Friday, November 23, 2012

Giving 100%.... an unwise thing to do

I can imagine many eyebrows being raised at the title of this post. I mean seriously... isn't the notion of giving our women 100% of ourselves, the thing we submissive men fantasize about all the time? But that's the funny thing about fantasies... sometimes they're best enjoyed as exactly that. Reality has a way of changing things.

The thing that inspired this entry is a post I read on "I'm her's" recently. Maybe it was just a passing lament, but IH was feeling something missing in his FLR. He cooks, cleans, and attends to every need of his woman on a 24/7 basis. On it's surface, it looks like "sub man heaven", doesn't it? But as he put it: "I'm the cook... period. I'm in charge of laundry... period". And so on.

If all we submissive men needed was to devote every conscious action to the betterment of our women, we would all be perfectly content with stealth submission. But as we all know, stealth submission is not nearly enough for us to be fulfilled. Giving of oneself is all well and good, but we need to feel TAKEN in order to be truly happy.

So if you embark on an FLR with your partner, why is it unhealthy to give 100% of what you have 100% of the time? In a word: complacency.

Once both parties become accustomed to their new roles, what else is there to give? Where's the excitement? Where's the thrill of pursuit and capture? Where's the sublime bliss of surrendering to feminine charms wrapped in cloak of confident dominance? I feel that a FLR will be much healthier if the man assumes a portion of the household duties, but not ALL of them. Under such an arrangement, the man never really knows what his domme will be telling him to do, or when she'll be telling him. But one thing is certain... she WILL be telling him. This ever present element of uncertainty adds spice to a relationship and prevents things from becoming mundane.

I also think that it's a good thing if the domme in the relationship doesn't loose sight of just how good she has it, with the ownership of a personal servant. By sometimes operating the washing machine, stove and vacuum cleaner, she's reminded of the benefits of having a man who is willing to do such tasks for her, and will hopefully keep her attuned to the reason he's doing all this in the first place.


Tuesday, November 6, 2012

An Example of Genuine Punishment

I think that no matter which end of the whip one might prefer, there are many times when "punishments" can be contrived things. Sometimes the submissive might try to provoke a reaction by being intentionally bratty, other times the dominant might purposefully find fault in something just to have the "excuse" to exert their authority in severe style. To me, there is nothing wrong with this, as long as both participants are aware of the unspoken rules. My mistress and I engage in this all the time, and it's fun for both parties.

But last night was different.

My queen was taping 2 shows at the same time on our DVR so we had to watch something else live in the next room. It was a political program that we both enjoy. When my favorite commentator went to weigh in on an issue, my mistress was speaking to me about some other subject.

Normally this would be no problem at all, as all one has to do is hit the pause button, but to paraphrase the old E.F. Hutton commercial: When Charles Krauthammer speaks, I just HAVE to listen, so I basically shushed her. Not in a mean way, mind you. I just raised my hand and said "one sec hon, I want to hear this". 

Huge mistake.

She said nothing (she loves Charles too BTW), but when the next commercial came on, she muted the TV and said in a firm voice: "Get out the swatch and assume the position" ("swatch" is her nickname for her cane). I did as I was told, stripped, and bent over at the foot of the bed, profusely apologizing with every move.


Funny thing, apologies. It seems the more sincerely they are made, the more they go unheeded. In fact, I think they make her MORE annoyed. Anyway, true to form, she swung so hard that the first stroke hit me in my lower back, right on the bone. Normally, the first few I can bear, but this was a whole new kind of pain, and I involuntarily shot up like a rocket and let out a prolonged wail. 


Through the fog of my slowly receding agony, I could hear her laughing out loud. It turned out she literally broke the cane with that stroke. It snapped off about 5 inches from the end, at one of the "knuckles". This gave me about 30 seconds to compose myself as she reveled in her mirth. I was then persuaded with a shove of her hand to resume my place, where she delivered another 5 strokes, each one harder than the last. Mercifully, she found her mark for these blows, no doubt because of her now shorter (and more controllable) implement.

The entire thing took less than 2 minutes and we were cuddling on the bed once again even before the program resumed. It was hard for me to focus on it though. Not from the pain, as I was already over that by now. What kept my mind whirring was I couldn't stop thinking how this is EXACTLY the sort of D/s relationship I crave. One where she looks upon it like her birthright that I serve her precicely as she wishes, and where it's as natural as breathing that she would beat me without mercy if I slip up even a little.


