In the middle of the night, I'd go walking if I could only sleep..

It’s two am, and my head is a mess. So this post will be a mess.

Oh well.

Lying in bed chasing my head in circles isn’t working. I’m hoping if I chase it in writing I’ll find…I don’t know. Peace? My goal? Some sort of resolution.

Last night, when he went to put the baby to bed, I asked if I could suck him off when I got to bed since it was likely he was going to fall asleep putting her to sleep. I was enthusiastic. I like sucking him. I do. Even when it makes my jaw ache and I hate drooling, I like it. I like making him feel good. I wanted to blow him. I wanted his come in my mouth.

And when I got into bed, I asked him again as I gently undressed him if I could blow him. Good manners, confirmation…and then enthusiastically started licking and sucking. I wanted to give him pleasure, feel his cock pulse in my mouth. I wanted to feel his balls tighten in my hand and feel him shudder as he came.

Except it didn’t work like that. I was into it and he seemed into it, but I’m not fast at giving head. I knew he wasn’t close to coming when he yanked me off his cock to taunt me. “Is that the best you can do? Why did you even ask to blow me? Make. Me. Come.”

The taunting is hot for both of us. Well – it’s hot for me. I assume it’s hot for him because he’s not a big talker in bed, so if it’s not hot for him I doubt he’d do it.

I redoubled my efforts. Sucked harder, rubbed his balls a little more, made a bigger effort to use my tongue alongside the bottom of his cock and not just the head, tried to get him in deeper so the head of his cock hit the back of my throat. Gagged until my nose began to run.

I think looking back that’s what fucked me up. He wants me to deepthroat and I haven’t figured out how yet. I can’t get him past the back of my throat no matter what position we’re in. When I gagged it impeded my breathing because it got my nose going. It didn’t make it /harder/ to suck him off – it made it impossible to breathe through. I can only hold my breath for so long, so I had to open my mouth more often. And that’s all well and good to say now but at the time, all he knew is I was stopping and breaking the rhythm he needed to get off.

When he slapped me, I wasn’t surprised. I had one more chance to get him off, he told me, or he was saucing me. “Make. Me. Come.”

I tried. My lips were feeling funny from trying so hard, my jaw ached, and my neck ached, but I wanted him off. Until then I’d still been enjoying it. Now I just didn’t want to fuck up. And he was super hard, super turned on, harder than before he’d yanked me off his cock. Part of me wondered if he’d been close and had stopped me to draw it out, but I tried even harder, forced him deep into my throat, gagged over and over and tried to ignore it and keep up the rhythm. But breathing. I still had to breath now and then, and he told me later there were several times I almost had it but stopped to breath and adjust for a second. I didn’t honestly think he’d sauce me – I guess I thought he wanted to come in my mouth as much as I wanted him to.

When he yanked me off by my hair and started dragging me off the bed, I knew I’d fucked up. I had failed. I had failed in giving him a fucking blow job.

Without letting go of my hair, he dragged me to the kitchen – walking was so awkward because I couldn’t stand up straight, just sort of hobble, prisoner by my hair. I whimpered as we went, and whimpered harder when he grabbed the tabasco.

When he throw me on the couch and curtly ordered me to spread my legs, I complied, but felt near tears. Saucing for not making him come faster had been a threat before, but it had never ended up being an issue. He was almost silent as he rubbed it into my clit and onto my labia as I shook slightly. He taunted me, asking if I needed more. It was starting to burn and I protested, but I have no idea what I said. I don’t even know if it was words.

Roughly, he made me flip off my back onto my hands and knees. Grabbing my hair again, he fucked my mouth for a few moments to get his cock wet. I remember it made me gag, but the searing blistering pain between my legs was taking most of my attention.

When he grabbed my ass and started forcing his way into my anus, I don’t even think I more than whimpered, but that wasn’t due to gentleness on his part. He fucked my ass roughly, deeply, and as hard as he ever had before. Between the severity of the fucking and the burning pain on my clit I felt fucked up. Now and then I felt him slow his pace and looking back I wonder if he was pacing himself to give me the opportunity to come – it’s one of those unspoken things that he will usually hold off until I’ve come at least once or come if he knows I’m close. I wasn’t in the headspace to orgasm though.

When he came, he taunted me again and told me at least part of me worked for getting him off.

Ouch.

