Sex and Violence

I’ve been constantly discovering blogs lately, including a few by pro-dommes and lifestyle dominant women, whose approaches differ drastically from my wife’s. Mistress Victoria X, for instance, has been a fun read. If I see an address pop up as linking in, I tend to check it out, and my personal blog roll on my Mac is like, 50 blogs at this point. (Although some of them are infrequent posters.)

I’ve also been rediscovering old blogs that I lost somewhere along the way, probably when I switched from my PC to a Mac and the RSS list didn’t export properly. One of those blogs is Almost Magic, which I quickly started catching up on. While scrolling through the archives, I came across a post I’d never read before, about how her kink and sex are separate — they’re not intertwined. And then Maymay posted a link to his blog in her comments, where he said much the same thing.

Now, both of those posts predate my first submissive play with my wife, and were off my radar during my first real forays into the BDSM blogosphere. And so both posts, despite their age, pack this kind of, “Whoah!” punch for me, because, man, I had no idea that people could separate their kink from their sexual pleasure. For me, being hit hurts and is pleasurable at the same time — the pain is this bright, indeterminate thing that makes me get harder and wetter even while it, you know, hurts.

And hurting me makes my wife wet. Pain — receiving it, in my case, and dealing it out in hers — is sexualized. But it’s sexualized only in a sexual context, in a context of submission. I don’t get off having my blood drawn or getting a prostate exam. Being hurt sexually, though, causes my cock to get harder, to the extent that my wife will sometimes strike me as hard as she can while we’re fucking in order to feel my cock swell inside of her, and even as she does it, I can feel her muscles tighten and her sex get wetter. Repeated blows to my face drive us both closer to orgasm, and sometimes will push her into a frenzy where she just starts slapping. I can’t count how many times at this point that I’ve come with a swollen and numb face because she — hell, we — both got off on me being a punching bag.

Now, naturally, everybody interprets their kink differently. But I can’t for the life of me figure out why I eroticize pain so deeply, why I sexualize submission and self-annihilation. My first submissive fantasies date back to childhood, well before puberty. My first masochistic instincts officially date back to my wife and I and our second scene. But when I think back, I can remember that my first real lover — not the girl I had nightmarish, awful, fumbling sex with, but the first girl I had fun, no-strings-attached sex with — would always scratch me at orgasm. She would wrap her long, coltish legs around my body and dig her fingernails into my back and just drag them over me. We had sex all of the time — she actually failed several of her classes that semester because we never left her apartment — and so a week into our sexual relationship, my back was crisscrossed with scabs and bloody furrows. And I remember — clearly — being proud every time that pain happened, because it meant I had pleased her, it meant I had made her come.

But there’s a huge difference between scratching and the new kinds of torture we play with now, and even if I can psychoanalyze myself to the extent that I can hypothesize where my masochism comes from, I can’t figure out why my wife gets juicy-close-to-coming-ohmigod-I-have-to-masturbate-on-you-slave excited when she hits me. My wife is, well, normal. The classic American background. Normal family. No abuse. No kink. No craziness. Just…a paragon of middle-American virtue. And yet somehow, she’s wired so that hitting me with a crop drives her near to orgasm, so that a few swipes of her clit after she beats me leave her shuddering and coming.

Is it nature or nurture? Is it hardwired into us at birth, or something we learn? Is it the product of our experiences? Is it natural? I think those questions need to be answered. I don’t think I have those answers — I can’t even puzzle out why I’m wired into the submissive masochist I am, or why my wife is the dominant sadist she’s turned out to be, and as I read more and more blogs like Almost Magic or May’s, I realize that there’s more under the sun than I’d ever dreamed.

Paradoxical

My idea of myself in a BDSM relationship lies in the intersection between my fantasies of myself as a unbreakable hero and a corrupted slave.

I know that sounds weird.

When I was growing up, I was fascinated by heroes who took beatings, who were broken down to nothing, and came out of it stronger. Who found some…inner strength, some spark, to carry on even in the face of a furious beatdown that left them on the edge of death. Bruce Willis in “Die Hard.” Mel Gibson in the first “Lethal Weapon.” Arnold in “Predator.” The superhero Daredevil in the “Born Again” arc. Cowboys and cops and superheroes. I was fascinated by the ability to survive, to be strong in the face of superior power, to be alive when the dust settles. To bleed and not fall.

