3 hours...

He popped home from lunch to sentence me to 3 hours, and then went back to work.

Sounds like not much, until you consider, that’s how long I was “sentenced” to wear a plug made of ginger for.

I watched him carve it, protesting.

“Why?” I asked.

He shrugged in response. “Because I can.”

And that...is enough. He can.

As I sit here writing, I have plug carved from ginger root inserted into my asshole. I can’t sit still, I’m wriggling. It’s hot, it stings like hell, my bottom feels heated, and I swear he picked the biggest ginger root we had to force inside me. Walking feels funny and there isn’t a moment I don’t remember I’m wearing it. (T-minus 2 ½ hours…)

As he forced it into my protesting sphincter, he apologized that it was so cold but told me I’d warm up. He told me the rules. I can remove it at 4pm unless he calls and gives me permission to remove it earlier. I can remove it if I need to use the restroom, but then need to replace it. I can remove it if for some reason it interferes with my ability to care for the baby.

I protested that he wasn’t even here to enjoy it, and he put my hand against his very erect cock, telling me he was enjoying it whether or not he was home.  He told me to think often about how he'd fuck my ass tonight, filling it with something much bigger than the ginger, and that he was pondering making me carve a second plug for later. He told me he hoped I was looking forward to our anniversary on the 15th when the vaginal sex ban will be lifted...and hinted it might go back into effect on the 16th.

And then he told me to thank him for the reminder he’d given me that my ass belonged to him.

“Thank you,” I whispered quietly. I was confused. I didn’t like the ginger, but I didn’t feel resentful even if it made walking a bizarre ordeal. It burned like hell and he wasn’t even here to enjoy it.But him forcing me to thank him...

When did he learn how to push my buttons so well? (T-minus 2 hours 5 minutes…)

Jumping off the deep end...

Wow, has it really been two weeks since I last posted?

I guess it has. My mind (and body) have been super busy. New toys (scary long whippy cane! Ouch-inspiring black leather flogger!) have been part of it, but more than new toys…

He knew I was upset after the orgasm control week was up. He sort of got why. And I understood his response back, even if I couldn’t control my emotional response to it.

But what I didn’t expect was his next suggestion. When he thought about his response to the week, he told me why he didn’t think it had worked for him.

…not enough control. Too piece-meal.

Piece-meal wasn’t right for him. He wanted…all of it. All of me.

I sort of panicked, I’ll admit. Go from nothing to…all of it? It seemed like a huge leap to make. And yet, I didn’t really know what he meant either. He grinned and pointed out that we would find out together, but for a week, I would belong to him…my body was his. (He made clear I still had my safeword, if I needed it, however.)

So I agreed…Saturday to Saturday. His. Nervous, excited, and wet, I agreed.

The first day, he took my ass twice. I usually had a piece of ginger pressed to my clit because he enjoyed watching me squirm as it stung and burned. (To my frustration, orgasm control was back too – coming was only with his permission. Frustration isn’t really the right word but meh, I like orgasm!) The first time he took me, it was morning.

That evening, long after our daughter in bed, he had me kneel, nude, ass in the air. I braced myself, thinking my ass was in for it again…but instead, I felt him rubbing oil into my cunt. I remember the confusion and the excitement – (confusion: I don’t need lube…I’m wet! Excitement: it’s not my ass, and I’m getting fucked!).

When a third finger joined his first two inside me, I noticed…but didn’t really think of it. My whole body felt hot, my skin felt tight. I begged to come and was denied.

When the fourth finger entered me, vague tendrils of alarm penetrated my brain as I realized what he wanted.

Fuck, I hate fisting. It hurts. (I get off on it…I –am- a masochist…but it hurts.) It’s overwhelmingly intense. I worry about being too stretched out to get him off. (I do lots of kegels, so is this a reasonable fear? I don’t know.) I worry it makes my cunt look funny. (Yes, I do. I know. I’m weird.)

But it turns him on, a lot, and I’ve known this from the few times we’ve done this before. Something about being stretched out around him and how it pushes me beyond what I think I can take…when I protested, he reminded me that I was his and no was out of the question. (I hate fisting, but the exchange gets me hot here thinking about it!)