I had expected him to withdraw and clean up, but it quickly became obvious he had no intention of leaving. He’d withdraw almost all the way, and then slam back inside me, over and over. He pushed me down onto my belly – I cried out because it pressed my legs together and intensified the burning, which was still at full intensity. When he started grinding his hips into me, rocking his cock inside my ass, I did my best to brace myself as much as possible considering how gone I was with the sauce still burning – fucking like that feels, he’s told me, incredible for him, but it’s nothing but uncomfortable for me.

I have no idea how long it went on for – it takes a long time for him to get off that way, I think because he only does that when he’s just come and has stayed hard, so it’s harder for him to get off. I remember his nails scratching me, grabbing me occasionally, manhandling the parts of me accessible in that position.

When he finally came again, he withdrew and casually gave me permission to masturbate, which usually makes the burn easier to deal with. It had started to ebb slightly by then, and I still wasn’t in the right place to orgasm. I acutely felt the failure of not being able to get him off with my mouth.

He told me to clean up and come to bed – I pointed out I was still in a great deal of pain from the tabasco, and he nodded and told me to come to bed when able. Though not before squeezing my cunt and tugging my collar, telling me that I was his sex toy and needed to do better next time. (He’d never called me a sex toy before. I suspect he was experimenting. I don’t know how I feel about that label.)

When he went to bed, I cried.

Oh yeah. I cried because I had failed a blow job. Go me.

I just…I had been punished before for having forgotten to put my collar on. That night had been intensely erotic – his forcefulness and disappointment and roughness had been immense turn-ons and the night had gone much the same as this night had gone. I could have taken a lot more pain that night – I was in the right headspace for it, contrite for having fucked up and turned on by everything he did.

But failing isn’t fucking up.

I had failed. Which is a fuck-up, but it’s worse than just a fuck-up.

Blowjobs are sex 101. How the fuck did I not get him off?

When it finally faded enough to go to bed, I wrestled and then finally got myself to bed like a good girl, but I slept like crap, conflicted and upset.

Tonight when I went to bed, I was conflicted again. I had permission to go down on him, and I had permission to masturbate. Going down on him wasn’t required – his exact words were something like “if you want to” though I don’t remember the actual words. I got in bed. I touched him. I worried about failing and lay down. I sat up again. I stared at him and thought. Chased my head in circles. Thought about deepthroating and everything I’d read about it. Thought about how much I enjoyed his orgasm when he came in my mouth.

And decided I couldn’t let one night shake my confidence too badly. I started touching him, stroking him, to wake him up enough to ask if I could suck him. That usually works to get him hard quickly. Except that tonight, he stopped my hand. I froze and asked if that meant I shouldn’t go down on him. He grunted and I pulled my hand away, asking again.

In reply, he turned over.

Well, message received.

Except that now I feel resentful. I know before when he’d wake me in the middle of the night for sex, if I tried to shove his hands away or stop him because I wanted to sleep I got fucked anyway. And I can’t reword that to not make it seem like he was demanding, but that’s not what it was. He wanted me, and I wanted him to feel good. My body got him off even when I didn’t want sex, which made me want sex. It’s complicated. Haha.

I did resent that though, because if I wanted sex in the middle of the night I could never make him into my willing accomplice. It seemed terribly unfair and lopsided. (Which conversely turned me on, but I could never admit that…then.)

So now I tried to wake him and got turned away, and feel resentful…again. And I wasn’t even trying to get myself off, I could have masturbated! I wanted to go down on him. Oh irony.

And that has my head turned inside out. Because…that’s not a very submissive feeling, is it? It’s…not supposed to be equal. I want him in control. Need him in control.

But if that’s true, why do I resent that I just got turned down for a blow job? Am I worried that I really am not good enough at giving head that he didn’t want me? Is it rejection that’s bothering me?

Or do I just … feel…slighted?

Isn’t he supposed to slight me? I want him to put his needs before mine. I want to do things I don’t want to do because they get him off. (Say that five times fast.)

More and more, I’ve wanted to give him all of me, everything I have. We’ve been talking about making this thing…this game…this whatever we’re doing permanent. As in…he’s always in charge. Ability to say no – to a beating, to an ass fucking, to sex in general – forfeit.

We’ve talked about that. It’s like…in strong consideration, I guess, for lack of a better term.

