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.

Craving violence

Life has been so stressful since he lost his job. I won’t go into the details here because they’re not relevant to my headspace or to kinky sex or to submission, but I’ll leave it at – it was totally bogus and infuriating. And while he’s picked up a couple of temping assignments, it’s been rough. He was the full time worker. I do work from home, but my primary job is watching our daughter. So tensions have been high between applying for unemployment, putting our student loans into deferment while we scramble to replace his full time position and do the other un-fun necessities related to losing your primary source of income.

It’s been nervewracking. Wondering if we’ll miss a mortgage payment, wondering if we’ll be able to buy enough food, pay all the bills. Most of the worry is superfluous; we’re savers. We have enough in the bank to live through January even if he gets denied unemployment (which is unlikely in the first place). If we empty my 401k and cash out our savings bond it can go on longer. While job hunting is rough, in his field he should be able to find work fairly fast…and the funny part is it’s likely he’ll end up making more than he was at his previous firm. But it’s still nervewracking and tensions have been high.

Understandably, sex has mostly fallen to the wayside. There’s been the occasional lurid encounter – during one memorable babygirl nap we spent the time with my mouth covered by a pillow to muffle my screams and his fist jammed inside me over and over. He made a heroic effort at a second hand, too, but concluded I was just too small for that. (Fisting hurts. Attempting to add more fingers = sore cunt.) Despite the failure to double fist, the attempt turned him on enough that for the first time in a long time we had anal sex with no lube when it wasn’t a punishment or connected with misbehavior on my end. He was just turned on so much he had to have me right then – which meant both my ass and pussy spent the rest of the day throbbing. It’s rare for him to get turned on enough to lose sight of details (like, yanno, LUBE) so it’s a definitely been a memory haunting my fantasies.

But with tensions and stress levels so high often times we spend the day worrying and doing everything we can to manage our new reality (by applying for jobs or taking on new work-at-home projects) that we fall into bed exhausted.

I know it’s been hard on him but without being inside his head, I can’t really analyze it. My own headspace is another story.

It’s interesting because..you’d think the stresses of life would have shoved off my libido. And the first night and first day afterwards, it did. But afterwards, I find myself desperate for a new level of intensity, depravity, and servitude. I can’t word that any better – I’m desperate for it. I haven’t – and won’t – push for it, although I did confess tonight that in the past two weeks I haven’t really felt like I belonged to him. It would be hard to – he’s been so busy and so stressed.

I know it’s not a lack of desire on his part, because while making love a week ago the night of my birthday he sort … I don’t even know how to explain it, but took advantage of me being desperate to get fucked to formally extend our agreement for the rest of the year. He started fucking me, and got me to the edge of orgasm – that place where you teeter on the edge of a cliff and would do anything, anything if your lover would just push you over.

That story would be much hotter – I surrendered my autonomy for the rest of the year for an orgasm! – except that I didn’t remember it until he told me about it the next day. I was so deeply in the moment I think I would have agreed to let him cut off my arm if he’d just have fucked me harder.

So it’s not like there’s not a desire to own me. He may have been slow coming into this agreement, but it’s been him who pushed each time to extend our agreement – not me. I am almost completely confident that he wouldn’t let me out of this if I thought I wanted to – he understands, or at least from my perspective seems to understand, how deeply entwined with my sexuality the need to submit and be owned is. (That sentence took me ten minutes to write. When did it become a need? Or perhaps more accurately, when did I realize it was a need and not just a new bit of spice for a ten-year-old sex life?) And it seems to push more buttons for him than he had thought it would – he taunted me the other day that tears from him saucing me from a punishment the other day (which reminds me, I need to write that story soon lest it too be lost in the morass of memory) had made him hard.

I know the desire is there. But he’s just too tense.

And I desperately want to ease that tension for him. I’ve done everything I can, helped him screen job ads and done the paperwork I can and done my best to cook and clean and budget to a higher degree and everything to make him comfortable. But I can’t help but feel as if I’ve been shoved to the wayside right now. We had months where every day, I knew that all of me was his. That for that day, my body was his and my mind was his and he would exert that control however he wanted to, and that fulfilled both of us.

