My Sloppy Curse

Occasionally, when my mind is wandering as I think about my relationship with my wife, I wonder if it’s all real. How can I be a masochist? What made me this way? What about my past wired me to get off on pain? How did I get that way? I mean, do I really get off on pain?

The answer to that is undeniably “yes.” And I’ll tell you why.

Men naturally get a bit of precome on their cocks when they get aroused, and I’ve mentioned that I get more than normal when my wife and I play with D/s. But I don’t know if I’ve ever conveyed just what it’s like. My cock literally starts leaking the minute we start playing — often, when we just talk about playing. There’s a slow, steady drip of clear fluid from the minute we start messing around with D/s, and if she starts hurting me, it literally becomes a non-stop torrent.

I can say, with some honesty and a little embarrassment, that when my wife and I start playing, I’m often wetter than she is. My whole crotch gets soaked with precome, my cock so slick it’s nearly frictionless. If she strikes me, it will literally throb and pour out another flood of precome. My balls become slick, and the bed will get an enormous wetspot. (If I’m wearing a gag or a bit, there’s often two wet spots to contend with — one from my drool, and a larger one from my cock.)

I first noticed my extreme arousal reaction to pain the first time my wife hit me in play. I was standing against the wall, my legs spread at shoulder length, my arms up in the air and crossed at the wrist. My wife raised up her hand and smacked me on the ass and I felt my cock jerk, my crotch grow wetter. Each blow brought another tiny pulse of precome out of me. When she began pegging me, it got worse — the pain of the violation and the prostate stimulus combining so that my cock was sloppily slick.

The most extreme incident happened a couple of months ago. My wife had a leather cord that she had wrapped around my balls and cock, and she would twist and tighten it, causing me a large amount of pain. She placed a hand on my cock and just…tightened the cord with the other hand. My cock throbbed and literally, precome splashed out of my cock in such a volume that my wife had to ask me if I’d orgasmed.

“No, mistress,” I groaned, embarrassed. “I…it’s just how it works for me.” I was shy, embarrassed — she knew I got wet, it was impossible to hide, but she’d never realized how much CBT pushed it to extremes.

“That is so…” she started to say, and I tensed up for her disgust. “That is so fucking cool.” She was ecstatic that she had this unnatural effect on me. She had me get on my hands and knees with my legs spread and started tapping my balls with her riding crop in increasing intensity until with each aching blow my cock dripped stringers of precome all over the bed. She made me clean off the leather tongue of the crop with my mouth, telling me how awful I was for dirtying up the toys, and then, to punish me, got out the flogger.

She flogged my balls. Gently at first, and then harder, with a great amount of skill, she whipped them with underhanded shots. She did just enough to make them sting from the initial contact with the tips of the flogger and then ache a moment later when my testicles started reacting to the blow. She timed it perfectly, each blow letting me ache for a moment before the next shot hit. And with every shot, I felt my cock pour out precome. The tips of the flogger actually started getting darker.

I’m sometimes ashamed and grossed out by how wet I get when my wife hurts me. I don’t know if it’s normal. But God, only masochistic activity does this to me. I am never so turned on as when she’s beating me. It’s incredible. And as long as she doesn’t mind — as long as she still loves me in spite of the sloppy curse — I can accept it for what it is: proof that masochism is something wired into me, fundamentally, and I may never know where it came from, but I can never doubt that it’s pure and true.

A Letter For My Mistress

My wife demanded that I write a wish-list of what kind of debased acts of sado-masochism and submission I want to get up to once we’re living in the same house. In fact, this post — which I will send to her via email, as well — is the only way I get to come tonight. I get to have an orgasm if I send her my wish list. We just spent the last hour on the phone discussing how our D/s and S&M activities are going to work when we live in the same house again, and we’re both revved up, so if you don’t want to read about a sub’s daydreams, hie thee forth to another blog and don’t follow the link.

Joviality and Fallout

My wife and I were planning budgets. I find this immensely tedious, especially when it’s a week before she comes down and I want to drop some money on new toys at the local fetish shop. I mean, how are we supposed to learn rope bondage without rope? How are my ankles to be secured without ankle cuffs? These are serious questions, and I’m a serious man engaged in a mission of great importance — forget how we’re going to pay for a new place, I need toys, dammit.