The feeling of his entire hand finally slipping inside me is indescribable. It’s so distinct…there’s no doubt when you’ve gone from “too many fingers!” to “ohmygosh THAT’S A FUCKING HAND INSIDE ME!” There’s a forceful aspect to the sensation, when he finally gets past the ring of muscle resisting him…it’s a sort of owfuckomgwowmmmmmow type sensation. Sort of.

As the intensity of his hand moving inside me finally, with permission, pushed me off a cliff despite the pleasurepain, I screamed when he took his hand out. It hurt but it was more the absence of sensation that …hurt? To go from overstimulation to him leaving left me feeling shaky and woozy. I was out of it but coherent enough to realize that his cock was now pressing against my asshole…that made twice in one day.

The second day, when we woke up, he took my ass again.

For anyone keeping count at home (and I know I am), that made three rounds of anal sex in two days. That was more than our previous record where we once had anal two days in a row. My ass felt well used, sore.

That night, I begged him to fuck me and said he’d taken my ass several times.

He responded by telling me to bend over because he was going to fuck my ass again. Which despite my protests that that wasn’t what I meant – because as he reminded me, my ass was HIS – he proceeded to do, forcefully.

I don’t remember when, but he began idly threatening me with anal fisting, and the entire week, that was never far from my mind. Vaginal fisting is SO intense, but I know his hand fits there. I’m not totally convinced his whole hand is getting up my ass, and I worry even more about that.

But the idea of it – with no touching – just the idea – gets him hard. I won my only concession – I would have enough warning to do an enema first.

On the third day, he took my ass again. I was sore enough to gasp as he entered me. That made 5 times in three days.

On the fourth day, we made it to six times in four days. And then seven times in five. Eight times in six. I finally found out…this was punishment for complaining about lack of vaginal sex. That wasn’t my decision to make, so to punish me, there is no vaginal sex right now. When he wants to fuck me, it’s my asshole he’s going to fuck.

And goddamnit, that’s brilliant. It sucks (not the anal, although as I’ve explained before there’s a love/hate there) but it’s brilliant. And dastardly. Punishing me for complaining about lack of sex with sex that he likes more than I do. It’s brilliant and it sucks, and it’s erotic as all hell. –fans herself- And if I complain more about lack of vaginal sex I get my ass fucked more. –seals her lips-

 (Our week was nearly up, but I got sick. We decided to extend it two weeks. (See, there was a reason it’s been two weeks since I posted!) I don’t know what I had, but it involved body aches, fever, and stomach maladies. Babygirl got sick too, and it was rough. Because we didn’t get a full week, we decided to extend it a week. I’ll write about week two shortly…)

Unexpected response :(

It’s Friday, it’s Friday, and Fridays should be good days. Today our one week orgasm control trial ended.

Honestly, when I offered to give him this power over me, for lack of a better term, it was because he’d been asking for variants of this for as long as we’ve been together…and while we had occasional indulgences (during sex, for example, but not beyond) we’ve never done it. I thought it would be a great way to let him try out control…it was something he wanted. Had always wanted.

It was a trial period because … my libido is high enough that I wasn’t sure I could handle it. There was every possibility that to test my commitment I could end up banned from orgasming for an entire day…or two. (Looking back, there were a couple days I didn’t orgasm at all, but there were never two of them in a row.)

It didn’t really occur to me he wouldn’t like it.

I do realize that there are other parts of D&S he might not like. He isn’t the type to fantasize while jerking off, and while most of sex is in my head, it’s just physical for him. So I do realize D&S may not work for us and that’s just that.

But he had wanted variants of this for so long I thought this might be a way to satisfy both our desires.

Yesterday when he joined me in the living room, I was pretty happy. I asked him for permission to masturbate before bed and after a little bit of teasing, he said he’d allow it.  I decided that while he might not always be as orgasm-generous (haha) as he had been this past week, the week had been physically tolerable. Mentally, it was super erotic to have to ask to come – both during sex, and when I was by myself if he was out working.

To be honest, I was ready to offer him the reins, so to speak, for the indefinite future.

As we were relaxing, I asked him playfully, “So tomorrow’s Friday! Know what that means?”

He did and told me so, though I don’t remember his exact words.

I’ve lost the words to the rest of the conversation I guess – I’m wracking my brain as I’m typing this, but they’re not coming.

But the gist was, he told me it wasn’t as hot as he thought it would be and wasn’t “worth it” for what I went through.

