How I could possibly live with myself

So...that post about my husband has been brewing a while, no? "Anonymous" put up several comments regarding my choices and I found it all so intriguing that I decided it was worthy of a post. For future reference A-Non, just pop your name on your comment. I won't bite (unless asked) and I really don't mind if you don't agree with me. I am glad you feel strongly enough to leave a comment and all of it is food for thought.

The first part, the regret part I will freely admit that regret is a possibility. Not a likely one as I don't really live in that mindset, however, I will offer it up to you. To be honest the effect of this on my life and marriage has been immense. My husband and I separated for a time last year and our relationship has always been quite tenuous and volatile, the volatility spawned through apathy, rather than passionate outbursts. Having lived through both I can say with certainty that apathy is far more insidious, a beast. We do not live there anymore.

As for his self confidence, it was always something which concerned me, until I looked at him and truly saw who he was. He has no need to be needy or jealous. He knows everything that is going on for me and I him because we talk incessantly about every aspect we can possibly think of. He is quietly self assured. He would have to be, knowingly sending his wife out to be fucked by someone else. He knows I come home to him. He knows I love him. This process has done nothing but allow me to see more fully the man that he is.

This is not a whim of mine where I woke up and met someone and decided to see if we could open up our marriage so I could have a quick root. We (my husband and I) have been together more than seven years (seven-year-itch anyone?) and have known each other for more than fifteen. From the very start of our relationship my then boyfriend knew what he was getting himself in for. It was in part what he desired about me. We talked about adding additional people to our bedroom from the very start and eventually talked about opening up our relationship.

From the get go we both knew that one day it would be on the cards at some point in our future. We have both agreed to it many, many times.

I guess it has something to do with the way we view sex. I asked him what his comment was. He said "Gees, its just sex..."

In that respect I guess he is wrong because the D/s is not just about sex. That however is an added dynamic for him. He looks at me and says I could never have that sort of sex with you. I know he couldn't either - that is probably why I am married to him and not to a sadistic, dominating, prick (sorry, Sir). For him it is easier (yes we talk about all of this all the time) to know that I am going out to see Sir than it would be to think that I was going out to pick a random person up at a bar to just have some beige-vanilla-sex. That, he said, would be harder for him to deal with. He accepts that I have these desires and needs which he has no desire to participate in but still wishes for me to have them met - because he loves me.

I was terrified the other day on the way to see Sir. I messaged my husband. He messaged back, "All part of your life's journey. Enjoy it!".

This newness in our relationship has made it possible for me to see a future with him that I had doubt in before. I see his commitment to me every day. I know he sees it the same way. I am not asking for anyone to make the same choices but right now, for us, this is working beyond anything that either of us could possibly have foreseen. I accept that many people will not see what we choose as "right" but it is - for us.

I sat down and had a conversation with him where I said I was concerned about him agreeing to this because it was what I wanted, not what he wanted. He said to me that he admired me, that I was courageous, that it was what he wanted too, he just didn't know if he could follow through with it in the way I had and that he was glad I had done it because of what it has given us. Everyday we seek to prove ourselves to each other anew. To make sure the other loves and adores us. This has been the best thing we have done for our relationship.

Do not mistake me for being disrespectful - sitting having honest conversations with the people I love shows nothing but honour and respect. Do not mistake my husband for a weak man, so lacking in self-confidence he would agree to this despite loathing it. He is one of the strongest men I know.



I had a dream last night that I was sleeping and someone came in and sucked my nipples, working his way down, sucking my treasured clit almost to the point of orgasm, slowing to start again, tucking his fingers into me, building up the perfect rhythm, tongue searching, fingers working, mouth hungry. I did not feel I would ever cum, but I was chasing it, he was chasing it and then I was there, back arching, eyes wide then rolling back, gasping, panting, shaking. On recounting it to Husband Dear this morning he assures me it was no dream...just another addition to the perfect day scenario. Apparently I rolled over and went to sleep, though I swear I never really woke up.

As far as perfection goes I am hitting pretty close to the mark at the moment. My cleaner came and worked her magic, I had a pedicure, washed and blowdryed my hair with my new fantastic hairdryer and I am waiting here with my kids working and my gorgeous dog doting on me, for a lovely woman to walk in the door and give me a full body really can't possibly get much better than this!

My baking yesterday was lovely. It makes me feel a little Martha Stewart. I think the brownies are my favorite. The recipe I use is pretty much chocolate. butter and brown sugar with just enough eggs and flour to stick it together. Again I use the salted butter because of the sweet/salty contrast - I know I shouldn't. I know the cooking books say unsalted but I can't help it. I am going to say that it is probably the asian influence - that flavour balance, sweet/salty/sour/hot must be hard-wired into my cells, so much so that it even permeates my baking.

I wonder at it, what creates in me my desires in the way that they manifest. The food, the sex, the way I walk through the world. As for the sexuality part, there have been no childhood triggers - of which I can attest. I can also say with some sort of certainty that I remember feeling this, knowing this about myself from very, very young. Maybe 4? I will draw the line at detailing the memories.