My wife’s attitude can best be summed up thus: a) we have plenty of toys, b) fuck what I want, she’s the one who gets to decide what new toys get added to the collection, and c) she’d much rather get a new place, with a dungeo…I mean, basement, than continue in our current house and have to worry about her family or our daughter walking in while Mommy and Daddy play Mistress Spanksalot and her pet, Subby.

And as she spelled out the logic behind her decision to limit our spending on new gear, I said, “Look, I’m not asking for permission. I’m going to buy new toys, and your job is not to okay the purchases, but to make yourself useful and hit me with them. Capisce?” And then I laughed, because this was supposed to be funny.

But I forgot that when we’re talking about S&M, I need to treat it — and her — with respect. Rule number 1. So instead of a laugh on the other end of the line, I hear, “Woah. Maybe I should give you a minute to think before you say another word.”

Me: “I was kidding.”

Her: “I don’t find it funny. Do you think I’m just here to get you off? Is that my role? You seem to be fucking confused.”

Me: “…No, ma’am.”

Her: “Do you want to be the dominant? Is that what this is? Are you asserting yourself by making light of our relationship?”

Me: “No, ma’am. I don’t want to be the dominant.”

Her: “…I am going to beat your ass with the switch for this. The last time is going to look like nothing compared to what you’re going to get.”

I start pleading, trying to explain I was just kidding, I was feeling my oats, and…

Her: “You can beg all you like, but you’re getting the switch.”

Me: “Can I at least ask how many swats?”

Her: “I haven’t made up my mind.”

Me: “Could you give me a ballpark?”

Her: “I’ll tell you what: every time you ask, you get ten more hits.”

Me: “So is that ten hits, or ten more in addition to the undetermined number?”

Her: “You’re at twenty or thirty extra hits now.”

Me: “Wait, you’re counting the times I asked before you made the rule? That’s not fair!”

Her: “Is that a question? It sounded like a question. Fair’s not something I care about. You ran out of fair when you decided you had some jokes to tell.”

Me: “I couldn’t handle thirty last time, and now you’re giving me thirty in addition to some other number.”

Her: “Maybe this time you’ll learn to think before you speak, hmm?”

And that was that. I was nervous and ashamed and pissed that I was going to get 30+ hits with that fucking switch and the conversation ended. It’s all good now, but…I could definitely do without the nervousness about that whipping. But I had it coming.

The Safe Word, part 1.

Saturday night, we got a hotel room. It was wonderful — it had a hot-tub in the room, and was right on the water, surrounded by yachts and the bay. There was a great restaurant within walking distance — although we drove, because the wind was murderous. Our daughter was at a sleepover with her cousin, and it was just the wife, me, and a bag of toys.

My wife is in charge now when it’s us, alone, and sex is in the air. No more topping from the bottom, no more worries about how much control I wield, or whether or not she’s really into it. She’s begun controlling the BDSM aspect of our relationship clearly and without any real control from me, and after the blood-drinking the night before, I was in her thrall. Yeah, her thrall. I know that one of the things that has always thrown me about BDSM is the flowery language — but once she had my blood in her mouth, once I was dominated so thoroughly that she had me pinned and was drinking my blood — I just felt all the fight leave me. I didn’t become a different person, but there was a new element to the relationship, a new sureness that she was in control. I told her about it, and she felt it too — that she was truly in command, truly powerful, truly dominant.

And Saturday was nice — she kept me off-balance. She likes flying without a script, not knowing what she’ll do next, and Saturday was random — she kept me guessing, bouncing from toy to sex to hot-tub handjob to knifeplay to pegging to whatever. Zip, zip, zip. ADHD for the dominant. It kept me reeling, one minute being held in the hot-tub and given a hand-job, the next having my parenium clamped and my cock and balls tied in leather and then tortured, a moment later being whipped in the balls with a crop and made to lick the precome off of it. She would get bored and peer into our bag, pull some toys out, attach some new thing to my body, hit me someplace else, and then strip it all off and make me do something else.

Take It Like A Man

Yesterday, the wife had part of the day off due to a doctor’s appointment, so we decided to have her take the whole day off and slink back to the house for a scene.

