I'll be the first to admit that in my marriage, I'm the one who has been "trained." Common thinking among many wives used to be a woman could change her husband after they were married; the wife could mold him, polish him up, and buff down all the bad habits she didn't like.
Then that way of thinking fell into bad view as others began to point out that men are men, they are who they are, and they cannot be changed by their wives simply because their wives wish it to be so. Women should marry the men they can live with, the men they can accept for who they are, not the men they want to change. Which, of course, makes sense.
I'm not going to condone marrying a person you think needs changing. Obviously, the old cliche is true: you should marry someone you love. Love means, for the most part, acceptance. Husband accepts me for who I am, and I accept who he is, too.
But do I agree it's impossible to train a person to change their behavior? Oh hell no. That is one of the fundamental principals of a Domestic Discipline lifestyle. And in a D/s relationship, it's the sub who gets trained.
Boy, have I been well trained. In a thousand different things, in a thousand different ways.
One of the ways Husband has trained me is to get wet when I'm afraid.
Yes, you read that right. When I get afraid, for whatever reason, I get wet.
Now, I know all the sadists reading this (hi, Steve!) are probably thinking 'wow, that is AWESOME.'
When I mentioned this unique reaction of mine at a munch the other week, all the sadists within earshot rounded on me with big eyes and took two steps into my circle, like I was suddenly the most interesting thing they had seen all day. I wasn't prepared for that kind of feedback, but after thinking about it, I guess I should have been.
The thing is, this reaction of mine, what has become my body's natural response to fear, is completely out of my control. It's become reflexive. And my body cannot tell the difference between sexual fear, fear that stems from my masochism, and any other kind of fear that is a result of entirely different circumstances.
Going to an amusement park is a nightmare. If I know I'm going to be dragged onto scary rides and roller coasters, I have to wear a panty-liner, or I risk getting off the ride looking like I just peed my pants. People, it's embarrassing.
Getting scared in a movie theater is slightly easier to handle. Those seats are well ventilated, and by the time the movie is over, I'm usually dry enough to feel safe standing up. But I also make sure to wear good, thick cotton panties, and you'll never see me checking out the latest slasher movie while it's still in theaters!
Now, as for Husband...Husband likes to scare me. Some days, he likes to keep me on a constant ebb of simmering fear. He enjoys my reaction. He especially loves it when he can scare me, and then rub his fingers over the crotch of my panties and feel how wet they are. He gets a good laugh when I have to change my underwear, over and over again.
But I think he loves it the most when it becomes a game, and I don't know when he's going to strike next or from where he's going to attack. He might be lurking around the corner, waiting for me to walk past so he can pinch my ass. Or he might be waiting in the bedroom behind the door, ready to shut it closed as I walk through so he can push me over the bed, yank down my pants, and belt me. I don't know when he'll pounce, and my rising anxiety of looming pain will make me soak through my clothes.
Of course, the added bonus of all this is that he knows I hate this reflex of mine, because it's completely beyond my control. I end up always worrying about what I'm wearing, where I'll be if fear strikes, and will I be able to control the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I end up fearful of being afraid.
I am afraid of fear itself.
And you know what that makes me? Wet.
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husband. Show all posts
Friday, January 31, 2014
Euphemisms
When you're kinky, sex and play become this kind of huge metaphorical amusement park, filled with mind-bending rides, laugh-soaked shows, and breath-catching thrills. Some of the rides are short, quick, and heart-pounding; some are long, slow, and relaxing; some you go on once or twice, and decide you'll never do again; and some are so amazing, you want to go on over and over and over. Each ride is different. Each one is unique in its own small way.
When you're kinky and have children, you still want to visit the amusement park pretty often. But you don't want your kids to know you're looking forward to a trip to the amusement park, and you certainly don't want them knowing which ride you're looking forward to the most.
So, if you're like us, you start making up names for the rides. Names that sound innocuous, but hold a much deeper meaning between the two of you. Names that can be placed into an innocent statement, but signify something else entirely, something much more kinky.
Like, let's say, oh, Doctor Who. If you're a long-time reader (or a twitter follower), you know I LOVE Doctor Who. You might also know Husband does not love Doctor Who (he once called my obsession with the show "retardis"). So when Husband says he wants some "Doctor Who," he is not talking about the TV show. He is talking about a specific sex position, a mode of play we enjoy. (How the position got this name is a story in and of itself.)
Now, Husband also likes beer. He doesn't indulge all that often, but when he does, he does not ask me to get him a beer. He gets up and pours it himself, mainly because he has a specific set of glasses he uses, and a specific way of pouring the beer into the glass, one that I can never seem to get right.
So when Husband says he wants me to "get him a bottle of beer," I know he's not talking about drinking a beer...well, he's not only talking about drinking a beer. He's talking about another sex position, another mode of play. (Again, how this position got this moniker is a story unto itself--although, if you think about it long enough, you could probably figure out what he's doing with the beer bottle.)
We have all sorts of names for all sorts of kinky ways of play. Besides "Doctor Who" and "Drink a Beer," we have "La Jolla," "Get the Butter" (which does NOT involve butter, thank god, butter does NOT a good lubricant make, no matter what Marlon Brando would have you believe) (just FYI), "You Won't Be Able to Reach Your Phone," "I'll Mess Up Your Hair," "You'll Be Typing Standing Up," "Go Food Shopping in the Vegetable Aisle," and others.
In this way, Husband and I can have all sorts of conversations in front of the kids that sound completely reasonable and chaste, because only he and I understand the deeper context. Conversations like the one we had last night in the car, which went kinda like this:
Husband: So you have anything going on tonight?
Me: No...why?
Husband (smirking): I'm thinking I should have a beer.
Me (refusing to play along): Go ahead. Have a beer. Just don't drive anywhere afterwards.
Husband (frowning): You know what I meant.
Me (trying not to grin): Yeah, I know.
Child Sitting in the Back: What did you mean, dad? You're gonna get blitzed?
Husband: No, I am not going to get blitzed. And what kind of word is that?
There is a pause now, as Husband is a tad annoyed.
Husband: Maybe while I'm drinking my beer, you should watch some Doctor Who.
Child Sitting in the Back: Oh! There's a new Doctor Who?
Me, turning to Child Sitting in the Back: No, no new Doctor Whos until Thanksgiving.
Child Sitting in the Back: But then you've already seen them all.
Me: Yup, I've seen them all. But I don't mind watching some of the episodes twice. You want to watch with me, kiddo?
Child Sitting in the Back: Naw, I have better things to watch. But thanks for asking.
Me (doing some of my own smirking): Sure.
Husband is now gnashing his teeth together.
Husband: When's our next trip to La Jolla?
Child Sitting in the Back: End of summer, dad.
Husband (murmuring under his breath): Not for your mother.
Child Sitting in Back: What?
Husband: Nothing. Nothing. (Turning to me): Wife, do we have enough vegetables at home?
Me (afraid now): I...think so?
Husband: Are you sure? Cause it's never a bad thing to have a well-stocked vegetable drawer. Maybe you should go to the supermarket later, and buy some.
Me: But...but we have vegetables.
Child Sitting in Back: We're out of the cucumbers, mom.
Husband (triumphant): There you go, Wife. You need to buy cucumbers. So why don't you go to the supermarket later, and get some cucumbers? And while you're at it, get some other vegetables, too.
Me: Fine. Fine! I get it.
Child Sitting in the Back: What do you get, mom?
Me: Nothing, kiddo.
Husband: You're mom's just a little afraid I'm going to mess up her hair before she goes to the supermarket.
Child Sitting in the Back: Why would you do that, dad?
Husband: Cause I can't help it. (He reaches his hand around my head to pull me closer, giving me an innocent head-hug.) You're mom's hair is so beautiful, I need to touch it all the time.
Child Sitting in the Back: Well, you can just fix your hair, can't you mom?
Me: Yes, kiddo. I can just fix my hair. But I would rather your father KEEP HIS HANDS OUT OF IT.
Husband: Are you sure, wife? Are you sure? Cause I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
Me: I think so!
Him: How's that chair doing in your office? Still good? It's nice to sit in, isn't it?
Me (panicking): Uh, I meant, I TOTALLY THINK SO. Yes.
Him (thoroughly satisfied now, in the most irritating way): That's what I thought.
Do the kids get some idea we're talking about things over their heads? I'm sure they do. But they won't know exactly what we're talking about. They'll wonder, but they'll never know. And this way, Husband can convey his information to me and get his point across without having to wait until we're alone. He can make me wait and worry and freak the fuck out even longer.
He doesn't have to wait to implement a good mindfuck.
When you're kinky and have children, you still want to visit the amusement park pretty often. But you don't want your kids to know you're looking forward to a trip to the amusement park, and you certainly don't want them knowing which ride you're looking forward to the most.
So, if you're like us, you start making up names for the rides. Names that sound innocuous, but hold a much deeper meaning between the two of you. Names that can be placed into an innocent statement, but signify something else entirely, something much more kinky.
Like, let's say, oh, Doctor Who. If you're a long-time reader (or a twitter follower), you know I LOVE Doctor Who. You might also know Husband does not love Doctor Who (he once called my obsession with the show "retardis"). So when Husband says he wants some "Doctor Who," he is not talking about the TV show. He is talking about a specific sex position, a mode of play we enjoy. (How the position got this name is a story in and of itself.)
Now, Husband also likes beer. He doesn't indulge all that often, but when he does, he does not ask me to get him a beer. He gets up and pours it himself, mainly because he has a specific set of glasses he uses, and a specific way of pouring the beer into the glass, one that I can never seem to get right.
So when Husband says he wants me to "get him a bottle of beer," I know he's not talking about drinking a beer...well, he's not only talking about drinking a beer. He's talking about another sex position, another mode of play. (Again, how this position got this moniker is a story unto itself--although, if you think about it long enough, you could probably figure out what he's doing with the beer bottle.)
We have all sorts of names for all sorts of kinky ways of play. Besides "Doctor Who" and "Drink a Beer," we have "La Jolla," "Get the Butter" (which does NOT involve butter, thank god, butter does NOT a good lubricant make, no matter what Marlon Brando would have you believe) (just FYI), "You Won't Be Able to Reach Your Phone," "I'll Mess Up Your Hair," "You'll Be Typing Standing Up," "Go Food Shopping in the Vegetable Aisle," and others.
In this way, Husband and I can have all sorts of conversations in front of the kids that sound completely reasonable and chaste, because only he and I understand the deeper context. Conversations like the one we had last night in the car, which went kinda like this:
Husband: So you have anything going on tonight?
Me: No...why?
Husband (smirking): I'm thinking I should have a beer.
Me (refusing to play along): Go ahead. Have a beer. Just don't drive anywhere afterwards.
Husband (frowning): You know what I meant.
Me (trying not to grin): Yeah, I know.
Child Sitting in the Back: What did you mean, dad? You're gonna get blitzed?
Husband: No, I am not going to get blitzed. And what kind of word is that?
There is a pause now, as Husband is a tad annoyed.
Husband: Maybe while I'm drinking my beer, you should watch some Doctor Who.
Child Sitting in the Back: Oh! There's a new Doctor Who?
Me, turning to Child Sitting in the Back: No, no new Doctor Whos until Thanksgiving.
Child Sitting in the Back: But then you've already seen them all.
Me: Yup, I've seen them all. But I don't mind watching some of the episodes twice. You want to watch with me, kiddo?
Child Sitting in the Back: Naw, I have better things to watch. But thanks for asking.
Me (doing some of my own smirking): Sure.
Husband is now gnashing his teeth together.
Husband: When's our next trip to La Jolla?
Child Sitting in the Back: End of summer, dad.
Husband (murmuring under his breath): Not for your mother.
Child Sitting in Back: What?
Husband: Nothing. Nothing. (Turning to me): Wife, do we have enough vegetables at home?
Me (afraid now): I...think so?
Husband: Are you sure? Cause it's never a bad thing to have a well-stocked vegetable drawer. Maybe you should go to the supermarket later, and buy some.
Me: But...but we have vegetables.
Child Sitting in Back: We're out of the cucumbers, mom.