The entire episode was devoid of any psychological dance, game, or pretense. There was no "tacit topping" of any kind. She saw behavior she didn't like and she matter-of-factly punished me as severely as she could. The suffering she inflicted made me genuinely sorry for my offense and eager to show her that I learned my lesson. This was D/s as it should be, where everybody wins.


Oh.... something else she did... she made me love her, just a little bit more.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

New Domme + No Training Wheels = OUCH!!!

Ahhhh the perils of being at the tender mercies of a freshly minted domme whose gusto outpaces her experience!

My wife is no sadist, but the thought of punishing me when I step out of line DOES have it's appeal in her eyes. As to me, I'm no masochist in that I don't crave pain per se, but I DO absolutely RELISH the thought of being married to a woman who owns me so completely that I have no choice but to submit to her when she tells me to assume the position.

I suspect I'm not alone in that regard. If I know that I'm to be punished on a given night, I'm giddy with anticipation throughout the day, craving the suffering I know she'll inflict on me right up to the moment that implement strikes tender flesh. Then, in an instant, all I can think is "What the F*** was I THINKING???". But later, when the beating is done and my composure is restored, I reflect on the suffering she made me endure and wish it were ten times as severe. Strange, that.

But I digress....

Once she had me over her knee that initial time, my wife became a lot more at ease in administering corporal punishment. I mentioned in an earlier entry how we have a collection of a few toys. Actually there are 3 to be exact. A perforated leather slapper, a crop, and the cane I already touched upon. At the start, when she was vacillating on which one to use, I offered her the suggestion that the cane was most painful by FAR. Sounds suicidal, I know. But at the time, I (wrongly) assumed that she'd reserve it for times where the offense was truly egregious. Instead, it became her ONLY weapon of choice, no matter how innocent my misdemeanors might have been.

Early on, I tried in vain to direct her to some websites where she could gain some knowledge. She shunned the idea, telling me that she didn't want to be "copying other couples" in our new lifestyle. So without the benefit of any mentors to guide her, she developed a certain technique at the start, and really hasn't wavered from it since.

Does she start with start out easy, with lighter taps? 
No.

Does she space the blows apart or deliver them in small groupings?
No... and no.

Does she favor each side of my backside evenly, ease up when she sees me writhing, or make strong efforts at developing good aim?
Nope, uh uh, and FUCK no!!!

Basically, it goes like this.

She blithely tells me to prepare myself for a caning. I go into the next room, draw the blinds, strip, lay the cane on the bed, and place 2 pillows on the foot of the bed which will serve to elevate my backside. I then gently knock on the wall as a signal that I'm ready and lay in wait for her. She then comes in and proceeds to wail on me as quickly and as hard as she possibly can for anywhere between 10-20 strokes. When she's done, she tosses the cane on the mattress, and offhandedly reminds me to straighten up the room before I leave.

The terrible aim is one thing that still surprises me. As I've mentioned several times, my darling queen is very athletic, and actually won MVP as a pitcher on her high school softball team. So it goes to show that she is indeed swinging that thing as hard as she possibly can, because her aim is downright terrible. Sometimes it works to my benefit, as when she's leaning so far into the stroke, the mattress takes the brunt of the blow, but let me tell you, you do not know what true pain is until you've been caned in the small of the back by a determined woman who's swinging for the fences.

Part of her being new to this, is not realizing that some form of aftercare really is called for. I mean, a typical session lasts only a few minutes, but after she's done with me, I'm practically a broken man, gasping for breath, and sometimes on the verge of tears. Being soothed at that point would be heaven itself, but you know what? I really don't mind the feeling of "abandonment" I get when she leaves me there panting and trying to regain a semblence of composure.

Why?

Easy... It's real. She is doing EXACTLY what she wants to do. She's not following a preconceived script, and she's certainly NOT acting in such a way to please me. It's not a game at all. No sexy outfits, no role play. She's simply giving her husband a beating for his temporary lapse in service to her. She's treating me like the slave I need to be, and I adore her all the more for it.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Love Notes

I love writing little surprise messages to my wife. Sometimes it might be a handwritten jotting left on the kitchen counter for her to discover when she wakes up in the morning. Sometimes it will be a quick email or text, fired off spur of the moment. Still other times, it could be a simple "I love you", hidden in the recess of her purse, waiting to be discovered days later. Below is one such missive, sent just a moment ago.

