Under MY boot.

My wife and are carrying on a very nice BDSM vibe via text messages. She texts me when she wants to spend money, she texts me to check in, and she gets texts from me doing things like ordering her to sneak away and photograph herself doing awful things, or to go off and masturbate. She now says a devotional to me before bed, and as she falls asleep I’ve let her know she is to focus on visions of me fucking her — fucking her while she’s bound, while she’s on her hands and knees and chained to the bed, whatever. I am trying my best to create a ritualized vibe to our switch. To get inside her head. To focus her imagination of being an object, to being a sexual object for my pleasure.

My wife is immensely aroused by all this. She wants me to get my domination so far into her head that I tell her what to think about right before she sleeps. I make her recite her role several dozen times, over and over again, right as she gets ready for bed — “I am my husband’s slave. I am his whore.” Over and over. And she does it, and says she loves it. She gets wet, knowing that I’m commanding her, that I want her to think about me as a powerful, controlling force in her life.

Naturally, it freaks me out a bit once in a while that she wants this so badly. I’m coming around, but there’s something disquieting — in a society as sexist as ours — that a woman wants to surrender. To be a sexualized object, to give up the right to say “no.” Of course, she’s not really giving up the right to say “no,” because she can say it at any time, and I’ll stop. What she’s doing is giving up, internally, her veto. It’s there — no one can remove it, and I’d certainly stop if she invoked it — but she doesn’t want it.

My wife admits to feeling guilty about this, but her own success at domination and in her professional life, as well as her own intense needs to be sexually objectified, have pushed past her anxiety. She wants to be humiliated, she says. She went swimming the other night in a heated pool and called me afterwards, telling me that the temperature of the pool reminded her of pee. She would pour the water over her head and imagine it was me, marking her, anointing her in my piss. She says she got so wet and aroused she couldn’t think straight. “I love it. Facials, golden showers, spankings, being your pet. Being an object whose only job is to serve.”

I’m just as afraid by my own reactions to this. Last night, ordering her what to think, making her repeat over and over again that she’s my whore like a mantra, telling her to play with herself and knowing that she does it all — it’s heady. It’s powerful. It brings something out in me that I normally keep wrapped up and isolated in my professional life. The urge to control. To dominate.

And in that urge, I find myself wondering how I’m going to get mine. I like being hit. I’m a masochist. I enjoy being flogged and whipped and smacked and punched and cut-and-bled-and-the-blood-sucked. I — and I think constant readers of this blog will know this — love to get pegged. I love the feel of a woman plowing into me with a strap-on. How do I get all this and still maintain my dominance? How do I get mine and still be the unquestioned master of her world?

And the thing is, she said a week or two ago — and I quoted it in this blog — that we create our kink. If my idea of being dominant is to order her to peg me, to bark out orders while she plows into me, to make the pegging about my own power — who’s to say I’m wrong? Her effort, her penetration of me, will be a product of my will, my orders, serve my pleasure. Just because society defines penetration as power doesn’t mean we have to. My beatings can be a demonstration of my own strength, my own endurance. My own manhood.

(The very thought of her pegging me, while she’s all kitted up like a sex-toy in latex like a living, breathing fantasy come to life, while I tell her to do it, yell out orders, while I feel her fuck my prostate until my cock is about to burst and I’m groaning uncontrollably in a wash of anal pleasure, is simply indescribably hot.)

Or something. I don’t have it all figured out yet. But it’s liberating to realize that the normal BDSM boxes don’t have to apply unless we let them. The titles and terminology and roles are something we can discard, or bend to our own uses. My wife and I are operating in our own universe, and if we decide to eschew the normal terms and definitions, no one’s going to kick us out of the club. We may have some ’splaining to do if we ever join the public scene, but I can’t see us doing that any time soon. (Especially because my idea of fetish wear is a finely tailored, three-piece suit. Nothing says “power” like a nice suit and a silk tie and expensive leather shoes.)

She wants to be my slave. She wants to be taken care of, and in exchange, she wants to worship me and become a living pinup, a servant, and extension of me. And while as I said above, that’s freaky to me a bit, when I think about it politically, in truth it’s nothing more or less than I’ve been asking for since we embraced our kink. And the least I can do is try to give it to her.