And it was glorious. One of our best scenes ever. She ran out for her appointment, I got showered and cleaned up, and when she came back, I was waiting for her, on my knees, head bowed. She collared me with her old collar — instead of my choke-collar, this one’s a thick band of black leather — and had me go through the usual formalities. Undress her. Kiss her. Some foot worship.

Then, she put the ball-gag on me and said, “Today’s the day I put you through your paces. You wanted us to find your limits? Today’s the day.”

…

“Don’t look at me.”

I’m in the middle of my week home, which means in addition to Thanksgiving turkey and family time and visits to relatives, I’ve also been fucked, flogged, whipped with a belt, struck repeatedly with a riding crop just about everwhere, cuffed, shackled, sodomized, urinated on, and gagged…

Desperate late night musings

I am horny.  And by horny, I mean I need to be hit in addition to all of the sex I’m thinking of.  It’s weird how easily I went from just-a-sub-who’s-not-interested-in-being-a-masochist-at-all to being a sub-who-thinks-about-being-whipped when he should be paying attention at work. 

 I…need…to…be…whipped.  I never could imagine wanting to hurt.  I’ve decided I’m flying the wife down well ahead of schedule.  Fuck the finances, fuck the work I should be doing that weekend, I need to go out, get her a plane ticket, fly her down, hit the fetish shop, and drop an enormous sum of money on implements specifically designed to humiliate and hurt me.  I mean, it hit me about an hour ago, this wave of syrupy-rich-horniness, and it hit me in waves I’ve never felt.  I want one of those weird medical devices to hold my mouth open while she fucks my mouth with her cock and I want to be pissed on and I want to be hogtied.  I want to feel a riding crop on me, all over — my chest, my back, my thighs, my ass and oh-god-I-can’t-believe-it-but-I-want-her-to-hit-my-cock.  Not hard.  But just a quick slap.  Or ten.  Okay, maybe hard.  Maybe very hard.  No, definitely. I think I should definitely beg for some penis abuse above what she normally dishes out by clamping my penis and balls.

 I want my face slapped.  A lot.  I want to be sodomized repeatedly, and whipped while it happens, and called names, and have my hair pulled and my facial hair yanked and to just be used.  I want her to come over and over again as I pleasure her.  I just want to serve and while serving feel a heck of a lot of pain. 

 If there was a way to smuggle some wooden cross-thing-which-we-don’t-have-any-clue-where-to-buy-or-even-find into the hotel room to tie me to, and then have her hit me with this lunge-whip I’ve been eyeing, I would do it.  I need to be dominated, I need to be hurt, and then I need to do it all over again, like, ten times, until I can’t sit on my welted ass and my back is torn apart by fingernails and whipmarks.   I think I’ll spend the next few days begging for it.

 It has been a little more than two months since we started messing around with D/s, seven weeks or so since we first tried S&M and pissing and all of that lovely deviant sex.  And I need it.  I need more.  What is she doing to me?  We’ve been married for ten years, and we’ve had a passionate love life, but this - it’s crazy. Nights like this, she’s all I think about.  I am out of control.  We made a tape last time I saw her, and we couldn’t get the angles right and it’s shaky, the picture sucks, you can barely see us, but the sound — perfect. And it’s a tape of her banging my ass with her strap on while whipping my thighs and back with my nicest, thickest belt.  I listened to it tonight, just hearing her say, “You like that?” crack.  “Yeah, you do, oh, you are such a whore,” crack.   And me making grunting noises and begging.  And I would do anything to see her again.

And I want to be marked.  Permanently.  I want to wear her mark.  A piercing, a tattoo, something, something she picks out, something that I can wear all of the time, under my suit, burning into my skin, a permanent sign of her power and ownership.  I think maybe instead of a couple hundred dollars in sex toys and hurty things, I’ll spend some money on getting marked, with that claddagh tattoo I talked about getting at Christmas.  Yeah.  I mean, ten or eleven years of marriage is enough commitment where a tattoo is not a rash act. 

 Sweetie?  I know you read this.  Tell me what you want me to wear.  Please.  Mark me.  Forever.  Because welts and bruises just don’t last long enough.