My Darling,

As much as I know how deeply you care for me, sometimes it’s your capacity NOT to care, that pulls me even closer to you.

You don’t care how I feel about what food you put in front of me...
You know I will eat whatever you expect me to, and that’s that.

You don’t care how much I might be suffering when you cane me...
You know the degree to which I must be punished and that’s that.

You don’t care if I don’t feel like working out...
You want a man with a great body and that’s that.

You don’t care if I might want to see a particular TV program...
You have the authority to dictate the things we watch and that’s that.

You don’t care if I’m feeling a little lazy or tired...
If you want something done, you expect my obedience and that’s that.

You don’t care how much I’m dying to orgasm...
That decision is now under your control, and that’s that.

My queen, when I serve you, honor you, and obey you as your slave, I'm expressing my boundless love for you. And when you selfishly take from me, control me, and make me physically suffer when I err, I feel the depth of your love for me like never before.

I know you know all this honey, but this morning I’m so overflowing with love for you, I can’t seem to get you out of my head. I just wanted to tell you again.

I love you with all my heart.

Always yours,

Jake

Monday, September 17, 2012

Legitimately Spanked... for the first time

First some background... For years, we've kept a small collection of toys in the bottom drawer of my wife's dresser. Though they usually tended to collect dust, on the rare occasions that she did put them to use, it was only in conjunction with masturbation. She never really "got" my submission, but she did understand how physical pain could immensely enhance sexual pleasure. Some years ago, I shyly suggested that she could use these "implements of ass destruction" on me without the sexual component if she wished to. This earned me a: "You have GOT to be F***ing kidding me" sorta look, so I never brought up the subject again.

Anyway, back to more recent events... Even though I was still dieting and working out under her direction, my "kale eating" was becoming a little more sporadic.  And while I was fulfilling every request she made of me instantly, and was in a state of constant attendance to her, I really wasn't "feeling" a whole lot of D/s. At first, I was just a little worried, but soon my initial concerns gave way to all consuming fear.

Was she tired of our dynamic already? Was this her way of weaning me off my need to submit to her? Was I to become stuck in another rut, and live the rest of my life in a constant state of frustration? One night, my fear and anxiety reached a tipping point. It was after dinner, and she asked me to get something out of the attic. I found the item right away, but lingered, sitting on a storage crate as I contemplated my future. Out of nowhere, I started sobbing. I couldn't stop, but didn't really want to, as I knew I was releasing a lot of pent up emotion.

After composing myself, I rejoined my wife, who was watching TV. She asked what took me so long, and I mumbled something about having a hard time finding what I was looking for. She seemed skeptical.

Later, when we went to bed, I mustered the courage to broach the subject. I asked her if she was OK with this change in our relationship. Did she mind the fact that I need to submit to her? She assured me that everything was fine and she was taking things at her own pace. We talked a while longer, and somehow my little crying jag in the attic became known. I thought that the confession would yield understanding in return. That she'd see how much this all meant to me, and how I thought about it constantly.

Wrong.

She was livid, and proceeded to give me an earful on how I had better learn to take what was given to me and to quit over thinking things. This diatribe went on for at least 15 minutes, with a steady increase in intensity and volume, when she finally ordered me out of our bed and to spend the night sleeping on the floor. I slid off the mattress, taking care to be stealthy as i grabbed my pillow on the way down, lest she deny me that small comfort as well.

Five minutes passed, and I could literally hear her fuming. Finally she fairly shouted: "God, I am SO pissed at you. Get my cane and get your sorry ass over here!"

Incredibly, rather than complying immediately, I tried to mollify her, but she was hearing none of it. "Jake, don't piss me off any more than I am now. Just do as I say". I got the cane (it's farily short, perhaps 24" with a leather wrapped handle on one end), and timidly walked over to her as if I was on a personal death march.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed now, and I could see her hand extended in the dim light. She snatched the cane from my extended hand and then ordered me over her knee. Excited but still fearful, I make another attempt at talking her out of it as I tentatively started to lower myself over her lap. Annoyed with my lack of speed, she reached up with her right hand, laced her fingers into my hair, clinched her fist, and yanked me over her waiting lap. This happened so suddenly, I lost my balance and practically fell across her.