Occasionally I think about my ancestry and wonder at the link. Japanese, German, Spanish, English - especially with the German/Japanese. They are renowned for their weird control issues and proclivity for what would be considered in polite company, sexual deviancy. Then again perhaps this is just mine to wear. Blameless, it just is what it is.

It is interesting though.

I am going to make the panna cotta this afternoon. Hopefully Sir will desire for me to come and see him sometime soon. I am waiting, baking, indulging - but I cannot pretend at patience.



My husband is divine. He walks through the door and I am so happy to see him, to have his meal ready, to hear about his day and tell him about mine. Mainly though I am just desperate to put the kids to bed and be ravished by him. He tells me he doesn't understand my desire for pain, for Sir, for submission. I look at him and smile.

The pain he puts himself through. He is a runner. He ran an ultra marathon at the weekend. I love to see him, sweaty and hurting. He staggers in the door having just run 50kms. Having pushed himself past where it is comfortable, past where it is pleasure, past what is possible, through to the other side. He traces the marks on my back and I rub his legs...I am sure he will understand one day.

I arranged for someone to come and massage him while I was out last night. They were just winding up as I walked in. It was gorgeous to see him luxuriating. It was almost erotic to see someone touch him as he lay back, blissed-out - not to mention his legs were too tight to contort themselves the way I needed. Now he is better able to serve my needs *insert grin here*.

So the Panna Cotta...Well I would love to tell you how it went but I plead sleep deprivation and did not make it.

I messaged Sir last night. I had not heard from him in two days. It is funny, you know. As I have said before, I get these games, the holding back, stepping up at the right times. I understand it. I have never experienced it from this side of the fence. I always imagined it to be awful and uncomfortable. It is. I never imagined I would enjoy it however - and I am.

There is a tiny part of me that wonders maybe if he forgot about me. I relish it as much, perhaps more, than the part which knows he was just waiting. Waiting for me to come to him. We both know where I am at now. Helpless. Owned. Whether it would take two days or a month of Sundays I am tied here. I will think about it, about him, every day. It is all a matter of how well I can hold myself in feigned nonchalance and for how long I would wish to.

The terror of going there, being with him is gone now. I feel the difference in my flesh. Now it is just pure hunger. Of course as I shower, dress, kiss my husband, hug my children goodbye and get in the car to see him it may arise again.

It is interesting, this process.

He reads me from afar. I am fascinated by his capacity to know what makes me tick, what makes me squirm, what I hate, what I want. I message him and that (almost) desperation to hear a "Good Girl" or "I am so proud of you" is never lost on me no matter how many times I feel it. It makes me blush, hot and wet. Knowing that, he pushes further. My Achilles heel. I don't know how he knew. I didn't know. I should expect that by now. "Good Girl" makes me needy and cutesy and sweet and wanting but when he tells me I made him smile I am reduced to a pliant mess. He has said it several times recently, "smiling" or "smiles". I have not spoken with him about it. He has not seen me swoon. I do not know how, through the medium of text he is able to unravel me so unerringly.

Today is a baking day. Kisses and brownies, macaroons and jam-drops, a few muffins and some cookies.

Today I will be thinking about Sir and cooking to assuage my desperate need to see him. I will whip and beat and fold and taste in a vain attempt to stay present to my life and not drown in my desire.


Panna Cotta Ramblings

Words curl from your lips as
smokey ribbons of nothing.

Binding me to you,
possessing me,
tying me

and up

and down.

I fear this moment like no other.
To look at you wholly and unafraid.

That you chance to see me, I could not suffer;

That you do not see me,

I would not


So here sit I of the blogisphere tapping away as the sun comes up. I have not slept all night. I think I was tired at some point but can't remember. I am not sure of its importance anyway.
I tend to get a little philosophical and poetic after reading too much and sleeping too little so I shall make you no promises of quality or coherence but will persevere nonetheless.

I have decided that on Saturdays I will post about food. I may on other days too. However, since Saturdays are slow and lazy and mainly filled with cooking for me it seems to fit well. **Watch this space** Gorgeous food to come! Am thinking of Vanilla Panna Cotta (Saturdays must be vanilla days - well as vanilla as I get) with a tart Raspberry
Jelly....unless sleep finds me first!

I am working on taking some pics of the food and have decided to go back and re-create all previous recipes to take photos just for you! As well *I* am doing a bit of re-co
on the blog layout (read into that Dear-Husband, who is much more handy on the blessed electrical contraption than myself, is going to make it look how I want it) WITH a separate recipe page!

*SIGH* I know it will be tough, but someone is going to have to eat all the recipe-re-dos!


Breathing It In

My body burns like fire. I sit here trying to think of what to write but the words don't come. I can only feel the emotion coursing through me as I try to remember yesterday. It is framed as if far off in the distance, too long ago to recreate. All I am left with are shining shards of pain and bliss.

I left Sir and picked up my children, collecting on my way a friend to come for dinner. More people arrived and I cooked and drank tea. I felt quiet. I felt all of a sudden as though I were falling through the floor. I needed him. I wanted Sir. I messaged him, he replied. I was all at once okay. I felt needy and awful - both unfamiliar to me.

