The Word of the Day is…

“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.