Coming to Terms

Today, I ordered my wife to masturbate. She was at home, working from the office at her place, our daughter was asleep in her room, her mother was over and sleeping on the couch, and…

I texted her, told her to go off to our room, masturbate until she came, and then call me and thank me. I texted her these instructions, and I was meeting a fellow employee to talk about some work when my phone buzzed. I picked up and heard her say, in a breathy, strangled voice, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll call you back.”

Tonight, when our daughter goes to bed, the wife is going to go put on a PVC corset we bought her when we thought that’s what dommes had to wear, and which she’s worn exactly once, and put on a bridal veil, a garter belt, and leather boots. You know, all the things I would have killed for her to wear as my Mistress. But which she didn’t, because she could deny me then.

She can’t deny me now. She’s going to get dressed up, and then photograph herself. And send me the photos. Because I told her so. And because she’s my pet.

We texted each other all day, and I felt so strong, so powerful, so undeniable. I’m her master. She’s my pet. That’s what we want right now — for me to be powerful, to make decisions, and for her to obey. For her to be taken care of.

I got a handle on this because I got a handle on what she wants to be. She doesn’t necessarily want to be a dirty whore, or a fucktoy, or a painslut, or any other pair of words crashed together into one single word for descriptive purposes in BDSM. No, my pet wants to be something different.

She wants to be a geisha. An odalisque in a harem. A ’50s housewife. A Victorian lady. She wants two separate spheres, the masculine work world and the feminine household world. She wants me to let her cook my meals, and wash my clothes, and to suck my cock whenever I’m stressed, and to take it up the ass if I tell her that’s what I want, and when she’s bad she wants a stern corrective administered by my hand to her bottom or her tits.

And part of me rebels at this. Part of me is like, “No! This is the 21st century. This is not how a woman and man should act.”

But my wife is not some emotionally fragile creature being dominated because she grew up on a Fundamentalist Mormon ranch in Texas or because she doesn’t see the patriarchal bars. She’s been the top. She’s been the Mistress. She’s had the power. And right now, she wants to give all that up. She wants to surrender, just like I surrendered. She wants to give in to gender stereotypes best left alone, just like I wanted to give in to gender transgressions. She knows what she wants, and what she wants is to be owned. To serve. And who am I to say no? She oversees a major business. She’s respected personally and professionally. She’s a go-getter.

I was speaking to a friend of mine as we were planning our first million. She’s tall, blonde, and gorgeous, with curves that could knock you out if you’re not careful. She’s one of the smartest people I know. And that combination means she’s terminally underestimated, constantly sexually harassed, constantly having to fight to do what most men take for granted in the business we’re in. A total Type A. And I said, “I think my wife wants to be a trophy wife.”

She loves my wife, loves her spunk and our relationship and the way my wife and I communicate. She respects my wife. And she said, “Really? A trophy wife?”

“Yep. She wants to stay home, be taken care of, drop the kids off at school, then go to a personal trainer so she can be fit and trim for me. Home by lunch to perform sex acts for me. Then, she cooks, picks up the kids, dresses nice for company functions. Looks pretty.”

My friend didn’t bat an eye. “She’d make a great trophy wife. You should do that for her. I mean, she’s taken care of you for ten years in school and while you work, she fucking deserves for her biggest worry to be the red negligee or the blue one.”

“You don’t think she’s rebelling against decades of feminism?”

She smiled. “You can have a trophy wife. As long as I can have a pretty, obedient, trophy husband. They can drink martinis together. Complain about how they never see us.”

And that’s something I can live with. Until we decide to switch off again.