My husband came in. He brushed his lips on mine, looked down, deep into me and smiled a half smile, questioning wordlessly whether I was okay. We sat and ate and drank, laughed and talked. I could see him burning to know, to see, to understand. Eventually our guests departed, children bathed and in bed. I lay on the couch, half sleeping, he rubbed my feet and asked me to recount my afternoon. I was not in the frame of mind.

I showered while he worked for a while. I lay face down on our bed and called him in. He was horrified. He tells me he doesn't understand. Softly I explain to him small pieces as he rubs arnica (which I highly recommend for bruises) and calendula (for healing) into my back and arse.

I tell him fragments. I tell him that I cried.

Sir said yesterday that I love crying. That it turns me on. I thought about it. It does not. What turns me on is that he can take me to that space where I cry and hold me there. The crying itself I do not like.

There was a moment yesterday where I was crying, sobbing actually. He was whipping my back. He has a knack for hitting right in the same spot, over and over. He leaned down and rubbed my back, soothed it. Then he started again. I loved it. I loved in the moments where it was not so hard but hard enough and I felt I could just go on forever, breathing it in.

Then there are the moments when I back my car out of the driveway and I know I am never going back. I know for that second that I do not want this, that I will not be back here. Then it shifts to won't be back for a long time, or at least a while and before I am home I am ready to turn around drive back.

My husband does not understand. He tries. I am amazed at him, so in love with him. I cannot believe how fortunate I am to have someone love me enough to give me this, without understanding it, because I want it.

Today I relish the pain, I love it. I love that every movement, every stretch and turn I feel it. In my bound nipples Sir makes himself known to me. Stops me from falling through to desperation, holding me up through my pain and obedience.

My phone sounds and I jump, literally running to the other end of the house to get it. I know it is Sir. I am waiting for his message. In that moment I forget the pain in my breasts, the bruised assault on my back, the tenderness in my arse. I run like a child runs to a sprinkler on a hot summer day, with joy and forgetting and in that moment there is nothing else.

I think somehow that my husband is amused by all of this, perhaps morbidly fascinated is a more accurate turn of phrase. The most glorious moments are coming home to him. Him caring for me, loving me and the exquisite pain of him rubbing - firmly - into the whip marks left by Sir only hours before.


Running With The Big Kids

So, I am heading over there this afternoon. I am heading over because I begged to. Just sitting here I can picture the look on his face when I asked. He has won and he knows it. Friday night's scene was good but fairly tame. I thought I would get off a bit and then come home and be fine for a week or two. I am pretty sure he knew otherwise. I feel all at once out of my depth - WAY out of my depth - and I love it.

I do not have a safe word. It has been bothering me a little. I have not sat down and had that conversation with him. I have tried really hard not to sit and have that conversation with him, in fact. Yesterday (in the midst of my begging for him to see me) I decided I was going to step up and demand to have that conversation.

I don't know what I expected from him, but his immediate agreement turned me inside out.

I knew going there, always, that I was safe. I knew that it would be difficult but I trusted - always - that he knew what he was doing, how far to push me, when to ease up. I was right.

This added piece of the puzzle, this conversation, is serious business. This is running with the big kids. I am now invested, committed and tied into this in ways that I can't even begin to fathom yet. I cannot explain the complexity of emotion that arises in me. Terror and thrill and desire consumes me. I feel the fullness of what I am asking cascade down upon me. I am giving myself over.

Sir has played well. He has been patient and sat back, waiting, knowing, watching me struggle against the bonds I did not realise were already present. Waiting for the calm. Waiting for me to come to him. He was quiet when it was needed, firm when required but the whole time, every second of every minute from our very first conversation he has coaxed, solicited, persuaded and baited me - all to bring me here.

I got up this morning, made lunches, dropped my husband at work, tended the kids, threw up, packed my bag of things that Sir has requested and now, once again, I sit waiting.


Once Upon a Time...firsts

Once upon a time there was a sweet young girl. All the parents of her friends knew she was trouble. All her friends knew not to let her around their boyfriends. All her boyfriends knew not to trust her with their friends...

When I was 13 I went away for several weeks to stay at my friends farm. We were having a really great time until her brother came back from uni. Then I started having a REALLY good time.

We flirted, I flirted. Looking back I didn't really know I was, it was just how I had always been but now the responses I was getting were so much more. Being the kindly young man he was, he all of a sudden started offering to drive us everywhere, take us for day trips, picnics, whatever we wanted.

We drove to a secluded area. A beautiful gully with torrents of rushing water and massive boulders. There were a few waterholes for swimming. My girlfriend and her other sister made themselves scarce. He and I swam and played in the water, touching, stealing kisses. He lay sprawled on his back on the rock, me straddling his waist - kissing, touching. He pulled off my bathers top and sucked my nipples. It was the first time anyone had done that to me. I was in heaven.

He pulled my briefs aside and dove his tongue into my flesh. I squirmed, feeling self conscious and said no while thrusting myself towards his face. I came quickly. I still do.