Husband (triumphant): There you go, Wife. You need to buy cucumbers. So why don't you go to the supermarket later, and get some cucumbers? And while you're at it, get some other vegetables, too.
Me: Fine. Fine! I get it.
Child Sitting in the Back: What do you get, mom?
Me: Nothing, kiddo.
Husband: You're mom's just a little afraid I'm going to mess up her hair before she goes to the supermarket.
Child Sitting in the Back: Why would you do that, dad?
Husband: Cause I can't help it. (He reaches his hand around my head to pull me closer, giving me an innocent head-hug.) You're mom's hair is so beautiful, I need to touch it all the time.
Child Sitting in the Back: Well, you can just fix your hair, can't you mom?
Me: Yes, kiddo. I can just fix my hair. But I would rather your father KEEP HIS HANDS OUT OF IT.
Husband: Are you sure, wife? Are you sure? Cause I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
Me: I think so!
Him: How's that chair doing in your office? Still good? It's nice to sit in, isn't it?
Me (panicking): Uh, I meant, I TOTALLY THINK SO. Yes.
Him (thoroughly satisfied now, in the most irritating way): That's what I thought.
Do the kids get some idea we're talking about things over their heads? I'm sure they do. But they won't know exactly what we're talking about. They'll wonder, but they'll never know. And this way, Husband can convey his information to me and get his point across without having to wait until we're alone. He can make me wait and worry and freak the fuck out even longer.
He doesn't have to wait to implement a good mindfuck.
Fishing In the Bathtub
This time when Husband found me, I was already on the bed, spread on my stomach, watching T.V. He plopped himself next to me, and we talked for a while, about mundane things: how our days went, what was going on in the world, funny things we'd seen online. After a while, the conversation died down, and I realized we were both in a holding pattern, waiting.
I was waiting for him to give me some kind of sign it was time to give him a blowjob...I had no idea what he was waiting for.
Finally, after a long pause, he said: "Why don't we go downstairs?"
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"So I can drag you back up here by your underpants," he said.
My eyebrows went up a good two inches. "But I'm already here. You don't need to drag me."
"I know," he sighed, "but I like to drag you. This...this is like fishing in a bathtub. There's no hunt."
People tell me regularly Husband and I have a weird D/s dynamic. I don't act submissive all the time; I don't check my behaviors in public. And he hardly seems the stereotypical "Domly" type. I think what makes our relationship seem quirky are our heightened "Predator/Prey" drives. Husband wants me to listen, he wants me to submit....
But not quite as much as he wants me to refuse, so he can make me do what he wants.
Of course, after he said that, it was ON. I clenched my teeth, said "the hunt's not over--the prey hasn't been caught yet," and rolled off the bed. He dove right after me, and we struggled for a while. It ended when he dug his fingers into my temple and pulled my head toward his cock; I locked my jaws, but he pried them open (painfully) and lunged his prick in my mouth. And that, as they say, was that.
Ladies, you want to try to make things interesting? Don't be the fish in the bathtub.
I was waiting for him to give me some kind of sign it was time to give him a blowjob...I had no idea what he was waiting for.
Finally, after a long pause, he said: "Why don't we go downstairs?"
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"So I can drag you back up here by your underpants," he said.
My eyebrows went up a good two inches. "But I'm already here. You don't need to drag me."
"I know," he sighed, "but I like to drag you. This...this is like fishing in a bathtub. There's no hunt."
People tell me regularly Husband and I have a weird D/s dynamic. I don't act submissive all the time; I don't check my behaviors in public. And he hardly seems the stereotypical "Domly" type. I think what makes our relationship seem quirky are our heightened "Predator/Prey" drives. Husband wants me to listen, he wants me to submit....
But not quite as much as he wants me to refuse, so he can make me do what he wants.
Of course, after he said that, it was ON. I clenched my teeth, said "the hunt's not over--the prey hasn't been caught yet," and rolled off the bed. He dove right after me, and we struggled for a while. It ended when he dug his fingers into my temple and pulled my head toward his cock; I locked my jaws, but he pried them open (painfully) and lunged his prick in my mouth. And that, as they say, was that.
Ladies, you want to try to make things interesting? Don't be the fish in the bathtub.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Spread
 |
| Yes, this is my hand, and that is my plug. |
Rarely do I do this. On many nights, at least nights like this one, when I'm expecting him to wrestle me, pin me down, fight for his claim over my flesh, I make him forcibly strip me. But tonight, I didn't want him to have to bother. That would have been as entertaining as an opening act, and I wanted to get to the main attraction.
I also didn't want him to rip my shirt off me. I happened to like this one.
As soon as we were both naked, he came after me.
Almost never are there words spoken between us at this stage of the game
(hunt)
because there is no point. If he tried to order me to do something, then what? I would simply refuse. I had not been cowered yet. I had not been made to submit.
I had not been caught.
He didn't try to grab me by the arm as he sometimes does. He twisted his leg around my knee instead, buckling it so I stumbled; and at the same time, he pushed down on the bed, covering me with his own harder body. I sucked in my breath. Before I could let it out, he had my arms pinned above my head.
He chuckled.
"That was too easy," he said, mocking me in his triumph. "You're losing it."
I bucked him with my leg, got one hand free, and dug my nails under his knee. He rolled to escape.
"Not yet," I hissed. "You haven't got me yet."
We wrestled, rolled, fell together, and ripped each other apart. We grunted and howled as we took turns advancing, only to be coyly outmaneuvered and have to try again. We laughed as we played, the hysterical laughter of jackals, fighting for top position.
When he pinned me face down, legs caught and hanging off the edge of the bed, I knew I was beaten.
His hand came down on my derriere with a resounding smack. I shrieked and squirmed.
"That one's going to leave my hand print mark," he said, his voice now casual. He knew he had won, and more importantly, he knew that I knew it, too. "Let's see if I can leave the same print on the other cheek."
His hand came down again, this time on the other side of my bottom, and I shrieked just as loudly. But I didn't squirm. I was like the deer dragged to the cougar's lair, waiting to be eaten: I was frozen, knowing my fate, waiting for the pain, and the end.
I longed for mine.
He grabbed the cane off the drawer chest and made fun use of it. We were both sweating by then, but all I could smell was his adrenaline and testosterone, mingled with his unique, Husband smell. It pulled me down into subspace, and I went complaisantly enough as the pain pushed me down even further from the other side.
The cane became his magic wand, and he wielded it with grandeur, like a dark wizard of old: weaving tight glowing ribbons of blazing agony around my shuddering body.
"Stay," he said. I did not move.
I felt his presence leave me, then return. The mattress sank under his weight: he was kneeling by my head.
My wrists were gripped by cool, gentle hands, and buckled into cuffs. Then they were pulled behind my back, and the cuffs were snapped together.
He got up, walked around to stand by my head, and pulled my body forward until my head was hanging down the edge, right next to his swollen cock.
"Suck it."
I did, without protest, and he sighed in pleasure. But he only let me show him my newly rediscovered submission for a few moments. Then he went back around the bed.
I felt him put cuffs on my ankles, first one, then the other. And when I tried to close my legs, I found I could not: he had put a spreader bar between them.
"Bend your knees all the way up," he ordered. I did, and he unsnapped my wrists from each other so he could snap them instead to my ankle cuffs. My back arched a bit by the excursion: the position made me feel like a trussed up pig.
Which was probably the point.
"Now we have some real fun," he said. "Time for some lube."
I squeaked at this point. I had a feeling I knew what was coming, but fear kept me from saying anything, as if stopping myself from voicing the suspicion out loud would prevent it from happening.
I knew how futile my superstitious logic was when I felt the cold, smooth blunted glass press against my asshole.
"Better relax," he said, pulling apart my butt cheeks to get a better view of the show about to start.
"It's too big," I whined, moaning as I felt the rock-hard buttplug gain another millimeter inside my sphincter.
"I'm not going to push," he said. "We have time. I'll let your body do the work. But you'll take the whole thing in."
He spread my ass cheeks apart further, and I willed myself to relax, knowing there was no escape from what was going to happen. Even as I gasped, and groaned, and struggled, I could feel the buttplug naturally sliding into my rear channel as my body sucked it in between each spasm of my muscles.
"It's going," he said. "It's almost in."
As the widest part of the massive buttplug slipped past my sphincter, I yelled, the agony becoming a ring of fire that throbbed and burned. But it only lasted a minute. Then I was stuffed, my asshole constricting around the hard glass. I could feel the handle pressing into my butt cheeks.
"Good girl," he said, lifting his hands and letting my ass snap shut around the buttplug. "You look amazing right now."
"Thank you" I said, a bit too sarcastically. He laughed.
"You know, I could really go for a nice cold drink right now." His point didn't register until I realized he was putting his pants back on. Then I turned my head to look at him in bafflement. He was already by the door, his hand on the knob. "Don't go anywhere," he said with a taunt, and left the room.
I was stuck, spread, plugged, and alone.
My shock quickly gave way to amazement, and then to awe. He had left me there like his wrapped up, packaged plaything. Which is exactly what I was.
The realization made me so horny and wet, my whole body tightened up, which only served to make the buttplug feel even harder and bigger. I rocked my body as much as I could, trying to get some friction against the buttplug. It was no use. All my effort did was make me even more aroused and frustrated.
So I relaxed my body, focused on my breathing, and hoped he would return quickly.
As my cheek rested against the sheet, I listened for his movements downstairs: the creak of the kitchen cabinet opening, the hum of the refrigerator as its door opened, the churn of the ice machine going...then slow, careful sipping. I could envision him in my mind's eye, calmly standing next to the fridge, sipping his drink, knowing I was upstairs, waiting.
And then the TV turned on.
My head came up off the bed with the realization he had no intent to return any time soon. He might make me wait a few minutes; he might make me wait for hours.
He might make me wait all fucking night.
I breathed. I willed myself to be still, to not struggle...and not rock against the plug. Calling for him was out of the question, as well he knew. Too big a risk of rousing one of the kids. All I could do was focus on my breathing...and wait.
I could feel the leather of the cuffs rubbing against my skin, the stretch of my sinews holding my restrained position, the air hitting my most private, intimate parts...and the plug, lodged deep inside my bottom.
After a while, the sound of the TV abruptly stopped, and my ears picked up, waiting for any sound that would give me some indication what the man was up to. I heard the blessed sounds of his feet coming up the stairs.
I didn't know if I should cry in relief, or shriek in frustration.
But in the end, I didn't do either of those things. My face remained passive, but my eyes told him all.
Our eyes met, and he smiled.
"You're ready," he said.
He uncuffed my wrists first, and I spread my arms out across the bed, stretching them gratefully. Then he dragged me to the edge of the bed, and uncuffed my ankles from the spreader bar, letting my legs fall until my feet touched the floor.
As I relaxed my limbs, relieved to be free, Husband remained behind me, grabbing my ass.
"Relax."
Slowly, he pulled out the buttplug, as I whimpered and quaked. Once it was free, I sighed and went limp.
My relief was not to last long.
Husband squeezed another dollop of lube on my still-throbbing asshole, aimed his cock, and pushed right in. All I could do was cringe and hang on.
And then he was fucking my ass, hard, and I was fucking him right back, with all the wanting (and waiting) that had been growing inside me since he'd left the room.
I spread my legs on the floor, stood on my tiptoes, and slammed my body back against his. I reached between my legs and rubbed my clit, working frantically to make myself come. There was no desire to wait and enjoy the process. I had already been waiting far longer than I would have liked. All I wanted to do at that point was gain heavenly release.
I came, and as my body spasmed and convulsed, so did he. He kept slamming me until he was through, and then he collapsed over my body, our breath slowly harmonizing into one waving rhythm. When he stood, I could feel his skin sticking to my mine the second before it pulled away. The cold air hit my flesh where his body had kept me warm a moment ago, and I shivered.
He recovered first, as is usually the case, and stepped back to take a good look at me.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You."
"Who will you always belong to?"
"You."
"And what can I do with you?"
"Whatever you want."
"Good girl."
He knelt down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, then padded into the bathroom to shower.
