Why Do I Crave It?

This weekend, we had a meeting at work, and the head of our little part of the company made sure to consult me on every issue. Publicly. I remember holding my tongue on one aspect of the debate, and the guy chairing the meeting started to move on, when all of a sudden, the boss said, “Hold up…[B], what are your thoughts?” We discussed it over drinks, later, and he was frank: “I think you’re integral to the company. I respect your opinion on these things, and so does everybody else. You’re one of those guys that everybody looks up to.”

A few days earlier, one of my superiors was telling me that I was the hardest worker they’d had at my level. She was amazed at my work ethic, which is high praise considering the kind of people I work with. And last weekend, a pair of friends had commented that I was simply the nicest person they know — a good friend, patient, intelligent, always there with a kind word. It’s been a positive lovefest.

And so on, and so forth. I’m not perfect — God, I have too many balls in the air right now, for sure, and I feel like I could do a hundred times better if I had the time — but clearly, I’m respected. I’m well-liked. The public persona I live in most of the time is having a bellwether year.

So why is it that I crave being dominated and humiliated? Why is it that on some level — not at work, not out with friends, but somewhere in my life — I need to be owned and diminished and annihilated? To be made small and docile? To be lectured and beaten and controlled? To be a thing? Why is it that my comfort with being the guy I am in public and my public success have skyrocketed since I started being a slave in private?

The weird thing is, it doesn’t bother me. I’ve commented again and again that somehow, the paradoxes inherent in the BDSM lifestyle don’t bother me. Somehow, I can get through the day working hard at being the best, being a leader, being respected, and then come home — or at least visit home — and be humiliated and subjugated and dominated.

During one of our last scenes, my wife made me suck her cock (as usual. I mean, when the strap-on goes on, I can expect to go down on it.) She loves the sight of me trying to take it all in, for her it’s all visual-thrills-and-emotional-and-psychological-pleasure. There are no nerve endings in her cock, but the sight of her husband gagging on a dildo, my eyes staring wide and eager and hoping for some murmur of appreciation, hanging on her every word as she talks me through it — it sends her there. Forget how far back we’re setting feminism, screw what it says about the homophobia in the average American male’s subconscious, we both get off on me, on my knees, drool running down my chin as she fucks my face and I pray and wish that she’ll give me some sign that I’m a good cocksucker.

Cocksucker. Slave. Pet. I get dizzy thinking about her names for me. The feel of the collar on my neck, the little leash we bought a few months ago pulling on it, the way my jaws stretch to accomodate the ball-gag. The sight of her towering over me as I lick her feet or her ass.

Humiliation. At work, I’m strong and driven and successful. At home, I’m a loving husband and father. In private, though, I’m a groveling, sniveling, sex slave. I begged her on the phone the other night to let me drink her piss next time I see her — I hate it, the taste is awful, I want to gag, but it seems so hot, so humiliating, hot because I dislike it, the ultimate expression of her ownership and power and my own subservience. The ultimate expression that I want to not matter. And that’s what gets her off, too — I know that piss is problematic, that she makes me use mouthwash and brush a bunch after I have it in my mouth, that the whole scene stops for us to shower, that she finds the whole thing, on some level, distasteful — but that I also know when I’m there, eyes staring up at her, mouth open, and she unleashes it on me, that she gets off on it to an extreme level.

Is it the secretive nature of the thing that makes it so hot? The double-life? Is it instead, the way I can unwind, unleash my inner-weakness? Why is it that I can smoothly go from being hungry and dominant at work to a sniveling worm in the presence of my Mistress? And why is it that my wife can be publicly quiet and formal and so-so conservative, and then in private she uses me as a sex-toy, an animal, something to be hurt and derided?

It’s hard for me to tell how this works — or should work — from other blogs, because most blogs seem to be written by people who are not-so-into the double life aspect of it. They seem to be cool and relaxed and sexually liberal in their public personas, even if they keep the specifics to a minimum. (This could be a misread on my part.) But we’re literally living a double-life — and the gulf between me-as-powerful-male and me-as-Mistress’-pet seems to be widening. There’s no conflict, but I just marvel — why is it that as my daytime life gets better, and I become more accustomed to being the man I want to be, that the part of me that’s involved in BDSM gets stronger, and craves more and deeper levels of pain and domination?

Or am I just really screwed up?