It was the first time I had cum with a man.

My girlfriend didn't talk to me for two years after that but she does now. She reminds me about it occasionally. She reminds me in great detail because her and her sister were watching. I think I knew that. That is why I came so fast.


Vanilla and Eggs

So, you'll never guess where I ended up last night?

Sir was kind and talked me down from where ever I was. I sat on the phone to him for a long time. Then I went to see him.

I had the house to myself this morning. I slept late. I made a strong coffee and sat outside. I had a cigarette. I don't know where it came from (remembering that I don't smoke).

Retiring to the kitchen, I revel in the abundance of my beautiful produce and wonder what I am going to create. Possibly my favorite thing in my produce delivery is the arrival of my marinated feta. I know I ordered it but I can't help the excitement knowing it is sitting in my fridge! The smell is divine. It has garlic, chili, thyme, fennel seeds and a few other unidentified herbs and spices and I love it. Every time I walk past the fridge I have a small piece, it is soft, salty and gorgeous and it falls apart when I try to pull it from its jar. When the cheese is gone I use the oil to make omelets. The flavour is exceptional and just permeates the eggs. I have way too many eggs this time - some left over from last delivery. I want something sweet.

I dig through all of my recipe books, my cards, my handwritten notes. I want something easy but something that takes time. Something worthwhile. Something with lots of eggs. Not too heavy. Something that makes me smile.

Créme Pátissiérie.

It is one of my favorite things to make. I love watching the food change, be worked and molded into something other than what it was. I love this process. I can take my time.

I heat the milk on the stove and hum, smiling at what is there in front of me, knowing what it will become. Milk, eggs, sugar, and a vanilla pod. Endless possibilities.

I slice the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into the hot milk. Instantly the room fills with the scent of baking and icecream and lolly shops and childhood. It lifts my soul high. I leave it to cool slightly as I tend to the eggs.

I love separating them. My favorite way to do it is to break the eggs into the palm of my hand, letting the whites fall into the bowl beneath, leaving the yolk sitting, exposed at the base of my fingers. I drop them one by one into their own bowl. I beat the egg yolks and sugar until they are rich and pale, the sugar dissolved, trailing ribbons through the bowl. I drop through a small amount of corn flour, though it does not appeal to me. It feels somehow like cheating. I beat again until it comes together.

I pull the pod out of the milk and bring the heavy saucepan over to the bowl. Straining to lift the pan with one hand and whisk with the other, my breasts scream at me in pain. They were punished last night. They sting and burn all of a sudden. With the pain and the remembering of last night, I feel a tremor surge through me. I put down the pan and brace myself against the bench as my heart races and I cum, quickly and silently.

Again I start to pour the hot milk. Flushed and smiling, I bite down on my lip. I pour about a third of the milk in and whisk it, adding the rest, whisking, returning it to the stove. I beat and beat and my heart soars.

The thick pale custard is cooling off, impatiently anticipating its use. I am smiling and lazily flicking through my books, deciding between profiteroles and strawberry tarts, dipping my finger into the hot custard, remembering last night.


I am not a good girl

Sir asked me to come to him tonight. Actually he demanded it.

I cannot.

I feel sick and nervous and scared. I am so torn. This is not who I am.

I have nothing tonight. No resilience.
I feel tears burning behind my eyes, sobs choking my throat. If I went tonight I would break. I don't know if I am ready to do that. Tonight I need comfort and kindness. I know that staying here, being here I will not get it. I think perhaps I would get it if I went to him, not in the way I want but perhaps in the way I need. This heightened emotional response is new for me. I do not want to be in a space where my emotions are there and raw. This is not what I wanted from this. The physicality I was prepared for. The headfuck I was not - am not. This is not who I am.

I feel the desperate desire to see him. I expected it to take the form of my cunt slick and throbbing. I expected my breasts to be full and heavy with want, my nipples hard, expectant. I cannot abide the fact that this is not how it is playing out. I feel it in my chest. It is in my chest where my fullest emotions lie quiet and undisturbed. My body he can take. My pain I give him willingly. My tears of frustration, sobs of pain I reluctantly surrender. My sorrow and emotional torment, weeping as a child weeps are mine alone. The torture, honest torture of wanting him to to see that, to rip it open astounds me, horrifies me, paralyzes me. I don't know where to go. I don't know what to do.

This is not who I am.

I do not feel ready for this. This is too much, too fast. I am still fighting, still wanting this on my terms. I am not a good girl.

I crave it but not tonight. Tonight I am not ready.


Sweetness and Cupcakes

So I have written my lists of punishments. Sir was very approving.

I vacillate through varying shades of unsullied bliss to the darkest of self-loathing, though I find the loathing lesser now and easier to push aside. This subdued feeling is foreign. It feels quiet.

I wait softly, impatiently to hear from him.

Waiting for his words to soothe and calm.

They come.

They come and wash over me.

I say to him "Sir, the smile! The girlish grin where my head bows when you say 'good girl'...sometimes I blush. Sweetly. Sweetly, it is sweet somehow - I don't know how - and today it does not seem important. Today it just is - and I love it."

