I am on a continuing journey and my beloved pet and property has opened her own blog to explore her feelings and thoughts. Checkk out her latest writing: Name Three Things.
“J___ gives me marbles!” She was screaming with her nose pressed against the screen as she watched for the pizza delivery and I fucked her from behind. Every marble was an orgasm. Her little plastic bag held over thirty for the two days since the glass bead game had started. At first they were her secret shame. She would blush when asked about them. She would not volunteer their meaning. Before we went to teach she admitted to me that she was no longer ashamed of them, she was now proud. She thought it would ruin my demo. They are so cute when they think they know what is coming.
Our class had gone well. She was a sobbing mess by the end. Her screams and cries had carried throughout the camp and people in neighboring tents were traumatized. Even when she was in her dominant teaching space, even when she thought she knew what was coming, I still was able to bring her to her knees. I have to say, it was a pretty good weekend. It was not just the change to get out of town. It was not just the chance to teach and talk or to meet new people. It was about connection and ownership.
All relationships are unique. I do not expect to find the same with any two people when it comes to sex and play let alone a serious and long term relationship. With that said, it is still interesting to watch and feel how a relationship grows and changes. These are new feeling and ideas to me. She gets a sense of belonging from existing as a possession. It makes her feel wanted and loved to be held so close. For me it is as if she is a part of me. She is an arm, extra eyes, a brain to be accessed and utilized as needed. These feelings do not just happen though. We both come with baggage. We both have lives that existed before “us” which have to be understood, valued and put into place around that which we are making together.
She was raised from a young girl, taught to be daddy’s little slave. She was kept naive and sexually in the dark. He played with a little girl’s shame about feeling sexual. He made her sleep on a towel during her period. He trained her to suck him off the way he wanted. He fucked her in only the missionary position to keep her from becoming too used to the idea of sex and sexuality. All the while he was raising her to be a strong and competent slave in many other ways. She was taught to cook and clean. She was given a chance to become an active member in the community. She grew in her dichotomy. In social settings she was strong and independent, sassy to the point of appearing almost bratty at times while at home she was kept in a place of perpetual failure.
I danced around control with ZG. We would fade back and forth on what each of us wanted. I would push and then pull back, she would ask and then argue. We could not settle on what we wanted, not because we did not know what we wanted but because we knew that what we wanted was the same but not what we wanted from each other. Perhaps we did want it from each other, perhaps I did want her to shut the fuck up and be an obedient slave, maybe she did want me to nut up and rape her more often. In the end it is all semantics. In the end it did not work and we both went elsewhere to get what we wanted.
So here we are; my new slave craving belonging, me wanting control. The world opens up to us and we are frozen in our tracks. She asked me and herself daily “what of who I am is me and what is what he made me?” I have been asking myself, “What is it that I want and what is it that I am seeing others do that I am trying to mimic?” How do you ever really know? What is you? What is them? What is you made by them? What is them made for you? The combinations are infinite. So what is you and what is what you are moving out of? What is your true self and what is what you are making yourself be for this new relationship?
The short answer? Yes.
You are all of those things. You are what you are, what you are made and what you make. You are nothing more than what you are at any one moment in time. I stopped trying to figure that out. I am simply living the life that sits in front of me. I am taking possession of her as I desire. I am a sexual creature. So is she. I love to see her cum. I love to hear her beg me to stop. She is ashamed of who she is sexually and freeing her from that shame makes her mine. I am letting her be the slut and dirty girl she wants to be within the safety and comfort of our relationship. I own her sexually by allowing her to be sexual. Her orgasms are no longer hers, they are mine. Her body is mine to explore and torture. I feel a warmth and comfort in this relationship I never felt with ZG. I do not fear loss (not to be confused with not feeling jealousy). I do not wonder if the love I feel is reciprocated. I see it in actions and hear it in words of devotion. It is the fact that every move is a sign of possession that shows me what I had always craved but never got.
Titles are important. Labels give us a place to start when thinking about someone and how they interact with the world. We know who we are by the names we give ourselves, the names others give us. In this game of musical chairs that is my relationships, I am made to think about this more than I have in a long time. What am I to those I love? What are they to me? What is important to keep in the dissolution of old ties and what can be left behind?
I am still married. I will be for a while since that is not a connection I want to lose just yet. ZG was my best friend and is the mother of my children. I keep that connection to her because it is not a relationship I walk away from easily but the more familiar connections, the protection, the D/s is not there. It is okay. Life changes, we move on. The irony is that this is the easier relationship to define. It is the known. It is the connection that I know and feel most comfortable drawing lines around. What I have with my new girl is much more challenging.
