Sadists can make anything sadistic. Seriously.

I can’t believe what I’m about to write this post about.

Seriously. It’s almost comical.

Oral sex.

No, no blow jobs. No attempted deep throat. No ass licking. No getting face fucked.

No…I mean receiving it.

Am I really about to write a blog post about submitting to…oral sex?

Yes, yes I am. Apparently, even acts normally reserved for giving pleasure can be used sadistically. -swoon-

Because last night, as I was falling asleep, he stormed into the bedroom and yanked the blanket off of me. I was drifty – if he’d waited a little longer, I would have been sleeping. When he forced my legs apart and put his mouth at my clit, I think I may have smiled. It’s very rare that he goes down on me, but when he does, it’s nice. It’s gentle, it’s different from any other kind of stimulation, it feels incredibly intimate.

If I had been more awake, I might have picked up sooner that that was clearly not the kind of mood he was in. As he held my legs open, his tongue was rough – strong stimulation immediately. Not at all what I was used to, but I was still half-asleep – I was relaxed, it was intense but it felt good. When I came, I remember thinking, “He’s so sweet!”

…ha. Ha, ha, ha. Because when I came, he didn’t stop. Instead of letting me come down nicely, gently, it felt like he upped the intensity. It from pleasurable to intense to OMG-FUCKING-STOP-PLEASE. It felt like he was sucking on my clit, and on an over-sensitive little bundle of nerves, it was wonderfulhorrible. I came again, fast, begging him to stop the entire time.

“I’m done, I’m done!”

“You’re not done until I say you’re done.”

Do orgasms with orgasms on top and orgasms on top of orgasms on top of orgasms sound fun? Two days ago, I may have thought so.

I know better today. I have never, ever been so tense, or so whiny. I begged him to stop. I tried to get away. I tried to push him away. I told him I was done, that okay, he could stop now. Any time. Please. Every muscle was tight, and I couldn’t have kept still if I wanted to. (For the record? I didn’t. I wanted to get the fuck away. Sort of.)

And he told me he wasn’t stopping until he felt like it. Which wasn’t fair, because adding arousal to an already over-aroused girl was just a low blow.

At some point, he even told me to stop trying to get away or he was just going to tie me up.

I don’t need to be tied up to get flogged. I don’t need it when he’s applied tabasco to my clit. I don’t need it to get caned.

While I think I’d enjoy those things more if I didn’t have to focus on keeping myself together and was free to struggle, I don’t need it.

Even when he bites me, which scares the ever-loving-fuck out of me, I don’t need to be tied up. (It’s close. Biting terrifies me, I’m always certain I’m going to lose a chunk of myself. But I don’t need it.)

But apparently, I can’t submit to oral sex. Aren’t I special!

When he finally decided he was through torturing me – when I was sure if he did it any longer I was going to break something from the tension – he had me suck him for a minute and then set my dazed self on top to fuck him. I was so spaced out at that point, pushed out of my head by the sensations and so turned on, that this will sound funny, but I mostly remember feeling very melty while fucking him. Liquid, languid. Did I come? I have no idea! Knowing me, probably.

Today, he asked me about it. I told him my take, and stupidly asked something to the effect of “did he know that not stopping after I came would feel so intense?” Of course he did.

That was the point, Echo. Pleasurepain takes many forms, and he doesn’t particularly care how he gets me there. His only comment was that next time he did it, he was tying me up.

…next time? –quiver-

How can I be both utterly turned on and utterly horrified at that thought? –amused-

Hurt me!

“Hurt me!”

The words were out before I had even consciously processed them. I didn’t mean to say them. He was inside me, fucking my ass, and interrogating me at the same time. “Is this what you fantasize about? Is this what you want?” Each question punctuated by a hard thrust that made me cry out..I was mostly nonverbal, too turned on to talk back, to answer.

“Tell me what you like about this!” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. My response wasn’t coherent, but I couldn’t turn my mouth off.

“That..you use me! Fuck me, fuck my ass, even when I don’t want you to…even though I don’t want you to..take your pleasure..even though it hurts..”

And then I said it, as he was fucking me harder, both hurting me and creating ripples of intense pleasure as he slammed his cock in and out…”Hurt me!”

And then my brain shut off. He came, but my brain was stuck.

If I’d asked him to hurt me before, I didn’t remember it. Asked him to do painful but erotic things? Sure. Given him the cane, asked him to mark me?

Yes. But in my head, I could justify that. I didn’t want the pain, I wanted the marks. I wanted the situation.

Weeks ago, on facebook, I posted some silly meme about no rainbow without rain and no happiness without pain – someone offered an alternative saying, no flowers without shit. I had responded at the time, joking since obviously my sexual preferences are private and not a common topic of discussion, that I preferred pain and rainbows and added “Maybe I’m just a masochist.”

Of course when he got home, he was amused. Amused enough to mention it. And it caught be off guard. I guess, in my head, in my heart, I had never really thought of myself as a masochist. Submissive. I like kinky stuff.

But a masochist? For some reason, that I can’t explain, I shied away from that term. Masochism seemed extreme. I wasn’t that kinky. Was I? I was quiet, withdrawn, and he teased me, prodded me to talk as we went through our day. We were out shopping, in the car on the way home as we talked about.

“Do you…think of me…like that?” The question was halting, unsure, more worthy of the teenager I’ve grown out of being than the confident 28 year old I (usually think) I’ve matured into.

“Sure.” His answer was so sure, so nonchalant, I was quiet for a moment.

“Well do you think of yourself as a sadist?” I challenged. I expected the answer to be no – he usually tells me he just does what’s fun.

“Yeah.”

And the conversation dropped from there, though there’d be days where he’d tell me he was feeling sadistic, and my tits would usually end up well marked.

But somehow, during that moment of sex, I couldn’t hide from myself. I could justify it. I wanted him to get off despite hurting me. Which is true. Or I could say I wanted him to enjoy his sadistic streak, to please him by taking the pain of his cock. Also true.

But not the truth. The truth is, I wanted the pain in its own right, too.

And isn’t that interesting?

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.

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.

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.