I am baking cakes. Lovely little chocolate mudcakes and my head is there in that moment. Everything is perfect and smooth and rich and dark and sweet and bitter. They plop perfectly into their little cases and rise even and well formed. I beat the icing, cocoa and butter (lashings of butter) and wait for them to cool. They are just warm out of the oven and I can smell them.

My everything now is waiting to see him so I will cook and whip and bake and taste but it is not with fraught desperation. Perhaps not even so much anticipation - just acceptance.

I remember speaking with him asking him how he knew. We were in a huge room filled with people, why me? How did he know to sit near me? To talk with me? How he knew of all of the people in that room that I wanted what he had? He just looks at me and grins this malevolent grin and whispers "It screams at me from your every pore. I stand near you and I can smell it on you like an animal hunting its prey. I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my bones. I watch you touch your face, your hair. I know you. I have always known you. I know what you want, what you need."

I remember after that conversation feeling that exulted, intoxicating high. Walking around as though I was all at once transparent to everyone.

He reaches in and touches my mind in ways I can't even begin to understand and I don't want to try, for fear that I might.


I had a "moment"

This one friend whom I love very much, I told him we had negotiated an open relationship. He looked at me and smiled. "So he took it well then?" I hugged him. How is it he knew me so well as to never question that it was me not my husband pulling us in this direction?

So I had a moment.

I was outside hanging washing when I felt panic surge through me. I cannot take this back. I cannot not ever take this away from our relationship. My relationship with my husband will forever have this in it, whether we continue to choose this lifestyle or not I have done this and there is a no returns policy.

I could hear the voice of God thundering down from the clouds "What have you done?"

Luckily the moment passed as all moments do.

It is blissful. My life feels so good. I am a whole person again...


piece by piece I can feel myself unraveling. I feel the burning need to see Him. I feel my temper growing short. I can feel the distance between myself and the world expanding. I need what He has.

I was yesterday a raging mess of emotion. I spoke with Him and in those moments the world stopped churning and I was back again. I do not like Him very much but when he speaks it calms me. He is trying his best to create me, strangely I think He is trying to create me into what I want to be (regardless of the fact that He wants it too). I feel myself fighting it, wanting it, fighting, wanting, needing. I wonder what it feels like to be in His shoes.

He set out rules for me yesterday. I have never much liked rules, let alone stuck to them. I must refer to him as Sir. I must not make eye contact with Him unless directed. I must bow my head even when I think about Him. I must not cum, must not have sex unless permission is granted.

The twist is that I must now write a list of my own punishments. It is so salacious. I have been thinking about it a lot. I must get them to Him before midday today and I don't know where to start. I think about punishments and my eyes glaze just a touch. I can feel my chest grow tight and my heart beat faster. Where to begin?

I wonder when I will grow tired of this particular game.

I will keep ontop of my updates now and make them less retrospective. I do have a bit to fill in from the previous two weeks still and I will do that but will stay more current.

I promise.


We're not in Kansas anymore Toto.

So it has been two weeks now. Yes I am counting the days. I was on the highest of highs for a while. Actually, that is not entirely true. I was on the highest of highs for exactly three days. Then with the suddenness of an unexpected slap in the face (which we will get to later) I came crashing and careering off the lighted clouds of endorphins and into the black abyss of wanton desire. I suppose that wanton desire is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact I quite enjoy it but this is not one of those sweet encounters where you sit waiting to see your new beau or beauette. This was dark and dirty. I desperately needed to go back, to have more. I needed to be fucked again and I needed to be fucked by him. The part I hated was that he knew it. We spoke on the phone, briefly now, because there was no joy in anticipation anymore. The bliss of talking softly, imagining touches, the thrill of my cunt getting wet at the sound of his voice was there but no longer enough. I got that he had taken a part of me. He owned it and he was not giving it back. Not now and according to him, not ever.

I am back to cooking. Cooking a lot. Avoiding going to see him again. Waiting until I can give it away, give him away, or until I can't bear it anymore. Some moments I can't bear it anymore and I am in the car about to drive there but I haven't - yet.

He sits on the phone. He tells me what I want, what I need and that I am his. Not in the romantic way where I am his forever. In the way that he owns a part of me that is small but so significant, the part of me that has submitted to another person. Whether I admit it or not we both know it to be true.

It is a very difficult thing to describe, that piece. The feeling of being owned. It is vastly different to belonging, to desire, to the beauty of a fresh relationship. There is a small amount of....what is the word? Panic I suppose. For someone like me to give over to someone else, half willingly, half I am not sure...hell, I am not even sure what "it" is. I guess the half that is not willing desperately wants for it to be taken too...whatever it is.

So in my quiet moments I fill my head with fragmented rememberings of debauchery. I can feel the touch, the sting, the release. The glorious fucking release.

He took out a bamboo cane. I stood with the burning of an orgasm unreleased in my belly as he caned my arse. I moaned softly. It got harder and harder. My breath stuck in my throat. I could feel the fire burning in my belly, building again. Evidently so could he.