But right now, I don’t. Part of me feels like this is selfish on my part, that spanking me and beating me and fucking me are low on the priority list. And like I said, I will not push him for any of it – but I can’t help but that feel that way. I need him to beat me, spank my ass and whip my tits until I cry. I need him to force me to endure things that get him off, things I don’t like or want. With things so uncertain I need to feel that control over me, the certainty that I’m his…and I don’t.

And I feel like he’s holding back. That he’s so tense right now he’s afraid to give into the sadism, afraid to use me to let off steam and express what the turmoil he’s dealing with in his own mind. I can’t help but feel that I could be useful and help him in a way that right now he won’t let me…

In my head, he pulls me into his office roughly, and covers my mouth. He tells me that tonight, he just needs me to endure. That it has been a hard week and he needs something – or someone – to take that out on. That tonight he just needs me to take the pain as he uses my body to relieve his tension. That it will hurt, but I need to endure it for him..that even if it doesn’t get me off, it will get him off, and I just need to take it, no safeword unless something unintended has happened because if I only want to stop because I think I can’t endure, he needs me to endure more…

The fantasy plays out in so many ways. Sometimes he binds my arms and canes me past endurance, physically letting off steam on my willing body. Sometimes he slaps my breasts and ass and cunt, switching to his belt when his hand needs a break until my body is covered in weals and welts and bruises. Sometimes he clamps my breasts and nipples and clips, sometimes my breasts and nipples and then sauces my clit while he bites me, leaving teeth-mark imprint bruises all over my flesh.

In these fantasies, I never end up getting off. Because these aren’t out my own orgasm – they’re about the need to make him feel better, the need to be the vehicle for relieving his stress. They end up in him getting off – sometimes he fucks my mouth after saucing my cunt and ass, so I gasp and gag and choke as my bottom burns and he takes his pleasure from my mouth. And sometimes it’s an even darker fantasy that I can’t yet put into words.

These fantasies are interesting to me because I’ve never been a selfless submissive. My priority has always been my husband even before we called a spade a spade and named our D/s relationship for it really is – a power exchange, a power imbalance. But I’ve always told him that no matter what we’re doing it’s very sexual for me, and I want to get off from it. (He doesn’t always let me, but that doesn’t make it less sexual.)

But these fantasies – while I get off masturbating to me because they are so deeply, darkly erotic – aren’t about getting me off. They’re more of an expression of a craving to serve him, to serve needs he’s busy ignoring right now. They’re an intensity that I normally don’t think I could tolerate without a lot of buildup – but the point to them is to disregard my need for buildup because the only thing that matters is my presence, my willingness to endure for him. They do not sound fun to me. At all. And in normal circumstances, they’re an intensity that I simply wouldn’t feel a desire to experience except in fantasy, a level of darkness best left for the moments in your own head.

But right now, the craving to have him beat me harder than we have ever played with is very, very real – the craving to serve him in the way he seems to need most right now.

I doubt he ever will. But the craving is undeniably there.

Being sick is not an excuse!

This has nothing to do with recent events and actually occurred before he got fired, and as much as I want to write about them, I’m afraid I’ll lose this to the quagmire that is longterm memory if I don’t write it down while I have the chance. And I so don’t want to lose anything.

I had been sick. Nasty, icky, ugly sick, and so was babygirl. He didn’t get it nearly as badly (he never does!). So he was being patient and understanding. Taking care of me. He made me tea. He heated up soup. He wrapped me in blankets and took care of food. Gave me decongestant and orange juice. Took over chores. In general, he was perfectly lovely.

And so of course, I was irritated and out of sorts. I was crabby from being sick, crabby from lack of sex related to being sick, crabby from things being not quite done right (which I know isn’t fair, but that was my feeling nonetheless), crabby from certain chores he will just /never/ pick up (nearly 3 years of diapering and he still has yet to wash a single load of diapers no matter how sick I get, which is the one chore that can’t wait because she still needs diapers, rawr). In short, cranky and not a lot of fun to be around.

