Clit piercing

When we were in college, I got a tattoo and he pierced his ear. I wanted to pierce my tongue, too, but he told me if I put a piece of metal in my mouth like that he’d never kiss me again. He’d still love me, but he wasn’t interested in kissing me with metal in my mouth.

I grumped, but I didn’t pierce my tongue, or anything else for that matter, although I continued piercing my ears – I have 4 on each ear.

And for the next ten years, I really didn’t think about them at all. I saw them in porn, particularly BDSM porn, but really didn’t commit too many brain cells to thinking about them in any way shape or form. There was no point in my mind, he’d never mentioned them again in any capacity so why waste energy? I knew what the different piercings were and knew a lot of female slaves had labial piercings or hood piercings or sometimes even clit piercings but I didn’t really let my mind wander beyond the fact that they exist.

So of course, he sent me an email this morning saying he’d spent the train ride into the city looking into getting my clit pierced. What the hell?

So, I’ve spent my day in a nervous flutter. Half of me is convinced this about the same level of serious-ness as the email I woke up toback in August about branding me, which I have pretty much ruled was a mindfuck…I think.

But half of me is also a little worried…well worried isn’t the right word but…unsure, because he actually gave me a time frame and that’s usually a sign he’s made up his mind to do something. We did talk about the differences between a clit piercing and a hood piercing and a triangle piercing that goes –under- the clit and…I guess what happens will depend on what I’m anatomically suited for?

And when I asked him if I got a say, his reply was hot. He said I could say what I wanted, so yes, but the decision was his. Which has me all colours of confused because I’m torn between feeling like – hey, don’t break my clit, it works fine tyvwm! and feeling like – swoon!

And granted, at the time, I thought he was serious about branding me. I doubt he’s ruled it out for the future but at the same time until we’ve firmly agreed on what our roles are, I am equally doubtful he’d actually do it.

But I don’t know. And I don’t really understand why I’m not arguing with him, either.

On punishment and bathroom sex

Things didn’t happen quite as I had thought they would, but I –was- punished for being late to bed. He didn’t use the cane because he came home tipsy after going to a beer tasting, and to be honest, it seemed like he was going to wait until the next day – which meant not happen – which honestly had me wondering if this was going to work at all.

I didn’t want to control him or correct him on it. As much as I’m sure it still would have hurt…it wouldn’t be the same if I told him he needed to punish me. (There are times when we’ve done that and it’s fun, but that…isn’t what this is about.) I waited until he was about to go to bed before I talked to him because I didn’t want to just sit on my feelings or let the dynamic fall apart from the start; I do want this to work. I just told him as respectfully as I could that not following through was why this hadn’t worked the last time we had tried it. We talked for a few minutes because in his mind not being sober enough to handle the cane was a very good reason to not try to cane me – and he was and is right about that.

But at the same time, this was the first test – we were two days into our 30 day agreement. If things were already going awry, how could we make the rest of the month work? If he explicitly told me he was going to punish me for tardiness – and held firm to that idea up until the point of execution – I felt like we were right back to letting this go. Punishments pushed off have never happened and I wasn’t exactly filled with confidence that this would be an exception. I don’t need him to be an overbearing micromanaging dominant, but I do need him to be able to draw a response out of me. If he’s all bark and no bite, even if I jump the first time or the second time, eventually…human nature…I am going to stop jumping. I don’t want to submit to a dominant I forge in my head – I want to submit to him.

It didn’t take him very long to decide I was right.  And even though I had made it clear that I wasn’t asking him to punish me (and really, I didn’t even want him to), he yanked my hairbrush out of my hand and bent me over. I’ll admit, I was a little peeved. That was my hairbrush! And I had only brought this up when I did because I didn’t want to manipulate him into punishing me and I was immediately worried I had. I stopped worrying about that pretty fast though because damn – that fucking hurt. I’d never had more than the occasional swat with it and I was so freaking surprised at the pain – it hurt and then it stung! Not that he’s big on warm ups anyway, but there were none – and he was swinging hard, and getting harder. I actually cried out on the last one even though I could see from the look on his face in the mirror that it was going to be a bad one. Stupid brush, I might never look at it the same again – despite not having the heft of the wooden spoon or flogger or the crack of the belt, it hurt. A lot. And left me barely red! Insult to injury.