The recipe is simple: Take one man. Maybe a normal guy, maybe a supercop, whatever. Then, have him beaten. Have everything he loves taken away from him. Hurt him. Torture him. Gloat over him. Break him down to nothing. And then, at the end, watch him stand up, indomitable. Watch him overcome all of the odds, watch him get past his beating, see him still standing.

I wanted to be that guy. I wanted to be tested, I wanted to be tortured, and I wanted to be still standing. I wanted to take the beating. I wanted to be put through a psychological ringer. And I wanted to still be standing at the end of it. “See? I’m strong. I am a man.”

On the other side of the fence, there was me being “the good guy.” I tried to be noble. I tried to give. I tried to always be there for people. I was the rebound-guy girls could get over their boyfriends with. I used to be the guy my best friend’s girl could come to and whose shoulder she could cry on, even as I tried to deny the erection in my pants. I was the guy who was always dependable, who always stayed sober so everybody else could party, always there when you wanted to talk or needed help.

And inside me, there was this seed, this little germ of a fantasy. And that fantasy was about being weak. About not being noble. About being selfish and hungry and saying, “Fuck my friends. I’m going to fuck their girlfriends when they come over for solace. Fuck sitting around at parties, I’m going to let somebody else watch out for me for a change. Fuck being there for people, I want to think about me. My needs. My hunger. My desires.”

I wanted to be weak. I wanted to be ignoble. I wanted to screw over my friends and fuck their vulnerable girlfriends, and have a good time doing it. The turning point for me was one night, when my best friend’s girl was drinking with me, and they had just broken up as we were all heading out of town in the middle years between junior college and college, and I admitted I always wanted her, and she said, “Every time I went over to your house after he was an asshole to me, I wanted you to fuck me. And you never did. You could have had me so many times.”

Doh. I made sure to make up for lost time later on but still…it kind of smarted. My friends were dicks, and they had mindless, remorseless fun. I was a good guy, and I ended up with girls who were terrible for me. I missed out on a bunch of stuff, by being too nice. Too selfless. I should have been selfish, just a bit. I should have been weak.

***

At the intersection of that guy who takes a beating, who sacrifices, and that guy who is weak and who is lustful and selfish and who craves sensation, there’s where I am now.

I am finally in a position to show my strength by letting myself be beaten, by letting myself be pushed to the breaking point, by letting myself be hurt and torn down and rebuilt. I can be pushed to the limit, and show that I’m strong enough to take it. I can be spit on and degraded and mastered and overwhelmed and overcome, and at the end of it, I’m still standing. That’s the point of masochism — I can show that pain doesn’t hurt. Or — more properly — that it hurts, but I am strong enough to take it. It’s what I’ve always wanted — to be tortured and heroic and strong. That’s part of what gets me off — my own strength, my endurance, my desire to show my wife that however hard she can hit me, I can take it.

At the same time, there’s the part of me who wants to give in. Who wants to crawl on his knees to the bad girl, who wants to ignore his responsibilities and fuck her. Who wants to be corrupted. Who wants to be used. Who wants to wallow in his own weakness and moral depravity.

Yeah, I said it: Depravity. Because as much as I can honestly say BDSM has been good for me, as much as it’s made me confident and self-assured and sexually sated, as much as it’s been healthy — I can also say that there’s a great big goddamn turn-on about being humiliated. Used. Cursed at. Objectified. Pissed on and sodomized and bled and turned into a cheap fucking toy for another person. To be, in short, a slut. (I want to live in a world where that word loses its gender connotations and I can have it.) To be used and hungry for more when it’s all done. To be weak and selfish and happy in my own degradation.

***

Two almost mutually exclusive impulses. To be strong. To be weak. To be loved and respected, and to be despised and degraded, by the same person. Somehow, that paradox is what makes it hot. I can be strong and heroic even as I let myself be weak and humiliated. I can let her own me and yet rejoice in my ability to be standing when it’s all done.

And on some level, I know my wife has similar conflicting impulses: to care for me. To own me and treasure me and love me. But also to hurt, and not worry about holding back. To spit on and degrade me. To be the bad girl instead of the good girl, and to be strong instead of timid. To selfishly hurt for her own pleasure instead of being loving and gentle.

I don’t know if anybody else has these paradoxes feeding into their BDSM, but I do. Oh, man, I do.

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.

I Had a Bad Day.

