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.

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.

Variations on a Theme: It’s about Her.

I’m combining several topics, so bear with me if it gets muddled.

Ballgags and Bits, pt.1

There’s some alliteration for you.

The big thing last week was the new bondage gear. The scary bondage gear.

Okay, the ballgag wasn’t so scary. The ball was like, light blue, and the leather strap that went across my cheeks and then buckled in the back was pink. It was actually kind of friendly. But the bit and the reins — still scary. Black leather, chrome buckles and snaps. My wife bought a bit that had a harness around it, so to straps went up the side of my face, met at the top of my skull, and then buckled down against the straps that went from the edge of the bit behind my head. There was also a chin strap. There were two big chrome rings near the edge of the bit, and the reins clipped to those.

I…cannot describe how much the idea of that bit and reins turns me on. I know I’ve talked about how much the normal accoutrements of bondage and leather play freaked my wife and I out at the beginning, but by the time I was buckled down into this contraption, I felt smothered. Immobilized. Bound. It hurt a little bit — the bit kept slipping and catching my lip against one of my teeth — but, it was just so sexy. When my wife clipped on the reins, strapped on her cock, and started fucking me while yanking back on them, I was in heaven. She didn’t like the smell of the rubber bit, so she doused the whole bit in mouthwash, and I hate the taste of mouthwash. It’s awful. And so as it flooded my mouth, I tried to remember if she had remembered that and was dousing the bit to torture me. My guess was she didn’t remember — but the idea that she might be that cruel made me happy and loved. I mean, it’s the little humiliations that make me happiest, like when she makes me walk behind her in public, or makes me ask permission to touch her.

Every time she pulled back on the reins, my head pulled up. Eventually, my back started arching and I had to stop resting on my elbows and start holding myself up on my knuckles. My arms straightened with each pull, until they were straight lines from my shoulders to the bed. I bit down on the bit, drool leaking a bit from my mouth, grunting as she fucked me, hard. (Drool is fantastic. I hate the idea of drooling, but when I’m gagged and I’m salivating, it’s the hottest thing in the world. Think about it — I have no control over my mouth. I’m salivating, I can’t wipe it, can’t fix it. She’s taken away one of those things that we don’t even think about, that makes us something other than a powerless infant. It cements the idea that she’s more than a partner, she’s a superior, and I’m an inferior, barely able to control the flow of my body fluids.)

I think she started one-handing the reins, because I felt her start slapping my thigh with her hand in time with her thrusts, and she was really bottoming her cock out on me. Every thrust and it felt like my penis got more swollen. I could hear her grunting and panting after about five minutes.

“How is it? You like this? How’s my cock feel?” I could only grunt around the bit.

Then she said it: “Who’s my horse? C’mon, who’s my horse?”

If there has ever been a moment in my life where I thought, “Those people into pony play have the right idea,” it was right then and there. If she had a riding crop and demanded I neigh, I would have. I have no shame in admitting this. My IQ drops to something like 10 when I’m horny, and my wife knows that if she wants something, anything, the thing to do is get me riled up and then toy with me until I give it to her. I have no will when I’m really horny, and I was beyond the normal levels of arousal at that point. I was in this zone of pleasure and submission, bound into this leather facial harness, my body in perfect posture as it was forced into this stress position, my ass getting pounded so intensely I thought I might come. (Actually, we both did — she was shouting, “Come for me, come for me, I know you can do it, come while I fuck you!” and I wanted to.) But at that moment, if she’d called me her pony and asked me to trot around the room, I have no doubt I would have done it. I wouldn’t have even thought twice about it. Now, sitting at home, I still think of pony play as weird, but I’m going to be honest: I would have done whatever she wanted in those moments as she pulled back on the reins and asked who her horse was. And it makes me hot to know she can take me so far outside my comfort zones.

Eventually she bored of the reins and bit and I tore them off as she continued to pound away. “Are you ready to fuck me, honey?” she asked, and I begged for just two minutes more of pegging. “Please, don’t stop this, just…pound me as hard as you can.”

She didn’t stop. She grabbed my hips and just began tearing me up, forcing my face and torso down onto the bed as she leaned into me. Eventually, when I couldn’t take any more, she let me spin around, we pushed off her cock, and then I got on top of her and had glorious sex. I was a machine, and I felt like it would never end. She squeezed and tortured my nipples as I rode her up on my arms, she slapped my chest, she grunted out in time with my thrusts.

She saw me getting to the edge but not going across it and said, “Lean in.” I knew what was coming, and I didn’t hesitate. I knew it was going to hurt, I could see it in her face she’d decided to hit me. I didn’t think, just obeyed, leaning my head down obediently.

She pulled back her hand and hit me as hard as she could across my face. It sent me over the edge, the pleasure from sex mingling with the shocking pain of the blow. My face was numbing up even as I was wracked with pleasure. I looked down as she struck me and her eyes were wide with intensity, her mouth tight, but now, as I emptied myself into her, she smiled at me. “Good boy,” she said. Her praise made my body melt into hers.

“I didn’t really like the bit and reins,” she said as we relaxed together a few moments later. “The ballgag is much better.” I nodded. If she likes the ballgag best, I like the ballgag best. The ballgag’s going to be our new friend, I can see. But that afternoon — the bit and the reins — led to tone of the best sexual experiences of my life.

“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…

The 800 lb. Gorilla

I was reading this blog post a few days ago at A Place to Draw Blood Laughing and this paragraph in particular struck a chord with me:

If I wanted to, I could make all kinds of trickle-down analyses of how the roles of my parents led to my kinkiness, and so on and so forth. I don’t particularly want to, and I have no burning desire to know why I am what I am. It’s easy enough to see that their lives influenced my understanding of gender role fluidity, creating an awareness of mixed partnerships of responsibility and tradition rather than handing me off into the world with a simple role reversal. But I don’t think I’m a dom because I have a corporate exec for a mother. I also had a mother for a mother, you know, the kind of mother who makes really good Thai food and likes to play online Scrabble. In short, just a person with some labels attached to her, like me.

And while I didn’t think about it too much this weekend while knee deep in sex and submission and all of the fun stuff, I’ll admit that on the plane ride home, while holding the plane up in the sky with only my sheer willpower, I thought about it, a lot. Because Eileen is skating around my 800-lb. gorilla. The question that used to be phrased in my mind, “What’s wrong with you?” is now phrased a far more healthy-but-still-scary “How did I get like this?” and I still don’t have an answer.

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.