And of course, he decided he liked that. Putting my hands behind head and admonishing me to keep them there, he began spanking my breasts with that stupid brush. OW. My breasts bruise pretty easily – I’ve never figured out why – but I was surprised how fast they came up. I don’t even know when it changed but at some point he spun me around to fuck me roughly from behind – while still swatting my tits with the damn hairbrush. I don’t remember much of it but I do remember being on the peak and he swatted my right breast hard enough to bring me down hard – I was snapped out it so fast because it felt like my whole breast stung. He grinned (sex in the bathroom has advantages) – bastard knew exactly what he had done! – and fucked me harder, still swatting my right breast. I’ve dealt with pain during sex before – clothespins on my clit and nipples, tabasco on my clit, him grinding into welts and bruises from me just being caned or spanked etc – but rarely more than the occasional spank during the actual fucking and I wasn’t sure if I was going to find my rhythm again to come during regular intervals of sporadic pain. Needless to say though..I did. Haha.

And it wasn’t that I liked the spanks on my breast – some of them were really hard! – but maybe it was the contrast, because I do remember that I came hard.

And damn, but there is literally a palm sized bruise on the outside of my right breast.

I have more I want to write about, but I think I’ll make it a separate post because I want to be able to find it easily later.

Back down the rabbit hole

Oh look, I have a blog. Say what?

The truth is, shortly after my last entry, he asked me to show him a post of mine, and that required giving him the link to my blog. He knew it existed but hadn’t asked to see it. And as soon as this became a space that was 100% transparent I turned chicken. So instead of blogging and reaching out to others in similar head spaces or life situations, I…ignored my blog completely.

And that’s been bugging me for about two months, but yanno. The whole chicken thing.

But blogging about my reactions and responses and feelings about submission was helpful, and while he never said a word I am pretty sure he would think so too.

So, hi blog. –dusts off the blog- Sorry to neglect you, I’ll try to be a good girl.

And well, it didn’t help that things got a little stagnant. He’s been busy, he’s worked late…and the power dynamic…wasn’t maintained. I’m not finding fault, but I had a hard time feeling submissive when he wasn’t acting dominant. Not that we didn’t still have rough sex or he didn’t still order me to blow him, but it was more like…kinky sex and expected oral sex rather than an actual kinky dynamic. There were occasional erotic threats that would send little jolts of arousal through me, but they were almost never carried through. And I just…I couldn’t convince myself that I was still being submissive when there was no one to submit to. I wasn’t willing to pretend in the safety of my own head that he was being a dom when really, he was just too tired or busy to tend to that aspect of our relationship. It just doesn’t work in my head to submit in bits and pieces; I guess I’m just too…too all or nothing. If he isn’t in control, it doesn’t work for me.

And well..I challenged him, a lot. It wasn’t conscious, but looking back, I think I was trying to get .. a reaction? I wanted him to respond by taking control, or more by showing me that I wasn’t. We did know the dynamic had slipped to the wayside in the face of overwhelming worldly issues, and it’s not like this was a conscious thing on my part – I just knew I was frustrated. And when he wouldn’t respond – or respond consistently, I became more frustrated. I don’t need him to control the minutiae in my life – I am an intelligent, highly educated person who has successfully managed professionally. But if we’re going to give lipservice to the idea of D/s relationship…it doesn’t work if there’s nothing to submit to, at least for me. Maybe it does for other people and I’m just needy and selfish. I can own that, I’m well aware of both the good points and flaws that make up my personality. But either way, it didn’t work.

But we’ve been talking about working on it and ,aking an effort, because it’s something we both find fulfilling, erotic, and enjoyable. He proposed a month of absolute; no boundaries or limits beyond those we’ve mutually established in the relationship outside of a D/s context. Complete control, complete obedience, and punishment if I don’t hold up my end. We spent quite a while emailing back and forth about it, because not only is this deeper than any of our trials before – it feels…more serious. More real.

And so…the neglected blog. –dusts it off some more-

Will it work this time? I don’t know. I hope so. I’m sitting here with the jeweled steel butt plug in because he told me too. (On a side note, that thing is uncomfortable, but not the way I thought it would be – the flat edges around the jewel…pinch. I think we need a nicer one if he wants extended use.) I had a reason for mentioning that, but I can’t remember what it is now.

I plan to give it what I’ve got…I believe he will too. And that makes me nervous. Nervous because…I think it will work. I feel like it’s a shift in our relationship. I feel like he can be strong enough to dominate me, which both frightens me because I have a strong personality – I am not a doormat. I am not the kind of submissive falling over herself to bow at her dom or master or owner or (insert label of your choice here)’s feet. To submit I need to feel like .. he’s stronger, I guess. And while I’m frightened at the idea of being broken to submission, much as it’s something I want, it’s…thrilling, too. I want him to have control not just because I’ve randomly decided to fall down at his feet, but because he’s stronger – not an ass, but stronger – and I have to. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the email I got saying that I have 10 lashes (of what? The flogger? One of the canes? I’m not sure) has me wet. Not because I want the pain – I’m not that kind of masochist to get off on the actual pain – but because I was 10 minutes late getting to bed last night and he’s going to enforce it. Which…he wouldn’t have before.