I don’t doubt that it would be far from easy, but if I’m resentful because I was turned down for blowing him, am I cut out for that? Maybe I’m too needy and bitchy to belong to him. Maybe I can’t handle that. I’m having such a hard time with the vaginal sex ban because – while I get off from anal, from the roughness and how it’s so him-centric, so for-him – I’m not getting off the way I enjoy. I get off from fisting too, but don’t enjoy that. I like being fucked. I like sex. I like getting off with him inside me. Getting off from anal or masturbation or his fist (ugh) are not getting off the way I want to. If I’m having a hard time with that, how could I possibly deal with him calling the shots…forever?

Maybe I should tell him I’m better cut out to be a bottom or a bedroom sub than what we’re talking about. I feel like…him having all of me is the way we’ve been heading long before we introduced erotic pain. Like our relationship has been a D/s dynamic long before he put the collar around my neck. I see so many ways it makes sense for us and the idea /feels/ right. But this also feels like stupid shit to be wrestling with, so maybe…I’m just not cut out for that. Maybe I can’t give enough of myself to make that work. Maybe I’m too selfish. Maybe I’m just not skilled enough.

I’m out of ways to poke my brain and am not any closer to feeling like my head makes sense.

Finding my center in the pain..

I don’t know what got into me yesterday. Maybe I was a little stung that he had said that sometimes when he’s getting ready to play with me he feels like giggling? Maybe I was just stressed? Maybe I felt attention starved? Maybe I’m just a brat?

I’m not sure, but we were at his parents for dinner. When my inlaws and babygirl were in their living room watching a movie, we were in their kitchen…I don’t even remember why. And he got grope-y, grabbing and pinching my breasts and nipples. (I wrote this 15 minutes ago and just came back to it. In thinking about it, I think what got into me was I felt uncomfortable with pushing physical stuff at my inlaws’ house and reacted.)

And whatever it was, it put me in a mode I haven’t really been in in a while. And not that I don’t get cheeky or playful – I am and I do – but this was more.

I got…pinchy and pokey. I smacked his butt, I pinched his thigh. Not hard enough to hurt or bruise but…enough to get That Look (tm). Yeah…that one. The bug eyed, shocked, glaring, annoyed “You did NOT just do that!" look.

Uh…I guess I did. I put up bravado as we “discussed” it on the way home too, when he told me I was so getting punished. I was not, I insisted, because he had told me this thing we’re doing wasn’t working.

No, he told me – he hadn’t said that. He said he felt silly sometimes, but he was still going to cane my ass for pinching him which is Not Allowed.

No, I’m not getting punished, I insisted. If he thinks this is silly it’s not working. (Who was I arguing with? I’m not sure.)

But he was going to cane my ass and That Was That, bravado having completely failed on my end. At which point the “Oh fuck, what did I just do!!” mentality kicked in.

Because I have to say, I’m really developing a hate/hate relationship with the cane. It hurts. And if I’m not turned on or warmed up, it hurts even worse. It feels like my skin is splitting. And the worst part is that while I end up with some pretty welts for the night, I rarely bruise from it.

Yeah. All that pain and no marks. With the heavier delrin cane I sometimes have pinky-tip shaped bruises from the very tip of the cane, and I did end up the first time with some impressive bruises on my thighs and hip, but generally – the next day there isn’t a single mark on me.

All that pain and NO marks. Boo.

And I knew since this was punishment, there wasn’t going to be any kind of foreplay or warmup first. Eight strokes, no high level of arousal to make it easier to deal with. Ow.

Shortly before we put the baby to bed, I ended up getting a phone call and it was unpleasantness rearing it’s ugly head due to my aunt’s murder back in June. I have just started feeling balanced after her death and the phonecall was a pretty bad one, so it had me off kilter. To his credit, he offered to let me off for the night and just hold me – but I wanted to try with the caveat of not doing anything we couldn’t immediately undo (like Tabasco, since once it’s on you just deal with it – it just has to run its course, or bondage we can’t immediately remove in its entirety). As I put my collar on for the night, I figured I would either lose myself completely in accepting whatever he wanted to give, or I’d burst into tears, and neither were really bad outcomes in my mind.

So when we started, my stomach did flips because I was already feeling off, and he had decided if we were playing, we were playing and not – forgive the quasi-pun – half-assing it. He brought out the rattan cane, which is longer, thinner, and much more frightening than the shorter thicker delrin cane. (I actually have no doubt the delrin one can do more damage, but the rattan one is scarier. Explain that!)