The Lost Weekend

I flew up north on the redeye and got to the Big Midatlantic City where my wife lives around midnight late Thursday night.  There were half a dozen people on my flight, and they were all intent on getting out of the airport as fast as possible, so nobody noticed my wife and I passionately embracing.  Deep, open-mouthed kisses, an embrace that was tight enough to make me gasp.  I felt loved.  I felt dominated.  I’m a sub, it’s that feeling of closeness and submission that I crave.  Sure, I like getting hit - I fucking love it.  But for me, the submissive part drives the masochism. 

The Evil Twin.

                I’m in the middle of my three day visit with my wife, and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my last post, as well as the concept of the Evil Twin.

                Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, there was a hoary old television concept revolving around evil twins.  Most sitcoms dug it up at least once, and in a couple of cases, the Evil Twin was a recurring character.  Blonde housewife Samantha from “Bewitched” had her raven-haired and hedonistic cousin Serena who looked exactly like her; Jeannie from “I Dream of Jeannie” had one; hell, even Boss Hogg from “The Dukes of Hazzard” had a good twin. 

                I have come to the realization this weekend that I’m dealing with my wife’s Evil Twin. 

                My wife is “sweet.”  I have openly told a few friends when they ask what we’re doing this weekend that my wife is going to beat me with a belt, and the same response happens each time: “Right, guy.”  Because while a few friends may suspect I’m kinky, my wife is the very model of the sweet and happy suburban vanilla homemaker.  She has an easy smile, she bakes cookies and cakes to relax, and she sings in the church choir when she’s not helping small children learn their vowels.  She is, by anyone’s definition of the term, a good girl.  A buddy of mine said, “Anybody who doesn’t like your wife is suspect.  She’s the nicest person I ever met.”  She doesn’t drink, she doesn’t curse, she cries whenever anybody wins a contest or whenever something good happens for them.  (Extreme Home Makeover is off-limits.)  She bustles.  She listens to Christmas music whenever she can.  She’s just plain nice.

                This afternoon, everybody’s favorite nice girl beat me with a belt until my ass was a bright red after making me wait for the beating, naked as the day I was born, in front of an open window.  Nobody saw anything from the low-traffic rural road our house overlooks, but it was the fear of somebody seeing which added a certain jittery frisson to the whole scenario.  I was bent over an easy chair, my pants and underwear around my ankles.  My ass was angled upwards, and then she showed up with one of my belts, looped around her hand, and started hitting.  I counted after each blow, my voice quavering and getting slightly higher and more panicky with each shot.  We’d determined yesterday that when she really, really puts her wrist into and gets a good “whap” on the belt, I can take six shots of it before it really begins to hurt and I want to scream a little bit.  As a sign of my devotion to her, I had taken ten last night.  Today, fifteen.  She paused after the eleventh strike to ask, “Did I hear a safeword?  Was that [the safeword]?”  There was no safeword, of course; she was hitting me so hard that I was only capable of high pitched little grunts when I wasn’t biting down with each blow.  She just wanted me to beg a little for the next few lashes.  And…I did. 

                Oh, God, I begged this “good girl” for every single bit of pain she’s given me this weekend.  I got down on my hands and knees and crawled to her, kissing and licking her manicured soccer-mom toes while begging her to draw blood with her fingernails, leaving jagged lines of bloody scratches all over my chest, and then I pleaded for her to piss all over my chest, the sting of her urine burning into those scratches.  I begged for smacks to the face, clamps placed on the nipples, balls and penis, and at some point, I thanked her for playing a new game of hers: Submissive-as-object, where she puts on headphones and blocks the sight and sound of me with a pillow or sheet while watching a porno.  I’m nothing but a sex-toy, and while she occasionally barks out an order – “Harder,” “slower,” “a bit lower,” “don’t do the thing with the circles,” for the most part it’s just her and her entertainment until she comes, at which point I’m allowed to sit next to her until she’s ready to try something else.  It’s an interesting feeling to be so isolated while giving someone else pleasure.