My ego, it hurts L

No…really. Ouch. L

That totally completely stings.  First, that we were apparently on such different pages about the week. Immediately I wondered if I was too demanding, too pressuring. I thought I had mostly been pretty demure, but if it really was only mildly interesting anything might have been too demanding. And second, ouch. It wasn’t “worth” it. I know what he means. Meant. Sort of. That it was too hard for me for the benefit he got.

But I can’t help wonder if there’s more beyond what he’s saying. Not “worth” it.

He figured out pretty fast that answer upset me. I explained why as best he could and he tried to come up with a few things, we could try again, it might have been an off week, he just thought it was too hard on me for how much fun he had, blah blah blah…

But while it was tolerable, it wasn’t physically pleasant – I like orgasming! – and if he’s not getting anything out of it, not enough to want to try it again, that saps the fun part of it for me. If it’s not fun for him it’s not hot for me. I would try to go a week without coming if he thought it was totally hot – but celibacy that he doesn’t care about is stupid and irritating. If he’s just going through the motions for me, I don’t want it.

So no, I am not trying it again. And yes, my ego hurts, badly. His exertion of control over of me wasn’t worth it to him. I can’t quite process how much that hurts.

And it makes me forlornly wonder if the control and dominance I find so erotic will stay strictly in the realm of fantasy. I love my husband and if all we do is keep having sex and keep playing with S&M, it is what it is. I am happy with him.

And I haven’t lost anything, because we hadn’t done anything.

But the frustration of feeling like I almost had something is, I think – though I may never know – just as frustrating as if I had.  –rubs her sore ego-

Introduction to the cane...

Caning.

Oh, we thought about caning. He felt like it was too violent and for me, the stories sort of scared me. You could do damage with those things!

But as we delved deeper into the seduction of erotic pain, of testing my endurance and willingness, caning began to seduce me too. I found myself gravitating towards shoots that including caning shots, pictures that showed caning welts. Stories about being caned.

I read articles about safe caning. About how it felt and where you can and where you shouldn’t cane.

Slowly, it crept into my fantasies.

When I finally mentioned that I might sort of kind of possibly but not really only maybe be interested in trying a cane out, I was surprised at his enthusiasm. Somewhere along the way he had changed his mind too.  I stashed away some funds in paypal here and there and researched, researched, researched. I posted to get recommendations on a good place to get quality canes at affordable prices and asked people’s opinions on which canes they liked and why.

I settled on two. One rattan, one delrin. One long and really thin (the rattan) and one thicker and shorter (the delrin, an OTK cane).

They sat in my cart for days as I danced with my inner demons. Could I, should I, would I buy a cane? Or two canes? In and out of my cart they went, and back in. Caning looked intense. Could I tolerate the sensation? What if I hated it?

…could I tolerate never finding out?

I began checking out and was sort of shocked at my boldness. I was ordering a cane. So that my husband could beat me with it.

And once I ordered it, I promptly shut it out of mind. Me? Order a cane? Nope!

…but it came in the mail, a rather intimidatingly large package, particularly when I knew exactly what the contents were.

Before I gave them to my husband, I tested them on myself. I was excited, and wanted to know if it was a sensation I liked before allowing him to ramp it up. The long thin rattan one was tough to control in such close range, and left remarkable welts on my left thigh that lasted well past a few days. It stung, and I liked it, a lot, but I knew that it was a lot more dangerous because it was very flexible and would be harder to aim with.

The delrin one…mmm. Embarrassingly, I left myself almost immediately with a rather large and obvious bruise on my right inner thigh. Oops! It was thick enough to not sting nearly as much as the rattan cane, but thin enough that the impact was much more focused than anything we’ve tried before. It was shorter too, which made it a lot less flexible and thus easier to control. It stung more than anything else we’d done and…I was excited. Despite the chagrin of marking my own thigh, I had a feeling this was going to be something we’d enjoy.

When he came home, hiding behind false bravado, I handed him the canes – butterflies fluttering futilely in my tummy. I was so nervous, although I wasn’t going to show it. I was handing him instruments that both terrified me and aroused me…a strange, strange combination. I had the gall to lecture him that he needed to read cane safety before I let him use the rattan one on me  - I got an interesting smirk in response, because it was one of those “Duh, Ekho!” type things that I couldn’t quite believe came out of my mouth. I’m going to blame my cheekiness on nerves, because the delrin cane, I graciously allowed (haha) was close enough to other things we’d been doing that I thought he could handle it.

