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.

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.

Happy Anniversary ... part 1!

I don’t even know where to start this post – there is so much in my head and in my mind and in the past few days! I’ll break this up into a few posts because so much happened that I’m having trouble sorting my head out.

I guess I’ll start with my mouth and say – OUCH.

Yes, good place to start. Auspicious, even.

Let’s backtrack. Last Thursday, I was on my knees between his legs, his cock in my mouth, sucking him. Eyes closed as per his rules. Occasionally he’d grab my head and force himself deeper in my mouth – occasionally I gagged, coughed, spluttered. But I wanted him to come, wanted to feel him pulse in my mouth.

And we were well on our way, except one of those times when he took control, we tore my tongue.

Uh…yeah. I can’t really explain it except that I tangled my tongue with his penis as he was thrusting and my tongue got shoved backwards before he made it to the back of my mouth. I felt it happen – a really sharp twinge – but oral sex like that is never comfortable and I really didn’t think much beyond breathing without gagging other than a quick mental “ow.” And then I tasted blood as I tried to move my tongue to lick him when he let me suck him again…and my brain caught up.

I managed to tear my “sublingual frenulum” which is what the little membrane that connects your tongue to the bottom of your mouth is called. It means that extending my tongue too far in any direction is painful, and it bled quite extensively the night it was injured.

To my credit, my first thought was “how can I get him off when my tongue is swollen!” which he got a kick out of, before declaring my mouth off limit til it heals. Which was fantabulous timing, since Saturday was our anniversary and we had a babysitter the whole day. Boo.

And unfortunately, it’s now been several days and while the wound is closed, it’s not healed and is still sore. Double boo =(

But Saturday brought our anniversary, a day blessedly child-free (thank you, M-I-L!), and a day booked at a couple’s hotel (it’s essentially a sex hotel, though I don’t know if it’s a regional phenomenon or if they’re throughout the u.s.). And even better, the conclusion of the ban on vaginal sex. Sentence served (no time commuted for good behavior though!).

Which meant I was desperately turned on and had been operating at that level for days. I was ready to get sincerely utterly and totally fucked.

And that meant, of course, that he made me wait.

When we got into our little cabin, he made me close my eyes and strip. He collared me and…I realized he’d made a modification. There was some kind of lead or leash attached to the collar, and that was new. I was told I couldn’t open my eyes until he told me to – and then he pushed me onto all fours and started fucking me from behind. I knew I was in trouble when I got close to orgasm immediately – I just felt –starved- for him inside me.

But instead of pushing me over the brink, he stopped, laughed and told me he was eating. I was then tied to something, my food put in front of me and told to eat. My food was messy, so he allowed me to use my hands. (I was grateful for that – it was unnerving to eat on the floor…eating without my hands…I dunno.) Occasionally, he’d reach down and stroke my hair…like I was a dog. I actually remember thinking “He’s going to treat me like a dog!” and being both startled and unnerved by that.

It felt…strange. It was the most overt expression of the agreement we made since we’ve started. It was humiliating. And somehow, oddly comfortable in a way I find profoundly discomforting. The ease of slipping into that…it felt normal. And that’s disquieting, because while I am comfortable with the idea of games that get me off, we’ve definitely long since passed the point where this is a game (at least – in my mind…I suppose it’s not my place to speak for his, although I believe we’re on the same wavelength). We’re finding our comfort levels in a new way of interacting and it bothers me that I’m so comfortable giving up my … my … my what? Autonomy? Personhood? Feminism? Self? to getting him off and…to what? Getting him off and satisfying him, I guess.

And yet as uncomfortable with how much this fit it was also really hot.

Like, really hot. It felt erotic. I felt distinctly powerless – periodic tugs on the lead reminded me I was on my hands and knees on the floor, eating on the floor by his choice and not mine because I hadn’t had one. So little but so…not little, too. Distinctly aware that whatever he told me – whatever he wanted – was his. And that was completely tantalizing, even if I was doing my best to eat a chicken sandwich, with my eyes closed, that was determined to fall apart.

When he decided I was done eating, I wish I could say he told me to blow him. He led me – by the collar – onto the bed, and directed my mouth, but it wasn’t his cock.

It isn’t that we have done rim jobs in the past, but it was a long time ago, and I didn’t like it then either. I suppose for the same reason I don’t like anal sex – it feels…icky, I guess. It took me a couple moments to work up to what he wanted, and he was patient…to a point. But far sooner than I’d like, he had me licking his asshole. And then impatiently demanding “More! Deeper!” until I was sticking my tongue in as deep as I could go, my nose and face pressed so deeply into his ass that at times it impeded my breath. I felt…even more humiliated. He had me doing it because he liked it – it was something we hadn’t done in ages because I don’t like it. And despite how much I didn’t like it, I liked that he was making me do it anyway. It’s as close as I’ve ever come to balking – which isn’t to say close, but he knew this was something I dislike. And somehow it’s hot that he had me doing it anyway.

And then, finally – mercifully - he told me to fuck him. The cabin we were in had mirrored ceilings and I know he enjoyed that, but I was still not allowed to open my eyes – and yes, I asked. Usually I can only tolerate sex in that position occasionally because riding him puts him deeply inside me in a way that gets painful. And I won’t lie, it was – but the need to fuck him was so intense that nothing was going to stop me. Even though I was setting the pace, he tugged the lead on my collar and slapped me often enough to remind me I was only setting the pace because he wanted me to. I never stopped moving, but those little moments re-oriented to me in the incredible flurry of movement that possessed me. He beat my breasts as I bounced up and down on his cock, eliciting the occasional squeals and yelps – and the immediate response of “Take it, whore.” That’s not something he usually calls me, but it worked here, and if anything pushed the frenzy up a notch. (This breast beating also earned my first and only bruise of the day, despite the intensity of the spankings and pain to follow – it’s a tiny thing too, the size of my fingertip.)

I don’t honestly know how many times I came while on top of him; I have no idea. The first orgasm came and went almost too fast – it was so, so, so long overdue and so long awaited that I felt almost trigger happy and it came up before I had a chance to savour it. He slowed me down the next time, controlling the pace a little more, and the second time I came I could feel the moisture on my thighs and on him, felt like my heart might hammer out of my chest and felt incredibly heated. If he hadn’t made me keep going I might have melted, lost in a languid haze, but I have literally lost track of what came after that. More orgasms, more pain – pinched nipples, smacked breasts, and fingers dug into my hips.

And eventually, he set the pace entirely, dictating with hands how fast I should bounce and how far out of me he should go…when he finally came, I collapsed on top of him.

And fortunately for me, the next item on the agenda was collapsing together into the hot tub  =)