Happy Valentine's Day?

When you settle into a routine, feel comfortable in your relationship…it always happens. He found a way to shake me, to have me sitting here nervous and questioning myself.

I suppose I should have known it was coming, but it’s been months since he brought up the subject of an extended-use butt plug. I regularly update a tumblr erotic blog for him and he comments on the ones with the pretty jeweled butt plugs but he hasn’t mentioned the idea of me wearing one in…well…a long time.

But it’s Valentine’s Day. Where most girls and wives get pretty flowers or candy or jewelry or maybe lingerie, I’m getting, apparently, a steel butt plug. Cue butterflies. Lots of them. I’m pretty sure in fact, that those butterflies are actually in a desperate battle from the way my tummy is quivering right now.

And he’s needling me about it too. It’s not here yet so he’s exaggerating the size, and talking about the safety precautions he researched. Telling me how when I wear it, I’ll never forget I’m his.

I so love/hate any anal activity at all. It terrifies me that regular anal is changing my body, that my body is different and it’s no longer a fight to get inside me when he wants to fuck my ass. I look at blogs with girls gaping after anal – which he likes, very much – and I look at pictures of girls you can tell have often played with large anal toys. It scares me that visually I might be different, even if physically I feel the same – I don’t feel looser, but I know there’s a change. My body accommodates him in ways it never did without a lot of patient foreplay before. On my own, I would never explore anal or any type of backdoor sexual activity (rimming, fisting, fucking – any of it) but it’s such a turn on for him that even as I hate it, even as part of me is horrified at being touched there or of licking him, it still turns me on.

And this…this is another level. If he goes as far as he’s talking about, even in the parts of my life where I feel normal, whatever that means, he will always be there. There’s no way to escape that. And that’s scary. I feel like…this is another level to take from me. To give to him. Sometimes I feel like a person and sometimes…I feel like his. I feel like we’re about to push the scales further towards him. And as much as part of me wants that part of me fights that. I have felt, if not exactly comfortable, happy with submission….and I suppose that means I have much, much further to go. The question is…how far does he want me to go?

It is what it is

It struck me last night just how…normal…anal sex has become.

It used to be a once-in-a-blue-moon event for us. Before we started explicitly exploring D/s and S/M it was something that took a lot of convincing, because it was something so taboo to me. So exotic, so different, and so intense that it wasn’t something I was ever comfortable doing and rarely comfortable enough to do more than once in a while. When I was pregnant, we didn’t have it at all, and not for several months after our daughter was born. It scared me.

In fact, back when we were awkward teenagers in the early stages of dating, back when we first talking about sex – and well before we had actually done anything beyond petting – we had even talked about anal sex. And I put it on my whopping list of two sexual acts I was never interested in trying. (That and blood sports, if anyone is curious for the second.) Looking back now I smile at the memory…how life changes. I distinctly remember the pause on the other end of the phone as he processed what I had said and simply acknowledged what I had said, and the conversation moved on.

A couple months after that conversation, we were no longer virgins. And a couple months after that, he brought anal sex up again. Most of the details of that conversation are now lost – all I remember is twirling the phone cord around a finger as we talked, and freezing for a few moments when he brought it up again. I remember the quick flashes of memory as different fantasies that involved anal sex had flashed through my mind (shallow, lacking the depth of experience that would colour later fantasies, but memorable even now nonetheless). I don’t even remember what he said or how he asked – I vaguely recall something to the effect of urging me to be open-minded and being struck by the depth of the interest he conveyed – but the words are lost.

And how vividly I remember our first time attempting anal, so much more noteworthy than our first time having sex (sadly, like everyone else on the planet we weren’t much good at sex the first time we tried it, although we’ve gotten better with practice!). The flash of pain, the unique feeling of being totally stretched..begging him to pull out.

Even though he did pull out and we found our ends some other way (vaginal sex, I think, although that part I don’t totally recall), the next day at school I still felt it, the twinge of pain when my muscles tensed that reminded me vividly of what we had done. And I whispered in his ear, on the bus on the way to a tournament, that I wanted to try again. I remember the look of shock on his face – whether from my impulsive choice in places to have that conversation or the content, I never asked – and how eager he was when the opportunity came around about again.