"You are a very naughty girl. You mustn't cum. You mustn't cum until I say. Is that clear?"
"Yes." My voice was quiet, angry. "Yes, Sir."
"Good Girl."

He knew that I was there fighting him. Surrendered in body only. The fire burned brighter as the pain ripped through my arse. My legs started to shake.

He whispered to me, "You are a slut."

He took my hands down. I knelt on the floor as he collared my neck.

"Suck my cock." It was thick and perfect. I took him in my mouth and devoured him, while he stood there above me, me on my knees, deeper and deeper. It brought me again to where I was ready to cum. I looked up at him, begging him with my eyes to let me go, to stop or to finish me. To let me cum.

"Not now." He bent me over the bed and that moment of entry, that glorious moment. He thrust inside me. It is like a sweet second where the world stops turning. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. It was hard and fast. My head was spinning. "You cum on my cock, now." He thrust a finger in my arse and pulled my hair back harder. My back arched, my cunt tightened and I came. Finally. I could feel my cunt constricting in waves over him, pulling him in. Once, twice and on the third wave he pulled out.

"No!" I shouted. "No, no, not now. Please...Can't you just..."

He stood back and said "You talk too much. You are too loud. I told you not to say no to me." He shoved something in my mouth and tied it there.

I was sitting in a messy puddle on the floor at the foot of his bed, my eyes stung with tears of frustration. At his command I got up on my knees. He licked my breasts, sucked my nipples and then started placing clamps on them. The pain was exquisite. I was unable to speak with the gag in. I know my eyes were searching, begging him. I shook my head and he smiled. "It is only for a minute. It will get better. You will take it." There were three on each nipple. I was shaking my head, making muffled sounds. "Good Girl." He patted my head.

He was softer now, quieter. He pulled out a length of rope. He tied it in expert loops as he must have done a hundred times before. He tied my breasts one at a time so they were tight balls of flesh, red and swollen. He bent me over and caned my bare arse. I was to stay on all fours with my head down. He fucked me again, over and over. Whenever I got close to cumming he would stop and wait for the moment to subside, then he would start again. The thrusting made my breasts jolt and sting but I wanted to cum so much I could not help but thrust back into him. My breasts really burned now. I wanted them to be released. It hurt so much I could feel a surge of panic start to rise in my chest. He took out a giant dildo. He moved around behind me. It was too wide. I shook my head, begging for him to stop, wanting him to continue. "You can take it. I know you can." As he pushed it into me I could feel my cunt stretching. The glorious feeling it brought to my clit. He fucked me with it slowly and I came so hard I could see it spurting out of me. "Good Girl. Good Girl." The waves would not stop coming as he pounded it into me. There was nothing in the world except this. The sensations. The occasional stinging on my arse as he slapped me, the thrusting, stretching of my cunt. The filling up of my insides. The throbbing of my breasts. I sat back on my knees, he went to remove it from me and I shook my head. He smiled.

He pulled back and stood in front of me. I looked straight at him. There was defiance in my eyes I knew it. This is what I was here for. This moment. He slapped my face. Hard. It stung. It made me angry. I challenged him again with my eyes, again he slapped me. I shook my head and frowned. He slapped me again and again until I looked down. In that moment, I was owned. My chest was nearly bursting. It felt so liberating, so unimaginably amazing.

"You look so beautiful there, Girl. Look at how beautiful your breasts are. Perfect. You are such a good slut and right now you fucking own it. I told you I would make you, create you. You are a slut, my slut and right now, you love it."

He was right. I was there, tied, gagged, panting, wet, stretched, hurting, submissive and all of the defiance gone from my eyes. I could feel it. All that was there was lust and fucking. I looked back up at him with playful eyes, shaking my sweaty hair from in front of my face and I grinned and nodded. I did fucking own it. I owned it, I loved it and there was no going back.


First Bite

He paused just for a second, I think he was trying to read my face. In one swift movement I was bent over his knee and he was spanking me. Hard. He wound his hand through my hair, pulled my head back and kissed my neck. He stood back from me. Somehow I was kneeling in front of him on the floor. He looked straight into my eyes. I could see in him the most extraordinary amount of danger. My heart beat fast in my chest. I wanted this to stop. I wanted to run. I needed to stay.

"You have been a very bad girl." His voice was controlled, low, clear and terrifying. "You said no to me on the phone the other night. From now on you do not say no to me. Is that clear?"
I nodded "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good Girl. Come here. Put out your arms."

He tied me so my arms were above my head, out to the side. He tied me tight. He ran his hands up my stockings. I shuddered. He touched every inch of my body. He looked into my eyes as he cupped my breasts and grinned as he bit my nipple. I squealed.

"Whatever you do from now on, you ask my permission. Is that clear?"
"Yes Sir."
"Good Girl. See, you will learn fast."

He sucked and bit my nipples until I let out a soft moan. I could not move. There was no give in the restraints I had on my arms. He slid off my stockings. He unclipped my bra. He pulled down my underwear. For a second my mind drifted back to my wedding night, to my husband taking off the same underwear...

