Monday, December 5, 2016

The Best Custom Fetish POV Clip Ever!

“Wait, he actually paid for renting this location, permits for filming, a day’s wage for all the extras, building that cabin, designing our costumes from scratch, Irv O. Neil to write the dialog, Sardax to storyboard the visuals, me to appear with you and make his POV fantasy a Double-Domme fairy-tale storybook experience, a composer for original background music, and a real cinematographer to shoot it all?”

“I know!”

“And it’s still only going to be six minutes?”

“Can you believe it?”

“Oh, this is going to be the best custom fetish POV clip ever...

Thursday, December 1, 2016

“Making the World’s First Male Sex Doll”

Like many kinky men who are also utter nerds, I’ve long had the fantasy of the Girl Robot. Especially the Girl Robot who for some totally lame plot-device reason goes out of control and dominates me with no way to shut her off. Of course, that would probably happen simply because I mistyped my safeword during the initial programming, so the command in her neural network wouldn’t match whatever word I was shouting. And then whimpering.

Hey, it could happen. How often do you mistype—or even remember—all of your passwords?

I might need that Domme Fembot soon, too. Especially once the Male Submissive Robot hits the market. No way even the best of us flesh-and-blood subs will ever match up to “him”...

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Invasion of Privacy

Or, “The Pivotal Week, Part II”

It was a little thing, really, but completely unexpected, both that she actually did it and in how I reacted.

She’s had me bound to varying degrees and tucked up against her a few times now. She reads, or she writes, or she surfs the Web, while I squirm and become increasingly aroused and frustrated. This particular night, though, she pulled out the leather cuffs, fastened together my wrists and my ankles, and then straddled me while adventuring and building up her settlements in Fallout 4.

This was not the little thing, even if this alone would have been enough to make the night new and different. She would grind against and slide over me every so often. Or glance down and say something she knew would push a button. Or reach down and play with or pinch my nipples. Or set the game controller aside and invade my mouth with her tongue, claiming it (and me) as hers. And then she would sit back up and reuturn to her game, as if I wasn’t even there except, maybe, as furniture.

And I would squirm, and I would thrust. I would moan, and I would reach up to touch her as best the leather cuffs—and she—would allow, at least until she would decide push my arms away. I would feel my breathing quicken, and then try to slow it down after her attention had turned away and I had tried (and failed) to regain her notice.

I was in submissive husband heaven, even when a too-forceful-and-aroused, verge-of-anger thrust of mine screwed up the elevator placement in one of her buildings, and she had to reload because the game’s Build Mode glitched. And I was in frustrated submissive hell, because this was just a short time before the morning I finally broke down against her and cried.

No, the little thing, which was actually the biggest thing that night, happened when my phone dinged.

My wife and I have always trusted each other. We’ve never felt the need to look over the other’s shoulder while online, or check search histories or e-mail folders while the other was out. We gave each other—and at some point simply came to expect—a certain amount of privacy. This was such a given, in fact, that we never even felt the need to talk about it. Ever.

Then that ding sounded. Someone had texted me.

“Do you need to see that?” she asked, as calm and collected as she had been from the start.

“Probably,” I managed, somehow. Because work, family, responsibilities. I mean, who knew?

She rose off me as I throbbed and tried to explode through my pants and follow her. And she went to get my phone. Only she didn’t come back and give it to me.

I needed a moment to realize that, too. Then I turned my head, wondering what had distracted her, and saw her reading the text herself.

No words came, not from me and not from her. She just kept reading, intently, and I shifted in my cuffs on the floor where she had left me. The padlocks holding the cuffs together clinked, and the seconds stretched on, and on, more than enough time to read even more texts or tap-and-swipe through to other apps entirely. I was shocked, stunned, and had that first inkling that my wife/lover/“owner” wasn’t quite the same woman I remembered from even just a short time ago.

My privacy, so long a staple of our dating and then our married lifewas being invaded. Blatantly. Right in front of me. With no apologies and, very clearly, no mixed feelings or second thoughts on her part, either.

Worst of all, I was actually getting off on her doing it.

It was so unexpected, so unlike the woman who first signed that contract me, that I felt one of my moorings disappear. This was a level of control I never dreamed possible from her—and mostly likely would have argued against including or acting out back at the start. And it showed a level of entitlement I hadn’t thought she would allow herself.

Especially when she put the phone down, came over and settled back on top of me, and started playing again. And all still without a word.

“Who was that?” I asked, finally.

“It wasn’t important.”

Her tone, her attitude, I knew better than to ask again.