 Thankfully she was unable to take a big windup, but what she lacked in force, she made up for in quantity. The blows came so fast, I couldn't have counted them if I tried, but believe me, it was excruciatingly painful.

When her arm grew tired, she pushed me off her lap, ordered me to put the cane away, and said that since she knew I learned my lesson, I could get back into bed. After I did, I whispered "I love you" but got a grunt for an answer, as she was still pretty steamed. But that was OK, because as my fingers traced the growing outline of welts on my ass, it was like she had literally carved her feelings for me onto my body, in her own unique version of braille.




Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Kale... Oh you vile weed!!!!

My wife makes a mean salad. Baby spinach, tomatoes, mandarin oranges, chopped onion, and a dash of walnuts, all topped with a sprinkling of bacon bits. A meal in itself, really. So when I arrived home the following Monday and looked into my salad bowl, I immediately saw that something was not right. Amid all the other tasty parts of the salad, there was something else in place of the baby spinach.

"What's this?" I asked.

Feigning nonchalance, she responded "Oh, that's kale. They've been touting it on all the health shows on TV lately. It's supposed to be very good for you. Try it, let me know what you think".

I did. It was horrible. Easily the most vile weed to ever cross my palate. The texture was suspect just by itself, but far worse, it left the most bitter aftertaste you can imagine. I realized then, that she must have sampled it before I got home and had to know how I'd react, so she was anticipating my objections.

Her reply to my protestations was concise and direct. "Jake, it's good for you, I want you to eat it, so you're going to eat it." That was it. No room for negotiations, and clearly she was not about to brook any complaints about it on my part. I forced it all down, which seemed to please her immensely, but there was an additional glint in her eye, which made me decidedly uneasy.

As it turned out, now that she knew that kale was vomit-worthy, she wasted little time in kicking things up a notch. This was to be her first technique in openly punishing me. When we spoke on the phone the following morning, she informed me that I neglected to take out the garbage as I left. I appoligized and assured her it wouldn't happen again, to which she merely declared, "It's OK, but now you're gonna be getting kale again tonight."

When I got home, I tried to anticipate my fate more optimistically. Perhaps between drowning it in salad dressing, and with the help of the good stuff that was also part of the salad, I'd be able to get through it more easily. Wrong.

She told me to have a seat at the kitchen table. In a moment, she walked the salad bowl over and placed it down before me. I was horrified. Looking down, what I saw was kale and ONLY kale. No dressing, no tomatoes, no tasty mandarin oranges, no nothing. Just kale. She took a seat across from me and folded her arms with an expectant air. "Eat it" she said flatly.

I took a mouthful, and it was even worse than I expected. I soon found that the best way was to chew as quickly as I could and swallow it even faster, lest I start gagging. That part of the cycle was pretty quick, but the aftertaste was so terrible, it was steeling myself into taking another bite that was the hard part. It took about a half hour to get it all down, and when I finished my last bite, she said: "Good boy, but that took too long. We'll have to do something about that next time".

"Next time" turned out to be the following day. True to her word, she found another minor infraction to punish me for and served me the same quantity of kale, this time placing a timer set for 15 minutes in front of me. "Believe me Jake, you do NOT want that timer going off without you being done with everything in your bowl".

"Yes Mistress" I replied. This was the first time I'd ever addressed her as such, and the words were out of my mouth before I realized it. I had always thought that addressing her in that form would be a milestone which would seem strange (at least the first time), but it just came out as naturally as could be.

That was the essence of our D/s life for the next few weeks. She, actively looking for the smallest of infractions so she'd have cause to punish me with a bowl of kale.  Me, constantly on guard and on my best behavior in order to avoid same. On average, I'd say that she prevailed 3 out of 4 days, but as terrible as that stuff was, to finally be under control in this way, was heaven to me.

In retrospect, I could tell that she was enjoying herself too. Contrary to her earlier fears, she was discovering that being my domme didn't have to mean dressing up in leather and beating me to a pulp. It simply meant that she got to call the shots, whatever those shots might be.


Saturday, September 8, 2012

Our Discussion Continues...

The following day was a Saturday. My wife belongs to 2 different soccer leagues, and plays on both Saturday and Sunday. I normally didn't go to watch her, but today I did, as we were to later meet our grown children there, and then all go out for dinner afterward.