With a jolt I was back in the room. His tongue licking, sucking, biting. He devoured my cunt as I stood there shaking, unable to move. I could feel an orgasm build in my belly, the warmth of it spread. My legs started to shake and I was gasping for breath.

He looked up at me, "You will not cum. Is that clear? You will not cum. You do not cum now. Not until I say. Not until I tell you that you are ready."

He sucked my nipples, licked my cunt, fingered my clit. Any thoughts I had about anything other than this moment were gone. He paused for a second, looked into my eyes and slipped his fingers inside me. He was slow, rhythmic, deliberate. He did not touch me except for his fingers inside me. I stood shaking, my knees giving out. Every quiver that went through my legs drew his fingers up inside me. I pushed up onto my toes to try and elude the tightening of my cunt, drawing him in. I looked at him, searching his face with my eyes to see if there was even a small hint of uncertainty. There was not. He watched me as I twisted and pulled, trying to escape. Urging me on to orgasm, forbidding me from plunging over the edge and giving in to it.

The complex play between my pleasure in the absolute abandonment of my own control and my desperate desire to wrestle it back intrigued me even in that moment. I wanted so badly to free my arms, to liberate my body, to cum, to take what I wanted. I wanted also to play the game, to beg him but for him to not give in to me. I needed for this to be on his terms and I hated him for it.

I knew he was driving me to cum, seeing where I would go, if I would do what he was telling me physically to do or what he had demanded of me.

He said once more, softly this time, "You will not cum."

I looked at him, begging, asking, ashamed and ecstatic "Please, please I need this. I need this now. Just let me, take me, just this one right now. I can't stop. I just. Please just stop, let me wait. I just can't...." my voice trailed off and he shook his head. I was breathing in short sharp bursts. I could not keep going.

He locked his eyes with mine and bit into my clit. I let out a low hard groan. His other hand had found my nipple, he squeezed and pulled. He licked my cunt and fingered me hard, hitting right there where it makes my stomach turn and my chest get light. I drove hard against the controls of my mind, trying to fight the pleasures of my body. I could not. My knees gave way, my arms pulled tight, my head threw back and he was there inside me with his hand, my legs shaking, his mouth sucking, drawing out of me every bit of animal I had. As my knees grew weaker it pushed him harder inside me, throwing me into more of a frenzy. I rode the crest, ready to plunge into to the depths and indulge in glorious release. Right there. I was right there. It was in that moment that he withdrew his hands and mouth. He grinned at me, got up and stood a few steps back, admiring my tortured ecstasy .

I must have looked like someone had slapped me in the face. My whole body was on fire. I wanted to punch him - hard. He stood watching as I twisted. My legs were still too weak to weight bear properly. My arms strung out, my nipples hard, panting, trembling, my cunt slick and throbbing. I screamed at him in anger. There were no words. There didn't need to be and I didn't have any to give. I was so angry. I needed to cum. I needed it right now and he took it away from me.

He shook his head. "You will be a good girl for me. You will not cum unless I tell you to. Now for little girls who do not do what they are told there are punishments. I know you. I know everything about you. You want this. You want me to make you beg and you fucking love it." He smiled again. The lines between pleasure and pain, love and hate, they were all blurring. I wanted it and I hated wanting it. I loved it and I hated loving it. "You should not try to cum when you have been told not to. Now I will have to show you what happens to naughty girls."


So, I drove towards his house. I had only been there once before but I remembered the way. I had deleted the details from my sat-nav. The devious nature of hiding my tracks was not lost on me. I was concerned that it fit so well, that I slipped into it, remembered it - that I indulged and delighted in it. Over the last few weeks I had taken to deleting emails, removing texts and turning my phone on silent. Yes, I had permission but I knew I needed to be discreet. The veil of concealment (however thin it might be) is most certainly very, very erotic.

He met me outside his house, and directed me to walk upstairs to his bedroom. He walked behind. I knew he was looking up my dress.

I had selected my clothes carefully that night. A black dress, black coat, a red scarf, black stockings, gorgeous red shoes and a cream bra and panties set. The ones I wore on my wedding night. How Machiavellian?!

His room was huge. The bed over to one side with an enormous expanse of cream carpet leading to his dressing room and en-suite. I took off my coat and unwound my scarf. He lead me over to the bed and sat next to me. "So, here you are." I looked at him sitting there and thought, what the fuck am I doing? I nodded. "Your husband does not like it much. You are here, though..." He traced my cheek with his finger and smiled a wry smile. One that I knew. I had smiled that smile many times.

Every time I seduced someone and pulled them into a space they did not want to be in. Every time I had made a man want me so much he forgot who he was. Every time I had glanced the right glances, licked my lips, flicked my hair, touched his arm, built his ego, whispered the right words and there he was, needing something desperately that he didn't know he needed until I told him he did. There is a delicious moment where I know he is there because I wanted it, chose it, designed it, created it. Our eyes meet and in that second he knows it too. Then I smile that smile. That smile says I own you. In this moment I fucking own you.

