flogger or the ache of penetration.
I don’t know any other way for a woman to be dominant, other than the Voice and that seething power, because it’s the only dominance I’ve known. I just got a membership at Kink.com, and I’ve been watching femdom and male submission movies, and it’s weird — some women have something close to the demeanor my wife does, that seething intensity underneath the orders. It’s in their tone and it’s in the way they move. I have a visceral reaction to the movies I see where a woman moves like that — aggressive, but under control. Fast. Strong. Her voice brooking no response other than acquiescence. Women like that make me want to curl up into a little ball and let them kick me.
Fury. That’s the word I’m looking for: fury. My wife’s affect when she dominates me is like she’s furious at me, but she’s under control, and she’s been sitting there, thinking about whatever pissed her off, and it’s become this kind of lust. She doesn’t know whether to fuck me or hurt me, and she’s decided to do both. Angry.
Oh, that voice…