When the first stroke fell, he told me to count. It hurt, but it was manageable. So was the second. In between strokes, he thwapped my calves, my thighs, my upper back, the soles of my feet, moderately. Enough to sting, enough for me to feel it as I recovered momentarily, but not enough to welt or make me flinch.

The third one – which felt like it landed exactly where the first and second had, the juncture of my ass and thigh – had me gasping and reminding myself that I want this, wanted it hard, had earned it – and finally stammering out my count. Five more…five more. Fuck though – it had been hard.

Fourth and fifth was just as hard as the third, and while part of me – the back of my head – was whimpering that I needed it harder, the rational part of my brain screaming that it hurt too much, he was hurting me, I couldn’t do it – I managed to keep count.

The sixth was lighter, and I forget what his wording was, but he implied that it was a mercy. I groaned out loud, gave my count, braced myself – trying to relax – feeling the smaller stinging taps on the rest of my body – and he told me the next two would be the hardest yet.

The last two made me jump and sure I couldn’t take it and struggling to remind myself it was almost over. The pain was intense, searing – I really fucking hate the cane. Hate it enough to want to use internet slang like “zomg.” And I bought the damn thing. Damn it!

When it finished, he told me now we could “really” play. The leather cuffs went on. He had me kneel, head down, wrists clipped together with the d-rings on the cuffs behind my back. And he started rubbing oil onto my slit, inside me.

I said something really articulate and insightful. “Oh fuck, you’re going to fist me!” I think he laughed. Of course he was going to fist me. He knows I hate it. He’d been waiting to do this for a week and a half. (It’s a monthly ban. Yeah.)

I really do hate it. I hate the worry that I’m being too stretched out. I hate the mockery it makes of regular sex. I hate that I get off on it and how it makes me lose complete control. I hate the feeling of coming on his fist, the strange feeling of muscle spasms that can’t really spasm because they’re so fucking stretched. And while I’ve never been quiet during sex, I hate that I can’t shut my mouth of when his fist is inside me. “Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck, ow…” et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.

I swear in my head and in my blog and in my journal all the time. I don’t swear out loud. Except lately, during sex, because I can’t shut my freaking mouth off.

And I never know how it’s going to feel. Sometimes it’s instantly arousing. Sometimes it hurts. He usually takes his hand in and out several times and sometimes it will vary from one insertion to the next. I have no idea what the difference is. I remember begging him to stop after I came once, pleading, and hearing him tell me “No.” That was it…no justification. Just no. He didn’t need one, but it didn’t stop me from begging. I really do hate fisting. But he loves it. (Well – he thinks it’s hot. I tumblr fisting porn for him because he likes it and all I can think is – “ow!” When he finally decides he’s had enough of my protesting and decides to fist my butt…I’m in so much trouble. I know how hot he thinks it is but it scares the hell out of me.)

At one point when he pulled out, it made me scream. I don’t remember why, but I remember the sound ripping out of my throat. I remember my heart beating hard against my rib cage.

The cane came out again. I don’t remember which one, as I was pretty gone – lost in my own head. I think it was the rattan cane, and while he says he wasn’t hitting quite as hard, the sensation this time was much more…languid. Sharp but not omg-my-skin-is-splitting painful and felt completely different. Headspace and arousal level made a huge difference. And…they should. It was punishment earlier, but it was interesting, looking back on it. How many slices of the cane? I have no idea. A lot more than eight, I think, but I was gone.

The next thing I remember was his hand forcing me open again, forced inside me, and another orgasm as I whimpered and ended up splatted on my stomach, legs thrown haphazardly around him and face ground into the arm of the couch. (Ouch – I don’t have a bruise there today, but it feels like I do despite lack of visible bruising.)

I lost track of how many orgasms I had on his fist, but they definitely stopped being the pleasant warm-glow melty kind. They became the pleasure-so-intense-my-body-ached kind. And when he decided he was done – my protests long since gone from begging to mostly whimpers with occasional “ows” thrown in – he took my ass.

You’d think since we’ve had anal almost every day – sometimes multiple times a day – for over a month now it’s be easier.

And I suppose on –some- level it is. It has to be. No amount of kegels can keep your sphincter 100% virgin-tight…

…but it doesn’t feel any easier. I guess it lets him fuck me harder, and I know he’s taking pleasure in it. It was some of the roughest sex we’ve had and I felt every millimeter of the welts the cane had left as he pounded against me.