He needed to know that although our game was cat and mouse, I was mouse because I chose to be, not because he chose it for me. I looked square at him and held his gaze, my voice low and soft. "I know the game. I wrote the script. I am here, giving control to you because I choose to - not because you want it. I don't care what you want. I am here for what I want." He raised his eyebrows. He laughed. He said "We will see. So you are sure?" I took a deep breath and replied, "Yes." In that moment my fate was sealed.


The Morning After The Night Before

I felt better in the morning. I looked over and there he was, my husband, sleeping next to me. He looked more gorgeous than he had the day before. I think I even loved him more. I stretched in bed, curled and uncurled myself. I smiled. I couldn't stop smiling. It has been five days now and I still haven't stopped smiling.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I remembered her. I was glad to see her. I had missed her all these years, now here she was again smiling and whole, in power and control. Awesome, amazing, filthy, hot and ready to take on the world.

I padded out to the kitchen and made my special pancakes - ones I don't think I have made since my husband and I were dating. I separated the yolks and whites and beat the whites to soft peaks, mixed the dry ingredients in another bowl, including a dash of custard powder (my secret ingredient) then added butter milk and yolks to the dry mix and folded through the white meringue mix. Perfect, fluffy, beautiful. I put the bacon in the oven and started flipping pancakes. It has never been my favorite task. Somehow though every single one was gorgeous. Golden-brown and buttery on the outside, thick and soft.

I stretched out in my chair, warmed through by the sun, gazing at my amazing husband with an espresso and hot breakfast. I sat quietly as he read the paper and I watched our kids jump on the trampoline. He looked up at me and smiled. "Thank you for breakfast, honey. It is amazing."


Tangled Webs

I spent the day checking in with my husband, making sure he was still okay, that everything was still okay. I cooked beautiful bologna and hand made egg fettuccine. I stood in the kitchen, tense, worrying about what this could lead to, whether my husband would change his mind, whether I would change mine. The hours dragged by so slowly. Pulling the eggs through the flour was a welcome relief. I made a well with the flour and added first two whole eggs and then four yolks bit by bit pulling it through the flour with my hands. I don't like to use cutters or recipes. I love to feel what I am doing, to understand what it needs to be perfect. It needed another yolk. As I pulled the dough together across the bench, over and over I forgot everything else - there was just the rhythm and the texture. I set the dough aside to rest and called my husband.

He was second guessing or maybe it was me, wanting him to. I hung up the phone and started to gently push the dough through the machine until that sound came, the small sucking sound indicating the release of the dough. I tightened the settings and started again. I wound over and over, finding comfort in the familiar repetitive actions, until the dough became pasta and the pasta became perfect. I cut it, hung it and there it sat, waiting. Beautiful, wide, yellow ribbons. I felt much the same - hung out to dry in anticipation, just waiting to be eaten alive. I was not sure if I would be eaten alive with reckless, savage, abandon or whether I would be consumed by guilt.

He pulled up and walked in. My kids were there and my best friend, my brother and sister in law - everyone was getting together for dinner. My girlfriend can read me like a book. I know she doesn't approve of the idea, let alone the practice. I told her I had spoken with my husband about an open relationship and she got very upset telling me I should make sure he is not cheating. She shook her head and knitted her eyebrows together exclaiming men are pigs and that it would lead to a very bad place. She was in the middle of a major heart-break. I did not tell her it was me who asked. I did not tell her it was me who wanted it. I could see her indignation on my behalf and feel her disgust at my husband for even thinking of putting me through such torture. I did not correct her.

I had not told her where I was going that night - I had no intention of telling her. My husband understood all of this and watched me squirm as I made vague gestures about where I was going, what I was doing, when I would be home. I could see his small delight in my discomfort as I repeated the story for my brother and his wife. I felt transparent, like they could see I was being untruthful, like they knew where I was going.

The complexities of honestly managing my other relationships had never really occurred to me as a problem within the context of this understanding. I had mistakenly thought that it would involve myself, my husband and any partners we chose to bring into our beds or whose beds we chose to visit. The need to explain away a night out only served to propel my anxiety to a whole new level.

I had many conversations with this man over the previous few days and weeks talking about what he would do, what I would do but now here it was. What happened if I did not like it? What would happen if I changed my mind? What happened if I wanted it all to stop so I could run home to my husband, tell him I loved him and that it was all a big misunderstanding? What happened if my husband was upset and it did not bother me? Worse still what happened if I liked it, if I didn't care, if I wanted it more?

I needed to go quickly before he changed his mind or maybe before I changed mine. I said goodbye to my girlfriend, brother and sister-in-law. I kissed my children and told them to make sure they got enough rest. I went outside to where my husband was playing fetch with the dog. I looked up at him, the man I had promised myself to unconditionally. He wrapped his arms around me, looked down into my eyes and I could swear a small smile grazed his mouth. I could not tell if it was sad, wistful, happy or angry. He spoke softly so no one could hear. "I love you. Stay safe, have fun...and call me if you need me." I hugged him tight but did not kiss him, then nodded and walked out. I was breathing hard, heart racing, terrified, exhilarated, wondering if I could really do this.

I got in the car, turned the music up loud and drove headfirst into my uncertainty.