I should say something, I thought. I should make certain, somehow, that this never happened again. Because letting this pass would be accepting it, setting a precedent even if only by default. And yet that one little action got deeper inside my head, and drove home the power imbalance in our relationship, more than all that time spent cuffed and being alternately teased and ignored beneath her had done. And it happened so naturally that the line between our kink and vanilla spheres was now blurred, and what I had given up to her (and she had accepted from me) in that contract gained a reality beyond playtime and the bedroom.

I had always wanted that reality, too, while she had generally guarded the separation between who we were in role plays or scenes and who we were 24/7. So this was like a long-time fantasy being dangled right in front of me. A scary fantasy-turned-reality, sure, but all kinks are scary to some degree, and that touch of fear and uncertainty, even with someone you also love and trust, makes it that much more satisfying in the end. At least if you’re wired like I am.

So I said nothing, squirming and losing myself in frustration and feelings I hadn’t expected as well as in feelings I had but were now at a whole new level. I stayed quiet, and I accepted it.

I would do the same again, too. And I catch myself hoping she will as well.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Monday, November 28, 2016

When the Tears Finally Came

Or, “The Pivotal Week, Part I”

She promised she would frustrate me to the point of actual tears. Less than 24 hours later, she did.

Early the next morning, I was pressed up against her, spooning my wife from behind. Most mornings are like that now, with the hour or so before my alarm spent enduring an erection I no longer own. I either throb against the loveliest ass on the West Coast, or I squirm futilely against the covers and my boxer-briefs, depending on whether she rolls onto her back and if I can then reposition myself against her thigh.

These mornings have been just short of tears. Sometimes they rose close to spilling out across my face, and sometimes they felt a bit more under control. But always in a two-steps-closer-and-one-step-back to mess with my head kind of way. As they say in polling and statistics, the trend was not my friend.

I thought I would have a few more days, though. And thatt I would be stronger, at least for a while. But she barely even had to try that morning. All she had to so was say, “No.”

Maybe our conversation the day before had primed me. I can be extremely suggestible under the right woman’s guidance, whether involving an actual trance or not. Or maybe it was just the actual, visceral frustration. It had only been 10 days or so since my last orgasm, which some owned men proudly preen as being nothing to them. But since our contract, an orgasm is no longer a reset for me. My starting level of frustration ratchets up a bit higher each time, and the build over time climbs a much steeper, faster slope. So I was as frustrated and ready to break that morning as I was at any time in my entire sexual life. (At least up to that point. There’s a reason this post is subtitled “The Pivotal Week, Part I.”).

All I really know is that when I asked, in a voice probably more pathetic than it even sounded to me, to please be allowed to cum, she very calmly, very quietly, and also somewhat cold and gleefully, denied me permission. Again.

It wasn’t until I asked her a second time, and she responded with “I said no,” that the tears finally came.

They did take a few seconds to explode, to be absolutely honest. My breath hitched as I drew it in. My muscles shook. I felt a deep, tangled mass of frustration and need, regret and emotion, welling up inside. Not just in my mind, but like a physical thing inside my chest and heart as well. And then I was sobbing, loud and uncontrolled and with tears streaming from both eyes.

My head had already been on her shoulder. Her arms had already been around me. So I was in a very submissive and even somewhat powerless position to begin with. And not just symbolically, either. My wife is a strong woman, and she just held me more tightly then, not giving me any choice about pulling away or fleeing the situation. Not that I even could have, though, because any resistance or pride or “manly ego” I had just broke, then and there.

I sobbed and wailed against her. I clutched her with my arms and with my legs. And this woman who had controlled, denied, mind-fucked, and broken me also held, accepted, cherished, and gave me the safest place in the world to break down in.

With 15 years together, she knew how intense this was for me. Crying was something I’d been raised not to do. You kept control, whatever the situation. You thought before acting or even speaking, whatever you were feeling and whatever the provocation. Crying was failure. Crying was humiliation. And if you did break down, you damn well did it alone, and only after the situation or the crisis was dealt with and everyone you cared about had been taken care of.

But that morning, I cried like I never thought I could. And I cried because she had driven me to it, given me no real choice, which in one of those strange kink paradoxes allowed me to let go like that. Finally.

And she just held me. And told me, matter-of-factly, that this was simply how things are now.

That was the moment I sobbed even harder. Because I knew that just a month or even maybe just a week so before, these same tears would have tugged her heartstrings, and she would have allowed a “mercy” orgasm. Maybe from worry about the frustrated mindset affecting my work, or about a kink line being crossed that would cause problems in the vanilla side of our marriage. Either way, though, she would have “given in.”

