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.

In A Month…

…I will be living with my wife again, for the first time in two years.

I’ll be moving up north, a decision that we’ve made jointly after long, arduous and definitely un-fun and un-sexy debate.

And we talked about it tonight — briefly, since I’ve been sick for the last two days — and I get the feeling we’re both a little nervous. Part of that nervousness is sexy, “Ohmigod, we’re going to be living together and having S&M sex whenever we want it! How will we ever stop fucking long enough for Belisarius to get a job?” nervousness. Our sex has happened in pulses of a couple days here, a week there — it’s never been something “on tap” as it were.

And part of it is that this is going to be new for us — we’ve both been tempted by the idea of 24/7, no-holds-barred, he’s-my-human-pet domination and submission, but it’s never been even remotely feasible. Until now. Will we resist the urge to take things to new extremes? Will we keep a lid on it when we’re living it every night? Will we keep pushing the envelope until I’m showing up to jobs with a black eye or scabs on my back? Will we get involved in whatever local scene there is? Will we come out to the one or two people we know up there who openly practice BDSM lifestyles?

I have to admit to a little trepidation. I love reading Dev and Eileen’s blogs, because they live in close proximity to their partners. And I love reading Mistress 160’s blog, because she and Sol cohabitate and clearly get up to all kinds of trouble. And I haven’t been able to live any of that with my wife — no building a queening stool, no being in each other’s presence for longer than a couple weeks at a time, no day-in, day-out grind of BDSM and seeing whether it remains hot and sexy when we’re not seeing each other in tiny commercial breaks from our separate lives.

But I’m happy. Because we’ll be together again, and I think we’re going to make BDSM work for us. My real issue is I suspect we’ll have to start out in an apartment when we get settled in up there, and I’m a little frightened of how we’ll make loud-hurty-sex and not have the neighbors dialing 911 every night. “That’s right officer, I heard blows, and then screams, and then moans, and now a bed creaking.”

I think I’ll celebrate our reunion with something permanent — a piercing, or that ownership tattoo I’ve wanted for so long. (Can I just say that I wish there was some male version of a corset piercing out there? God, I would love to be pierced all over for my wife, then have the piercings threaded into something sexy, but a corset piercing just doesn’t look cool and masculine enough for me. Maybe a big spider web?) And I’ll finally get that daycollar I’ve been wanting, but she’s never gotten around to buying me.

There’s always been this feeling in our play that what we’ve had are stolen moments — brief, beautiful moments of heaven that are special but so, so fleeting. Now, we face the prospect of being together, but also the fear that our sex will become routinized. And I don’t want routine — I want for it to continue to be as wonderful as it’s been. If we can figure out how to do that, I’ll be happy.

I am so happy. But just a little worried. But I also think we’re going to figure it out and it’s going to be no trouble at all to keep that spark lit, if we’re willing to put in the work.

Kink & Current Events: The FLDS

Anyone not watching the events that have been unfolding in Texas at the FLDS compound with interest is missing out on something a bit chilling. The news is full of it, so I’ll spare the more obvious summary, except to say the sight of armored transports surrounding a religious community and a whole town’s worth of children being moved away from their parents is disturbing for a few reasons.

Oddly enough, the kink blogosphere has been extraordinarily quiet about all of this, or at least the 50 or so blogs I read about BDSM have been (which may not be the same thing.) Much more was made of Elliot Spitzer’s dalliances with a high-priced hooker, for example, which probably says more about BDSM’s obsession with pro-dommery rather than folks living a lifestyle, or even practicing privately in their off-hours.

Now, obviously the FLDS, which is the Mormon splinter-church at the center of this controversy, is probably anathema from the point of view of most kinksters, and most people into BDSM. The church is conservative, religiously fundamentalist, patriarchal, and the brand of polygamy they practice is pretty much — by its very nature — socially deleterious, both on the young girls that provide the fuel for its group marriages and the faith’s persistence, and for its effect on non-privileged men within the compounds, who tend to get driven out at the first opportunity. (I have no idea if the Texas compound was practicing the kind of shunning practiced in other FLDS strongholds, but simple math tells you that if the balance between women and men is 50/50, and you have a handful of elites marrying multiple women, the young men at the bottom of the totem pole will have to be dealt with, one way or another.)

This post is in no way a screed defending the FLDS. I’m not a fan of polygamy in general, given how it tends to play out in the real world, and the story behind the FLDS creates a particularly unlikeable fact pattern. But as a professor of mine said on several occasions, “Bad facts make for bad law,” and Texas has already demonstrated that it’s not friendly to people practicing kink. Amongst other things, it managed to create — whole cloth — a tort based on Infliction of Emotional Distress to allow a wife to collect damages in a divorce for consensual S&M she practiced with her husband on three or four occasions during their marriage. SS&C is not going to pass muster as a defense in those courts if the judges aren’t fans of S&M.

So when I say that the scenes on TV are chilling, they’re not frightening because I feel any real kinship with the FLDS, or approve of their particular brand of sexist patriarchy and the side-effects it creates. I say it because kink and poly folks in America should always have their eyes open for the state — or State, if you will — using its coercive power against those who are sexual minorities. We’re living in a country where a large voting bloc gives lip service to the more ridiculous portions of the Old Testament, where for the last 8 years that voting bloc has promoted a strong and frightening version of Unitary Executive legal theory under the guidance of the head of state, and where the supreme legal authority of the land has veered into more and more conservative territory. (Scalia’s dissent and its talk of a gay agenda co-opting America in Lawrence, for example, is sheer paranoid madness, but few people blinked at it being in a Supreme Court opinion. And they should have — it was like reading about Zionist Conspiracies in an Executive Order.)