The title is simple and self explanatory. She is a girl and she is my friend but this is conventional moniker. It conveys a vanilla relationship, an egalitarian connection between two people. A boyfriend and a girlfriend ride bikes together and argue over whether they are going to rent a romantic comedy or an action film. A boyfriend makes his move by being smooth and putting his hand around his girlfriend’s shoulder in the theater. We began this dynamic knowing neither of us wanted parity. She wanted someone who would control her and I wanted someone to control. She meets me with eyes that show her desire to be told what to do, where to stand, what to say.
She considers herself a slave. It is a frame of mind for her. I cannot explain it as well as she can. The enslavement is a feeling of belonging, a place in someone’s life. She makes my life run smoother. She is the reason I can be writing now and not losing my shit, trying to wrangle the boys. The problem is in the title. For me to address her to others as “my slave” makes me throw up a little in my mouth. I get a feeling of Gorean melodrama. I see her as collared and branded and memorizing the positions. I am a modern man. I have no need for titles that smack of elitism. My place in her life and hers in mine are based on mental connections and desires. They do not need to be formal.
She is my girl. I look at her as my girl, as someone I protect. I see her as my child, helping me to make the house I want. My home is my castle and I am the king, she is my princess learning to rule as I would have her rule. The trick is that there is more to it than just that. She is a child in many ways but she is also a woman. She has a daddy who has raised her to be strong and healthy. I am not starting from scratch.
A large part of our sexual relationship and our power dynamic is based on my controlling her every move and training her to be mine. I wash her brutally, scrubbing her raw and violating her while cleaning. I hold her in the water and force my cock into her throat. She knows her place when we shower is curled up in the corner with her mouth open. I disrupt her sleep, I control her orgasms. I make her cum on command and fear my touch as much as she craves it. This dance of kindness and brutality draws her to me in a way that allows me to take her shopping and still feel the connection. She has a cast down look that says that she wants to escape the pain but craves the care too much to run away.
So what is it? What is the name, the title, the label that I put on her and our relationship? Is she my girl, girlfriend, slave or captive? Short answer is yes, she is all this and so much more. We are mental players. We feel more and see more with our minds’ eyes. She is fulfilling in this connection and I look forward to watching it grow.
ZG and I have had an open relationship for about 8 months now, and while that is not a long time (especially compared to the 10 years we spent in monogamy) it has been an amazing time of growth for each of us as individuals and for us as a couple. We have had ups and downs, talked of compersion and played with jealousy. We have argued and made up and in the end are closer today than we could have ever been before. Our learning is far from over, but I don’t think anyone would argue that we have experienced a great metamorphosis in this time. As we near our tenth anniversary of marriage this coming October, we felt that there must be something we could do to symbolize this change and this growth. So, without ceremony (as we’ve done most things in the time we’ve known each other), we casually decided the other day that we would move our wedding bands from our left hands to our right.
I had been thinking about wedding rings for a few weeks now. One of the joys of having an open relationship is that I am now “available” again. I find myself looking at women’s hands all the time, looking for rings at the grocery store and at work, when picking up the kids from summer camp and talking to other parents. I am, after all, an objectifier, looking at people as a collection of pieces, and the left hand specifically had become a new focal point for me. It was a place to start. If a cute teacher at the gremlins’ school had a ring then there was really no point in flirting, now was there? As I became aware of myself doing this I also became more aware of my own ring. I began to wonder how it was that I could explain my forward behavior if I was wearing a ring on my finger. The whole “we have an open marriage” schtick has been ruined by infidelitous jackasses and just seems hollow. On the flip side, removing the ring is not an option because it is symbolically shortchanging the very thing that is most important to me in my life. I am very much a happily married man, and not only am I unafraid to show people this, but think that it is important that anyone I meet knows this. I am looking to get to know people, to date and have fun, and yes possibly to even fuck people, but that is not to say that I am looking to forsake what I have with ZG. So I found myself stuck in a place of looking for unattached fingers, while very conspicuously wearing my own ring. I was a living paradox.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the living room…
…ZG was having the same thoughts. Our opening up has had a very clear evolution to it. It started with play partners and then moved to having more emotional connections to play partners, to toying with the ideas of “dating” for more than just the sex of it. It was only a matter of time before we moved into the realm of looking at the people that we met in our everyday lives as potential partners. So while I was checking out the ass on the newest member of our accounting team, ZG was trying to casually note whether the good-looking new guy in her office was wearing a ring.