But this time, she didn’t. My tears, my frustration, my need, it all just crashed against her and washed away, like a wave striking a rock on the shore. A rock that loved and cared about you, but an immovable, impenetrable rock nonetheless. No chance of negotiating, or of manipulating. Just her decision and her way—and my acceptance and my obedience.

In that moment, everything changed. And my tears were from shock and joy but also fear after that. They were from catharsis and acceptance but also humiliation. Because in that moment, breaking down against her, I knew that our sexual contract, or female-led relationship, or whatever we were calling it, had stopped being some game or long-term role play where I still held a big handful of cards to play. It had instead become who and what we really were, and the engine driving it had now shifted from mine to hers.

So I cried because I had no manly sexual pride left. I cried because she had won while I hadn’t even realized she had started playing for keeps. And I cried because I felt owned and controlled on a level I never had before, and because I finally had exactly what I’d been craving for so damn long, almost my entire life even, and the force of that reality was humiliating in a way I’d never expected, only I was getting off on the humiliation in a way I’d also never expected, which just aroused me even more, which just frustrated me even more, which just humiliated me even more, which just aroused me even more, which just made the whole damn thing one big paradox we’re still both unpacking.

She was understanding this kind of a relationship more now, she also told me as I cried. She was growing into the role, and no longer feeling guilty about feeding that controlling, even sadistic darker side of hers, which had been so in the forefront during our early years together but had taken a backseat as vanilla life and so many other things got in the way, for both of us. It’s almost a fetish cliche that the guy begs and cajoles his wife to take charge of him sexually, only to have her find the joy in it and then take control of him for real, blurring the lines between their kink and their everyday relationship, treating him as a plaything, and reducing his own release to an occasional reward or gift at her whim.

I cried because she was still my wife, still my best friend, but also because that cliche had just happened. I was hers in the very way I’d wanted—and still do, now more than ever—even though what that now meant also scared the living crap out of me.

I’ve cried a lot in the days since that morning, too. And humiliation has never felt so liberating.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Kink-Adjacent Friday Filler

Anyone following my Twitter account already knows this was a pivotal week for the male chastity/sexual FLR my wife and I signed on for earlier in the year. A new level of frustration and control. Flowing tears and outright sobs (mine, and repeatedly). And my wife either understanding it all better, or growing into the role, or simply enjoying her control and my discomfort much, much more. Or maybe just now without any guilt. We’re still trying to figure it all out, and I’m going to need several lengthy upcoming blog posts to help do that.

For now, though, I was also promoted in Star Trek Online. And of course, making Rear Admiral on the Tactical track called for new, meaner-looking uniforms:

As well as a more powerful, more threatening starship:

The game is great for taking my mind off the seemingly endless frustration and denial I’m being put through right now. And blowing up Borg spheres and cubes helps ease the pressure for rebellion in my mind.

Which is good, because I doubt my punished ass would respawn as quickly as my still-gets-overwhelmed-by-six-to-one-odds starship does.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

“How to Dominate a Turkey”

Not exactly how I’ll be preparing things tomorrow. Then again, I’m only responsible for the appetizers this year:

Some time ago, we actually saw Count Boogie and one other member of the Perverted Circus do a concert at a play space. It was pretty hilarious, at least for the niche audience we all were.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

“Let Me Take You There”

Me: [curling up against her as tightly as possible]

Her: Frustrated?

Me: [nodding against her breast]

Her: Use your words.

Me: Yes. I’m frustrated.

Her: And it gets worse every day, doesn’t it?

Me: Yes.

Her: Good. Now tell me how it gets worse.

Me: Every morning I wake up, an hour or so before the alarm, and I’m hard. Like it’s just going to burst. Just explode. And you’re right there beside me, and I roll over and up against you. And that’s bad enough, just feeling you there and knowing I’m not allowed to disturb you or wake you up and just trying not squirm and grind against you so much that that happens. Or that I go over the edge and give you a reason to punish me again. And then you start squirming and grinding and pressing back against me in your sleep, and I’m just... It’s just...

Her: Go on.

Me: Each morning I get a little bit closer to actual tears of frustration. And a little bit closer to outright sobbing in denial and need.

Her: Let me take you there.

Me: I want that. And I also really, really don’t.

Her: But you don’t have a choice anymore, do you?

Me: No.

Her: And I am going to take you there.

Me: [squirming] Yes, ma’am.

Her: Good boy. Now go away. You have work to do.

Me: [sighing] Yes, ma’am...