I have been beaten, again. I have been cowered, corralled, seized, fettered, and subdued, again.
I have been won. Again.
Until next time.
How We Negotiate
A while back, Husband and I made a deal to get me motivated to exercise more.
I wrote about it here.
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.
Since then, I have stuck to the deal, with some adjustments. I've been getting on the treadmill five times a week; sometimes I have to skip a weeknight, due to some prior obligation, but I make up for it on the weekends, and that's okay. He also lets me accrue time, so that if I do two nights of 45 minutes, I'm able to skip the next when I'm too tired.
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.
Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.
I don't know how that man always knows what's going on with me, but he does. It's like he has ESP powers over me. His secret Husband senses were telling him there was a disturbance in our D/s force.
We talked about mundane things for a few minutes, how the kids were doing, how much we missed each other, that kind of thing...and then he asked the question.
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.
About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.
I wrote about it here.
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.
 |
| When I said "motivated," I meant "tormented." (No this is not me) |
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.
Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.
 |
| Caught with my pants down! (No this is not me either) |
 |
| Not me. |
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.
About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.
This is how we negotiate.
Saturday is going to be an interesting day.
Please Force Me
Let me start with this:
I love giving Husband blowjobs.
His cock tastes divine, and while I wouldn't say it's a perfect fit for my mouth (oh God no way), I would say it's an unperfect fit in all the right ways. It's smooth. It's warm. It glides down my throat just so. It's great for sucking. It's great for just just about anything I'm in the mood for...but blowjobs are particularly nice.
I'm good at giving blowjobs. At least, Husband says so--and he's the only one who has to judge. I can deep throat him without problem; I can hold him down in my throat for long lengths of time with no problem. I can suck, lick, and pump my jaws, all at the same time. I am talented.
(One of those many talents I will never be able to openly market...but I digress.)
What it boils down to is I enjoy giving blowjobs, I'm good at it, and they make me happy.
Now here's the second thing:
I sabotage my own happiness; like, all the fucking time.
I have a feeling a lot of women do this; we just don't really open up about it. If there's something I know I should be doing, something that's good for me, something that will make me happy in the short or long term...I still try to convince myself not to do it. I don't know why. It's like a little voice inside my head says "O! This will end well! Best not do it!" And then I go on with doing something else.
So there are often times when I want to give Husband a blowjob, I know I'll enjoy it and obviously (oh how obviously) he will enjoy it, but for some reason, I won't offer to give him one, and I won't ask him if he wants one. The latter statement is more rhetorical (obviously he wants one, he wants one all the time) but it's polite to ask first before yanking a guy's pants down and start sucking on his cock. I think this falls under the heading of "common courtesy"; or maybe, in a D/s relationship, under "asking permission."
The other day I could tell these conflicting emotions were getting the better of me, so to nip it in the bud, I called Husband on his way home.
"Make me give you a blowjob tonight," I said.
"No problem!" He replied.
After all the kids had gone to bed (can I just say here, thank God for school-night bedtimes?), he came looking for me, and found me on the couch, watching television.
"Give me my blowjob," he said, staring down at me.
"Gah, I'm too tired," I said without looking away from the T.V.
"I don't care," he replied. "Give me my blowjob."
"I don't feel like it."
Giving me a penetrating look that would have pierced through lead, he turned off the television, grabbed my hand, and pulled. "Give me a blowjob," he said.
"No," I replied.
For a moment, we stared at each other. Then Husband reached into my lap, slipped his hand into the front of my pants, got a good grip on my panties...and pulled.
I jacked up off the couch, howling. My panties were now stretched taut inside my pussy, and pulling on my most sensitive parts.
It was the evil frontal wedgie.
Husband began to walk me upstairs, pulling on my panties like a leash. I could only keep up with his steps, walking on my tiptoes the whole while and whining as we went.
"When I say give me a blowjob," he growled as we walked, "I mean get up, stop whatever you're doing, get upstairs, and give me a fucking blowjob." We reached the bedroom, and he half flung me against the couch. Before I could regain my balance, he pushed me down by the shoulders and shoved me to the floor.
In one swift moment, he had his pants down and his hand behind my head, digging into my hair. He pulled my head into his crotch, and I had no choice but to take his cock in my mouth.
"There you go," he said. "Now get to work."
Of course, now that I was well positioned on the floor, his cock in my mouth, I automatically got down to work. Like I said, I take pride in my blowjobs. Once he got my over the initial struggle of fighting my own inclination, my own wants, I was fine. I gave that man a mighty fine blowjob to thank him for his troubles, and by the time he came, he had to collapse onto the nearby chair just to catch his breath.
And then it was time for one of those weird conversations you probably only hear in D/s households.
"Thank you for making me give you a blowjob, Husband," I said.
"No problem. You feel better?"
"Oh, yes."
"I didn't pull your hair too hard, did I?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
"I just want to make sure it wasn't too hard...you know, for next time."
"Next time?"
"Next time I think you need to feel better again. You were down before, but now you're smiling. You always seem to smile more after I do this. I'll probably force you to give me a blowjob every night for the rest of the week. How does that sound?"
"You're so good to me."
I have no idea what kind of pillow talk goes on in vanilla households. I imagine, though, it's very different from ours.
I love giving Husband blowjobs.
His cock tastes divine, and while I wouldn't say it's a perfect fit for my mouth (oh God no way), I would say it's an unperfect fit in all the right ways. It's smooth. It's warm. It glides down my throat just so. It's great for sucking. It's great for just just about anything I'm in the mood for...but blowjobs are particularly nice.
I'm good at giving blowjobs. At least, Husband says so--and he's the only one who has to judge. I can deep throat him without problem; I can hold him down in my throat for long lengths of time with no problem. I can suck, lick, and pump my jaws, all at the same time. I am talented.
(One of those many talents I will never be able to openly market...but I digress.)
What it boils down to is I enjoy giving blowjobs, I'm good at it, and they make me happy.
Now here's the second thing:
I sabotage my own happiness; like, all the fucking time.
I have a feeling a lot of women do this; we just don't really open up about it. If there's something I know I should be doing, something that's good for me, something that will make me happy in the short or long term...I still try to convince myself not to do it. I don't know why. It's like a little voice inside my head says "O! This will end well! Best not do it!" And then I go on with doing something else.
So there are often times when I want to give Husband a blowjob, I know I'll enjoy it and obviously (oh how obviously) he will enjoy it, but for some reason, I won't offer to give him one, and I won't ask him if he wants one. The latter statement is more rhetorical (obviously he wants one, he wants one all the time) but it's polite to ask first before yanking a guy's pants down and start sucking on his cock. I think this falls under the heading of "common courtesy"; or maybe, in a D/s relationship, under "asking permission."
The other day I could tell these conflicting emotions were getting the better of me, so to nip it in the bud, I called Husband on his way home.
"Make me give you a blowjob tonight," I said.
"No problem!" He replied.
After all the kids had gone to bed (can I just say here, thank God for school-night bedtimes?), he came looking for me, and found me on the couch, watching television.
"Give me my blowjob," he said, staring down at me.
"Gah, I'm too tired," I said without looking away from the T.V.
"I don't care," he replied. "Give me my blowjob."
"I don't feel like it."
Giving me a penetrating look that would have pierced through lead, he turned off the television, grabbed my hand, and pulled. "Give me a blowjob," he said.
"No," I replied.
For a moment, we stared at each other. Then Husband reached into my lap, slipped his hand into the front of my pants, got a good grip on my panties...and pulled.
I jacked up off the couch, howling. My panties were now stretched taut inside my pussy, and pulling on my most sensitive parts.
It was the evil frontal wedgie.
Husband began to walk me upstairs, pulling on my panties like a leash. I could only keep up with his steps, walking on my tiptoes the whole while and whining as we went.
"When I say give me a blowjob," he growled as we walked, "I mean get up, stop whatever you're doing, get upstairs, and give me a fucking blowjob." We reached the bedroom, and he half flung me against the couch. Before I could regain my balance, he pushed me down by the shoulders and shoved me to the floor.
In one swift moment, he had his pants down and his hand behind my head, digging into my hair. He pulled my head into his crotch, and I had no choice but to take his cock in my mouth.
"There you go," he said. "Now get to work."
Of course, now that I was well positioned on the floor, his cock in my mouth, I automatically got down to work. Like I said, I take pride in my blowjobs. Once he got my over the initial struggle of fighting my own inclination, my own wants, I was fine. I gave that man a mighty fine blowjob to thank him for his troubles, and by the time he came, he had to collapse onto the nearby chair just to catch his breath.
And then it was time for one of those weird conversations you probably only hear in D/s households.
"Thank you for making me give you a blowjob, Husband," I said.
"No problem. You feel better?"
"Oh, yes."
"I didn't pull your hair too hard, did I?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
"I just want to make sure it wasn't too hard...you know, for next time."
"Next time?"
"Next time I think you need to feel better again. You were down before, but now you're smiling. You always seem to smile more after I do this. I'll probably force you to give me a blowjob every night for the rest of the week. How does that sound?"
"You're so good to me."
I have no idea what kind of pillow talk goes on in vanilla households. I imagine, though, it's very different from ours.
Results of the Anal Sex Poll
The question posed was thus:
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.
The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.
It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little.
Tee hee.
If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.
And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.
I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know!
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.
The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.
It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little.
Tee hee.
If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.
And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.
I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know!
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.
Plans Gone Awry
Last night was supposed to be epic.
Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.
For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.
The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.
New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)
So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.
Then shit blew up. Literally.
"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.
I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.
"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."
Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?
"Mom, I have to go the bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.
So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Yeah."
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.
We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.
Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.
Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.
Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.
Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.
For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.
The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.
New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)
So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.
Then shit blew up. Literally.
"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.
I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.
"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."
Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?
"Mom, I have to go the bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.
So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Yeah."
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.
We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.
Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.
Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.
Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Release
"I made a mistake yesterday, not using restraints on you," he says. "I had to worry too much about your hands getting in the way. I won't be making that mistake again."
He attaches the leather strap binding my two cuffs to the hook on the door. My arms are not stretched painfully, but my hands can no longer offer me any protection.
"Do I still have to apologize for that email?" I ask, wondering what he is waiting to hear, what signal I need to offer to make him stop. What I can give him that will save me.
"We've gone beyond that," he says. My heart skips. I breathe hard.
My first reaction of fear.
He goes to the bed, retrieves the cane. I can look over my shoulder and see him striding back torwards me, clenching the cane in his fist. The gleam in his eyes fills me with icy trepidation.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Nothing," he whispers. "Nothing but to hear you scream. Later, you can say your sorry. Later, you can say 'yes, Sir' when I ask you to talk, and maybe that'll be enough for me. But right now, there's nothing you can say."
Then he puts the gag in my mouth, pushing it between my teeth and pulling it tight around my head. I close my eyes, and brace myself against the door. The adrenaline is rushing my blood hard now; soon, the endorphins will come, too. I am already sinking into subspace.
The first strike of the cane is vicious. I arch my body into the door.
"Your ass is purple in some places from yesterday," he says. "I'll try to aim for other spots. For now."
He swipes across my ass cheeks, working methodically up and down. Then he works my thighs, stepping around my body to cut new lines into my flesh.
I kick up my heels and hop from foot to foot, knowing it will not help, but unable to stop myself. My hands yank at the leather strap binding me to the door. They want instinctively to rub the sting away, and cover my flaming bottom. They cannot.
"You see?" He asks in a tone of triumph. "Things are much easier when I don't have to worry about your hands."
I hear him going to the bed, retrieving his next toy.
Something fierce and dreadful smacks against the curve of my hip. My head snaps up in agony.
"I got a new brush," he explains merrily. "It's wood, and has a flat handle. See?"
For a brief second, he holds it up in front of my eyes. Then he is peppering my ass with it.
I twist against the door, jerking my body around, trying to get away from his reach. It is pointless. But he grows tired at my feeble wriggling and grabs me around the hips, holding me still.
The brush burns into my skin like an iron. Tears cascade down my cheeks. My cries are muffled, but plaintive against the gag.
He laughs, hearing my cries. Then he takes off the gag.
