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.

Short and Sweet: Obsession and Compulsion.

I’m not talking about OCD.

I’m talking about this. I’m talking about — to save you the trouble of following the link to one of last week’s posts — wanting to be hurt and dominated so badly that your self-interest is compromised…

Variations on a Theme: It’s about Her.

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

The Power of Words

Warning: This post deals with watersports, in addition to the actual topic of the post. If the idea of a woman peeing on a man makes you squeamish, this is the post to skip.

If you want to keep on reading, follow the link:

Thank you, BDSM

I’ve occasionally talked about my vanilla days, but I haven’t really talked about my wife’s vanilla days.

If you’re reading this blog, you probably think my wife is some insatiable sex-goddess who can pound my ass for hours, then beat me, then have me satisfy her, then beat me some more, then have me satisfy her some more, wash, rinse, repeat. And, frankly, that’s kinda true. I remember during our first session involving the 5 Ps. She’d had sex with me, pissed on me, bathed me, then collared me for the first time, fucked me in my ass for the first time after forcing me to fellate her cock, then forced me to go down on her while she was still wearing the strap-on, then rode me while I was in shackles until I came, then forced me to eat my own cream-pie. Laying there, physically exhausted in her arms, I sighed as she held me. Then she turned to me and said, “I’m ready for the next round.” I groaned. Never before in our 12 years of marriage had she ever hit my limits. I begged for ten minutes to rest. An erection was a remote mountaintop, unreachable without a long journey — and I wanted a nap before I attempted it.

She grabbed my cock, squeezing it, causing me to writhe, and said, “If you don’t give it up, I will take it. Do you understand?” My cock started to harden, because being taken by my Mistress is hot.

But that’s not the wife I was used to…

The Wicked Queen

First up, sorry it’s taken me so long to blog lately.  Work has been crazy, and more than that, my wife and I haven’t been able to arrange our schedules for some much needed administration of the five Ps.  I’ve been tired, frustrated, and desperately in need of some pain and domination in my life.  I have no idea how people who do this stuff over the web make it work — I need the real thing.  There’s simply no substitute for a blow across the ass, a good pegging, and a shower of piss.  And I’m not slated to get any of that until Thanksgiving, even though my wife and I have bought about a half dozen new toys of awful potential…  

But that’s not what I’m going to write about.  Today, I’m going to write about things from my childhood that made me what I am today, specifically, a submissive masochist who lets himself be dominated into total submission by a strong woman.

Desperate late night musings

I am horny.  And by horny, I mean I need to be hit in addition to all of the sex I’m thinking of.  It’s weird how easily I went from just-a-sub-who’s-not-interested-in-being-a-masochist-at-all to being a sub-who-thinks-about-being-whipped when he should be paying attention at work. 

 I…need…to…be…whipped.  I never could imagine wanting to hurt.  I’ve decided I’m flying the wife down well ahead of schedule.  Fuck the finances, fuck the work I should be doing that weekend, I need to go out, get her a plane ticket, fly her down, hit the fetish shop, and drop an enormous sum of money on implements specifically designed to humiliate and hurt me.  I mean, it hit me about an hour ago, this wave of syrupy-rich-horniness, and it hit me in waves I’ve never felt.  I want one of those weird medical devices to hold my mouth open while she fucks my mouth with her cock and I want to be pissed on and I want to be hogtied.  I want to feel a riding crop on me, all over — my chest, my back, my thighs, my ass and oh-god-I-can’t-believe-it-but-I-want-her-to-hit-my-cock.  Not hard.  But just a quick slap.  Or ten.  Okay, maybe hard.  Maybe very hard.  No, definitely. I think I should definitely beg for some penis abuse above what she normally dishes out by clamping my penis and balls.

 I want my face slapped.  A lot.  I want to be sodomized repeatedly, and whipped while it happens, and called names, and have my hair pulled and my facial hair yanked and to just be used.  I want her to come over and over again as I pleasure her.  I just want to serve and while serving feel a heck of a lot of pain. 

