Not Hard Enough

Last night’s experiment with pony play was incredible fun, and afterwards my wife and I were both sweaty, sated and relaxed. However, it did reveal an essential part of our characters which explains our D/s dynamic pretty well.

Our daughter was in bed in the other room, and we put the TV on in there to drown out the noise of rough sex. We crept into our room, and my wife popped in a porno and started watching. Since I was taking the lead, I made her masturbate while she watched, with a largeish dildo we normally use on my ass. (With a condom, of course.)

My wife doesn’t like porno for any reason other than the fact that it flat-out objectifies women, and objectifies the sex act itself. The women getting pounded by cocks, fucked in their mouths, come on — I suspect my wife uses female objectification as a placeholder for male subjectification in the same way I use lesbian BDSM as a placeholder for my own, barring those rare moments when a guy I can identify with is being beaten.

As we’ve slid further and further down the rabbit hole, she has become obsessed with the idea of objectification, both literal — using me as a footstool — and figurative, i.e., the idea of someone as a purely sexual object for release. Most of the time, she likes objectifying me, but she’s talked often about how she has fantasies about being objectified, of being used, of being a sexual object and her freedom as a human limited or degenerated somehow. Pony play fills that need nicely.

(I’m calling it pony play, but as I talked about briefly yesterday, it’s not — it’s the trappings of pony play, but we’re clearly both people, not roleplaying as animal and rider. It’s reducing her to livestock, to literal chattel, and slaking myself on her.)

So, alone in the room, I hooked the leather head harness up to her. It’s a web of belts and buckles and rings with a bit. She puts her mouth over the bit and then I strap her in, with a strap going underneath her chin, two rising up the side of her face and meeting halfway around her head, and then a strap going from either side of the bit and snapping to the single buckle that goes from where the two face straps meet. I strapped her in securely, and she seemed quite happy. Then, I got the riding crop, and pulled back on the reins which went from two metal rings on either side of the bit.

When I slid into her, she was tight and wet. I grabbed the reins and pulled back, and in response her head rose up and her body was pulled back into me. I traded the reins from my right hand to my left and picked up the crop. “Giddy-up,” I said, and began slapping her flank.

She began thrusting herself against me. Her cunt tightened around my length and I thrusted back, beginning a game of give and take. I started using the crop to guide her — I tapped in rhythm with our thrusts, slowly speeding up as I went. If I tapped faster, she thrust faster — if I tapped harder, she thrust back with more force. Soon, I started smacking her thigh harder.

“Harder, pony. Getty-up.” I heard her grunt.

I got an idea. “A real slut would let me know what an animal she was — she’d make animal noises.”

She neighed. Her neck was long and beautiful, her head high due to the pressure I put on the reins, pulled back. She had risen up on her hands, her shoulders tall. I felt high. I started pushing into her harder even as she clenched against me.

But — she began pulling against the reins, hard, lowering her head, and worried that I was pulling back too hard, I let the reins go.

She screamed in frustration and managed to mouth, “What was that for?”

“I thought I was hurting you.”

“No, no…”

I grabbed the reins and started fucking her again, getting her up to speed with the crop. But then, she pulled against the reins and I let go again. “Are you okay?” I asked, even as she moaned in frustration.

This scenario repeated itself about five times, to her growing frustration. Once, I really was hurting her, because her lip had gotten caught in the bit, but the other four times it was just me, worried that I was being too rough. She was pulling to feel pressure, to test her strength against mine, to pull, and I was chickening out when I got worried, letting go.

It didn’t stop us. Once we got a solid rhythm going at the end, I started whipping her flanks with the crop and fucking against her thrusts. “Good pony, that’s a good pony, fuck, getty-up, getty-up…” Our bodies, where they met, were covered in her juices and my precome. Her pussy was tight, and there was a sloppy sound as we came together.

I started thrusting into her wildly as my orgasm approached, losing the beat as I lost control. When I came, it was hard and wet, a torrent flooding out to equal the wave I’d exploded out with the night before when we’d just talked about it. She slowed down as my cock began to slowly stop spasming. (She says she can feel me come, feel my cock jerk and pulse with come.)

We were both satiated and happy, thrilled. She felt objectified, I felt powerful, and we both were exhausted. It was pretty darn close to perfect.

But…

But, as I pointed out to her, I lack the killer-instinct a good dominant needs. I worry too much — I’m insecure in disciplining, in being rough, in causing pain. When my wife pegged me a while back, while I wore that bit and reins, she didn’t let the reins go every couple minutes for fear she’d hurt me — she knew I’d safeword. She fucked me hard and fast and long and even when I looked uncomfortable, she took her pleasure from me. I was a fucking beast, and it was rough and painful and pleasurable and I knew she was sure and confident and in-charge. She owned me. I was hers. Hers.

To paraphrase something I heard on another blog, “Moans of discomfort and pain are not a safeword.” But to me they are — I want to care, I want to take care and give comfort. But not her — she doesn’t care about my discomfort when she’s dominating unless the time is right. I don’t know whether it’s that she trusts me more, or trusts herself more, or some combination of both. But she’s far more at ease with roughness and pain and dominance than I am.

OTOH, if sex like last night is the result, I’m willing to fake it. God, I loved every fucking minute of that, outside of the brief flickers of shame when I dropped the reins.