Definitely nerves. Though in my defense, we have not done a lot with submission, much as I’d like to – only bottoming and topping. We’re only starting explore what my submission would mean for us, but it felt impertinent anyway. Couldn’t help myself though - fearexcitementnerves type thing.

Immediately that night, he told me to put my corset on and return quickly.

When I came out, he settled me into a new position on the count – almost like prayer, with me on my knees, forehead pressed to the couch and arms stretched out in front of me. The result: My ass in the air, the rest of me stretched out in a way that’s not uncomfortable, but totally…vulnerable feeling. Different.

When the first blow fell, I knew he’d pulled out the cane and I was shocked. I don’t know – I guess I thought he’d start with hands? Wait on the cane? I don’t know. The first one fell and it was…indescribable. It wasn’t a line of fire, but this incredible stinging flare…OW!  He kept it paced nicely, but with the position I was in I could never tell when the next blow would fall. My butt, my thighs, my upper back, the soles of my feet? It was never so intense that I felt like it should stop or slow down or even considered my safe word, but to be honest I was so turned on and lost that time … well, I had no idea how much time had passed. Intermittently he took me from behind, where I tried to beg to be allowed to come (damn orgasm restriction – speaking was so hard, I was all but beyond being able to verbalize, but I tried!) with no dice. I remember hearing rough breathing and realizing it was mine, and I remember the incredible soreness as his hips slammed into my ass as he fucked me..time was really blurry.

When he finally came and granted me permission to come, it was almost painful it was so intense…I was so ready. Afterwards I collapsed on the couch, beyond speech. Hazy.

What’s strange is the beating wasn’t even that hard. I don’t know. I’ve had worse spankings. In terms of bruising, I had a nasty one coming up on the outside of my left thigh. I had some lovely pink welts across my ass and on my back. I knew there were small bruises, but…I’ve had harder beatings and bigger welts and bruises.

He told me afterwards it was hard to get used to how much less force the cane needed, and my reaction was pretty strong to even soft blows…he thought I was going to safeword and responded by softening things even more. He said my ass turned pink incredibly fast.

I don’t remember ever being close to wanting or needing it to stop, I just remember the intense sexual energy and contrasting lethargy that made me not want to move at all. Did I wiggle away from blows or arch my butt higher to receive them? I don’t know, but that orgasm was…intense.

And the aftermath? The next morning, the bruise on the outside of my thigh was pretty wicked, but on my butt, there were only a scattered smattering of tiny bruises – my guess is from the tip of the cane.

Not so scary afterall, other than for the fact that I know he took it very, very easy on me….

The line between submission and masochism...

We’ve played a lot with sadism and masochism, but less with dominance and submission.

And don’t get me wrong. Erotic pain is definitely a turn on. I hate calling myself something like a painslut or a masochist, because those terms seem so much bigger than me, but it is what is.

I like being hit during sex. I like having my ass smacked and spanked until it's bruised. I like being hit with a belt and having clothespins clipped to my breasts. I like being fucked on all fours with the pins on because it makes my breasts sway and agitates the pinched flesh. I hate/like Tabasco on my clit because it burns and hurts.* I like ginger because stings and burns (and then leaves you fiercely hot).* I like having my anus flicked, whipped, and smacked. I like having my breasts spanked and smacked and pinched, the nipples pinched.

And I like the bruising afterwards. I like looking at them and feeling sore, remembering what I did to earn those bruises.

And what that makes me, I don’t know. Perverted, without a doubt. But even as much as it hurts and is “pain,” it’s the intensity of the sensation that gets me. Before we started acting these desires out, I knew I wanted them and just lacked the courage to see if my husband was willing or interested…my fantasies played around the most intense experience I could come up with, and my fantasy life knew what I wanted long before I could admit it.

So being hurt during sex? (Hurt, not harmed.) Yes. Okay, that’s me.