"Now then," he says. "Are you sorry?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Yes, what?"
I know what he wants, I know what he expects to hear. I am about to say the words, they are in my throat... and then the monster of stubborn defiance possesses me once more. With both hands, I give him the finger.
"Fingers," he says. "You want fingers?"
He pushes me against the door and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking brutally. With his other hand, he takes aim of my asshole. He forces one finger in, then another. I cry out from the burning, ripping pain.
"Shall I fuck your ass like this?" He hisses in my ear. His fingers stretch. I howl. "Shall I fuck you dry? Do you think you would like it?"
"No Sir. No Sir," I cry through my sobs. I try to twist away. He bends my knees in with his foot, forcing me down harder on his probing fingers. I scream.
"This is much better," he says. He wiggles his fingers.
And then...and then I sigh and quiet down, because he is still rubbing his fingers deep inside my body, and it is beginning to feel good. His fingers become a welcome fullness, arousing all the right nerve endings. If he would get his fingers just a little bit wet....
He hears my sigh, sees my slackening face, and recognizes the change within me. He yanks out his fingers, fast. I yelp.
"None of that now," he says. "We're not there yet."
He goes back to the bed, and gets his next weapon. He holds it up proudly. I quake with fear.
"It's a cricket paddle," he says, circling it in his hand. "I had to go to two shops to find it. Apparently it's very popular in India. Who knew?"
Holding it in both hands, he raises it high--and swings. The impact jars me against the door. I suck air into my lungs, hold it for a second against the pain, and let out a high-pitched screech.
"This will do nicely," he says. He switches from one hand to the other, slapping the paddle against my buttocks and thighs with resounding smacks. My whole ass grows warm, then hot, until I feel like I am sitting on flaming coals. He never waivers in his rhythm or force.
"Please," I beg. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Sir. Please, Sir."
"You think you've learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Sir. Yes, please, Sir..." I am shaking with the braying force of my sobs.
"Okay." He unbuckles the cuffs around my wrists.
I want to crumple to the floor. I want to take a few moments to breathe.
He grabs me by the hair again and pushes me across the room.
"On your knees," he growls. I fall to my knees. He spreads my legs open with his knee and enters me from behind, quick and hard. His entrance is an easy one. I am already wet and slick, both from sweat, and from aching need.
"You'd better come if you can, cause I'm not waiting for you," he says, pumping hard enough to jerk my body forward. I brace myself on my hands, lock in, and let my senses take over as he fills me over and over again, in and out, grinding, caressing....
He digs his nails into the abused flesh of my ass, clawing in. I shriek. He releases his grip, only to move to another section of my hot, blushing bottom. As he squeezes his fingers in, I squeeze my muscles tight around his hard length buried deep inside me. He pumps harder as he forms dark little half-moons all over my butt. A couple of them break the flesh; blood rises up, forming droplets on the surface. I feel the wetness, but don't understand what it is. Not yet.
But I don't care, I'm not really thinking about it anyway. All my focus is on the stabbing, stinging pain, and the tight, thrilling fullness. The feelings swarm and swell until I can't tell the difference.
We come together, both of us crying out in ecstasy.
He recovers first. He stands up, and looks down at my broken, bloody body.
"You need to wash," he says. "You stink. I can smell the fear on you."
I raise my eyes to look at him. In that moment, he is a god, an Adonis, my Lord and ruler...or maybe the devil arisen from hell itself.
I rub my face against his leg and kiss his foot.
"Yes, Sir," I say. A prayer to my god.
"But not yet," he says. "I'm going to wash first. You don't fucking move. You understand me? Don't fucking move."
I lower my head to the floor and stay still. "Yes, Sir." My voice cracks. He seems happy to hear this.
I watch him go around the door, hear the water turn on, hear his movements as he washes his body. Then he returns.
"Go," he says. "Wash up. But first...kiss me."
He pulls me up, circles me with his arms, and lowers his mouth to mine. It is a searing, forceful kiss, full of love and devotion.
"Feel better?" He asks me, looking deep into my eyes. He is not a god anymore, but my Lord and ruler all the same. My savior. My love. "All that pent-up stress gone now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. Yes Sir," I say, hugging him tight. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He rubs his nose against mine. We both smile. "Now go wash. You really do smell like sweat and fear."
"Okay...but, before I go, um..."
"What?"
"Can you do one thing for me?"
"What?"
"Can you take a picture of my ass?"
Monday, January 27, 2014
He is Wonderman
14 year old: You know, Mom, all the best super heroes have sidekicks. That's how you can tell if a super hero is really good or not; if he has a sidekick.
Me: Maybe you're right. So why doesn't Wonder Woman have a sidekick? She's pretty badass.
12 year old: What would her sidekick be called?
Me: ...Wonderman.
Husband, rushing into the room: Here I am, Wonderman!
Me: You scared me!
Husband: Look at my pretty gold bracelets! My lasso of truth! I will tie you up with my rope and make you talk! Wife, the reason why there is no Wonderman is because that sounds gay.
Me: It does not sound gay!
Husband: And what would he ride in? An invisible car? Guys want to see a badass car! Batman has a badass car! Wonder woman's sidekick cannot drive an invisible car! It's gay.
Me: That is very homophobic, Husband.
Husband: Well, it's true. And anyway, it's okay. Not everyone has to have a superhero.
14 year old: Jews don't have a superhero.
Husband: There you go. Jews don't have a superhero.
12 year old: Who would be our superhero, Dad?
Husband: Matzah Man.
Me: Husband!
Husband: He fights evil celiac disease everywhere. And lactose intolerance.
Me: Husband....
Husband: And he has his own motto: Shalom Aleichem, motherfuckers.
Me: That's it. Kids, go to bed.
Discipline vs Punishment
As I was leaning over the bathroom counter today, receiving a harsh spanking for another lapse in judgement, I had an epiphany. It had to do with the way Husband and I approach discipline and punishment, and how we view the difference between the two.
I'm going to try to articulate it, because I think there might be others out there who subscribe to the same way of thinking, or maybe realize they do after reading this, even if they've never given it much thought before.
(I certainly didn't for a long time. After you've been in a relationship for a long enough, behaviors evolve, and it's hard to pick apart and reason out all the subtle nuances of why you do what you do.)
I make no claim to being an expert on this subject. But this is how it works for us.
Discipline
Discipline is what Husband treats me to when he's either
1. Trying to change my natural behavior
or
2. Trying to teach me to do an otherwise unnatural behavior until it becomes natural.
Let's use what happened this morning as an example. I left our bathroom a mess. Now, he has laid down a strict rule that I am NOT allowed to "take over" our bathroom. I cannot hang up my hosiery all over the shower and door hook, I cannot leave my makeup, hair supplies, and eye-care supplies all over the counter, etc. etc. You get the idea. The bathroom is shared, and I must share it.
However, this goes AGAINST my natural behavior. My natural inclination is to spread out my shit. I can't help it. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman, or what. It's just the way I am.
So every once in a while, Husband will come into the bathroom and realize every inch of counter space is again taken up with my makeup, hair dryer, perfume, lotions, etc. And he will have to discipline me as a reminder that I am supposed to control that.
Another example: I have impulse control issues. This is something I am constantly working on. Sometimes I say or do something without thinking, not because I'm trying to be bad, but because I can't help it. It's just my nature.
Husband disciplines me to help me learn how to control myself. But again, it's an ongoing lesson. I'm not "misbehaving," I'm just giving into my natural tendencies.
Punishment
Punishment, on the other hand, is reserved for times when I've strayed from my natural behavior and purposely gone out of my way to do something I know will make him angry. Punishment is for the times I've actively ( and perhaps maliciously) disobeyed.
There are probably dozens of examples for this. Refusing to do a task out of spite, yelling at him in front of the kids, "forgetting" to do his laundry when I've done everyone else's, or just basically doing anything that shows a lack of courtesy and respect, would earn a punishment. My natural inclination is to avoid hurting him. If I insult or offend him, most likely it's because I wanted to, which is bad. (Very very bad.)
Of course, sometimes it's hard for us to tell the difference between discipline and punishment, and after all these years, we don't even bother giving it thought. But I think, deep down, there's a difference in both approach, and closure.
Husband approaches discipline with more forgiveness and understanding. He knows it's hard for me to go against my character. It's a constant struggle.
With that in mind, there's no real closure, either. We both know, eventually, I'm going to screw up again. It might be a while, but it's only a matter of time.
Punishment, on the other hand, is brought forth with very little, if any, forgiveness and understanding. It's usually served with heavy doses of disappointment, frustration, and dismay.
But once the punishment is over, there is total closure, because there is no expectation I'll do the same thing again. There shouldn't have to be, if the punishment was effective.
Overlap between discipline and punishment happens when I've done something that would normally be indicative of my nature (being the smart-assed masochist that I am), but Husband thinks I should've learned better by now. Like, oh, sewing flowers on his pants, or turning the sprinkler system on when he's outside, or painting his nails while he's sleeping. After all these years, he thinks I should know better.
I'm a work in progress.
(The word he uses is "entertaining.")
(Also "crazy," but I prefer entertaining.)
I hope you've found this useful.
I'm going to try to articulate it, because I think there might be others out there who subscribe to the same way of thinking, or maybe realize they do after reading this, even if they've never given it much thought before.
(I certainly didn't for a long time. After you've been in a relationship for a long enough, behaviors evolve, and it's hard to pick apart and reason out all the subtle nuances of why you do what you do.)
I make no claim to being an expert on this subject. But this is how it works for us.
Discipline
Discipline is what Husband treats me to when he's either
1. Trying to change my natural behavior
or
2. Trying to teach me to do an otherwise unnatural behavior until it becomes natural.
Let's use what happened this morning as an example. I left our bathroom a mess. Now, he has laid down a strict rule that I am NOT allowed to "take over" our bathroom. I cannot hang up my hosiery all over the shower and door hook, I cannot leave my makeup, hair supplies, and eye-care supplies all over the counter, etc. etc. You get the idea. The bathroom is shared, and I must share it.
However, this goes AGAINST my natural behavior. My natural inclination is to spread out my shit. I can't help it. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman, or what. It's just the way I am.
So every once in a while, Husband will come into the bathroom and realize every inch of counter space is again taken up with my makeup, hair dryer, perfume, lotions, etc. And he will have to discipline me as a reminder that I am supposed to control that.
Another example: I have impulse control issues. This is something I am constantly working on. Sometimes I say or do something without thinking, not because I'm trying to be bad, but because I can't help it. It's just my nature.
Husband disciplines me to help me learn how to control myself. But again, it's an ongoing lesson. I'm not "misbehaving," I'm just giving into my natural tendencies.
Punishment
Punishment, on the other hand, is reserved for times when I've strayed from my natural behavior and purposely gone out of my way to do something I know will make him angry. Punishment is for the times I've actively ( and perhaps maliciously) disobeyed.
There are probably dozens of examples for this. Refusing to do a task out of spite, yelling at him in front of the kids, "forgetting" to do his laundry when I've done everyone else's, or just basically doing anything that shows a lack of courtesy and respect, would earn a punishment. My natural inclination is to avoid hurting him. If I insult or offend him, most likely it's because I wanted to, which is bad. (Very very bad.)
Of course, sometimes it's hard for us to tell the difference between discipline and punishment, and after all these years, we don't even bother giving it thought. But I think, deep down, there's a difference in both approach, and closure.
Husband approaches discipline with more forgiveness and understanding. He knows it's hard for me to go against my character. It's a constant struggle.
With that in mind, there's no real closure, either. We both know, eventually, I'm going to screw up again. It might be a while, but it's only a matter of time.
Punishment, on the other hand, is brought forth with very little, if any, forgiveness and understanding. It's usually served with heavy doses of disappointment, frustration, and dismay.
But once the punishment is over, there is total closure, because there is no expectation I'll do the same thing again. There shouldn't have to be, if the punishment was effective.
Overlap between discipline and punishment happens when I've done something that would normally be indicative of my nature (being the smart-assed masochist that I am), but Husband thinks I should've learned better by now. Like, oh, sewing flowers on his pants, or turning the sprinkler system on when he's outside, or painting his nails while he's sleeping. After all these years, he thinks I should know better.