As with most things in our shared lives, we started to talk about this conundrum while on a recent road trip (sans children). When talking about all the nuances of this particular philosophical question, ZG made the recommendation of simply moving the rings from the left hand to the right. It was such an elegant, simple thing. It was something we could do right then, while driving. There was nothing special needed, no ceremony, no special contract or ring or other piece of jewelry. It was a small gesture that could mean something special, something that we wanted it to mean. This was not the end of our old relationship nor was it the beginning of a new relationship, but it was a moment, a threshold, a mile marker in the life of our relationship. It was a moment that needed to be marked in some way, but in a way that neither attempted to replace the past or create a new future.
At first it was an odd feeling. The indentation on my ring finger is very pronounced and the weight of the ring on my right hand seems odd. I am not a jewelry wearer so I am acutely aware of the movement of my one piece. I had developed some habits and quirks around my ring. I would tap it on hard surfaces, I spin it, generally play with it absent-mindedly when nervous. These are the little things that constantly remind me of the move. This may seem like a sad thing, that I am noticing the fact that it is missing but that is not it at all. Every time I feel for my ring on my left hand I am reminded of the fact that we have moved it, I a reminded that our relationship has evolved and grown. I am reminded in a very real and tangible way that we are more complex and complete in our relationship today than ever before.The movement has me thinking about my ring and subsequently my marriage more than I used to. This symbolism is perfect because it is the opening up of our relationship that has made ZG and I think about our lives together more than we ever did when we were monogamous.
For us, this simple symbolic gesture has been a perfect marker of the evolution of our relationship. We are as strong as ever, but are constantly evolving and growing to learn more about ourselves and each other, something that has made us happier and more complete. To me, I can’t think of a better reason for a right-hand ring.
Spring is the season of the objectifist. When bits of skin emerge from the layers of clothing like the first shoots of green. A shoulder here, a calf there, hair pulled back in pony tails that draws your attention to the curve of the jaw or the slope of the neck. Before summer comes along and clouds the mind with its cornucopia of flesh, spring let’s you savor the body for its component parts. Everywhere I go I am seeing the beauty of this fetish.
I have always been an objectifist. I cannot keep solid eye contact without losing myself in the shape and color. I can tell a girl that I have played with by the shape of her labia or the way her hair feels in my hands. I will remember a kiss for the shape it leaves on my lips. Each piece of the body is like a new landscape, an alien planet to be explored and studied with such intensity that the rest of the body falls away. This not a new feeling or fetish for me but the freedom to explore it seems to have dawned on me in the past few months. The confluence of events that brought about this awakening are like the kink itself, it is a series of components that seem simple enough that come together to make a complex and exquisite perversion.
When I was about 9 years old, my best friends sister snuck me a look under her nightgown. It was a brief flash that surrounded that first glimpse of the female anatomy with flannel and isolated the image forever in my mind.
I was 12 when I had my first girlfriend. She was my cousin’s neighbor and we would sit together on the couch under a blanket. I would sneak touches, little explorations of her body with the very tips of my fingers. I would focus all my attention into the very tips of my fingers as they moved over jeans and under shirts, searching for the soft warm flesh underneath.
In my teen years, fucking in cars, the street lights shining in at angles that would accentuate a knee or thigh.
In college, I began to truly appreciate spring. The girls would start wearing shorts and flip-flops. In class I would be surrounded by crossed legs and long slender necks exposed so casually by hair pulled into mess buns held in place by pencils. Soft lips unconsciously bitten as they looked over the textbooks with semi-closed eyes.
Today I am surrounded by a multitude of body parts in various stages of undress and duress. From the sliver of flesh that is exposed between the hem of the skirt and the top of the boot of the woman walking on Michigan Avenue to the gum drop shaped nipple of the of the half-naked pervert at my birthday party, the human body, the female body, is taken into my brain and carved into its component parts and stored in little drawers to be pulled out and toyed with at a later date. There are tied up nipples purple from the tension and exposed and vulnerable cunts and assholes staring up scared and hungry. Yes, I would have to say that this is going to be a very good summer.
We are sitting on the couch, watching a movie and you tell me you have to pee. Of course you have to pee, you are half way through your second Cosmopolitan. I do what I am wont to do when you show me a way of picking on you, I start pushing on your bladder. You squirm and try to object. You tell me “no” as you laugh and then you do something you never do, you start to fight back. Hello? What is this, a bit of fight in my timid little sub? Ok, game on.
You are not pulling your punches, you are giving it your all. Pinching, pushing, pulling, biting. Biting? That’s new. I push my hand into your mouth. Feed the bite, as they say. You bite harder and harder. Your eyes start to plead with me to show pain. You whimper when I tell you to bite harder. You are not a sadist for sure. I pin your arms down and pinch you back. I play with pressure points and you refuse to show that it hurts. Good, it means I can go farther, more and more and more until the yelp of pain bubbles out. I wonder if you will bite my dick if I put it in your mouth. Yep, and hard. Ok, that will not be repeated. The fight goes on and I am on top so I use my weight to outlast you. Finally you are exhausted and scream, “Fuck! Uncle!”
