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.

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