I'm a work in progress.
(The word he uses is "entertaining.")
(Also "crazy," but I prefer entertaining.)
I hope you've found this useful.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
I Took One for the Team--Three Times, Actually
My six-year-old asked me this question the other day, while we were in the car; I didn't feel like it was the right time to answer him then, so I deflected the question.
He asked me again this morning, as we were snuggling together. I decided the time was right.
Him: Mommy, how do girls get pregnant?
Me: A man and a woman--
Him: Get married?
Me: No, they don't need to get married.
Him: How does a baby get inside her, then?
Me: You know a boy has boy parts. A penis. Right?
Him: Right....
Me: And a girl has girl parts. A vagina. Right?
Him: Right....
Me: Well, for a baby to start, a boy has to put his penis inside a girl's vagina.
Him: WHAT?
Me: A boy has to put his penis inside a girl's vagina, and an egg inside her starts to grow into a baby.
Him: Mommy, a girl doesn't have an egg inside her!
Me: Actually she does. It's teeny tiny, but it's called an egg.
Him (flabbergasted): And he has to put his PENIS inside her...?
Me: Yup.
Him (thinking this over for a minute): And Daddy did this you?
Me: Yes.
Him: And he did this THREE TIMES?
Me: ...Um, yes.
Him: Isn't it GROSS?
Me....
Him (trying to figure out the wisdom of this): Well, you do have three boys...
Me: And I love them very much.
Him (hugging me): We love you too, Mommy.
What was I supposed to say? Yes, it is kinda gross, but I make your father sleep in the sticky spot?
He asked me again this morning, as we were snuggling together. I decided the time was right.
Him: Mommy, how do girls get pregnant?
Me: A man and a woman--
Him: Get married?
Me: No, they don't need to get married.
Him: How does a baby get inside her, then?
Me: You know a boy has boy parts. A penis. Right?
Him: Right....
Me: And a girl has girl parts. A vagina. Right?
Him: Right....
Me: Well, for a baby to start, a boy has to put his penis inside a girl's vagina.
Him: WHAT?
Me: A boy has to put his penis inside a girl's vagina, and an egg inside her starts to grow into a baby.
Him: Mommy, a girl doesn't have an egg inside her!
Me: Actually she does. It's teeny tiny, but it's called an egg.
Him (flabbergasted): And he has to put his PENIS inside her...?
Me: Yup.
Him (thinking this over for a minute): And Daddy did this you?
Me: Yes.
Him: And he did this THREE TIMES?
Me: ...Um, yes.
Him: Isn't it GROSS?
Me....
Him (trying to figure out the wisdom of this): Well, you do have three boys...
Me: And I love them very much.
Him (hugging me): We love you too, Mommy.
What was I supposed to say? Yes, it is kinda gross, but I make your father sleep in the sticky spot?
Jewish Christmas
We had planned on going to a nice Chinese restaurant; what we hadn't counted on were their jacked-up prices. So we took a walk to Panda express, which was only a short distance away.
As we walked side by side, Husband took my hand, and entwined his fingers with mine.
"I'm so lucky," he said, looking at me.
I looked away and grumbled, "I'm not wearing enough makeup."
"You're wearing too much clothes," he quipped back.
My eyes went wide, my cheeks blushed, and my mouth opened in a wide O—which, by the expression on Husband's face, was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. He smiled and squeezed my hand.
Unlike the nice Chinese restaurant next door, Panda Express was comfortably empty. We ordered our food, took the containers to a corner table, and sat. We talked about our kids, our parents, our work, and the mundane going-ons of our week in review.
We talked the way best friends do.
I opened up my fortune cookie first. Kindness makes for happiness, it said. "It's true," I had to admit. "When I'm kind to you, you make me happy."
"I thought I always make you happy."
"You do, but…you're nicer about it when I'm kind."
"If 'being kind' is your euphemism for blow jobs, then yes, I agree, I'm nicer. I let you come, too."
"Shh!" I said, glancing to the right. "There are children at the next table."
Husband smiled devilishly.
Then he opened his fortune cookie. You take criticism as an opportunity to grow, it said. "It's surprisingly accurate," Husband said. "You criticize me, I punish you…and I grow. You can literally watch me grow." His eyes danced with lecherous glee. "I guess they skipped the middle part."
"You are awful," he hissed at him, trying to stifle my smile.
"Are you criticizing me?" He asked with raised brows.
I couldn't hold back my laughter.
We walked back to the car, hand in hand again, and started the drive home.
"This was nice," he said.
"Yes, it was," I replied.
The rest of the drive was passed in cozy silence.
Someday—if we're lucky—we'll live long enough to see our parents gone, our kids away, our work forgotten…but we'll still have each other.
And, for that, I am blessed.
A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part III (The End)
(Not much kink here today. You want kink? Go follow this guy.)
He took me by the hand and pulled me into his bedroom. The bedroom was very large: in the corner was a small couch and lounging chair, across from them a desk, bookshelves and a wardrobe
(Oh My God I just realized where the inspiration for the wardrobe in all the Bentmoore stories came from Holy Moses)
and in the center of the room, a heavy king-sized mattress on the floor, serving as a bed. He was in between beds at that time (long story), but I thought the mattress on the floor was great. It seemed stylish and more cozy.
He pulled me down to my knees on the mattress and continued to undress me, stripping himself at the same time.
"We can't do this," I hissed. "I have my period." This must have been the six or seventh time I'd said it since walking into his apartment.
He stopped for a minute. "Is it very bad?"
"Well, no," I admitted. "It's almost over, so it's not very bad. But I'm still bleeding."
He walked to the bathroom, by now completely naked--I got a great view of his ass, to this day that man has a great ass--got a towel, and laid it across the mattress.
"There," he said. "Why are you still wearing your bra?"
At this point, inside, I knew we were going to fuck, period or no. He had a way of seducing me into compliance, just by his charisma and authoritative attitude, that still works to this day. I couldn't outright refuse him, I couldn't think up a good argument against him, and the sight of his naked ass walking across the room had tipped me over the edge.
But when we were done, there was blood everywhere, not just on the towel. The whole sheet was stained with drops of blood.
"Oh, God." I started stripping the sheet off the mattress, both to keep the stains from going through, and to hide the evidence of my disgrace.
And then, from behind me, I heard Husband laughing. Laughing.
"This is what you were so worried about? A few stains on a old sheet I probably should've gotten rid of by now anyway? Well, if this gets you to make my bed and do my laundry, by all means, go ahead." He laughed harder.
I wanted to throw the bundle of sheets at him. I wasn't just angry at that point, I was hurt. He clearly wasn't even trying to understand what I was going through. I dropped the ball of sheets on the bed and walked into the bathroom.
He came up behind me as I was waiting for the water in the shower to warm up. I turned to face him and said, "I don't think we should have sex anymore while I have my period. We'll just have to wait."
His answer was swift and emphatic.
"ARE YOU CRAZY? Why?"
"Because." I got in the shower, and he followed me in.
"Hey. Hey," he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. "This whole period thing really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Okay," he sighed. I think he finally began to realize that this was one of those things in any relationship he did not have to understand, he just had to accept. We could talk about my reasons and fears and beliefs later, but at that moment, I needed to know he took my stance on the matter seriously, whether he agreed with it or not. This was about hard and soft limits, and although we didn't have the vocabulary for it yet, he certainly grasped the concept.
"Did you enjoy the sex?"
"Yes, but now I feel gross."
"Physically or mentally?"
"Physically. Mentally too, I guess. It's embarrassing."
He didn't ask why this time. I think he understood the "why" of it was a topic of conversation for another time.
"As far as the physical goes, that's easy to deal with. You're already in the shower--" he began to soap my inner thighs, making me gasp--"and I can clean you up. The sheet we can wash, or we can toss, whatever you want. Now, as for being embarrassed, I don't know why you have this thing about the blood--"
"It's not just about the blood--"
"But I really, really don't care. I think you're beautiful--" he kissed my nose-- "no matter what--" he kissed my brow-- "and your period is NOT going to stop me from wanting to make love to you. So if you feel very, very strongly about this, I won't push it, but I don't want you twisting this around so you think I'm the one who doesn't want it."
"How can you not care about the mess? It's so gross--"
He grabbed the soap and shoved it between my legs, rubbing it inside my pussy.
"This is how much I care," he growled. "I'll get up in there myself and wash you inside and out if that's what it takes to convince you. THIS IS NOT A REASON TO NOT LET ME TOUCH YOU. Understand?"
"Understand." My voice was rather breathless at that point. He was rubbing the soap everywhere, inside and out, just like he said he would.
The "period issue" still comes up every month. I still consider the ick factor as totally gross, and won't have sex on my heaviest days. But I don't think having my period makes me a disgusting person anymore, and I don't let it stop me from getting intimate in other ways with Husband. He can touch me all he wants, I can certainly touch him all he wants, and when the blood is not so bad, we just put a towel down on the bed and consider the problem solved.
Although we stay on the towel. After all, I am the one now who changes the bedding, does the laundry, and buys the sheets. We have very nice sheets; I'm not so willing to toss them.
I guess, my point out of all of this is, one of the jobs of a Dom is to help a woman feel good about herself and help her grow out of any misguided notions that serve to constrain her. He's got to strip away all the self-loathing and guilt and recriminations women feel (we all do, at some point), and make her see herself for the beautiful, sexy, worthy-of-love woman that she is. And that usually involves a lot of listening, and guiding, and sometimes a healthy dose of pushing and prodding, but a good Dom will know it's all worth it.
He will know when one of her limits is based on a legitimate concern, and when it's based on misplaced fear and, as was my case, a ridiculous perception of self-disgust. He will help her see her own weaknesses and face them head on, because he wants her to be a better, healthier, happier person. That is what makes a great Dom, and part of what makes a great foundation for any D/D relationship.
He took me by the hand and pulled me into his bedroom. The bedroom was very large: in the corner was a small couch and lounging chair, across from them a desk, bookshelves and a wardrobe
(Oh My God I just realized where the inspiration for the wardrobe in all the Bentmoore stories came from Holy Moses)
and in the center of the room, a heavy king-sized mattress on the floor, serving as a bed. He was in between beds at that time (long story), but I thought the mattress on the floor was great. It seemed stylish and more cozy.
He pulled me down to my knees on the mattress and continued to undress me, stripping himself at the same time.
"We can't do this," I hissed. "I have my period." This must have been the six or seventh time I'd said it since walking into his apartment.
He stopped for a minute. "Is it very bad?"
"Well, no," I admitted. "It's almost over, so it's not very bad. But I'm still bleeding."
He walked to the bathroom, by now completely naked--I got a great view of his ass, to this day that man has a great ass--got a towel, and laid it across the mattress.
"There," he said. "Why are you still wearing your bra?"
At this point, inside, I knew we were going to fuck, period or no. He had a way of seducing me into compliance, just by his charisma and authoritative attitude, that still works to this day. I couldn't outright refuse him, I couldn't think up a good argument against him, and the sight of his naked ass walking across the room had tipped me over the edge.
But when we were done, there was blood everywhere, not just on the towel. The whole sheet was stained with drops of blood.
"Oh, God." I started stripping the sheet off the mattress, both to keep the stains from going through, and to hide the evidence of my disgrace.
And then, from behind me, I heard Husband laughing. Laughing.
"This is what you were so worried about? A few stains on a old sheet I probably should've gotten rid of by now anyway? Well, if this gets you to make my bed and do my laundry, by all means, go ahead." He laughed harder.
I wanted to throw the bundle of sheets at him. I wasn't just angry at that point, I was hurt. He clearly wasn't even trying to understand what I was going through. I dropped the ball of sheets on the bed and walked into the bathroom.
He came up behind me as I was waiting for the water in the shower to warm up. I turned to face him and said, "I don't think we should have sex anymore while I have my period. We'll just have to wait."
His answer was swift and emphatic.
"ARE YOU CRAZY? Why?"
