It’s been 4 months since my wife and I signed our contract, I gave up all rights to any control over our sex life and my own sexual release, and the rabbit hole started swallowing me. And in all that time, I haven’t rebelled. Not once.
Why the hell haven’t I rebelled yet?
It was easy enough to understand during the early days. A big part of me wondered if my wife was only humoring me, if she really just considered this whole thing to be one of those marital compromises both sides of any couple that makes it through the long run always end up making. After waiting far too many years for something like this, and then getting through far too much emotional turmoil to ask for it, I was afraid—deathly afraid—that this new arrangement would somehow go away. Especially when she kept all details of possible punishment for any future “misbehavior” intentionally vague, generally opting for a quiet, matter-of-fact “You won’t like it.”
If I rebelled, I thought, this 24/7-not-quite-24/7 would be over. Done. Finished. I worried about this so much, in fact, that it probably gets the credit for me not even making an honest, unintentional “mistake,” no matter how frustrated and aroused I became or how easy it would have been to just misbehave in secret. My submission may not have been a gift to her, but her control was a treasure to me, and I treated her new authority very, very gently.
That fear lessened as time went on, fortunately, and we both felt our way through this new power structure in our marriage. And at some point, I stopped worrying that she was only in this to humor me, and even started considering certain specific actions or spoken phrases she might well have been doing to humor me more as rewards for good behavior or, better yet, buttons she knew to push for a certain result. That framing worked for me, and every bit as well as those buttons worked for her.
Much like our dog, though, some part of me still craved testing the boundaries if only to be certain where those boundaries actually were, and then to feel that same sense of comfort, security, and place that comes with that knowledge afterward. And some other part of me wondered if, even though it now felt real, was it real rather than just a long-term game we were playing. And would my gut, not just my head, ever truly believe this was all real unless I actually suffered a serious punishment at her hands and would then know, deep down, just what she was truly capable of and how far she was willing to go?
We even had that conversation one night. And her quiet, matter-of-fact response?
“You could do that. But you won’t like it.”
So why didn’t I rebel even then, when I at least no longer worried that it would all just go away if I did? Probably because enough of the rest of me, having seen her in scenes with others and experienced scenes with her for 15 years now, knew that I really wouldn’t like it. Whatever it was.
Now, at least twice I’ve been so frustrated and nearly overwhelmed by the reality—the real reality—of our situation that I’ve edged around the idea of going back to the way things were before we signed that contract. I even danced around it in another conversation we had one night. And her quiet, matter-of-fact response?
“That’s not going to happen.”
I realized then just how far down the rabbit hole I’d gone. Because even then, I didn’t rebel. And even now, today, this day, I don’t rebel because, quite simply, I’m no longer sure that I could. Assuming I even still wanted to, somehow.
This is who I am. And this arrangement, with all its joys and missteps, is what I’ve always wanted. And each act of obedience to her, however small, not only reminds me of both, it makes it that much harder for me to rebel, or even seriously consider rebelling. Just like each time that I don’t actually orgasm when my wife refuses permission, or that I do orgasm when she grants (or demands) it, does the same. It’s a quiet, matter-of-fact conditioning, and I’ve been doing it to myself as much as she’s been doing it to me.
At this rate, it probably won’t be long before I physically won’t be able to orgasm, at all, without her permission—or to prevent it from happening just by hearing the proper word from her.
We had that conversation, too, one night. And her quiet, matter-of-fact response?
“That would be ideal.”