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.

Under MY boot.

My wife and are carrying on a very nice BDSM vibe via text messages. She texts me when she wants to spend money, she texts me to check in, and she gets texts from me doing things like ordering her to sneak away and photograph herself doing awful things, or to go off and masturbate. She now says a devotional to me before bed, and as she falls asleep I’ve let her know she is to focus on visions of me fucking her — fucking her while she’s bound, while she’s on her hands and knees and chained to the bed, whatever. I am trying my best to create a ritualized vibe to our switch. To get inside her head. To focus her imagination of being an object, to being a sexual object for my pleasure.

My wife is immensely aroused by all this. She wants me to get my domination so far into her head that I tell her what to think about right before she sleeps. I make her recite her role several dozen times, over and over again, right as she gets ready for bed — “I am my husband’s slave. I am his whore.” Over and over. And she does it, and says she loves it. She gets wet, knowing that I’m commanding her, that I want her to think about me as a powerful, controlling force in her life.

Naturally, it freaks me out a bit once in a while that she wants this so badly. I’m coming around, but there’s something disquieting — in a society as sexist as ours — that a woman wants to surrender. To be a sexualized object, to give up the right to say “no.” Of course, she’s not really giving up the right to say “no,” because she can say it at any time, and I’ll stop. What she’s doing is giving up, internally, her veto. It’s there — no one can remove it, and I’d certainly stop if she invoked it — but she doesn’t want it.

My wife admits to feeling guilty about this, but her own success at domination and in her professional life, as well as her own intense needs to be sexually objectified, have pushed past her anxiety. She wants to be humiliated, she says. She went swimming the other night in a heated pool and called me afterwards, telling me that the temperature of the pool reminded her of pee. She would pour the water over her head and imagine it was me, marking her, anointing her in my piss. She says she got so wet and aroused she couldn’t think straight. “I love it. Facials, golden showers, spankings, being your pet. Being an object whose only job is to serve.”

I’m just as afraid by my own reactions to this. Last night, ordering her what to think, making her repeat over and over again that she’s my whore like a mantra, telling her to play with herself and knowing that she does it all — it’s heady. It’s powerful. It brings something out in me that I normally keep wrapped up and isolated in my professional life. The urge to control. To dominate.

And in that urge, I find myself wondering how I’m going to get mine. I like being hit. I’m a masochist. I enjoy being flogged and whipped and smacked and punched and cut-and-bled-and-the-blood-sucked. I — and I think constant readers of this blog will know this — love to get pegged. I love the feel of a woman plowing into me with a strap-on. How do I get all this and still maintain my dominance? How do I get mine and still be the unquestioned master of her world?

And the thing is, she said a week or two ago — and I quoted it in this blog — that we create our kink. If my idea of being dominant is to order her to peg me, to bark out orders while she plows into me, to make the pegging about my own power — who’s to say I’m wrong? Her effort, her penetration of me, will be a product of my will, my orders, serve my pleasure. Just because society defines penetration as power doesn’t mean we have to. My beatings can be a demonstration of my own strength, my own endurance. My own manhood.

(The very thought of her pegging me, while she’s all kitted up like a sex-toy in latex like a living, breathing fantasy come to life, while I tell her to do it, yell out orders, while I feel her fuck my prostate until my cock is about to burst and I’m groaning uncontrollably in a wash of anal pleasure, is simply indescribably hot.)

Or something. I don’t have it all figured out yet. But it’s liberating to realize that the normal BDSM boxes don’t have to apply unless we let them. The titles and terminology and roles are something we can discard, or bend to our own uses. My wife and I are operating in our own universe, and if we decide to eschew the normal terms and definitions, no one’s going to kick us out of the club. We may have some ’splaining to do if we ever join the public scene, but I can’t see us doing that any time soon. (Especially because my idea of fetish wear is a finely tailored, three-piece suit. Nothing says “power” like a nice suit and a silk tie and expensive leather shoes.)

She wants to be my slave. She wants to be taken care of, and in exchange, she wants to worship me and become a living pinup, a servant, and extension of me. And while as I said above, that’s freaky to me a bit, when I think about it politically, in truth it’s nothing more or less than I’ve been asking for since we embraced our kink. And the least I can do is try to give it to her.

Coming to Terms

Today, I ordered my wife to masturbate.

How to Push Your Husband Into Switching.

All of this talk of switching and I’ve skipped the impetus for it.

You can blame my cock.

Or more to the point, my wife’s rehabilitation of my cock.

She had flown into town, we had a marvelous breakfast, and then I took her back to my place. She went out shopping while I slept, having done a marathon few days at work. When she came back, we had lunch, and then I looked at my tiny bed.

“We should fool around.”

Knowing Your Limitations

I know for a fact that I will never be as good a dominant as I am a submissive.

I mean, I want to dominate. I’ve been talking to my wife about it, we had a couple of scenes a week and a half ago, and we’ve managed to establish what her safe areas are. She wants to be a geisha, and she wants me to be a strong, powerful, swinging dick. She wants to serve and to worship and to obey, but she’s not interested in painplay outside of spankings and tit-slapping and the odd flogging. I clamped her and she cried, for instance, and I know the crop or the switch will result in safewords and recriminations. She has no interest in slapping or blood — I slapped her face, gently, and the look on her face was just heart-wrenching.