So logically, this lead to amazing sex. And it started from something that now makes me laugh. He wanted me to drink tea. I didn’t want to drink the tea. He put the mug to my lips and said drink. I said no, I was not going to drink. He said that’s not your call, drink the tea. I said no and shut my lips. He tilted the mug and I told him nope, I’m not drinking, leave me alone in my misery. (Well, I was probably less polite. Okay…I was less polite.) He tilted the mug more.

And that freaking tea spilled all down my chin, neck, chest…it got my tshirt and ugly-comfy bathrobe (oh so sexy) wet. I rawr’ed. I snarled. I changed and huffed at him. I was snippy. And he was baffled. “I told you to drink!” “And I told you I wasn’t going to, AND THEN YOU SPILLED TEA ON ME YOU JERK.”

“Go to the bedroom.”

“What? Why?”

“Just. Go.”

I went, still huffy and bitchy.

He disappeared for a minute and then walked in. Told me to bend over, ass out in the air.

“But I’m sick!” I whined. And he made me bend over anyway. I cringed. He had disappeared so I figured he was either going to cane me or fig me, and neither were pleasant. I didn’t really think either were appropriate for me being sick. Did I mention I was feeling bitchy? Ya.

When he roughly shoved his fingers inside my cunt, I was shocked. It wasn’t at all what I expected – I wasn’t in that kind of mood at all. But he finger fucked me for a few minutes – long enough to let sex penetrate my brain – and dragged me upright by my hair.

“Get into the bathroom.”

“Why?”

At which point he tugged me into the bathroom by my hair, and made me strip, then step into our tub. “Fuck!” I thought.

He had me kneel facing him in the tub. And then he slapped me. It shocked me – he has slapped me before, but not often. It’s for when I’m failing or doing something wrong. I closed my eyes and was quiet. He slapped me again, the other side of my face, and my cheeks were burning. When he slapped me again, it stung, and a small voice inside me protested “Too much, too hard!” but it was…a strange sensation. I didn’t feel dizzy or lightheaded but…rather..floaty? Disconnected. He slapped me again.

“You need this, don’t you? You want this.”

I couldn’t answer. I heard him. But the inclination to speak…was not there. Even if he had expected an answer, I had no speech to give it with. I wasn’t even waiting for the next slap, but when it came it didn’t shock me. I couldn’t open my eyes if I wanted to, and I made small, breathy sounds that seemed to echo inside my head.

“Open your mouth.”

I did so, but I cringed. I wasn’t ready for him to piss on me again. But even if it would have occurred to me to protest, I was still way beyond speech.

I waited, mouth open, cringing. And finally, not cringing. Whatever he was going to do he was going to do and it was his call, not mine. I had been a brat and I knew it, and if this was how he wanted to correct me…he would.

But it never came, for which I was grateful then and am grateful now. (He told me afterwards he was too turned on.) Instead, he yanked me up by my hair – roughly – and forced me to turn around, bent as much as our tub would allow. When I was position to his satisfaction, he forced himself as deeply into my ass as he could get – no lube, not from a tube or from my mouth or even my cunt – and fucked me hard. It hurt intensely, but the orgasm was just as intense.

When he came and cleaned up, me still standing there, he mentioned that had been lubeless. Thanks dear, I –had- noticed.

But you know what? I felt centered afterwards. Calmer, and a very sheepish. I even apologized for being such a brat.

It was a little disquieting afterwards to realize he had been right and that I had needed it.

And for the record, he told me to drink an entire fresh mug of tea afterwards. Which I did, still sheepish.

Just a quick update

For myself and for followers, since I seem to have blinked and have some. I have some fun things to write about, but on the tail end of a flu my husband was fired from his job. This has thrown the erotic out the window in the mad dash to figure out finances and a new gameplan but the pause is temporary and when I have 15 minutes during daylight instead of the middle of the night, I'll try to download how my feelings and identification have interacted with our situation.

Happy Anniversary ... part 2!

So, picking off where I left off in part one…

The hot tub was amazing. Seriously. We need one. We have a Jacuzzi tub, but if it were big enough for both of us it would be like…perfect. We melted and giggled together, and generally just had fun. (Even if it was a little hot for him…on the plus side, his adorable wincing as he got in lead to a plethora of “hot cock” jokes.)