She was behind the wheel, as usual (not because of any sort of D/s, but rather, she can't stand the way I drive, so I gladly turned that duty over to her long ago). It's funny how being in a car can promote open discussion. Since she needed to pay attention to the road, there was limited eye contact, so we were able to talk "with" each other without actually talking "to" each other. It wasn't before long when she reopened the subject.

"Jake, I want to ask you a few questions, OK?"

"Sure" I said. "Go ahead".

"When you say you'll do anything for me, that doesn't just mean sexual things, right?"

"No Lindsey, while it's true that my need to submit is related to sex, it's not about sex in the usual sense. It has almost nothing to do with nudity, let alone orgasm. In fact, the more ordinary the request, the more sexually charged it could be perceived. You may laugh at this, but over the years, when you'd ask me to get you something, I'd have a private fantasy that I was acting as your slave, doing your bidding because I had no choice but to obey you. So when you'd ask me to do something as mundane as get you a drink while we watched TV, my heart would race with anticipation. It wasn't sexual.... but it was"

She let this sink in for a while, then asked: "OK, but what about actual sex? Would you want to just lay there passively all the time?"

"NO!" I said. "It's not like that at all. Here's the thing in a nutshell: Sex is simply on your terms, always. When we have it, IF we have it, who's on top, what we're doing, and even whether or not I get to orgasm."

This took her aback, and she glanced over my way. "You mean I get to decide if you even cum or not?"

"Of course" I assured her. "The whole dynamic is based on me surrendering control, or rather, you TAKING it. So what could be more precious to a man, than to give up control of his orgasms? Honey (that was the first time in months I'd called her that), picture a life where you basically get everything you could ever ask for, where nothing is out of bounds. Picture a life where your man strives all day, everyday to give you every comfort you could imagine, and does so, not in the hope or expectation that he will get something from you in return, but just for the sheer joy of DOING those things. So 'being a slave' isn't code for passivity in the bedroom, it's means exactly what it implies. Being a slave means serving you 24/7 in every single aspect of life."

We had pulled up to the soccer parking lot by now, so we had to stop our discussion. She played a great game, and I felt so proud watching her on the field. Later, as we had dinner, we sat together on one side of the booth. We were pretty close to one another, our legs sometimes making incidental contact. In a moment, almost as if it were on cue, I lowered my hand under the table, she did the same, and our fingers interlaced out of view. Holding hands never felt so sweet.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

D-day plus one...

The following day was a Friday. I always get up at 5am to get to work, long before my wife, and today was no exception. On the drive in, I tried to figure out how to proceed after the night before. While I was inwardly hoping we had a shot after all, one thing was certain. She HAD to know how seriously I needed this, and she MUST take to heart, that this was not some passing fancy that would fade with time. Just giving me lip service and taking a half hearted stab at D/s with the expectation that she could later "change me" was a non-starter.

When I arrived at my business, I emailed her links to several F/m blogs that I'd been following, with "if you want to truly know me, it's all here" in the subject line. Two of them can be found on the sidebar here, and the third was: "Woman in Control" by Lady Grey. This last one, while never failing to send a thrill up my leg, was probably a bit too severe for me to want in my own life. But I sent it anyway just so she'd have a sense of "worst possible scenario".

That night, over dinner, our dance continued. Up until then, I refrained from using "us" in any sort of D/s context. Rather, I tended to speak more in the abstract, using phrases like: "I need my woman to... , where "my woman" could be her, but could still be someone else in the future. Neither one of us wanted to make a firm commitment to a D/s relationship, let alone an all out FLR.

She was just as circumspect as I was, but it was she who took the first step into actual D/s, and she cleverly did it in a way that could start out as fairly vanilla and morph into whatever would suit her, later on. As I mentioned in a previous entry, my wife is a group fitness instructor and personal trainer. So our first foray into a D/s life was centered around fitness.

I thought I was in at least decent shape. I tipped the scales at about 188, was an avid mountain biker, and kept an active gym membership (though I was pretty good at finding excuses to not work out). So between forkfulls of whole wheat pasta, she looked me in the eye and made the following declaration:

"OK Jake, I've been doing a lot of thinking today, and here's the way it's gonna be. Whether we stay together or whether you wind up with some mistress (she practically spat the word), you are going to get into shape and I am going to train you. You'll eat what I tell you to eat, bike when I tell you to bike, and work out here at home according to the schedule I set and under my supervision. Understand?"

