Ignoring the Wires

I reread the post I wrote last night, about making my wife recite that she’s a slave and a whore a set number of times, of her fantasies of humiliation, of my orders that she fall asleep dreaming of being bound and fucked by me, of her texting me for permission before she spends money and to check in.

And here’s the problem: There are moments when I stop and think about the whole male dominance thing and I think, “That’s lame.” I mean, the recitation thing is clearly me playing at her reaching some kind of self-hypnotic state, the orders about what to think about as she drifts off to sleep are all about me thinking I can control her dreams, the control of the money goes into her desire to fall into domestic slavery ’50’s housewife-style, where Ward works and June stays home in pearls and functions as a perfect mother to the children and a total whore in bed. (Ward and June had hot sex. We all know it.)

If I look too close at us flying across the air, I see the wires. When I think about my clumsy attempts at mindfuckery in order to become her world, I see those strings holding the acrobats up. And when I see the wires, the illusion is ruined. I’m aware that it’s not Superman, it’s a guy in a leotard with red underwear worn inside instead of out. It’s not the actress who plays Lois Lane, it’s her stunt-double. There’s something unreal about it. I start wondering if my dominance is a fraud, if all the people reading the blog know it’s a fraud, if…the most important if…my wife thinks it’s a fraud.

But then I think, “We are doing nothing more or less than what she did to me when I was subbing for her.” The intrusive control. The orders to masturbate only at appointed times, the idea that I should request the right to come and that she controlled my orgasms. Beatings because I wasn’t living up to expectations. Boot worship, yummy, humiliating, prostrating boot worship and foot worship. A strap-on in the ass while I’m cursed for being a bitch and a whore and my every plea for more cock is raised up to the light to show that I’m a dirty, needy, male slut. Flogging. Blood. Painful blows to the face to bring on my orgasm. Golden showers as she stood over me and talked about how I was worth less because I’d swallowed her piss and all of the other women out there would smell her mark.

(Her pee is actually not odorous. I suddenly feel the urge to point that out.)

She wants from me only what she gave me. Maybe less, because her tolerance for masochism is far lower than mine, even if her tolerance for submission play runs deeper. Was my headspace an illusion? Was my buy-in to the mindfucks she put me through a fraud? Were my orgasms — hell, the constant, unending, pre-come drip from my cock the minute we started playing, which lasted from start to finish and made me wet like women get wet, so that my wife would grasp my cock and gasp — was that a lie?

No, no, fuck no. My submission was — is — beautiful and honest and it came from a place that was just like my heart, only darker and self-annihilating. The nights I spent curled up into a ball, my insides torn up because all I wanted was for my Mistress to be here to hurt me and piss on me and fuck me, those were real. And when I think about it, my dominance is real. I want her to recite her little devotional because I want to own her headspace. I want to drive her into that place where I went, where the world recedes and all that’s left is the object of your obsession. I want to be that to her — her World. Her Master. I want to get as close to owning her body and mind and soul as humanly possible.

Because that’s what she did — she owned me. Body. Soul. Mind She still does. If she called me up on the phone again and used the voice, I would respond. I would obey. No matter how far we drift into Maledom and Femsub, we’re also still Mistress and Slave. When I think about how far I would go for her…what taboos I’ve set up that I would break for her. The self-harm I would do at her command, the degree of pain and punishment I would take for her to show her my strength…

I am hers. Always.

But I want her to be mine, right now. And she wants to be.

In essence, I want her to be for me what I am for her — a postulant, a worshipper, a slave who has learned to love the lash and love their master and whose will to say no is a distant thing. I remember that feeling — where the word “no” was something that if I uttered it, it would mean leaving the golden glow of her power and dominance, and so I didn’t need “no.” She was better than the ability to say no — she was better than choice, even though she hurt and humiliated and controlled.

And when I think about it like that the wires disappear, and our D/s play with the man as the dominant becomes true and real, and not a fraud at all. Fucking with her head doesn’t seem like play acting, it seems like something that we both need. And want.

If that makes any sense. I’m so hot writing about what I want from her — that level of subservience and slavery — that I’m off to masturbate.