Of course, I was far from satiated, and it wasn’t long before I was touching him. Stroking his cock, massaging his balls (and finding out I’m not coordinated enough for an underwater blowjob, but hey, I get points for trying, right?). And since it was now on my mind…fingering his asshole.

Just a little.

Maybe more than a little. Just teasing him about him getting fucked, which earned a lot of amused smirks. But mostly just having fun touching him where he usually won’t let me.

When we got out of the hot tub, we lounged on the bed for a while, touching and just being with each other. It was nice.

Luckily for me, niceness gave way when he made me close my eyes and put me over his lap. I was eager. I wanted intensity, wanted the impact and the pain. I wanted it to be the hardest he’d ever beaten me, wanted to feel it for days. Unlike other times when I tried to wriggle out or wuss out for whatever reason, I wanted it, badly.

Alternating between his hand and the wooden spoon, he spanked and smacked me for a long time. Though I yelped now and then when he’d smack my thighs or calves, for the most part I did little more than moan. I think my silence disappointed him because he reminded me a few times that we were in a private enough place that it was okay to scream, but I was in the best place…sometimes it didn’t even seem to hurt, just sharply hot. I have no idea how long it went on but by the end I was writhing on his lap. His hand felt so hot…and the spoon made the loudest sounds. The languid feeling was back, and if I could have talked I would have asked for more, harder, don’t be done – but I was far, far beyond speech. I just felt –hot-, physically heated. All I knew was I wanted more, I was far from what I could take. I wanted to be pushed to safeword, hit harder.

And then he told me the warm up was over, and he took out the otk delrin cane (the rattan one didn’t fit in our luggage bag!). Fuck, even warmed up I have no tolerance for the cane apparently. Which means, of course, he loves it. I seriously think he could have spanked me and beat me with the spoon forever, but I felt like I couldn’t even take a minute of the cane.

In the end, I have no idea how long the caning lasted – not long, I think. I was yelping with almost every stroke, unable to ride the pain the way I had with the spanking. He got an actual scream when he landed a stroke across my calf. Ouch! When he roughly spread my legs and forced his fingers inside me, he laughed.

As much as it hurt, I had given myself away…I was dripping wet. I hadn’t even realized I was wet, much less how wet I was..my face was red as he taunted me because I could –hear- how wet I was, hear the sound that wet flesh makes as it parts.

Still amused, he lay down and told me to fuck him – but instead of facing towards him, he had me face away. Which way I was facing didn’t affect me as he still made me keep my eyes closed, but this was different – he told me afterwards we’d had sex in that position before but I didn’t and don’t remember. I know that I was able to get myself off (then again – what doesn’t get me off?) but I had no idea how to move in that position to get him off. I don’t know if I would have figured it out if given a chance – almost immediately he took control, dictating with his hands on my hips the pace and depth.

It felt amazing for me, and at the same time embarrassing – my pussy made this wet sucking sound every time moved my hips upwards, and squelching again when I went downwards.

When he came, we lay next to each other and I was laughing at myself. As much as I usually accept that this gets me off, there’s always been a part of my head that said “No, pain doesn’t turn me on – this is a game! Just a game!”

…I don’t think I can keep telling myself that any more.

We lay in bed for a while, cuddling and recovering.  Not too long though - he startled me by opening my mouth. His fingers in my mouth made me feel surprisingly vulnerable, and he seemed to be…looking? It felt strange and humbling to be examined. I tried to ask what he was doing, but he just nodded and told me he had decided to put my mouth back to work.

…and again, it wasn’t his cock, to my chagrin. –pantgroanpant-

I think, most times, it would be unusual for him to make me lick his asshole again…but he knew how embarrassed and reluctant I was. While he definitely derived physical pleasure from my tongue…I knew he was making me do it solely because he knew I hated it. And so it amused him as well as felt good. Which turned me on (and damn it, I’m squirming now too!).