She wants to be my harem slave. She wants to kowtow and worship. She wants domination but not a lot of sadism.

I can give her that. I can do that. But I know that even if I do that really well, even if I get to be a killer dom, I’ll always be a better submissive.

Because submission is in my nature. Dominance is something I can do, it’s something I even get off on a bit, but when we strip this down to essentials, I am a submissive. I want to be destroyed and stripped down and rebuilt into a machine for the worship of her. I want to be beaten and bled and fucked and broken. Dominance is something I can do — but submission is, on some level, what I am.

And the thing is, I know my wife’s nature is dominant. I can tell because when we started playing with BDSM, and she was the domme and I was the sub, everything fit. It was right. We built a solid relationship with very few hiccups. Which is awesome. We laid a foundation, and that foundation is solid because it rests on our natures.

Now, we want to expand that nature. We want to try new things. She wants to switch. After yesterday’s post, I think we want to try a mask or something. We want to challenge ourselves, play in new ways. Stretch our muscles.

But no matter what we do, at root, she is the Mistress and I’m a slave. Her slave. And rather than closing things off for us, I feel like it anchors us — no matter how far we explore, home is always going to be a collar and leash on me, a ballgag in my mouth, and a hitting implement in her glorious hands.

I think the purest sign of this is simply our safety zones. When we’re doing femdom, there’s very little that’s off limits — she cuts me and drinks my blood, she beats my genitals, she strikes me in the jaw when I orgasm, she sodomizes me. The menu is wide-open. But when it’s us playing male dominant — and funny how that choice of words for me is “playing,” — we’ve got limited choices. We’ve got a narrow set of options. That’s not bad — but our comfort zone is clearly mired in my submission, my pain, my obedience. And that’s home for us.

Why Male Dominance is Scary…

I am anonymous. Anonymity gives me the freedom to be honest. And so now I’m going to tell you why my wife’s desire to allow me to dominate and have control scares the ever-living hell out of me. Some of you will probably think I’m a dick for this, and I don’t blame you — I’ve spent years running over this in my head, and I think I’m a dick.

Wait, we’re what?

I’ve got a quiet break in the action of my weekend of social butterflying and hotel-room debauchery, and to make a long story short, apparently sometime this weekend my wife and I switched.

Again. Only this time, she needs it. She aches for it. There’s a yearning in her for humiliation and submission — to me — that I have never, ever seen before. I’ve spanked her, flogged her, clamped her until she cried because she forgot the safe word, fucked her, pissed on her, and had her beg me for a facial. She has just demonstrated a need to submit that I’ve never, ever known her to have, and I’ve demonstrated a need to dominate that I didn’t know was there.

But…

As the weekend goes on, I realize that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I feel mean. I have no touchstone for whether or not I’m being “good dominant” or “selfish, cheesy, lisping bad maledom stereotype dominant”. More than that, I feel selfish — as a white male raised by women, who had mostly female friends during his sexual development, I was raised to give orgasms and be polite and respectful and treat women as my equals and not be a dominant fuckface. And now I’ve got a woman begging me to hurt her and be selfish and to humiliate the hell out of her. (As I write this, she’s in the shower, and I can hear her coughing up semen and piss and whatever else went into her mouth this morning.)

Shit, I don’t even know if I’m dominant. I mean, we all know I’m submissive, and I know that I’ve had an urge to switch of late — to have the power, to control, to hurt — but when it comes time to put that into practice, well, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. And she’s talking about a permanent switch…

So, I’m punch-drunk and off-balance and now I’m scrambling to figure out if I’m dominant, and if I am, to get in touch with that side of me. Because there’s part of me that wants to be that. But I’m having a hard time finding my footing here in order to get the emotional leverage to make that switch. If I’m even capable of it.

She’s out of the shower now, I’ll update more later, and fill in the background for this switch when I have time. But I’ll say that I’m a wee bit scared — of this going wrong, of this being wrong for us, and of what it may unleash inside me. I’ve spent my whole life avoiding being selfish and cruel and dominant to women, and now all of a sudden…

Pitfalls and Progress in Switching

So the last few days have been a bit difficult. I’ve lamented about the lack of time and the odd disjointedness of my wife and I experimenting with switching. But there have been some added wrinkles, the last few times we’ve played:

1) My wife does not give off the vibes that she wants to submit at all. Oh, when we’re in the car or chatting about it, it’s her big dream. But my attempts at suggesting dirty things tend to result in gentle snark rather than swoons. When I try to start a scene, the timing’s wrong or she’s tired, and I get a boatload of attitude that kills the mood. Outside of our first scene together, the switch has been a big letdown.

She has even described herself as “insolent,” and “the worst submissive ever.” But at the same time, she insists this is what she wants.

2) The last three times we played, she couldn’t orgasm. And believe me, we were both trying. The end result of this is that she’s gotten more frustrated and harder to bring to orgasm, the stress has piled up, and she’s gotten even more frustrated in a cascading reaction that has made her even more sullen when we try to play.

So, not such a good beginning to my new life as a dominant. Until last night…