                So, yes, I’ve come to the opinion that my wife has neatly bifurcated herself into Happy Homemaker and Evil Twin.  The happy homemaker went out to dinner with me and a friend last night and spent the evening teaching my daughter how to count, while my buddy and I chatted about fantasy football and politics at my old job.  The Evil Twin turned to me while my daughter was talking to our friend midway through the meal, and whispered in my ear, “I am going to tear your ass to ribbons with that belt.  Can you handle that?”  I tried not to let my face display the mingled fear and arousal and simply nodded yes.  Today, at my wife’s sisters house, my wife sang nursery rhymes with all of the pre-schoolers.  On her way to go into another room to get a  juicebox, she leaned into me, never breaking her smile or stride, and said, “Tonight, you’re going to get fucked with [her pet name for our strap-on].”  All I could do is gulp and pray the pre-come and erection wouldn’t show through my pants. 

                All of this leads me back to  my last post about The Big Scare…my nervousness about getting into BDSM because of all of the images I’d let into my skull about what BDSM “is,” like it was some monolithic lifestyle like the Boy Scouts or something.  And that image, no matter how inaccurate of the larger subculture, informed both my wife and my own images of what we were getting into.  We were careful to set boundaries before we did our first D/s session together, which came down to this:

1)      No pain or violence to one another.

2)      No collars, because collars are something you put on dogs.

3)      No humiliation, because I’m her equal, I’m just letting her take control during sex.

4)      No infantilism, cross-dressing or messing about with pee.

5)      No ball gags or “pro-dommey” outfits.  (I’m calling them that, her attitude was that she just didn’t like the accoutrements that she saw on TV.)

                Those rules were mostly for her.  I was right there with her on number 1 and 4, but I was interested in 2 and 3.  But for her to be comfortable, I was willing to write all that stuff off.  If I just got her to boss me around and let me lick her boots, I felt like, “Hey, it’s moreD/s  than I’ve gotten in the last twenty years, it’ll be enough.”  And our first session went according to plan.

                But I’d underestimated our Evil Twins.  Because the first rule to fall was number 1.  Watching somebody flog somebody else is off-putting if you’ve never really messed around with pain-play, but we started with a little nipple-pulling and spanking, and by this weekend, my wife was lamenting the lack of a flogger or a riding crop in our arsenal, but was willing to make do with the belt.  (If anybody knows who has a good selection of crops, let me know, because it’s her Christmas gift, she’s decided.)

                Rule number 2 was the second one to go.  At first after she vacillated on this rule, she insisted that we avoid an actual dog collar or choke chain and go with a slave collar, because she felt the dog collar was too humiliating to me.  For the record, we were together for an hour after she decided to allow me a collar before she was gleefully fitting me with a choke-chain at “Petsmart” and then having a dog-tag engraved with my name and her own name under “Property of…”  A few hours after that, she was calling me her dog and her bitch as she plowed into my ass with “her cock,” as she calls it, neatly taking care of Rule 3. 

                We’re still not interested in the child’s play or dress-up, but there was pee-a-plenty, so Rule 4 has gone away at least in part, and we bought a shower curtain this trip to make cleanup easier and let us move out of the bathtub and onto the floor of our room.  (If anybody knows of any special mats or anything for this, let us know, please.)

                As for the ball-gags, she’s still worried about blocking my airways, but she’s comfortable with dirty panties being used as a gag, and her first clothing purchase was a PVC corset and garter belt to wear under a Catholic schoolgirl’s outfit she bought, a pleasant nod to my own love of her dressed up like a dirty soccer-mom stripper. 

                All of the things that freaked us out and scared us weren’t so scary as we edged our way into the shallow end of the pool.  We’re still far from the deep end, but we’re making progress.  When I read a lot of other blogs – hell, just about every other BDSM blog I come across – and people talk about 24/7 or what they’re up to, I can appreciate that the wife and I are still newcomers.  We’re still, as I like to call it, “amateur hour.”   I mean, we’re not yet ready to enter Mistress160’s “best marks” contest or anything, although I’m quite proud of my little network of scratches and gashes and the angry pain in my ass as I sit here and write this.  There’s no way I’m ever gonna tell somebody who’s been doing this for years that I’m as good at it as they are, or have the same pain threshold. 