Phone Sex

The other night I was feeling rather…edgy, and I asked my wife for a bit of phone sex.  We’re going to be separated for longer than usual this time around — six weeks instead of four — and a side effect of our new lifestyle is that my old porn collection just isn’t cutting it.  (In addition, the average malesub story I encounter on places like Literotica tends to veer into a lot of cuckold and feminization stuff that I’m just not into.)  The wife graciously agreed, and we marked out time when I’d be awake and she’d have time to herself.

 For the record, my wife is different than me — she doesn’t really enjoy masturbation, even with toys.  She can get herself to orgasm using a showerhead or some porn, but it just doesn’t scratch her itch like real penetration or oral sex does.  In her inner-hierarchy of sexual need, penis-on-clit is first, oral is second, penis-in-vagina is third, anal is probably fourth, and then masturbation comes in a distant fifth.  (In all honesty, I suspect she’d put oral on me above masturbation for her.) She’s able to live with her horniness in a way I’m just not, but she’s happy to help me out once in a while by telling me a sexy story about her, me and one of her friends or something. 

 Now that we’re into BDSM, the story was about that — we return from a Halloween party to our house, and she’s dressed all gothy.  (My wife is very beautiful but she keeps it low-key, so the idea of her strutting around in a black wig with some white powder and red lipstick is just about insanely hot.)  She dominates me, collaring and leashing me.  She drags me to the bedroom, where she forces me on my knees and teases me — and here’s the bulk of the story is how she teases me, forcing me to worship her boots and legs as she pleasures herself — masturbating herself to orgasm while I pant and struggle.  She pulls out a riding crop and her strap-on and whips me, then forces me to fellate her strap-on.  Finally, she pops the crop into my mouth as a bit and takes me from behind while slapping my ass, back, and thighs.  As I’m getting close in real life, she reaches around in the story and I explode in her hand right as I explode in real life.

 Very hot.  It hits just about every one of my own peccadilloes — the boot worship, my love of goth girls (obviously an artifact of coming up in a day and age when that sort of thing was still not cool, and the girls I dated as a teen punk were all SoCal surfer girls into college rock), not to mention the teasing, her masturbating, her control over me, the leash, the fellatio of her “cock,” being “taken…”  She knows everything I like, and she pulls out all of the stops for the story, and I definitely came hard listening to her talk about it.

 The problem is — and it’s not a problem at all, just something I felt like noting — is that the story is very much about me.  I’m the center of attention. It’s not about her needs at all, it’s about me being teased and tormented.  It’s hot, it’s awesome, but the submissive in me knows that I don’t want this in real life.  I want our play to be about her.  I know she doesn’t like masturbation, so why would I want her to masturbate?  I know she doesn’t think of herself in goth attire, so why would I let her wear it during a session?  (I guess “let” is the wrong kind of voice to use — how about “want?”)  If she wants to do something, great, I’m there — I’m her fucking slave, I want to go along with her, I want to follow her head-first and headlong into her darkest and nastiest fucking fantasies, no matter where they go.  But I want less and less for her to do things for me unless they also get her off, because it being about her, that’s what gets me off.

 It’s the old power-vs.-pleasure problem — I got off on the phone sex, but what really takes me there is when I drown in her, when she’s got me tied up or she’s beating me or hurting me and ordering me around.  I want to lose myself inside her.  I want to, at least for a second, become nothing but a thing for her, to be property, to be an extension of her will.  I know that sounds cheesy and fake and impossible, but it’s what I want — it’s why hypnosis fantasies turn me on — I want to exist only to do what she wants, even if only for a little bit.  I’ve come hardest during phone sex when she’s just talking to me, ordering me to come and touch myself.  When it’s her power manifesting itself over me, shouting, “Do it!  Don’t make me wait, come!”

 Now, none of this is a problem.  It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.  As we get deeper into this, these roles, of Mistress and slave, domme and sub, sadist and masochist, I find a lot of the things that I used to think of unquestioningly as being about me aren’t fun anymore unless they’re about her, and a lot of the big milestones I wanted to hit — the threesome with two girls!, etc. — don’t matter.  It’s all about her.  It’s all about being hers.  I just want to get lost in her, just want her to go on a power trip and fucking use me and abuse me.  It’s weird to think about it like that - to think of my pleasure wholly in terms of her pleasure and desires.

Ah, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.  Or maybe I’m saying it just fine, but it’s not a question, just another realization of who and what I am and what I’m becoming.

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.