It was rough enough that I don’t even know if I came or not. I probably did – the level of eroticism was very high. But I don’t remember it – I mostly remember the harsh groaning as he came, his cock spasming inside me, every twitch…

He left to go clean up. When he came back, he unbound my hands and let me go clean up. When I came back, I asked if we were done and he said yes.

And then…gosh. I don’t really know what possessed me other than I didn’t feel done. I didn’t want to go back to earth and had a lot deeper to go.

He was tired, so I suggested (ugh – yes) that he use tabasco. Easy pain – no effort for him – a lot of physical pain for me. I wanted him to hurt me. I wanted to be gone, for him to get hard as he watched me hurt…I wanted to be nowhere but in that exact moment.

“But just a little…” I pleaded. Only a little. Enough to burn and make me whimper, but I couldn’t ask him to really hurt me. I didn’t think I had –that- much deeper to go before I got to the headspace I wanted.

He didn’t indulge me. When he sauced me, it was with a great deal more than we have ever used.

“Too much!” I cried.

“You’re welcome!” he told me.

And that shut me up. It was exactly what I had asked for, even if I began second guessing myself the moment I said it. It would center me, leave no room to worry about the trial for my aunt’s murder or whether fisting had left me stretched out or the cleaning I had to do or any other mundane concern.

The pain didn’t build like I was used to – it crashed over me, intense, hot, searing and so fucking hot my whole body seemed to flush with it. With his permission I rubbed my hard clit, twirling it with my fingers, my wetness mixing with the peculiar scent of the hot sauce.

He took pictures as I masturbated, and any other day that would have freaked me the fuck out. But I was…not enjoying myself, but riding the pain. Whinging occasionally, mostly lost in my own head. For how long? I don’t know. A long time. While to a degree pain is pain and this pain has its own unique flavor that is as strong as it always is, he doused my cunt. I was dripping, which meant every teeny bit of exposed skin – and every bit that wasn’t exposed that he cruelly massaged the hot sauce into – was past hot. It was a searing pain that felt like it was eating into my body and there was literally nowhere else I could go at that moment. Those moments.

When it ebbed – slightly – and I came back into reality, sort of, I asked if he was hard. Needless to say…he was. I asked him…begged him…to fuck my ass. I don’t remember the exact conversation,  but he expressed surprise and I reassured him I knew it would hurt, that I wanted him to use me and to get off on me, get off knowing his cock would be hurting me and that my cunt was still searing between my legs.

He pushed me into a position I hate – face smashed to the floor, ass in the air. He can penetrate so deeply and I can’t move at all to dodge or make it easier to bear. He used me as roughly as I had asked for, my immediate cries of regret and “ouch, ow” ignored.

I think I came. I don’t have any idea. As hot and erotic as it was, orgasm was long past the point. I know he came, shuddering against me.

And you would think the evening would end there, but the tabasco was still eating at me, burning and hot…so as he lay there, I gently sucked him. He wasn’t getting off again – he was spent – but he told me my mouth felt good. So with him lying on the couch, I gently licked and sucked his semi-hard penis, kneeling on the floor next to him.

And as I did it, he smacked me over and over with the cane, aiming to bruise me, as I occasionally thanked him (but mostly kept my mouth on him).

It is full of righteous indignation that I report today that my only bruise is from the single bite he placed on my inner left thigh, to match the bruise on my right thigh from a couple days earlier. Hmph! Damn canes.  

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…)

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...

A fun night...

Last night began, blindfolded with a thick silk scarf. In the hall, my heart beat anxiously in my chest – I could hear him, ripping and tearing duct tape in the living room. Setting something up – but I had no idea what.

Rip.

Rip.

Rip.

In the dark, both physically and mentally, each “rip” of the tape brought a swell of anxiety. “Are you turned on?” he asked, but the only response I remember making was a slight anxious whimper.

Finally, when he was done, I felt him in front of me. “Do you have any questions?” he asked softly, and I think I shook my head, soft breaths caught in my throat. He had lots of plans for tonight, he told me, and I was definitely going to be sauced – whether just my ass or whether it was more would depend on if I was good or not…

Then quickly, stunning me, he sealed my mouth with duct tape. I tried to gasp, but that didn’t work very well and I contented myself with quick anxious breaths through my nose. My hands bound behind my back, he teases me that it will be hard to lead me where he wants to go with my hands bound behind me – so he applies clothespins to my breasts and I am lead in, gasping, by the clips. Though I remember making distressed sounds – those clips hurt! – I am reminded of Beauty’s Release at the same time.

