The Needy Followup: Safe At Any Speed

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.

So Needy…

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.