She had no idea that my heart was positivlely racing after hearing this, but I just answered "OK, I will".

"Good. If things work out between us, I'll have a husband with the body I want. If they don't, you'll at least be in the best shape of your life and your mistress (repeated with even more emphasis), can thank me".

I nodded my assent and we continued to eat in silence. After a moment, a hint of a smile crossed her lips. I arched an eyebrow as if to ask: "yeeessss???" It was clear from the smirk she now wore (and made no attempt to hide), that she just had a revelation. "You'll eat broccoli if I tell you to, won't you?" she asked.  "I'll eat what ever you tell me to eat" I replied, as I felt my cock stiffen.

She could hardly contain her glee. "Ohhhh.... I think I'm gonna LIKE this" she said.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The night our lives changed


Oddly enough, as vivid as that night is in my mind, I can’t recall the spark that started it all. We were fighting over something, probably something trivial. One thing led to another and it wasn’t long before our relationship and all our difficulties came to the fore.  All along I actually believed I’d convinced her that our problems were insurmountable, but I was wrong.  Very wrong.

When I finally blurted out that I wasn’t sure if we were going to endure, it was as if I’d physically struck my poor darling wife. Turned out that she was just “giving me space” all along and had no idea I’d want to end things. She kept asking: “what’s happened… what’s changed you?”  She wasn’t buying my feeble argument that all of the petty gripes I’d been complaining of could be enough to tear us apart. 

After an hour or so of fending off one plea after the next, I had to admit that she was right. It wasn’t enough, and if I was going to end our marriage, I couldn’t bear the selfish act of letting her think it was her fault in any way.

Without warning, the flood gates opened up. In one huge emotional surge, alternating between wails of emotional anguish, and tears of personal shame, I told her who she was married to…

After a lifetime of being tongue tied when it came to the “real me”, my words flew out in one massive torrent. I spilled it all. Not in the hope that she could become the woman I needed her to be, but to convince her why I wasn’t right for her, why I was sure I could only find happiness with another, and why she should let me go. 

 “I’m a slave”, I wailed. “I’ve been a slave since puberty, and I’ll always be a slave. Virtually every free moment of every day, I ache to submit. I need a woman who wants to own me as badly as I need to be owned. I need to have my rights stripped away. I need for my happiness to be a distant second to my woman’s. I need someone who will not just let me serve her, I need someone who expects and demands that I serve her in every conceivable way. I need to live under threat of punishment… severe punishment if I mess up even a little. I need to be controlled, taken, and subjugated”. 

Not wanting to give her a chance to respond, for fear that I might not “get it all out” if I were to stop, I continued. “You understand and accept, that gay people can’t help the way they are. They were born that way and nothing will ever change them. I’ve never had a gay thought in my life but I KNOW what drives them because it drives me as well. I know it sounds sick or wrong to you but I can’t help who I am. I’m a slave… I’m a fucking slave!!!”

When my monologue was through, I was spent, realizing I'd been running on pure adrenalin.  Now I fell in a heap on my half of the bed, curled myself into ball, and wished the world would end. I never felt so low or so ashamed. Not for being who I was,  but for putting her through all that I had, and wasting so many years of her life. I felt horrible for marrying her “under false pretenses”.

I was expecting her to say, “yeah, you’re right. Maybe we should separate”, but she didn’t. She told me she understood. She told me that while she’d always known I was submissive, she’d never really “gotten it” like she did now. She told me that she’d always thought my submission was just related to passivity during sex, and when I explained how sex had NOTHING to do with it in the usual sense, she understood that too.

We talked until three A.M., and while we never really coming to any sort of agreement as to what our future held, we communicated like never before. Still, now that the cat was out of the bag, I felt a little trapped. The whole reason I wanted to end things for any pretended reason other than our D/s incompatibly was because if we tried and failed, it seemed too weak of an excuse to separate.  Yet, it felt cathartic to finally unburden myself.

We were both exhausted by now, and when we said good night, she said I’d given her a lot to think about.  I switched off the light and after a few minutes of silence, I heard her chuckle to herself. I asked her what was funny, and she said:

“Remember the movie: ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’?, you know the part when Jimmy Stewart is walking Donna Reid home when they were young and she accidentally loses her robe and winds up in the hydrangea bush? That’s when he picks her robe up off the ground, realizes she’s naked and vulnerable, and says to no one in particular… ‘Hmmmm this is a verrrry interesting situation we have here”.