"Because." I got in the shower, and he followed me in.
"Hey. Hey," he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. "This whole period thing really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Okay," he sighed. I think he finally began to realize that this was one of those things in any relationship he did not have to understand, he just had to accept. We could talk about my reasons and fears and beliefs later, but at that moment, I needed to know he took my stance on the matter seriously, whether he agreed with it or not. This was about hard and soft limits, and although we didn't have the vocabulary for it yet, he certainly grasped the concept.
"Did you enjoy the sex?"
"Yes, but now I feel gross."
"Physically or mentally?"
"Physically. Mentally too, I guess. It's embarrassing."
He didn't ask why this time. I think he understood the "why" of it was a topic of conversation for another time.
"As far as the physical goes, that's easy to deal with. You're already in the shower--" he began to soap my inner thighs, making me gasp--"and I can clean you up. The sheet we can wash, or we can toss, whatever you want. Now, as for being embarrassed, I don't know why you have this thing about the blood--"
"It's not just about the blood--"
"But I really, really don't care. I think you're beautiful--" he kissed my nose-- "no matter what--" he kissed my brow-- "and your period is NOT going to stop me from wanting to make love to you. So if you feel very, very strongly about this, I won't push it, but I don't want you twisting this around so you think I'm the one who doesn't want it."
"How can you not care about the mess? It's so gross--"
He grabbed the soap and shoved it between my legs, rubbing it inside my pussy.
"This is how much I care," he growled. "I'll get up in there myself and wash you inside and out if that's what it takes to convince you. THIS IS NOT A REASON TO NOT LET ME TOUCH YOU. Understand?"
"Understand." My voice was rather breathless at that point. He was rubbing the soap everywhere, inside and out, just like he said he would.
The "period issue" still comes up every month. I still consider the ick factor as totally gross, and won't have sex on my heaviest days. But I don't think having my period makes me a disgusting person anymore, and I don't let it stop me from getting intimate in other ways with Husband. He can touch me all he wants, I can certainly touch him all he wants, and when the blood is not so bad, we just put a towel down on the bed and consider the problem solved.
Although we stay on the towel. After all, I am the one now who changes the bedding, does the laundry, and buys the sheets. We have very nice sheets; I'm not so willing to toss them.
I guess, my point out of all of this is, one of the jobs of a Dom is to help a woman feel good about herself and help her grow out of any misguided notions that serve to constrain her. He's got to strip away all the self-loathing and guilt and recriminations women feel (we all do, at some point), and make her see herself for the beautiful, sexy, worthy-of-love woman that she is. And that usually involves a lot of listening, and guiding, and sometimes a healthy dose of pushing and prodding, but a good Dom will know it's all worth it.
He will know when one of her limits is based on a legitimate concern, and when it's based on misplaced fear and, as was my case, a ridiculous perception of self-disgust. He will help her see her own weaknesses and face them head on, because he wants her to be a better, healthier, happier person. That is what makes a great Dom, and part of what makes a great foundation for any D/D relationship.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
I am His
Me: Listen, later? When you get home...?
Him: Yes?
Me: Don't take no for an answer, okay?
Him: Got it.
Me: Cause later, I might say I'm too tired, or I might just try to crawl into bed, but I really need you to--
Him: I got it.
Me: God, I feel so ridiculous saying this--
Him: Shut up. Don't ever say that. Now I got it, but I have to get back to work, so get off the phone, lady. And be ready.
Me: Yes. Thank you Ba'ali*.
Him: Mm-hm.
Conversation I had later with a friend, through email:
Why would you ask him to screw you, if you don't want him to?
What do you mean? I do want him to. That's why I asked him.
You asked him to take you even if you say you're too tired, or you try to go to sleep. You obviously don't think you'll want to have sex later. Do you think you'll enjoy it?
I don't know. That's not the point.
Why is enjoying it *not* the point? Why would you want him to screw you if you don't think you'll enjoy it?
This is one of those things that sets female subs apart from other women who don't see themselves as submissive, or even "bottoms." Women are told to think they should get as much pleasure out of sex as their partner does, if not more so. Women shouldn't feel encumbered if their man can't stay hard, or orgasm; there are other methods and techniques women can use to pleasure herself, with or without his help. But suggest that a man pleasure himself with a woman's body, without making sure she's happy, too, and all of a sudden people are up in arms.
Unless those people are BDSM kinksters, I guess.
Sometimes, the point is not the sensual pleasure, and it's not the orgasm.
It's the submission. The capitulation. Yielding to another, acceding their dominance over you.
There is nothing more submissive in my mind than letting someone invade your body with their own, without any expectations of pleasure in return.
It is not an act of sex: it is a claim of ownership. I am his. He can do to me as he wills.
I am his.
If I am proud of nothing else going on in my life, if I am happy about nothing else, if I am confident about nothing else, if I am sure of nothing else...I can be sure about this.
I am his.
*Ba'ali in hebrew means master, and husband. It is the word I use most often to address him, since he is both.
A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part II
(Also long, and probably not very interesting for those looking for kink. You want some funny kink? Try this. Or this.)
When I got older and broke away from the stifling, oppressive lifestyle I had grown up in, my views and habits went through some drastic changes. But some of the basic beliefs, I just could not rid myself of them, and the belief that my period made me dirty and disgraceful in the eyes of God and men was one of them.
For 23 days out of my cycle, I was flirty, alluring, teasing, and fun. I knew I was sexy because I felt sexy, and guys responded to that. But for the other five days, I would become a different person. I would turn shy around men. I dressed very blandly, and covered everything up. It was like I didn't want a man to find me attractive while I had my period, because that would be somehow leading him into sin.
I had a few boyfriends during this time, and when I got my period, I would not let them touch me. At all. They were not allowed to hug me, or give me a kiss hello. It was just one of those things; I think they chalked it up to a woman being in a bad mood during her period, and not wanting to be touched. They didn't realize my beliefs were based on some twisted theology that said if they touched me while I had my period, I would be tainting them with my uncleanliness. Looking back, it all seems so ridiculous; but back then, I felt like I was almost saving them from joining me in abomination. I was doing them a favor.
Then I met Husband.
From the beginning, I think we both knew what we had was something special. We weren't into the whole BDSM lifestyle then, we were both very young and ignorant about a great many things, but even so, the Dom in him and the sub in me were already a set part of our personalities, and we completed each other in ways we'd never found before.
But I still would not have sex with him during my period. At first, the issue didn't even come up. He was traveling a lot back then on business, and he always seemed to be flying off somewhere just when I had my period. In that sense, it was a relief for me not to have to explain to him why he could not fuck me. The topic simply never raised its ugly head.
Until the month he came home three days early from his trip, and I still had my period.
"Why am I home and you're not here?" He called and asked, slightly worried. It had become our ritual that he would tell me when he expected to be back at his apartment, and I was expected to be there, waiting for him. (Again, back then we weren't using words like Dom or sub, but even so, I was submitting to his wishes, obeying his orders to please him, and we both loved it.) He had called earlier to to tell me he was almost home, but I had not gone to his apartment to greet him.
"I can't come," I said. "I have...." I couldn't finish.
"What?" He asked. "A test? A project due? A place you need to be? What?"
"My period," I whispered. "I have my period."
He was quiet for a second. "So? Are you sick or something?"
"No, but...I have my period." I couldn't understand why we was being so obtuse about this. Wasn't it obvious why I couldn't come over?
"If you're not sick, and you don't have any other reason not to be here, then get over here. I haven't seen you in over a week, and I want to see you." His voice was an order, one I could not refuse.
When I got to his apartment, he immediately kissed me, hugged me, and began his gentle intimate touching of my body that he did after a long absence. It was almost like he had to re-claim my body as his own.
I pushed his hands away.
"Don't touch me," I said.
He stepped away, shocked. "Why?"
"Because I have my PERIOD," I said, getting exasperated.
"So what, I'm not allowed to touch you?" He asked.
"You can't," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I'm disgusting," I wailed.
"You look fine to me," he retorted. "You look beautiful. Look, is there something else going on here? Because I'd really love to kiss you, and if you're not going to let me, I'd like a real reason why."
Believe it or not, it was the first time a guy had ever argued with me after I'd refused his advances. Others had protested, some rather rudely, but no one had ever argued about it with me before, and insisted on an explanation for my strange attitude.
"I. Have. My. Period," I emphasized each word, like I was speaking to someone with a hearing disability.
"So what?" He repeated. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
And then this lightbulb went off in my head: he really didn't give a damn about my period. He was taking my refusal to give him access to my body personally.
"I'm gross," I said, ashamed, and slightly angry for having to humiliate myself by explaining this to him. "I'm dirty, and I smell weird...believe me, you don't want to touch me."
Now he got really pissed off. "Do not tell me when I do or do not want to touch you," he said, an edge to his voice. "I've been thinking about seeing you for over a week, and I finally get to have you in my arms again. You are not dirty, you are not gross, I don't know why you think you are but it's not true, so GET OVER HERE."
He pulled me into his arms, and this time, I let him. He didn't care about my period, not one bit. I was the one making him angry by my obstinate behavior. He had been looking forward to this moment all week, and I had was taking all the joy out of it by focusing on something he clearly didn't think was even an issue.
So I kissed him back. We made out for a while, there in the living room, and it felt like I had gone through some sort of epiphany.
I could touch a man during my period. Husband didn't mind; he didn't even care. He didn't see any unholy corruption and filth on me. I was the same me. I just happened to have my period, is all.
I realize this sounds like a big deal over nothing, but for me, given my upbringing, it was a drastic shift in beliefs, and it took me a while to accept it.
But then Husband started unbuttoning my shirt.
"What are you doing?" I screeched.
"What does it look like?" He peeled the shirt off my shoulders and admired the cleavage in my bra. "God, I've been waiting too long for this."
Next: A Jewish Woman and Her Period, the End
When I got older and broke away from the stifling, oppressive lifestyle I had grown up in, my views and habits went through some drastic changes. But some of the basic beliefs, I just could not rid myself of them, and the belief that my period made me dirty and disgraceful in the eyes of God and men was one of them.
For 23 days out of my cycle, I was flirty, alluring, teasing, and fun. I knew I was sexy because I felt sexy, and guys responded to that. But for the other five days, I would become a different person. I would turn shy around men. I dressed very blandly, and covered everything up. It was like I didn't want a man to find me attractive while I had my period, because that would be somehow leading him into sin.
I had a few boyfriends during this time, and when I got my period, I would not let them touch me. At all. They were not allowed to hug me, or give me a kiss hello. It was just one of those things; I think they chalked it up to a woman being in a bad mood during her period, and not wanting to be touched. They didn't realize my beliefs were based on some twisted theology that said if they touched me while I had my period, I would be tainting them with my uncleanliness. Looking back, it all seems so ridiculous; but back then, I felt like I was almost saving them from joining me in abomination. I was doing them a favor.
Then I met Husband.
From the beginning, I think we both knew what we had was something special. We weren't into the whole BDSM lifestyle then, we were both very young and ignorant about a great many things, but even so, the Dom in him and the sub in me were already a set part of our personalities, and we completed each other in ways we'd never found before.
But I still would not have sex with him during my period. At first, the issue didn't even come up. He was traveling a lot back then on business, and he always seemed to be flying off somewhere just when I had my period. In that sense, it was a relief for me not to have to explain to him why he could not fuck me. The topic simply never raised its ugly head.
Until the month he came home three days early from his trip, and I still had my period.
"Why am I home and you're not here?" He called and asked, slightly worried. It had become our ritual that he would tell me when he expected to be back at his apartment, and I was expected to be there, waiting for him. (Again, back then we weren't using words like Dom or sub, but even so, I was submitting to his wishes, obeying his orders to please him, and we both loved it.) He had called earlier to to tell me he was almost home, but I had not gone to his apartment to greet him.
"I can't come," I said. "I have...." I couldn't finish.
"What?" He asked. "A test? A project due? A place you need to be? What?"
"My period," I whispered. "I have my period."
He was quiet for a second. "So? Are you sick or something?"
