Written very late on Thanksgiving Night (or very early the next morning, depending how you look at it), and a few days after when the tears finally came...
My love, my wife, my owner,I did send this to her that night (or that morning). And her reaction made all the pain and the frustration and the humiliation worthwhile. Again.
So I woke up at 12:30 AM. With a raging hard-on of helpless frustration, of course. And I say “helpless,” because that’s exactly how it felt. As if my cock was ready to physically explode from all the blood trapped inside it, while also feeling stuck near the edge of orgasm. Not continuously, but often enough, and long enough each time, to seem that way. My hips just thrust at nothing, involuntarily, yet I didn’t even reaching down to grab hold of my (your) cock with my hand. Partly from fear that I might lose control and slip over the edge, and partly from fear that my hand wouldn’t make any difference.
An hour of that made me realize certain things, even beyond what we talked about in the car on the drive tonight, and here I am at 2:00 AM, trying to get them down. Partly because I wonder if I’ll be brave enough to actually send this to you, and partly because I wonder if this side of me has become so obedient that I’ll send it just so I won’t be able to backtrack on or deny any of it later.
So, things I’ve realized these last few days...
I’ve realized that if you or I or both haven’t already trained or conditioned me over the last six months or so to be unable to orgasm without your permission, that point is very close at hand. Earlier this morning (yesterday morning, now), the frustration was so much that I took myself in hand for one of the few times since we signed that contract. I just wanted to get to the edge, or maybe feel like I still had at least that much control over my own pleasure, and would stop once I reached that point just before the point of no return. Only I couldn’t get to that point, no matter what I did. I reached the point just before that point just before the point of no return, and then it was like my own body rebelled against me. I couldn’t get past it. No matter how long or how hard I stroked. And some part of me knew that if you had given permission, I would have exploded all over the place. But I didn’t have that from you. So I couldn’t.
That moment was as scary, arousing, and humiliating as when I melted, finally, in those first uncontrollable sobs of frustration the other morning. They’ve been quiet tears since then, early in the morning and late at night. And I’ve craved them as much as I’ve hated them, because they’ve been as cathartic as they’ve been humiliating. This whole thing is a paradox, in so many ways.
I’ve realized that it’s not just the teasing and denial, or even your control itself, that’s pushing a kink button deep inside me. It’s also the humiliation. The humiliation of having brought this on myself. The humiliation of sobbing over my own frustration while you held me and very matter-of-factly said this is simply how things are now. The humiliation of you demanding that I orgasm (when I do) in less “enjoyable” and much less “equal” ways compared to your own. And more than anything, the humiliation of that calm coolness you’ve been showing lately, even when I’m climbing all over you and desperate to somehow tip you into an arousal of your own. That you are completely and utterly in control in this sphere, both of yourself and of me, and that it’s going to be bad for me even if I fall in line and do as I’m told, but will be even worse for me if I don’t.
I didn’t know that it would hit me so hard. Or that I would crave these various humiliations so much. The selfish sexual imbalance, where even my topping you in a role play is on your terms. The cool cruelty of the sense from you that my own orgasm isn’t even a secondary consideration, but simply a reward for extremely good behavior or a fortunate whim of the moment from you. The warm sadism that my own frustration and tears and humiliation are things you enjoy on your own, independent of my having wanted all this back at the start, which I started believing in my gut and not just in my head while I was crying against you the other morning and realized that your heartstrings weren’t being pulled like they would have been even just a short time ago, and that the denial would be continuing. And has.
Maybe it’s just my own mind wanting to believe the “long role play,” but there’s a certain reality to this recently that’s beyond even the reality of it that I’d already come to believe. And it’s scary as hell, because the control itself is scary and I want it so badly and I haven’t seen you this “Domme-ly” since we were first dating and because, in the biggest paradox, I’m also seeing and feeling so many other good things from it.
I can’t speak for your side—and I want to hear it when we do that dinner check-in—but on mine, the more you’ve controlled and denied my release, the safer and more loved and more secure I’ve felt overall. The crueler you’ve been to me sexually as “Owner Diane,” the more I’ve wanted to be there for “Equal Wife Diane” and to measure up as “Equal Husband Declan.” And the more you’ve outright humiliated me in the bedroom, the stronger and more confident I’ve felt outside of it, whether at work or wherever.
And I’ve realized that the Dom side of my own switch-hood is still there, even if caged and buried. With no doubt whatsoever that it’s just waiting for a chance to leave you frustrated and denied and take whatever payback it can get, even if that’s in a role play that you engineered and designed and is still just really giving you what you wanted in the end anyway. The Dom side of me is frustrated enough that it doesn’t care, but not strong enough to outright rebel.
And that’s what I’ve realized, this long and frustrating half-night.
I love you.