                But all of the monolithic scariness that I talked about last blog isn’t that monolithic when the individual pieces are broken down into landmarks on a road-trip.  I’m not saying we’re ever going to break some of the other boundaries – we don’t really want to, and we’ve got plenty of ground to cover with just what we’re doing  – but a lot of the things that made us hesitant about doing any of this are actually insanely fun when we give them the old college try.  My wife would never have dreamt of hitting me during our first session, but now she’s sneaking me every few hours to tan my ass somewhere with my belt.  (While I was writing that sentence, she came out and asked me to type something up for her – I mentioned that it hurts to sit down after my last whipping, and she said, “Good.”  And smiled her little home-maker smile, which is so much more ominous with an evil glint.) 

                So, it’s been a good weekend.  And while we’re not in the deep end yet, we’re not out of our depth, which is just as important.  We’re happy, and that’s all I want out of this.

Next time, probably a nice little report on the weekend and various fun things we haven’t done before.  

45 Days In…

…and next week, when I see my wife for the first time in a month, she’s going to write her law on me.  I love that phrase — Gene Wolfe used it in “Soldier of Sidon” to describe a spouse being disciplined, and while it was supposed to represent a bit of archaic misogyny, in this case, I think it’s appropriate.

 She’s going to write.  Her law.  On my flesh…  With a belt.

 45 days ago, my wife and I were basically your average vanilla couple, and I mean vanilla in the best possible way: vanilla was good.  We liked it.  But I had come out to her about the fact that I’ve had this deep-seated, long-denied and mortifying submissive instinct within me, and after several months of us being too timid to do anything, she finally dominated me.

 Two weeks later, she was sodomizing me with a strap-on while pulling my hair and calling me her bitch.  Ten minutes after that she was pissing on me in a shower.  Twenty minutes after that she was having me ride her while she smacked my face and played with the clamps on my nipples and uttered the sweetest curses I’ve ever heard.  And as soon as I came, I was up against the wall with my hands above my head and my legs spread while she smacked my ass until her hand got tired and her shoulders hurt.  So much for vanilla.  Vanilla was good to us.  This is better.  I feel owned.  I feel like property.  And I love it.

 I can’t explain it.  My wife is one of those sweet, unpretentious housewives who rarely curses and who likes baking in the kitchen when she isn’t taking our daughter to church.  She’s in the choir there.  She used to feel guilty about talking dirty to me.  Now, she calls me her slave and her dog and her whore and she makes me wear a choke-collar with a little tag that says “Property of XXXXX.”  There were these unknown depths that even she knew nothing about, and now I’m lost in them.  She was the first person to call what we did S&M.  And every limit we’ve put on what we do, she’s made us want to cross them.

Me, I’m a man in a career where submissiveness is verboten.  I’m aggressive and dominant and pride myself on being the center of attention.  I don’t want to submit to anyone or anything but her.  In my heart, all I want to do is curl up at my wife’s feet after she’s whipped me until the welts rise, all I can think of is her towering over me and pissing on me after pegging my ass, me showing her just how strong I am by taking every blow, every curse, every indignity, and being rewarded with those two little words: “Good boy.”  When she picked out a collar two weeks ago and put it on me, saying that I was hers until she said otherwise, that I was fucking property, I nearly came.  I was trembling.  It was one of the most powerful experiences of my life — all those buried submissive feelings just reached this perfect fruition, the fantasies about being hypnotized and enslaved by a girl in my third grade class when I was seven, all of them led to this moment, where I gave myself to another person to do whatever they wanted with.  No aggression.  No thought.  Just obedience.

 This blog is about us trying to figure out what we’re doing.  We have no clue.  We’re running on autopilot.  It’s been 45 days since two vanilla spouses decided to try a little D/s, and now a month and a half later, all I can think of is how it will feel to have a strap used on my ass and thighs and back for the first time, how I can’t wait to be marked by her piss and to feel that strap-on in my ass again while she smacks my thighs and pulls my hair as she rides me.  How it will feel in December when I get my Christmas gift, a tattoo with a stylized claddagh, a heart grasped by hands, wrapped in chains with the word “slave” in the middle.  And how nobody has a fucking clue about how the seemingly obedient Christian wife everybody adores is secretly my lord and master and owns me in every possible way.

 Next post: Coming out and finding your way as a male sub when you have no clue what you’re doing.