"No, but...I have my period." I couldn't understand why we was being so obtuse about this. Wasn't it obvious why I couldn't come over?
"If you're not sick, and you don't have any other reason not to be here, then get over here. I haven't seen you in over a week, and I want to see you." His voice was an order, one I could not refuse.
When I got to his apartment, he immediately kissed me, hugged me, and began his gentle intimate touching of my body that he did after a long absence. It was almost like he had to re-claim my body as his own.
I pushed his hands away.
"Don't touch me," I said.
He stepped away, shocked. "Why?"
"Because I have my PERIOD," I said, getting exasperated.
"So what, I'm not allowed to touch you?" He asked.
"You can't," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I'm disgusting," I wailed.
"You look fine to me," he retorted. "You look beautiful. Look, is there something else going on here? Because I'd really love to kiss you, and if you're not going to let me, I'd like a real reason why."
Believe it or not, it was the first time a guy had ever argued with me after I'd refused his advances. Others had protested, some rather rudely, but no one had ever argued about it with me before, and insisted on an explanation for my strange attitude.
"I. Have. My. Period," I emphasized each word, like I was speaking to someone with a hearing disability.
"So what?" He repeated. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
And then this lightbulb went off in my head: he really didn't give a damn about my period. He was taking my refusal to give him access to my body personally.
"I'm gross," I said, ashamed, and slightly angry for having to humiliate myself by explaining this to him. "I'm dirty, and I smell weird...believe me, you don't want to touch me."
Now he got really pissed off. "Do not tell me when I do or do not want to touch you," he said, an edge to his voice. "I've been thinking about seeing you for over a week, and I finally get to have you in my arms again. You are not dirty, you are not gross, I don't know why you think you are but it's not true, so GET OVER HERE."
He pulled me into his arms, and this time, I let him. He didn't care about my period, not one bit. I was the one making him angry by my obstinate behavior. He had been looking forward to this moment all week, and I had was taking all the joy out of it by focusing on something he clearly didn't think was even an issue.
So I kissed him back. We made out for a while, there in the living room, and it felt like I had gone through some sort of epiphany.
I could touch a man during my period. Husband didn't mind; he didn't even care. He didn't see any unholy corruption and filth on me. I was the same me. I just happened to have my period, is all.
I realize this sounds like a big deal over nothing, but for me, given my upbringing, it was a drastic shift in beliefs, and it took me a while to accept it.
But then Husband started unbuttoning my shirt.
"What are you doing?" I screeched.
"What does it look like?" He peeled the shirt off my shoulders and admired the cleavage in my bra. "God, I've been waiting too long for this."
Next: A Jewish Woman and Her Period, the End
Friday, January 24, 2014
My Take on Predator/Prey
I use a lot of labels to describe myself. Masochist, (specifically of the smart-assed variety,) anal slut, 1950's housewife, etc. But the label I use the most to describe myself is sub.
Unfortunately, many people have differing ideas what a "good" sub should act like. I've been told in certain circumstances I've been a bad sub, undisciplined and naughty, for things I've said and done. Ironically, I've never been told this by Husband. It's always been by others.
And I try to explain to these people that while obviously the relationship I have with Husband wouldn't work for them, it works for us. Husband isn't just "putting up with" my behavior, he loves it. He gets off on the power plays, and so do I.
But I've never really been able to explain our dynamic before, or my feelings on the issue...until I read this post. Written by a woman named Emma, it's titled "Predator and Prey Dynamics." It is an awesome post, and summarizes most of what I've always thought of my relationship with Husband, but never really knew how to articulate.
I am not just Husband's sub. I am his prey. And I need him to hunt me down, push me into the corner of his lair, make me cower, and make me understand (always and again) that I am nothing but his chewy playtoy. Like Emma says:
"I need to feel like less than him to submit. That I was the weaker one on the food chain, that he was the alpha, and I wouldn't win in a battle of the wills, the challenge of authority."
This doesn't mean, however, that I am weak and powerless. Quite the contrary: I see myself as a powerful adversary, worthy of the chase. In everyday "vanilla" life, I am a force to be reckoned with, and I have a reputation for my big-mouth and fearless ways. I've tamed my ways some, (I've had to,) but that doesn't mean I've lost my courage and become this meek and docile creature.
The fact is, Husband wouldn't want me to change. I have my needs as the prey; he has his needs as hunter. He needs the prey to be an animal worthy of his time and effort; someone whose head he will be proud to show on his mantle. Hunters don't show off the heads of mice and squirrels, do they? No, they display the heads of the big animals, the bears and the lions, the animals that could have killed them just as quickly as ended up as their trophy.
I need Husband to reaffirm his place as Hunter, the top carnivore, the head of the food chain, and often. And when he does, he feels pride (and a sense of glee) after he's won the chase and enjoying the fun he's having with his food. Like Emma says,
"He loves the challenge, the thrill of the chase as much as I do, and I think this is particularly why we are such a good match for each other."
I will never be his slave, at least not in my own mind. Others will decide to themselves I fit their own label of slave, since I have many of the same rights and responsibilities. But it's wrong. It doesn't fit our dynamic.
In the vanilla world, I am a force of nature: loud, impulsive, stubborn, fearless...I am a lady, but I'm the lady who will surprise you with her strength and fortitude. I can be very generous and kind. I can also be a bitch.
I am prey.
But I am prey for only one man: Husband.
The only man who has ever battled wills, wits, and blows with me...and won.
Unfortunately, many people have differing ideas what a "good" sub should act like. I've been told in certain circumstances I've been a bad sub, undisciplined and naughty, for things I've said and done. Ironically, I've never been told this by Husband. It's always been by others.
And I try to explain to these people that while obviously the relationship I have with Husband wouldn't work for them, it works for us. Husband isn't just "putting up with" my behavior, he loves it. He gets off on the power plays, and so do I.
But I've never really been able to explain our dynamic before, or my feelings on the issue...until I read this post. Written by a woman named Emma, it's titled "Predator and Prey Dynamics." It is an awesome post, and summarizes most of what I've always thought of my relationship with Husband, but never really knew how to articulate.
I am not just Husband's sub. I am his prey. And I need him to hunt me down, push me into the corner of his lair, make me cower, and make me understand (always and again) that I am nothing but his chewy playtoy. Like Emma says:
"I need to feel like less than him to submit. That I was the weaker one on the food chain, that he was the alpha, and I wouldn't win in a battle of the wills, the challenge of authority."
This doesn't mean, however, that I am weak and powerless. Quite the contrary: I see myself as a powerful adversary, worthy of the chase. In everyday "vanilla" life, I am a force to be reckoned with, and I have a reputation for my big-mouth and fearless ways. I've tamed my ways some, (I've had to,) but that doesn't mean I've lost my courage and become this meek and docile creature.
The fact is, Husband wouldn't want me to change. I have my needs as the prey; he has his needs as hunter. He needs the prey to be an animal worthy of his time and effort; someone whose head he will be proud to show on his mantle. Hunters don't show off the heads of mice and squirrels, do they? No, they display the heads of the big animals, the bears and the lions, the animals that could have killed them just as quickly as ended up as their trophy.
I need Husband to reaffirm his place as Hunter, the top carnivore, the head of the food chain, and often. And when he does, he feels pride (and a sense of glee) after he's won the chase and enjoying the fun he's having with his food. Like Emma says,
"He loves the challenge, the thrill of the chase as much as I do, and I think this is particularly why we are such a good match for each other."
I will never be his slave, at least not in my own mind. Others will decide to themselves I fit their own label of slave, since I have many of the same rights and responsibilities. But it's wrong. It doesn't fit our dynamic.
In the vanilla world, I am a force of nature: loud, impulsive, stubborn, fearless...I am a lady, but I'm the lady who will surprise you with her strength and fortitude. I can be very generous and kind. I can also be a bitch.
I am prey.
But I am prey for only one man: Husband.
The only man who has ever battled wills, wits, and blows with me...and won.
The Playground
We looked at each other and grinned.
Was there really a way to do it wrong?
He picked up the slapper first, testing its sting in the palm of his hand.
"I want to try this first," he said. "Then the other." He glanced at the fiberglass cane on the bed, then smiled down at the slapper still in his grip.
"We need to talk about the cane," I said, staring apprehensively at it. "From what I hear, its got a lot of power. You're going to have to really see what you're--"
"Get down," he hissed, "on your knees."
Without hesitating, I obeyed, my movements dictated by years of training. I was wearing no clothes but a bra and sheer pink panties. He grabbed the back of my panties and pulled, wedging the thin material deep into the crack of my ass, making me gasp.
"Let's try this baby out," I heard. A second later, I felt the crisp smack of the slapper against my ass. It stung, but not too badly. I wondered how much weight he had put behind the blow.
"Can we talk about--"
Slap
"First can we--"
Slap
"I get it, you're having fun--"
Slap
"CAN YOU WAIT A MINUTE!" The slaps were beginning to really hurt. Maybe I had underestimated the power of the new slapper, I thought to my dismay.
He stopped his arm midair. I looked up at him: a frown masked his face.
"Why?"
"The cane," I said. "It's got a lot of bite to it. You need to test it carefully."
Now his eyes showed spreading interest.
"Really?" He dropped the slapper on the bed and grabbed up the cane instead. It was longer and thinner than the ones we were accustomed to. It looked vicious in his hand.
"Let me see," he whispered. "Get undressed, all the way. Stand up against the bed, ass out."
I complied, moving quickly...but not as quickly as the drumming pounding away in my chest. The sight of him standing over me, the cane in his hand, the cold glee in his eyes, filled me with fear. It was the kind of fear that makes you catch your breath, focus your entire being on the moment, and makes you remember what it means to be alive.
I had no time to close my eyes before the first blow hit.
SWAT
My back arched off the bed as I sucked in my breath in agony.
"Wow, that's a nice red line," he said.
SWAT
I howled and gripped the sheet.
"The lines are nice and clean. You know what? I bet, maybe...I bet I could write my name on your ass with this thing. See, make this line, then this line across, and this line down...." He began to plan out his hits against my flesh, outlining his art, moving this way and that with the cane as I held my breath and shook with fear.
"Yes, this might work," he said. The blows rained down, quick and precise, each one carefully orchestrated and planned.
The pain was incredible. I kicked up my heels, trying to shake off some of the sting, and when that didn't work, I started to pull myself up the bed. He pulled me back and held me still, tsking as I cried.
"I've just got the last letter," he said. With a final few swats, he was done. "There." He was quiet, and I could tell he was studying his work. "Go look in the mirror."
I stood up from the bed and walked to the mirror, turning to look over my shoulder at my welted, striped buttocks. Next to me, I saw him tilt his head in thought.
"It's not exactly what I wanted," he said. "But we need to work on it." He saw my look of horror. "Not tonight, though. No. Back on your knees. You have something else to do."
I lowered myself down, knowing what was coming. He traded the cane for the slapper, undressed, and then stepped up before me, stopping when my head was aimed between his legs.
He grabbed my chin and pulled it down, opening my mouth wide.
"Take it." He aimed his cock and lunged it straight into my mouth, down my throat. I gagged and pulled back; he held me still. When I struggled, he swatted my backside with the slapper. I shrieked around his cock.
"I love it when you scream when I'm in your mouth," he sighed, wiggling his hips. "You make the nicest vibrations." He slapped again, and I shrieked again. And again. And again. And again. The slaps were nothing like the swats with the cane, but they still hurt, especially where he had tried to carve his name into my ass. Soon I was crying again.
"Your ass is such a beautiful red, but I can't see my name anymore. Too bad. Next time I'll have to go harder. Now get on the bed. On your back, legs in the air."
I sighed with relief. Now he would fuck me; now there would be no new pain, just the throbbing ache coming from my blushing ass...and the pleasure of being used as his plaything.
He entered me with one smooth slide. I was wet, slick with the need of my arousal.
He grabbed my legs behind my knees and pushed them wide, digging his fingers into my flesh. I was already lost in my own pleasure at that point, feeling nothing but the growing pressure of release, but the pain of his fingers biting into my legs broke through my thoughts.
"Watch your thumbs," I said.
"What?" He stopped.