To his vast disappointment, though, that enthusiasm never quite got me far enough to ask for anal beyond that one instance, and when it happened it was usually because he was extremely persuasive. Anal sex simmered in the realm of sexual fantasy for the most part, an act occasionally submitted to when the desire to make him feel good overwhelmed me (or after we reached adulthood, when a drink had me more open to persuasion…heh). There’s no doubt in my mind that if he hadn’t wanted it so badly, it wouldn’t have happened at all…it was something I did for him, completely, although if I had been honest with myself then (and few teenagers are…I definitely wasn’t) I would have admitted that submitting to his desire tripped my triggers enough to become masturbation fodder on nights he didn’t sleep over.

And for the most part, until the past year or so, that set the pattern for the next several years of our lives. He whined a little bit sometimes about not getting “enough” anal and pushed for it more frequently, but for the most part he was a very kind, respectable gentleman who respected his wife’s boundaries and her “no.” We had all kinds of anal sex – the gentle anal with lots of lube, anal play with his fingers or dildos, analingus – rougher anal, the kind that hurt - silly drunk anal where I probably should have been a little gentler with my butt but was too smashed to care – and all the flavors in between. Even sleep anal, where I feigned sleep as he lubed my ass with baby oil and took me while I “slept” (though he later confessed he had hoped to wake me when I “confronted” him…heh). But not ever regular anal.

At some point, I realized what I really wanted, particularly when it came to anal sex. Occasionally, I confessed that if he had pushed a little harder the night before I would have given in…which was always met with a baffled “But you said no!” I wanted him to force me into it, to make me comply with what he wanted from me sexually, to take the pleasure he wanted from my body whether I gave my consent at that moment or not. I didn’t want him to take no for an answer, but I never quite said that explicitly then because I was still wrestling with my erotic triggers, much more than I am now. (Despite the turmoil I blog about, I’m mostly comfortable with what gets me off now…but I definitely wasn’t always.)

Eventually, after enough confessions, the lightbulb flipped on for him and he started pushing harder when I said “no” to anal…it still wasn’t a regular occurrence in our sex life, but it became more frequent.

And now? I can barely remember the last time we had vaginal sex. I think we’ve had it since our anniversary, which granted, was very memorable, but I’m not honestly sure. When he reaches for me for sex, even if he starts with vaginal penetration for lubrication instead of my mouth, it barely crosses my mind that that might be his goal – the assumption is that anything he’s doing is preparation for anal. I’ve stopped groaning in frustration and disappointment when he pulls out and instead presses the head of his cock against my anus. It simply is what it is.

And I have internalized this much more than I supposed I ever would. Anal sex is his preference and I have adjusted to that with a minimum of fuss – while I’ll admit I whined at first, since we do want a second child and this isn’t the best path for that, and my physical pleasure is greater from vaginal sex, it has mostly stopped crossing my mind.

Even when I initiate sex, I expect it to end in anal sex. It’s what he wants; it’s the pleasure he wants. It’s the type of penetration he’s always been more interested in. I’ve even asked him if he’s consciously preferencing anal sex over vaginal sex, like when I was being punished with a vaginal sex ban, and he’s not. Anal sex is just what he wants, what he’s reaching for.

Physically, I can feel the difference. Anal sex is still sometimes painful, but for the most part..my body is now used to opening for him. It doesn’t stress me and cause me to tense the way it used to. I can accommodate him inside me completely, without locking down and making it painful. Less lube is required (when it’s not punishment sex, that is…lube isn’t a given then) and we no longer even need more than saliva or my own juices most of the time. That unnerves me somewhat – I’ve seen the blogs depicting girls with broken-in butts due to heavy anal play, and I’m sure some degree of that type of physical change is in evidence between my legs.

But even then, I don’t usually stress about it anymore. It’s what he wants, it’s his preference…and so it’s becoming mine.

Who would have ever seen that one coming.

I wasn't in the mood...

Sex is few and far between right now; he’s picked up a ton of temping jobs, which is great in that he’s actually making more than he was full time but the hours are crazy. He just worked 30 hours Fri/Sat/Sun – for awesome pay, $35 an hour, but in a different state. Okay, that state is only an hour away, but still. But the time he gets home he’s wiped. We have dinner, put the baby to bed – if we have any kind of intimacy, it’s him wandering out just long enough to come in my mouth and then go to sleep.