I stick my fingers down your throat and get them coated in saliva. I pull up your dress and start rubbing your clit. You relax and fall back on the couch. You beg to cum. I stick my fingers in you and they are covered in cunt juice. They go back in your mouth and you suck them clean. Back to the clit. Ready? Five, four, three, two, one. Cum. Just as you do I slap your pussy as hard as I can, slamming the breaks on your orgasm.
You still have to pee. Fine, let’s pee. I lift you off the couch by your hair. Down the hall into the bathroom. You start for the toilet. Nice try. I open the shower and throw you in. Squat and piss like an animal. You have on a housedress and bra, but no panties. Good thing, too; I would have made you piss through them. I shove my cock in your mouth while you piss. So degrading being used while pissing. I fuck your throat. You suck my cock. Back and forth with you attacking my dick like you are starving. We can smell the piss now and I ask you if you feel disgusting. You shake your head with my dick stuffed in your cheeks. I tell you to choke on it.
You open your mouth as wide as you can and impale yourself on my cock, pushing it down your throat until the gagging turns to coughing turns to puking. You catch it in you mouth and swallow. Again and again. The smell of vomit is now mixed with the piss and you are still sucking my dick like a woman possessed. You are so eagerly licking and gagging and fucking and sucking. You are on your knees worshipping me, eyes closed, devotion consuming you. I pull your dress up over your shoulders to show your bra and have you pull out your tits so they hang out unceremoniously. You are so fucking used, so consumed and whorish that my dick is literally throbbing with excitement. You are not yourself, you are nothing but desperate desire completely overwhelmed by the need to please my every whim.
I pull out of your mouth and start jerking off as I look down at you, so completely in the moment, so beautiful in your degradation. Your hair is a mess. Your lips are swollen with desire and from sucking my dick. I tell you to lick my balls while I jerk off and you take the command to heart and start kissing and licking and cleaning them as if they are your reason for being. You are so completely taken up by this that I cannot hold it for long. I grab your hair, pull back your face and demand you open your mouth for me. I tell you how filthy you are. You say yes. I tell you you are low. You say you want to be low for me. I say that you are a whore and love being used. You say,
“Please piss on me.”
There it is. That is where we were going from the beginning. I knew it, you knew it. The scene was about being low and you were giving it up to me. You want me to because you know it is what I want. I cannot get any harder but the moment distracts me from cumming and so I fuck your face and put you back to licking my balls. You attack them and soon I am there again, this time I cum. I cum in your eyes and nose and in your open and eager mouth. You hold still trying not to let the cum fall. I catch my breath and let my dick soften for the next part.
And then we wait…
And wait, and wait and wait. The moment stretches out as I try and feel the urine in my bladder. I get out of the shower and get a drink of water. And another and another… I can feel it hitting the bladder so I get back in the shower. Nothing. I take off your clothes. I take off my clothes. I close the shower door and start the water. That makes the feeling rise but again nothing. More waiting. I am standing there and you are so obediently waiting at my feet. I turn the shower on you, imagining the water on your face is my piss. Yes, it is hot and that makes me start to get hard again. That doesn’t help. You tell me to move the water when I am ready to start pissing.
“I want to know that it is you and not the water” you say and I am more in love with you than ever.
It starts to come again and I reach up for the showerhead and like that, the feeling is gone. Arm down, I concentrate, feel it coming again, reach up and it’s gone. Repeat. Meanwhile you are trying everything. You look up at me even though the water is burning your eyes. You open your mouth even though you really are not looking forward to drinking it. You try to look excited, eager. You try to look scared and used. You touch me, you cower, you talk casually, seductively. You are silent. You are so patient that you wait there for 45 minutes in the bottom of the shower while the water slowly goes cold.
I start getting desperate. I push on my bladder. There it is! The feeling comes rushing up. Not just a faint glimmer of hope, not just an inkling, a full-on I have to piss moment! Here it comes, once it starts it will be fine. The floodgates will have been opened. Finally it comes and… it’s just a trickle. Then it stops. I punch my bladder, I squeeze, I push until it is overwhelming and it finally happens. The piss comes at last. Not a lot, not for long, but enough to make it official. You have a look on your face that is the perfect combination of utter disgust and joyous relief. We laugh a little and I help you up to shower off so we can finish our movie. I get out of the stall and dry off. We chat a little about how it was so much harder than I expected. I am out of my head a little as we talk, happy that we did this, happy that it turned me on like I thought it would. I do not even realize that I have walked over to the toilet and sat down. Sure, now the piss comes…