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 that I would be stronger, at least for a while. But she barely even had to try that morning. All she had to do 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 or 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.