And while casual use like that pushes some more general buttons of mine – he’ll stop me in whatever I’m doing, grab me by my hair, force me down onto my knees and push me onto his cock – it certainly hasn’t been doing anything for my sex drive. Masturbation just isn’t the same and I’ve been literally feeling like I’ve wanted to climb the walls, frustrated with life and stressed and horny as hell.

Usually. But tomorrow he has a slightly later start time for the job he’s at, so he stayed up a little later. After he put my collar on, he told me to go lie down, face down.

 “Are you going to rub me?” I asked hopefully. I was horny but stressed and upset, and not in the mood for pain. At all. A backrub…or elsewhere rub...sounded pretty good though, just attention from him…

“I…am not going to answer that,” he told me. Not a hopeful sign.

“I’m not up to play tonight…I’m too upset.”

“Go lie down.”

And I did, grumbling. I wasn’t up to what I thought he was planning, and my assumption was proven correct when he came out with the otk delrin cane.

“I want marks on you – I want bruises,” he told me, threatening.

“I can’t do this love, I’m too upset –“ I protested, but a mean thwack of the cane had me yelping. Fuck, that hurts!

“I want marks,” he repeated.

“You’re not listening to me!” I cried, panicked. That had hurt…and I so could not deal with pain.

“I’m listening. Why can’t you deal with it?” Thwack!

“Ahh! Ouch! I’m too upset…my head’s not in the right place.” The cane is the worst kind of pain for me, so cutting and severe that I can’t take it silently most of the time.

“I want marks.” Whap!

“Ow! You couldn’t want marks when I’m turned on?!” I was panicked, it was really hurting and in the best of situations I have no tolerance for it. I didn’t want to fight him on this but I was frightened…I just…I couldn’t do it. Not then. The day before I would have swooned for a beating but tonight I wasn’t there.

He took his cock out, and he was completely hard, super turned on by our exchange. He grabbed me by the hair and I begged for – and won – my only concession of no hair pulling…I still really wanted gentleness and was trying hard not to fight what he wanted. Holding my head gently instead, he forced his cock past my lips, letting me lick and suck for a moment before pulling out.

“Nope. I want them when I’m awake,” he told me, and climbed on top of me, grabbing my hair and squeezing me. “You’re mine. Your body is mine, for –my- amusement. Deal with it.” Pulling my ass apart, he started forcing his way into my anus…the pain was incredible, because I really wasn’t in a space to deal with it and had a hard time accommodating him inside me. I cried out as he fucked me, almost grateful when he pulled out…and saw his shadow on the wall, raising the cane.

Thwack. Whap.

And suddenly, my headspace just…transformed. It still hurt like hell. I hate the cane. But suddenly, I wanted the marks he wanted. As the cane whistled through the air, to finally fall hard on my ass and upper thighs, I wasn’t flinching and I wasn’t crying out. I was raising my hips upwards to meet the cane, wanting to feel it…wanting the pain, wanting the welts and the bruising. This was the hardest caning I’d ever had and I could immediately tell why I hadn’t bruised (or bruised much) previous times – as much as they’d hurt before this was much, much harder.

He’d grope my butt in between hits sometimes, squeezing and making me wince.

“Here comes a good one,” he warned.

“The other ones weren’t good?” I wasn’t be a smart ass – I was feeling…raw. Dreamy.

“Nope. This one will be really hard.” I gasped when it fell, clutched the pillow I was laying on but I felt…hazy. I wanted more.

I have no idea how many strokes of the cane fell. He didn’t make me count, and I’m grateful – the numbers would probably have scared me.

But without a doubt, it was the longest, most intense caning he’d ever given me. When he went back between my legs to force himself inside my ass again, he told me my butt was one big welt…I felt the hard swellings that would be bruises and the soft welts that would fade by the next day. As he fucked me, forcing himself in and out of my asshole, I felt him slamming against me, the soreness of his groin grinding into my ass just…indescribable.

If I had thought the caning would be over when he came, I was wrong. After he pulled out, he grabbed the cane and in an almost dreamy way I watched his shadow on the wall as the cane fell several more times…and when it was over, I asked for more.

I can’t really explain why, sitting here now, but I did. I asked for, and got, several more cane strokes. And then I offered my breasts, which are now sporting 5 bright red weals. (3 on my left breast, 2 on my right. Assymetry!)

And later, after we’d cleaned up and he’d poured a shot of scotch for himself, I lay on the couch next to him and offered my thighs. Ignoring my left (a bad angle, he said), ten strokes that felt much too hard fell on my poor soft right thigh, which is now sporting some stripy bruises.

The bruises on my butt are just starting to be visible. I can feel them as I walk…and I will feel them tomorrow, and remember his words.