This next part makes me uncomfortable to write because it is still, days later, wreaking an emotional storm internally. We had talked about so-called golden showers (I still can't figure out what to call this - golden showers sounds...fun and naughty, but this was just humiliation for me..) before, when we talked about limits and what turned him on and willingness and all that jazz. I knew it would be humiliating. I knew it was one of those things that I would “want” in the terms of wanting to be humiliated, wanting to be pushed lower, wanting to be shown who was in charge and who had no choice in the matter…I guess I can’t really explain it, not to my own satisfaction at least. Intellectually – do not want. Do not want. Do not want.

Should I say it again? Do not want.

But…the part of me that craves to be totally dominated…if I listen to that part…this seems so base, a way of both putting me at absolutely the bottom rung of authority and being marked like territory..And I knew it turned him on. He liked it in porn, he read erotic with it, and he told me flat out he was interested in it.

He told me to shut my eyes and led me off the bed to the bathroom. I stumbled, not sure where we were heading at first.

To be honest when I figured out he was putting me in the shower, I groaned inside my head. He had told me over and over he was interested in cold showers as a punishment and humiliation, and he hadn’t yet followed up on that. A day I was not allowed to wear clothes seemed to be the perfect day for that.

I thought that as he had me kneel in the shower. I thought that as I heard him adjusting towels just outside the shower.

I thought that until he used his thumb to put pressure on my chin, forcing my mouth open.

And suddenly, I knew, and I was utterly terrified. Literally afraid, and I whispered to him that I was scared. He stroked my cheek, but didn’t say a word. There was no out.

I can’t explain the fear. I didn’t think it would hurt me. But my heart was racing and I was suddenly cold…afraid of being pushed that low, I guess?

I was so tangibly afraid I honestly thought he would change his mind, but needless to say, he didn’t.

Even though I knew it was coming, the moment it hit me – hit my mouth – was an overwhelming shock. I think I smelled it before it touched me, and the smell was overwhelming when coupled with the psychological aspect. I tried to let it dribble out of my mouth, but it came so fast that I ended up trying to push it out with my tongue, and when I still couldn’t keep up I turned my head.

He followed me, made me open my mouth again. It covered my face, stopped me from breathing without spluttering for a few moments. It ran down my neck, over my breasts. It was in my hair, the smell was in my nose. 

And when it was finally over, I was in the strangest headspace. Totally utterly humiliated in a way I never have been before. I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t speak.

But when he forcefully pulled me up and pressed me against the shower wall to fuck me, the orgasm ripped out of me in a way that would have shocked me if I was me at that moment. I didn’t feel it coming (uh…forgive the pun – it’s not intentional). In some ways I didn’t feel connected to it at all. I know he fucked me hard, hard enough to make my cheek sore from banging into the shower wall.

When he came, he patted my butt and told me to clean up, I had 5 minutes.

I showered quickly, brushed my teeth and used mouthwash. The smell seemed to cling to me, the taste in my mouth, but I think that was more my imagination than anything else.

When I came out, we spent more time hot-tubbing. I still had a hard time meeting his eyes…not because he told me not to or because I was upset with him, but because I was in a weird place where it didn’t feel like I –should- and I can’t explain it any more than that. He coaxed me out of it and told me I was acting oddly – I tried to explain what was going on in my head but I didn’t really understand it, so I doubt I explained it well.

After that, he fussed around a little with me, made me tea as we spent about an hour and a half in the hot tub, transforming into melty puddles of well fucked people.

When we got out, I lay on the bed while he relaxed on the massaging chair (which he insists we need one for home…haha)…eventually, he gave me permission to suck him, finally. I did so gently, but between the injury from a few days before and the workout he’d given my tongue earlier I knew I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. Instead I begged him to make love to me. (In the back of my head, it wasn’t far from my mind that he might re-institute the vaginal sex ban…)

For the most part our lovemaking was gentle and sweet – although he did make a point of shoving me on the bed before I was ready to climb on, just to prove that even if this was my idea he was still in control.

Happily, he hasn’t outright banned vaginal sex so far. Although we haven’t had it since then…it’s not on total ban.

I can live with that.

It was a happy anniversary.