 If there was a way to smuggle some wooden cross-thing-which-we-don’t-have-any-clue-where-to-buy-or-even-find into the hotel room to tie me to, and then have her hit me with this lunge-whip I’ve been eyeing, I would do it.  I need to be dominated, I need to be hurt, and then I need to do it all over again, like, ten times, until I can’t sit on my welted ass and my back is torn apart by fingernails and whipmarks.   I think I’ll spend the next few days begging for it.

 It has been a little more than two months since we started messing around with D/s, seven weeks or so since we first tried S&M and pissing and all of that lovely deviant sex.  And I need it.  I need more.  What is she doing to me?  We’ve been married for ten years, and we’ve had a passionate love life, but this - it’s crazy. Nights like this, she’s all I think about.  I am out of control.  We made a tape last time I saw her, and we couldn’t get the angles right and it’s shaky, the picture sucks, you can barely see us, but the sound — perfect. And it’s a tape of her banging my ass with her strap on while whipping my thighs and back with my nicest, thickest belt.  I listened to it tonight, just hearing her say, “You like that?” crack.  “Yeah, you do, oh, you are such a whore,” crack.   And me making grunting noises and begging.  And I would do anything to see her again.

And I want to be marked.  Permanently.  I want to wear her mark.  A piercing, a tattoo, something, something she picks out, something that I can wear all of the time, under my suit, burning into my skin, a permanent sign of her power and ownership.  I think maybe instead of a couple hundred dollars in sex toys and hurty things, I’ll spend some money on getting marked, with that claddagh tattoo I talked about getting at Christmas.  Yeah.  I mean, ten or eleven years of marriage is enough commitment where a tattoo is not a rash act. 

 Sweetie?  I know you read this.  Tell me what you want me to wear.  Please.  Mark me.  Forever.  Because welts and bruises just don’t last long enough.

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. 

Meet The New Wife…

If I wasn’t already in awe of my wife because I’m a dirty sub who likes her to tower over him while she smacks his face and forces him to fellate a strap-on, I’d be in awe of her because she’s adapted to the change in our relationship incredibly well. 

I know, from having seen all of the books about how to gently tell your wife you kinda sorta want to worship her divine hotness (while she beats you with a flogger,) that most women do not instantly embrace their inner Domme.  I have hit the lotto, because most wives simply do not realize that “You know, this is what I’ve always wanted to do.  Now — how do I tell him to lick the toe of this boot while we have sex?” Especially when they’re good Christian girls who heretofore felt guilty about giving her husband phone sex if the talk involved a third party.

Distractions…

The thing that surprises me about getting into BDSM is what I’m tentatively calling “the honeymoon period.”  All my wife and I think about is dirty, filthy things to do to me when we see each other again.  We’re like kids, playing that game where you suggest the outrageous, only instead of saying, “Well, I’d never do that…” we’re saying, “Oh, my, I can’t wait to do that.”

 Tomorrow night I’ll be on the plane to see her.  She’s promised me a quick nasty fuck in the car on the ride home if I obey the schedule she’s set up for me, and the delightful uncertainty is whether it’ll be her getting cock or me.  I know I’m going to get knocked around, because we played a game three weeks ago when we last saw each other that whenever we were at a red light and no one was around, I’d get my hair pulled or my face smacked until the light turned green.  Then, we get some sleep, we take our daughter to daycare, and it’s eight straight hours of violent sex at home on Friday.  (She told me I’m going to get the five “Ps” — pegging, pussy, pain, piss and prostration.) 

Everything’s new.  Everything’s hot.  And we want to do it all.  We’ve only got three days this weekend, and in that three days we’ve got to find some way to squeeze in a ton of abuse for me and pleasure for her in between us having dinner with friends who want to see me and quality time with our daughter. 

 The thing is, normally before these little trips, we’re on the phone talking dirty to each other, she’s sending me task lists as to what we’ll do, we’re emailing, chatting, thinking about nothing other than sex, sex, sex.  This week, I had a trial at work, she just got back from a certification training and is catching up on meetings with her subordinates and paperwork, and so we…just…keep…missing…each other.  There have been some money stresses, too, and so we’ve talked about all of that boring “real life” stuff instead of whether or not she wants to use my belt or buy a riding crop to heel me.  And I feel empty, and while I’ve found other things to do, hanging out with friends and studying, all of that is second place to being in her presence, even if it’s just chatting or telephoning.