I didn’t know it at the time, but at that moment, my darling wife of over 30 years, became my mistress.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Beginnings Part II

Some might wonder why one would attempt to end such a seemingly perfect union without giving a full out attempt at open honesty. If I loved her and respected her as I say I did, why didn't I have it in me to try and reach out to her and let her see what was in my heart?

Honestly, it was because of my respect for her and my genuine need for her approval, that I held back as I did. Sure, I was virtually certain that she'd never consider entering into any sort of FLR in even the most superficial way, but didn't I owe it to us both to at least try?

The sad fact is, that I felt that her "unwillingness to own me" was not a "legitimate" enough excuse to leave, and not something which I could have any right for her to accept, if I stayed. Actually, it was my "head" that told me that, as a result of a lifetime of societal indoctrination. My heart was another matter. As I mentioned earlier, these thoughts consumed me for hours a day... every day of my life. How could they be ignored?

I also knew that right after her ownership, the thing I craved most, was her approval. At the risk of coming off as big headed, I have quite a few items in my "plus column". Pretty good looking, trim physique, and successful in business. I leave it to the reader to judge my wit and intelligence. What I'm driving at is, her approval meant more to me than the approbation of 1,000 of my own peers. If I were to end things for the reasons I was contemplating, I'd be deserving of the avalanche of disapproval which would come with it.

As a side note, if it did ever go down that way, I never for a moment feared that she'd vent her hurt by telling my children of their father's "secret". She's just not that way. Frankly, that fact made me feel even worse.

So if I had trouble justifying my true reasons, how in the world could I expect her to? I could fill many pages outlining the small and petty ways where I tried to find fault with her, while also trying to exaggerate my own shortcomings. In retrospect, it seems so cowardly, but at the time, my best case scenario was for HER to want to end things. My god, what a cad i was.

This cycle of non-existent communication and emotional wall building went on for the better part of a year. Then one night this past spring, things came to a head, and something happened which changed both our lives forever...




Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Beginnings Part I ...

My, but isn't it amazing how intimidating a blinking cursor can be? Especially when it's the only visible feature on an otherwise blank page for the first posting of a brand new blog!

I hemmed and hawed over this for a bit. Do I relate a complete history as to what brought my queen and I to our present state, or just jump right in with current happenings?

Actually, it probably doesn't matter all that much, because with this being a new effort, the only eyes that will see it for some time will be mine!

But enough flippancy, I think at least some sort of background is called for...

Both I and my queen are five decades old, and have been together for three of them. Fairly early on, she knew I was submissive, occasionally indulged my needs, but somehow I was always left feeling like less of a man for having a need that I couldn't stop if I tried.

Truth be told, I didn't need her tacit disapproval to feel badly about myself. Before the advent of the Internet, common sense told me that what I craved was "not right". It also told me that I was probably the only man on earth who could have these feelings.

As time went on, I learned that I was hardly alone, and started to accept myself for who I was. Yet, that strain between us continued. I would say that a little over a year ago, I reached the point where I could stand it no longer. My need to submit was beginning to consume me. I felt like I was going insane.

While I don't have a gay bone in my body, I've always likened my situation to a gay man in a heterosexual relationship. It didn't matter if she is "model beautiful" (she is), nor did it matter if she was sexy (she's a fitness fanatic and has an body a 21 year old would kill for). Nor did it really matter that she was funny, smart, wise, and the mother of my grown children. She couldn't give me what I needed more than anything, and she wanted no part of the thing that I obsessed over for hours a day. I felt i had to start "living my life" before my life was over.

Wanna know the hardest thing in the world to do? Trying to fall out of love with the most wonderful woman that ever was. Yet, I did attempt just that. I became cold, aloof, distant, and morose. I proceeded to build one emotional wall after another, all in an effort to make her stop loving me.

If there's one thing my childhood taught me (a subject I may return  to at some point), it's how to emotionally compartmentalize. Eventually, I was beginning to think that she'd given up on us, and would be willing to let me go. And as terrifying as starting a new life without her would be, I convinced myself that I could never find peace unless it was in the service of a woman who wanted to own me as much as I wanted to be enslaved to her

Never in a million years, did I imagine the domme of my dreams was with me all along. I'll explain why, in my next entry.