Combined with the power of the administrative state — the Texas FLDS issue is being handled by state agencies — and I think anyone who practices something out of the mainstream should be a little worried. Especially those of us who practice BDSM, because no matter how comfortable I am in my own skin with what I do, the vast majority of people in America think the more extreme flavors of it are off-putting at best and offensive to human dignity at worst, and there are still psychiatrists who believe an interest in S&M comes about due to childhood trauma. (ABC news had an article to that effect not a month and a half ago.)

But they’re not us, right? The FLDS are bad guys. Well, bad facts make for bad laws, and ballgags and leather hoods and golden showers and bloody backs don’t play well in Middle America. I have to wonder if a state was pulling a couple of children from the house of a poly family, or the house of a couple into S&M (especially 24/7 or domestic discipline scenes) if we’d look any better on TV, no matter how much more into consent and negotiation we are.

But Lawrence protects us, right? I can think of a dozen reasons why Lawrence can be distinguished from S&M activities, not the least of which is simply the stigma associated with BDSM, and the psychiatric fields’ unease with it, provide plenty of fuel for a smart judge to distinguish it with. You simply don’t have to be a good lawyer to pick apart a Lawrence argument in a case about S&M.

Now, am I being a doomsayer? Not really. I don’t see this as a “First they came for the Mormon fundamentalists, and I didn’t speak up…” situation. The FLDS really does have major social costs and questions of consent hanging around its neck — as concerns its particular brand of polygamy — that it will have to deal with, and which I believe it might not ever be able to. They’re bad guys, or at least immensely misguided and harmful. But I think any kinky folks out there with an interest in the law need to watch how this is handled, and how the power of the state is exerted against undesirable sexual minorities.

You know, like us.

Ignoring the Wires

I reread the post I wrote last night, about making my wife recite that she’s a slave and a whore a set number of times, of her fantasies of humiliation, of my orders that she fall asleep dreaming of being bound and fucked by me, of her texting me for permission before she spends money and to check in.

And here’s the problem: There are moments when I stop and think about the whole male dominance thing and I think, “That’s lame.” I mean, the recitation thing is clearly me playing at her reaching some kind of self-hypnotic state, the orders about what to think about as she drifts off to sleep are all about me thinking I can control her dreams, the control of the money goes into her desire to fall into domestic slavery ’50’s housewife-style, where Ward works and June stays home in pearls and functions as a perfect mother to the children and a total whore in bed. (Ward and June had hot sex. We all know it.)

If I look too close at us flying across the air, I see the wires. When I think about my clumsy attempts at mindfuckery in order to become her world, I see those strings holding the acrobats up. And when I see the wires, the illusion is ruined. I’m aware that it’s not Superman, it’s a guy in a leotard with red underwear worn inside instead of out. It’s not the actress who plays Lois Lane, it’s her stunt-double. There’s something unreal about it. I start wondering if my dominance is a fraud, if all the people reading the blog know it’s a fraud, if…the most important if…my wife thinks it’s a fraud.

But then I think, “We are doing nothing more or less than what she did to me when I was subbing for her.” The intrusive control. The orders to masturbate only at appointed times, the idea that I should request the right to come and that she controlled my orgasms. Beatings because I wasn’t living up to expectations. Boot worship, yummy, humiliating, prostrating boot worship and foot worship. A strap-on in the ass while I’m cursed for being a bitch and a whore and my every plea for more cock is raised up to the light to show that I’m a dirty, needy, male slut. Flogging. Blood. Painful blows to the face to bring on my orgasm. Golden showers as she stood over me and talked about how I was worth less because I’d swallowed her piss and all of the other women out there would smell her mark.

(Her pee is actually not odorous. I suddenly feel the urge to point that out.)

She wants from me only what she gave me. Maybe less, because her tolerance for masochism is far lower than mine, even if her tolerance for submission play runs deeper. Was my headspace an illusion? Was my buy-in to the mindfucks she put me through a fraud? Were my orgasms — hell, the constant, unending, pre-come drip from my cock the minute we started playing, which lasted from start to finish and made me wet like women get wet, so that my wife would grasp my cock and gasp — was that a lie?

No, no, fuck no. My submission was — is — beautiful and honest and it came from a place that was just like my heart, only darker and self-annihilating. The nights I spent curled up into a ball, my insides torn up because all I wanted was for my Mistress to be here to hurt me and piss on me and fuck me, those were real. And when I think about it, my dominance is real. I want her to recite her little devotional because I want to own her headspace. I want to drive her into that place where I went, where the world recedes and all that’s left is the object of your obsession. I want to be that to her — her World. Her Master. I want to get as close to owning her body and mind and soul as humanly possible.

Because that’s what she did — she owned me. Body. Soul. Mind She still does. If she called me up on the phone again and used the voice, I would respond. I would obey. No matter how far we drift into Maledom and Femsub, we’re also still Mistress and Slave. When I think about how far I would go for her…what taboos I’ve set up that I would break for her. The self-harm I would do at her command, the degree of pain and punishment I would take for her to show her my strength…

I am hers. Always.

But I want her to be mine, right now. And she wants to be.

In essence, I want her to be for me what I am for her — a postulant, a worshipper, a slave who has learned to love the lash and love their master and whose will to say no is a distant thing. I remember that feeling — where the word “no” was something that if I uttered it, it would mean leaving the golden glow of her power and dominance, and so I didn’t need “no.” She was better than the ability to say no — she was better than choice, even though she hurt and humiliated and controlled.

And when I think about it like that the wires disappear, and our D/s play with the man as the dominant becomes true and real, and not a fraud at all. Fucking with her head doesn’t seem like play acting, it seems like something that we both need. And want.

If that makes any sense. I’m so hot writing about what I want from her — that level of subservience and slavery — that I’m off to masturbate.

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.

Variations on a Theme: It’s about Her.

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

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.”

…