And not that regular sex doesn’t still have a place in our sex life…it does. A nice place. A comfortable place. A familiar place with the man I have been with for 12 years and married to for nearly 6, in pretty much the same way for most of the more-than-10 years we’ve been having sex. I sincerely doubt it will ever lose that place. I like sex – good sex, bad sex, sweaty sex, marathon sex, quickie sex – and I do not /dislike/ the sex that has made up most of my actual sexual experience.

But.

My lover spanking me? Smacking different parts of me until I’m quivering, skin pinkened and coloured by bruises? Squeezing my sore ass that he beat the night before, just to make me squirm and remember exactly what we did the previous night?

Hot, and right. It’s what I want, what I have wanted for a long time, and for me, it is so, so much better than regular sex. I feel engaged by it.

And while there are definitely things we haven’t done yet – I suspect that I will like them when we do. Canes are on the way. Floggers on the way. I’d like to try face slapping…if I can work up to telling him about that.

But that being said…as much as I have never, since the first time I can remember fantasizing about while masturbating, have never once fantasized about regular sex, there is a theme bigger than pain in my fantasies…

…and it is control.

Or at least, I always thought of it as control. Before I knew there was a world where dominance and submission were acted out consensually in the bedroom, I fantasized about being controlled.

Often times the control was by force, by being overpowered, ravished. Being made a slave, or a prisoner.

But mostly, that was because it was about being put into a situation where I could not escape, being subject to the whims and pleasures of another – having my existence become solely about their pleasure.

And obviously, “solely” isn’t quite a standard I could live up to, though it makes great fantasy element.

But.

I finally talked to my husband about this aspect of my sexuality. Or at least, introduced the concept. We didn’t go into a lot of detail or talk toooo much, because, well…surprisingly, this was harder to talk about than asking him to hit me. And that wasn’t easy to bring up.

But somehow, telling him I’d like him to take control of me, to be in charge, to make me do things…things I sort of want and sort of don’t want…things that are…some of them humiliating….

Difficult, difficult, difficult.

He wasn’t totally surprised. I mean…I’ve gotten him to start talking dirty to me. To “punish” me. He’s known for a while it turns me on to be “forced” into sex. Wanting to be controlled and humiliated isn’t…shocking, considering.

But even more difficult, going through the motions isn’t good enough for my picky kink. Nope. If we play with this, he has to want it.

Because if he doesn’t want it, I don’t. And I mean…some of the things I want I don’t want. Which is confusing enough. But if he doesn’t want to do something but he would do it for me…there are people that works for and that’s great.

I’m not one of them.   

He had known for a long time I responded well to having my hair pulled during sex. And then for some reason when we were talking one day I found out he only did that for me, not because it did anything for him…and that just, blew it for me. It stopped being hot and just started being annoying.

Because while I don’t want to totally sublimate myself in his desires – that’s great fantasy fodder, but does not a long term healthy relationship make, because I have my own needs that need to be taken care of – pretending I am when it’s really just going with the flow for him isn’t what pushes my buttons.

I appreciate that he’s willing. I do. It’s sweet.

I don’t want sweet.

I want to be wanted so badly that at least in some way his needs matter more, his desires matter more. I want what /he/ wants and in a very real manner it doesn’t matter if I want it or not…if he wants it enough to “force” me into it chances are…I’ll find it erotic.

I want to be ravished because he can’t resist fucking me. I want him to want something from me so badly that he’ll take it if I won’t give it…for him, there is nothing I won’t give, but it has to be something he wants. Because if he only does it because he thinks I want it, then I don’t want it.

I don’t know if that makes sense, but there it is.

We’re easing into it to see if it really is something he wants. We’re starting with something I knew he wanted and I always said no…and to be honest, I hate it. Haha.

Right now, I can’t orgasm without his permission. One week trial basis.

That sounds easier said than done.

But I am the woman who on a day off when he worked and babygirl’s grandma took her for a day, I masturbated because I had the time and inclination…16 times. (I counted. In my defense, that was my first alone time in two years other than falling asleep…but still. 16!)

I really, really hate this.

But he really, really likes it, because I hate it. And that means I kind of like it too.

It’s complicated. :P



*The difference between Tabasco and Ginger is pretty extreme. Neither are pleasant, both turn me on. Tabasco is pain - Ginger stings. Different sensations. I prefer Ginger, it leaves a pleasant feeling afterwards which Tabasco doesn't, but Tabasco fits better depending on the mood and is easier to keep around...