The Training of B — A Brief Followup

“So,” I asked, “Does that idea please you?”

She chuckled. “Mm-hmm.”

“Does it please you right in your private places?” I said.

“Yep.” She sighed. “There’s something about the idea of training you…of instruction. It hits my buttons.”

“I can’t wait. Just to be programmed…” I started feeling butterflies in my stomach. “To not be allowed to walk without permission, to have to crawl; and to have to eat out of a dog bowl, to have no name while you’re training me until you give me one…”

“I know, it’s so hot. Except…” She said slowly.

“What?”

“Except I worry about not doing it right.” She sighed, honestly.

“Honey, how long have we been doing this?” I started counting on my fingers.

“A while,” she said.

“We’ve been doing this for nine months.” I said. “Nine months, and have you done anything wrong?”

“You tell me,” she ordered.

“No. Maybe us attempting to switch was a bad move, but as dominant, you have been naturally pitch-perfect with everything.” I sighed. “I have no idea why you’d be worried about doing it ‘right.’ You do it right. Perfectly. You have a way…you just know how to be dominant and sadistic.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t know what I worry about…I mean, who’s going to tell me I’m doing it wrong?”

“Nobody,” I agreed.

“Certainly not you,” she said. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. You know your place.”

I felt a shiver run through my body as she took away my right to criticize — as if I’d dare, anyway.

I said, sheepishly, “I’m, um, erect now.”

“Really?” she asked.

“‘Certainly not you‘ did it.” I said. “The way you talk to me with that voice…”

“I thought it might be the culprit,” she said.

“Can, um,” I started to stammer, “um, can I masturbate?”

“I was just about to suggest it.” She said.

So, it looks like I have a training session in my future. And I couldn’t be happier.

The Training of B

Since I’m moving back to live with my wife full-time, I suspect my big problem will be establishing boundaries. And by happy coincidence, there’s been plenty of grist for my mental gears when it comes to ways to suggest to my Mistress how she can best establish those boundaries.

First up is the old standby, the contract. I wasn’t big on contracts, perhaps because of my job and my background — I suspect I could logic my way out of most contracts. But then I read a rough draft of the contract Devastating Yet Inconsequential made for her Joscelin. Specifically, these lines:

You may sometimes fear that you don’t know how to serve me. It is my wish that you be calm and relaxed and trust that if I am not pleased, or if I have a desire, I will express it. If you are not pleasing me I will correct you.

Emphasis most certainly mine.

Then, I discovered a blog called Gracefully Seeking Perfection. And her master makes her keep an infraction list, which describes what she did wrong, what her punishment is, and whether it’s been meted out.

I’ll be honest — I got hard and aroused reading that infraction list, dreaming that my wife would set something up like that for me. Just a cold, perfect record of my wrongs, and the punishment I would receive. (It’s almost like a joke — “Hey, how do you know you’re submissive?” “When a list of punishments and rules turns you on so much you have a hard time getting to sleep.”)

And of course there’s The Training of O, a Kink.com site which would be marvelous if O was, you know, a guy. The basic idea is that a submissive basically gets a list of goals set up for her by a dominant, a whole training regimen to make her a better submissive. A perfect sub, so to speak.

That’s what I think I need: My wife and I to get away for three days. And for those three days to be Submissive Bootcamp. We write a contract, we set up an infraction list, and she spends all 72 hours just completely breaking me. No, not just breaking: training. Programming.

Oh, that touches all my submissive instincts. The idea of being programmed. Of mind control and domination and torture until I beg to be her servant. (Let’s be honest, that’ll take five minutes.) Being walked on a leash. Having to ask permission for everything — to use the bathroom. To go somewhere without her. What to eat when we go out to dinner.

I’ll be honest, I want to have to ask permission to even walk upright.

And to be forced — to suck her cock, to lick the floggers she beats me with, to eat food out of a bowl like a dog. For punishment to come from her switch. To feed her my blood. To be videotaped at my absolute lowest, my most beaten-down and weak. I want forced interrogation, to be put to the question like some suspected sorcerer in a Hammer horror film being tormented by the Inquisition. Forced to commit some auto de fe for her, prostrate myself on the altar of her power.

I want to have her take away my name for the weekend.

I want sex and submission bootcamp. I want all my boundaries to be established. I want the tone to be set for the next year. I want to be ruthlessly and cruelly dominated until I am nothing but what she wants me to be — standing with the posture she desires, walking the way she wants me to walk, bowing my head just so. When she starts a scene, I want to just flow into what she wants.

Wouldn’t that be lovely? I hope she likes the idea. I hope she wants that absolute power. I hope she likes the idea of training me like some evil headmistress disciplining some rebellious student who needs something akin to the Degree Absolute treatment. Remaking me. Setting the scene for the next year, for our cohabitation. She keeps telling me that she needs me to be up there, to be a slave — that a Mistress without a pet isn’t much of a Mistress at all, that a master is defined by the fact that they have a slave.

Yum. Hopefully, one day soon she’ll say those three wonderful words: “School’s in session.”