The Doldrums

And so now the blog slides into disuse, growing dustier and more threadbare with each passing day. Why?

Because we’re no longer two people having a passionate love affair while living a thousand miles apart. We’re two people living together, in cramped quarters with no privacy and a child about. Which means there’s no room for a real scene, and no time for any kind of play, and no sense of privacy in which to really let go and get moving.

Last night, we stole a quickie — dinner was in the oven, the daughter was in the living room watching “Max & Ruby,” and so we ran back to the bedroom and had sex. I got slapped once or twice, and my wife tore at my nipples right before I climaxed in a painful way — she’s got nipple torture down to an artform now — and we both had a good time, but there’s no sense of her power when we’re both under the gun. No sense of control. It’s just rushed.

I told her the other night that I don’t feel very “owned” right now. That I feel isolated and away from her power, moreso than I did when I lived a thousand miles away from her. And I have to admit that distance has been reflected in my insubordination when she does try to take control because, you know, what’s the point in pretending? We can’t get a good scene going. I can’t worship her the way I want, she can’t discipline me the way she wants, and we have no time for ritual, no space for play.

The closest we’ve come to a real scene is a moment when I was insubordinate the other night and she lost her temper. She just opened up on me with her hands, close-fisted punches to my back and ass. It was…good. It sounds weird to admit that somebody using you as a punching bag and hitting you a couple dozen times while berating you for being disrespectful would be good, but it was. Afterwards, I ached to the bone, she was breathing heavily and demanding an apology, and I fell asleep feeling both sore and loved. I didn’t hit subspace, but it was just the nature of the act — her anger, her feeling of ownership that she could just beat me, her demands for an apology — that’s the role she wears that makes me happiest. Because…

Because when I strip it down, this whole thing — the submission, the masochism — it’s about her power. It’s about letting her have power over me. And her punching me like that, knowing that I wouldn’t strike back, knowing that I wouldn’t defend myself, knowing that it hurt immensely after the first few shots as punches landed on areas that had just been punched — that’s her power at work. Her self-assurance of her place, of my place, of the hierarchy that we’ve set up for ourselves.

(She said that she enjoyed punching me in my ass, thighs, and back, and that she’d like some way to set up some piece of equipment so that she can present those areas to her fists when we get our own place. Oh, my God that’s hot. I loved the closed fists. And they hurt, so fucking much. Even better, she said that a minute of continuously punching me was a solid workout for her arms. She made a joke about it: “How would you like to be my workout bag every morning?” And all I could think of is, “Yes, yes, yes.” Objectification and abuse in one neat package.)

I want to somehow find a way for her to show that power whenever she can; but right now we’re in limbo, with no privacy, no schedule, no space, no nothing. I was worried about us moving too fast into 24/7 femdom & slave scenery, now I’ll just be happy if we can scrape together a couple hours a week to get back into our roles.

Coitus Interruptus

So there I am in bed, my arms drawn out to the sides cruciformly while my back rests on a pile of pillows which have been placed there by my wife. She’s carefully laid out a row of implements — a knife, alcohol swabs, cotton cleanup pads, and a Band-Aid or two. She is naked, her nightgown pooled on the floor where she slid out of it. I’m nude, too.

She takes the knife, and her eyes focus on the part of my flesh she’s decided to cut. My cock is hard — harder than it’s been in days, and I can feel the pre-come around it as it occasionally throbs when she strokes me or says something particularly imperious.

She leans in. My breath catches in my throat. It’s been forever since she’s cut me. We had been making out, preparing to have sex, when I had begged her to cut me up, and she had latched onto the idea and laid out the tableau now occurring on her bed.

I feel the knife drag across a patch of skin. “Did that hurt?”

“It stung a little, but…”

“Not deep enough,” she said. Her first cuts are always mere scratches as she finds our limits, finds a baseline from which to work. She climbs up onto the bed, leans down over me. I’ve overwhelmed by the power of her presence, the heat of her body, the way she looms over me. I hear her shallow breathing — right now, all that exists for her is my flesh. And then, the blood.

She holds the knife to a different patch of skin.

Her head shoots up. Her eyes are wide. She pushes herself off the bed in a panic and begins looking around the floor. She realizes she’s holding a knife and wraps it in pads and gauze and shoves it under my pillow. She hurriedly throws her nightgown down over herself.

Our bedroom door opens, and our daughter begins to push her way in. I grunt out surprise, my wife realizes that not only am I absolutely naked, but aroused and soaked as well, and throws a sheet over me. I curl over, trying to pretend to be asleep. The light turns on, and our daughter looks at us.

“I’m scared,” our daughter says.

My wife, who until this moment had spent the last twenty minutes speaking only in harsh orders and brutal commentary, has a softer, more caring voice. It strikes me again how different she can be when circumstances require it. “What are you scared of, sweetie?”

“I don’t know. But I want to sleep with you guys.”

My wife turns her head toward me, her eyebrow raised, looking to see what I want to do. Right now, I want nothing more than to be laid open like a cadaver on an autopsy table, a knife used to open gashes in my skin, and for a beautiful, imperious woman to drink my blood, then blow me — because my wife sees swallowing my come after drinking my blood as a part of the ritual, apparently — then she’ll fuck me, possibly before or after beating me. But, the masochist in me doesn’t get to cast my vote. The father who’s been away for two years does.

“Honey, why don’t you go get some more milk. Mommy will take you,” I say, hoping that Mommy will understand why I want to buy us a couple minutes in here to get things straight, “and when you come back, you can sleep in the room with us.” There’s a little day bed in addition to ours in here, so I don’t have to worry about our daughter accidentally finding a wet spot in our bed, be it blood or something else.

As they leave, I hop out of bed and begin cleaning. The bag of toys is safely away, but I have to throw on pajamas, gather up the cutting tool and the cleaning supplies and the bandages, put them somewhere safe, and then clean up the rest of the mess.

Soon, my daughter is safely snoring away in her little bed while my wife cuddles against me. “That was very nice,” she whispers, kissing me on my ear. Her teeth dig in and I yelp and hold her tighter. “Later on, when we get some time alone, I’m going to remember what a good boy you are.”

“As much as I love being your good boy, I love being her good dad even better.” I say. “But God, I wanted to be laid open and bloody. I know that’s crazy, but coitus interruptus is worse when there’s pain involved.”

“Coitus interruptus?” My wife says. “Are you showing off again?”

“You know, interrupted sex.” I say. She knows what I mean. “Only in this case, it’s probably “cuttus interruptus.”

She laughs, and promises me that we’ll play with the knife next night we have alone. She whispers a few naughty promises in my ear involving pain and pleasure and my own degradation, and then rolls over and is softly snoring after saying her prayers. I say mine, and then listen to the tinny snoring of our daughter across the room, and my wife’s heavier breathing next to me, and realize that as much as I would have loved getting sliced and diced, I made the right decision.

And then I’m asleep,