I had an awful day. I feel terrible. I won’t go into the details, but today was just a heck of a bummer, and I think I saw one of my dreams go down the tubes today. (It’s weird, segregating my real life from my sex life for my blog out of privacy, because they’re not segregated in my life. They feed into each other. But I can only go into so much detail.)

It’s okay. I’ll heal, turn the whole thing into a learning experience and move forward. Ever onward or whatever.

But I sat there in my office, depressed as hell, and I picked up my phone, and I started texting my wife about my fantasies. And she started getting wet. And I told her to get up from her desk, go into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and think about serving me until she was incredibly wet. And then to take off her panties and put them into her pocket and go about her day, soaked and aroused and pantiless in her skirt, knowing she’s my slave.

Then I told her I want her to be an object. Now, objectification gets her off. We’ve talked about it for a couple days now, and a new blog I discovered has an entry that just about made her come thinking about it. She wants to be a table. She wants to be a footstool. She wants to be reduced to the status of inanimacy. (She masturbated on my orders to the image of her as a table for me to eat sushi off and came pretty hard this morning.)

And my day turned from bad to very, very passable. Maybe even good. The idea that I could control her, could tell her to do something she would never in a million years do — go pantiless and wet at work — made me feel good. And her desire to be a thing gets me off. For her to be rigid and motionless and to exist solely to please me…very hot.

And then I got home and told her I wanted really rough, dominant-sex-with-me-as-master phone sex, which she stole away and gave me.

That’s the difference between subbing and dominating for me: availability. I spent a lot of time when I had a bad day in a fog of need — wanting phone sex, wanting to be hurt, wanting to be dominated or ordered, even if it was only the phone. But everything was about her. She could say “no,” and did. She didn’t leap to respond to my needs — although she did, in her own way, eventually take care of me 90% of the time — but now…now, she has to. Now she’s the servant.

Now, she won’t say “no.” And it means that my bad days don’t last the way they used to. My need doesn’t go unanswered. And that’s nice. I’m not insensitive — if there comes a day where she doesn’t want to or can’t respond to my needs instantly, I’ll be understanding. But right now, it’s wonderful to think that my whims become her orders and it gets her off to perform them.

Pushing Boundaries

I’ve given my wife control over my orgasms again.

Amongst other things. She’s set some other rules for me to follow while I’m gone…

Dirty Submissive Fantasy

I have this fantasy…

When I was in high school, a girl and several guys got suspended for a blow job party. I don’t know what else to call it. They snuck into the school theater, and the guys all sat in a row of seats and the girl — I actually knew her pretty well — just blew all of them. One at a time, moving down the row, sucking somebody’s cock until they came, then moving on to the next. Apparently, they got caught or the administration got wind of it because somebody bragged or ratted, and they all caught time off. (I don’t want to think what would have happened in the ’90s or nowadays with a case like that.) I talked to a few of the guys afterwards, and they were universally dismissive of the girl. She wasn’t that hot they told me, wasn’t that smart, and as far as they were concerned, she was just a way to get off.

And I remember hearing that, and thinking, “Oh, man…why do I envy her…?”

Not Broken At All…

First: a caveat. I’m writing this on somebody else’s keyboard, which means that my fingers are unused to the particular subtleties of this computer. If a few misspellings appear, it’s not necessarily my fault.

I got into town on Friday, and between my plane being delayed and various mishaps at the airport, I didn’t arrive until 1 am. My wife picked me up, and by the time we got my bags off of the baggage claim and back to the 4-star hotel she’d gotten us a room at, it was about 1:30 or 2…

Whiny Bitchy Submissive Complaints

I’ve been working my ass off for two weeks, and it looks like I’m still going to have to take work home with me when I see my wife and kid. My daughter has pink-eye, and now — as fate would have it — my wife is coming down with laryngitis and not feeling good. Sounds like the flu, which is to be expected, given her job and the presence of a three-year old in the house.

Stress + Looking for Release - Wife Being Healthy = Me, Frustrated as Hell…

I Want To Disappear

Last night, I was on the phone with my wife, and it was calming. She’s my bliss, even outside of a D/s context — she’s my best friend. We make each other laugh. She never bores me. We fit.

And things have been stressful, as the windup to the holidays approaches, since I have to get everything in order before I go to visit her for three weeks. And we’ve been talking about leaving the baby with my wife’s parents and just getting a hotel room the first day I’m in, ostensibly to make the next baby, but also to get some insanely hot examples of the Five Ps in — you remember, pegging, pleasure, pain, piss and prostration.

And with all the stress in my life…