"Watch your thumbs," I repeated, thinking foolishly he hadn't heard me. "They're squeezing me."
"Oh, really?"
He let go of one of my legs with his hand. As the force of gravity pulled my leg down, he moved his hand over to my pussy, sliding it inside. He hooked his thumb in deep. I grimaced and moaned.
"You want me to watch my thumb?"
He slid his thumb out from deep inside my cunt, moved it down, and began to bury it into the tight ring of my ass. Making a plaintive cry, I began to twist across the bed, but he held me still by the ankle and continued to push his thumb in through the clenching ring of muscle, wiggling it as he went.
"I'm watching my thumb. See? I'm watching it right now. I'm watching it disappear inside you. Oh yes, do that." I had raised my butt off the bed, trying to escape his brazen finger. My attempt had only made it easier for him to push deeper inside. "Nope, can't watch my thumb anymore. Sorry. I bet you can feel it, though. Can you feel it?"
He twisted it inside my asshole, stretching sensitive skin, and my voice came out a high-pitched "eeee."
He entered my pussy once more, shoving in with his cock, wiggling his thumb as he went. This time, my cries were ones of rising pleasure.
"Shall I still watch my thumb? What do you think?" He pumped his thumb in and out of my ass in rhythm to his cock, thrusting hard, claiming both brutally.
The pressure built, and spread, until his cock and finger broke through like battering-rams and my pleasure gushed forth in release. A moment later, he was experiencing his own release. He pulled away his finger from my squeezing ass as he shuddered and collapsed on top of my own sweaty body.
As my breathing slowed to normal, I opened my eyes, and saw him looking down at me.
"What hurts the most?" He asked.
"Right now, my asshole," I said, pouting.
He furrowed his brows. "Next time you'll think about that before you go telling me to 'watch my thumbs.'" He shook his head, then smiled. "How's your butt?"
I got off the bed, slowly, moving like one who had just gotten the bull ride of her life, and walked over to the mirror.
"It doesn't hurt at all," I said, looking for some evidence of our play. There was barely any, just some minor redness that would soon fade. My lips curved down in disappointment. There would be no marks to admire, no lasting parting gift.
"We'll play with these again," he said, kissing my temple. "Maybe not both toys together, but one at a time. There'll be lots of other nights to play."
Endless nights, years to come, hours of pleasure to spend with, and play with, the love of my life. The rest of our lives together.
We weren't looking for our own playground. We weren't building it, either. We were the playground, and new equipment was always to be had.
"I know," I said, kissing him on the mouth. He hugged me, a reassuring, loving embrace, and I hugged him back. "I know."
A quick heads-up:
The next Hotel Bentmoore story, Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Evie (Babygirl), is coming out in the next couple days. So look for it soon!
Ed. to add: It is out, and available on Amazon and B&N.
What Happened Last Night
I had not been planning on posting today, but if you caught the message added to yesterday's post, you'll know Husband's car was crashed that afternoon. And, as is bound to happen after a catastrophe like that, plans change.
Husband's car was brand new. He loved it. We are not the kind of people who get a new car every few years; we drive our cars into the ground, and only replace them when the they have to be towed away. So we don't get to enjoy that "new car feeling" very often.
Yesterday, he ran into a store to pick up a few things, and while inside, a delivery truck drove into his car and smashed it.
He called me and told me what happened.
"I'll be home late," he said. "I need to talk to the driver, and the owner of the company he's working for."
I wanted to cry for him. Husband was in full 'I need to deal with this matter' mode, thinking about paperwork, phone calls, next steps--what needed to get done. But I knew he was in despair.
He didn't call again until much later.
"I think I'll be home in a hour," he said--this time his voice was gruff. "You be ready for me."
I knew what that meant. I was about to become his whipping post.
By the time he came home, the kids were in their beds, and I was waiting for him in the bedroom, naked, and on high alert.
He didn't take off his belt as he walked in the door. I should have known things were going to go differently right then.
"Lie down over the bed," he said.
I bent my body over the edge of the bed, reaching my hands forward until I could just grasp the opposite edge.
"On your toes," he said. It was then I began to worry. Husband knows how hard it is for me to stay on my tiptoes while I'm being 'handled'; my legs begin to shake as my muscles give into the tension. But I went on my toes, as ordered, raising my ass a few inches higher.
He didn't take off his belt. He started with his bare hand, spanking me with blows that pushed me into the mattress. There was no warmup. His palm hitting my flesh again and again sounded like thunderclaps.
I started trying to pull myself over the bed. He pulled me back down by the shoulders.
"Oh no you don't," he growled, and spanked me faster.
I grabbed a pillow and shoved my face into it to muffle my crying.
And here's where the scene took a turn away from the typical, and into the land of terrible: he didn't slow down when he realized I was crying in pain. He kept going.
And then he grabbed the hair brush.
"I haven't used this for a while," he whispered. I had to hold back a sob to hear him. "I think it's time."
The hair brush is one of the worst weapons in his arsenal. It's wide, covering a large swath of skin, and it stings. It doesn't take a lot of force to cause damage. Husband thinks it's a fun little toy; I think it's the devil's invention.
Using the brush on a clear, unbruised bottom is bad enough; using it on an already-red-and-stinging bottom is unadulterated agony.
For a few minutes, I was in pure, righteous hell. After every swat of the brush, a second of shock would hit me along with the pain, like I couldn't believe how much this swat hurt after the last one. Like my mind simply couldn't take it.
And then I realized: he was not going to stop on his own. He was going to keep going, and keep going, until I safeworded.
It was only a few swats after that I safeworded, loudly.
He stopped immediately. He let me cry for a few minutes on his shoulder. But it was clear the scene was not yet done.
"Are you okay now?" He asked me when my breathing had returned to normal and the tears had stopped. "All fine?"
"I guess," I said, gingerly touching my ass.
"Okay. Then here's what I want you to do: go in the bathroom. Clean yourself out. Lube your ass up, and present yourself back over the bed. I'm going to fuck your ass, and I'm not going to be gentle about it."
His words filled me with shock and fear. I knew by "clean yourself out," he meant this:
He knows this procedure takes me time. More importantly, he knows I need a while to recover before I'm, shall we say, ready for more action.
He wasn't giving me that time. And he wasn't giving me a choice.
He saw my look of terror, the hesitation on my face, and said:
"It's either this or more of the brush. And there will be no safewording this time. I'll keep going until I feel like stopping."
I thought my heart would stop right there.
"When you say lube yourself up..."
"I'm not going to make sure you do it right. What you use is what you've got, and you'd better use enough, or it's gonna hurt."
Now, I'm an anal slut by nature. I've made that plain. But that doesn't mean I like being rammed in the ass straight on; I need some time, a gentle introduction so to speak, before the fun can really start.
"So it's either you fuck my ass hard--"
"Or the brush. What's it gonna be?"
I had to think about it; really think about it. The choice I was facing made me want to cry all over again.
"I'll be ready in a few minutes," I said. He left the room.
I can't describe to you the emotions that went through me as I prepared. There was surprise, and there was fear...but there was also this heady feeling of arousal, this knowledge that something was about to happen to me that I couldn't control and I couldn't escape and I couldn't bargain out of...that this man whom I had given absolute authority over me was about to violate me in ways he never had before...and I was so aroused I could hardly stand it. My body was running on pure adrenaline, my head rushing with it...and I loved it.
A little while later, when he came back into the room, I was presented as instructed.
"Spread," he said. I spread.
He rammed into me just as he had warned he would, fast and hard, and I shrieked so loud I was sure I'd wake up the kids. He started fucking my ass, savagely.
The initial pain and brutality of it skyrocketed me to new heights of arousal. Pain, mixed with fear, mixed pure and potent excitement...it was like nothing I'd ever felt before.
But I wasn't sure if I was allowed to come without permission.
"Please, can I--"
"Come this time," he said, grunting. I had no idea what that meant, except that I could give in to to the avalanche of pleasure about to pour over me and let it ride me out. He didn't alter his rhythm as I came, but kept going at a good pace, and it was just heaven.
But when I was done, he knew what I was thinking. After I come, I get very tight, and usually he has to finish fairly quickly or it starts to hurt me badly.
"Don't think you're going anywhere anytime soon," he said. I could hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug knowledge that he was scaring me all over again. "I'm going to take my time, and you're not going to move."
I knew better than to say anything in protest--but my limbs began to shake.
He kept pumping, and my ass grew tighter; and I knew by the sounds he was making that while he was enjoying himself, he was actively trying to hold himself back. It hurt, and I started to cry out a little, but it didn't make any difference.
And then something strange happened. I started feeling another orgasm building up; I knew it would be great, more intense than the last one, because my ass was already clenching and sore.
"I'm going to come again," I said.
"No you're not," he said from behind me. "You'll wait this time."
It was then I realized he had known, he had known, I would be coming again. He knew my body better than I did. And now he was ordering me to wait.
I tried. I tried so hard. I relaxed my muscles, focused on my breathing, and did everything I could to hold myself back. And meanwhile, he kept going, working at his own pace, moving the way he wanted to extend his own pleasure.
"Play with your clit," he said. "But don't come yet."
His words were like ice water on my already shaking flesh.
"I'll can't, or I'll come," I wailed. "Please, can't I--"
Wap!
He had grabbed the hair brush from the countertop, and brought it down on the mound of my bottom with blunt force. I yelped.
"Do it," he said. "Or I'll keep using the brush. I may use it anyway, I don't know..."
"Okay, okay," I sobbed. I felt so helpless, and afraid of my own body's reactions; but more than anything, I felt in awe of him, and adoration over his control over me.
Following his orders, I gasped by the first touch; I was so sensitive, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer.
"I'll know if you come," he warned. "Don't yet."
He rammed, and I rubbed, and my ass grew even tighter; I could hear him gasping in ecstasy. The sounds only aroused me more. I started to cry.
"Please, please, please..."
That was all I could get out, that one word. Over and over again. He said nothing to my begs for release. I could tell he was enjoying listening to me plead.
Finally, after a long time, he gave me what I needed.
"Now," was all he said. It was all he needed to say: I came with blinding light, like a firecracker going off into the sky, colors exploding behind my eyelids and jolts of pleasure racking my whole body. It didn't stop; it kept going, on and on, as he kept pumping into my ass from behind me, letting his own pleasure go at his own pace, feeling my body spasm and roil around and beneath him.
I had no idea when he was done. I was completely out of it at that point. My nerves were shot to hell, cold and dead. I was awake, but like a zombie.
I know he took care of me, because as I came back from the black cloud my mind had wandered into, I realized I was in bed, under a blanket, and he was lying next to me, holding me against his chest.
"You okay?"
It was over now. His voice was his own again, not the savage sadist's it had been before. He was watching me, looking for signs of acute subdrop, and taking care to make sure I was okay. My heart swelled with love all over again.
"Yeah. I think. Oh my god. That was intense."
"You liked it?"
He sounded worried. Like he was thinking maybe, now that it was all over, he had gone too fucking far.
"Are you kidding me? I loved it. Oh my god. That was incredible."
My words brought a huge grin to his face.
"Good to know," he said. "And you're really okay?"
"Yeah, just tired."
"Go to sleep then. I'm going to go downstairs." He kissed my forehead and got up to get dressed.
"Goodnight," I said.
He left the room.
After he left, I did go through a bit more of a subdrop; I began to feel shaky, and cold, like the numbness that had filled my mind before was now hitting my flesh.
But I felt like I could handle it. I knew, if I called Husband, he would immediately rush back and stay with me until he was sure I was 100% okay. But I didn't want him to have to do that, so I didn't call him. Instead, I went to bed.
And now I'm fine. My butt is colorful, but I'm fine. And more than ever, completely, hopelessly, utterly in love with that man.
I derive great satisfaction from being his whipping post. It makes me feel happy, proud, almost smug that I can do this service for him. But last night went beyond that.
It showed me how much he knows my body, better than I know myself. And it showed me how my willingness to give myself to him, my body, my soul, everything, only brings me to greater heights of pleasure and satisfaction.
I love you, Husband. So, so much.
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