Knowing Your Limitations

I know for a fact that I will never be as good a dominant as I am a submissive.

I mean, I want to dominate. I’ve been talking to my wife about it, we had a couple of scenes a week and a half ago, and we’ve managed to establish what her safe areas are. She wants to be a geisha, and she wants me to be a strong, powerful, swinging dick. She wants to serve and to worship and to obey, but she’s not interested in painplay outside of spankings and tit-slapping and the odd flogging. I clamped her and she cried, for instance, and I know the crop or the switch will result in safewords and recriminations. She has no interest in slapping or blood — I slapped her face, gently, and the look on her face was just heart-wrenching.

She wants to be my harem slave. She wants to kowtow and worship. She wants domination but not a lot of sadism.

I can give her that. I can do that. But I know that even if I do that really well, even if I get to be a killer dom, I’ll always be a better submissive.

Because submission is in my nature. Dominance is something I can do, it’s something I even get off on a bit, but when we strip this down to essentials, I am a submissive. I want to be destroyed and stripped down and rebuilt into a machine for the worship of her. I want to be beaten and bled and fucked and broken. Dominance is something I can do — but submission is, on some level, what I am.

And the thing is, I know my wife’s nature is dominant. I can tell because when we started playing with BDSM, and she was the domme and I was the sub, everything fit. It was right. We built a solid relationship with very few hiccups. Which is awesome. We laid a foundation, and that foundation is solid because it rests on our natures.

Now, we want to expand that nature. We want to try new things. She wants to switch. After yesterday’s post, I think we want to try a mask or something. We want to challenge ourselves, play in new ways. Stretch our muscles.

But no matter what we do, at root, she is the Mistress and I’m a slave. Her slave. And rather than closing things off for us, I feel like it anchors us — no matter how far we explore, home is always going to be a collar and leash on me, a ballgag in my mouth, and a hitting implement in her glorious hands.

I think the purest sign of this is simply our safety zones. When we’re doing femdom, there’s very little that’s off limits — she cuts me and drinks my blood, she beats my genitals, she strikes me in the jaw when I orgasm, she sodomizes me. The menu is wide-open. But when it’s us playing male dominant — and funny how that choice of words for me is “playing,” — we’ve got limited choices. We’ve got a narrow set of options. That’s not bad — but our comfort zone is clearly mired in my submission, my pain, my obedience. And that’s home for us.