A small flurry of activity follows – usually I can recant events in fairly close order to reality, but I can recall what happened last night but not the precise order…the memories are instead pleasantly fluid.

I remember him smacking and slapping my breasts as I knelt, usually with hands and sometimes with the wooden spoon. I remember gasping and moaning as the smacks and slaps stung, but there was no real pain – occasional stings, but nothing really hurt. More clips came out – how many, I couldn’t say, but he told me they were symmetrical. As he applied them, he occasionally brushed them gently, and I moaned at the pain this brought. I was wet; it hurt but each time he did it I felt pangs of arousal in my cunt. He ripped the tape off when he got them all on, forcing his cock into my mouth and I did myself to suck him, tasting every bit of him, trying to work him with my tongue before he covered my mouth again with the tape.

Pushing me forward so that my clipped breasts dangled, he fucked me from behind. The contrast was so intense – the pleasure of him driving into me, feeling him deeply inside me and edging me towards climax as the stinging of the clips was amplified by the motion…I was making urgent sounds and I don’t even know what I was wishing I could ask him to do – fuck me harder or remove the clips? My priority seemed to flip every 2 seconds and the world seemed really hazy, the only clarity between my legs and in my breasts. Thinking about it today has me squirming. I feel like I hate the clothespins when he brings them out – but I love how he uses them and how much they turn him on.

Before he came, he stopped fucking me and dragged me back up on my knees so that I was kneeling again. He began removing the clips, taunting me gently as he did because each removal felt molten – as much as I had whimpered when they were pinching and being jostled as my body was shaken by the intensity of the sex, removal is a hundred times more intense. I cried out each time, wanting desperately to rub my breasts as the stinging hot pain flared. He teased me that he could just leave them on if it would make me feel better.

Pushed forward, I found myself on all fours, still gagged by the tape across my mouth. He told me to get my ass as high in the air as I could.

I heard the whoosh of a flame igniting near me, and knew he’d lit a candle. I had a moment to process that hot wax was coming when I felt him pulling my ass cheeks apart as far as they could go – and securing them there with duct tape. It was acutely embarrassing and I wasn’t sure why, but he stroked me and reassured me that he thought it was sexy. I can’t remember if he said that aloud or not but I knew from his touch that he did – I think I remember the warmth of his penis brushing my ass too.

And then the wax was falling, and it was all I could focus on. The searing heat that for a second feels too hot to take, especially when it lands directly on your anus – not knowing where the next drop will fall – my ass, my thighs? My back, my calves? Sometimes even my feet (although honestly I barely felt that). The wax is SO hot for a second – so hot it feels like it should sizzle, then as it cools and hardens it’s this intense warmth as it adapts to your body heat. He has always loved it because it makes me jump – how could it not? How could you take something like that without jumping, without shuddering – especially when several drops fall quickly in a row?

When I felt as if I was as waxy as I was wet, he told me it was time to spank me. He positioned me, legs spread wide, over the couch. I can’t remember if the tape had been removed from my mouth at that point or not – I felt…floaty. Hazy. He told me he wanted my ass a fuckable pink or something like that – I don’t remember the exact words but it told me it would be a lot of slapping, not a lot of pain. And that was exactly what it was – small, almost playful slaps with a couple hard ones interspersed. Occasionally he told me exactly where his next slap was going to land – the hand of the spoon is going HERE and it’s going to be very hard, are you ready? – and I can’t even explain how that made me feel. Dread, arousal, wet…

When my ass was nicely pink – sensitive but not terribly sore, pink but no bruises or marks – he put my back on my knees and told me he was going to sauce my ass now. Not because I was bad, but because doing it turned him on and he wanted to see me squirm.

That was so incredibly erotic I can’t even explain it. Suffering for him because he wanted to see it? He pushed exactly the right button and I was tripped out. Though I admitted I was scared I barely protested as he worked the tabasco deep into my ass – as it started burning he started working his fingers in and out of my ass as I wiggled. I moaned and wriggled and it wasn’t long before he couldn’t stand it – he started fucking me, hard – really really hard, slamming into me. Between the burning in my ass and intense pleasure building inside me I barely felt like I was there, as if I were nothing more than the sensations my body was experiencing…