Sunday

ZG and I are separating. It has been a long time in coming or is a sudden change brought about by the actions of a few short minutes. It really depends on your perspective. It is not how I hoped it would be. I do not feel good about and the sadness that is filling the air these days is almost too much to bare. In the end it will be ok. We will all be ok. These are the honest lessons of this life we lead. It is neither good nor bad, it just is.

I still think we should have taught the class on polyamory. The five of us in the chaos that is our lives could have had a round table discussion to explore the dangers, the benefits, the ideals and the realities of living like this. Is it worth it? Does it work? The verdict is still out. No one said it was going to be easy.

Is it worth it? Is the attempt to hold multiple relationships of that level together worth it? That is question for each person to answer individually. I think so. For me the love you feel for different people is worth the pain that it may cause. Then again, maybe I am just a glutton for punishment. The pain can be intense. The loneliness that you can find in a crowd is almost too much but I know that none of us meant to hurt the others. We are human, we have human flaws and those flaws give us the remarkable ability to implode and explode and cause collateral damage.

But we grow. We change and try to become better people, deciphering the difference between the wants brought about by self-doubt and fear of change and the needs of the soul that unconsciously starves. The journey is not over, in fact this seems to be some of the darkest days but I do not regret heading out in this direction. I have found pieces of myself that I would have never found otherwise.

Symbolism

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.

This is what happened.

First read ZG’s appeal: Do you know what I did last night?!?

It starts out simple enough. You are bruised and beaten about the chest and thighs, leaving little meat to play with RBP-style. No problem, I have other ways of making you uncomfortable. I run through the list, seeing what might be fun for both of us. Negotiations can be a real pain in the ass (or not) when playing with your SO. You can lay together, all lovey-dovey, and coo sweet nothings about how there are no limits between the two of us and all is fine and good… until I try and sleep with your sister. I guess we do have a few limits, don’t we? So back and forth we go. I tell you what I am going to do, you give me that look that says, “Really? That is what you want to do tonight?” Eventually we land on psychological play. Brilliant! After that little passive aggressive banter about what we both want, I really feel like making you cry.

I fix you a drink. A nice strong French Martini and sit down to chat and perv on FL while you drink it. Just before getting up to go play, I head out for a cigarette and you join me. You say, “Can I have another drink? The smoke makes my throat scratchy.”

Hmmmmm… If I make you another drink it will mean waiting until you drink it to play (est. 20 min) but it will also mean that you are drunk and fucking a drunk ZG is like playing with a drunk sorority girl, all bets are off. So I make you another drink. Ten minutes into your second drink I am ready to go, so I tell you to pound the drink. You obey like a good like alcohol-soaked slut, put the glass down in my hand and start down the hall towards our bedroom. There is a very visible list to left as you stumble along. I take the glass to the kitchen and head down the hall behind you.

I open the door to the bedroom and you are laying across the bed half drunkenly, half seductively. You are wearing a sleeping dress and no panties so your ass is sticking out, just asking to be played with. I pull you up to your knees and start to undress you like a fuck toy. You are falling into the role, leaving you arms where I put them and not moving as I roughly remove your clothes. While your body is behaving, you mouth is not and you start to sass about the way I am handling you. You say that I’m not being nice, that I’m being mean.

Duh.

I grab the Whitehead gag and put it into your mouth. You refuse to open up and I force your jaws apart to the point you let out a little whimper. I take a hood and put it over your head and then push you down into the pillow and smack your ass until it is high enough in the air to put undue strain on your face and neck when I fuck the living shit out of you. I tie your arms behind your back and weave the excess rope between your toes. You love that shit.

I start you off by fingering your G-spot and pushing you closer and closer to orgasm while telling you not to cum. You start begging and after a few minutes I think you are primed so I pull the fingers out. What a wet mess. I let you rest for a moment and start in with the verbal abuse.

One of the biggest challenges that we have experienced with mindfucking in the past is that you know me and I know you, and the certain level of doubt and fear that is needed to really get a game going is often hard for us to reach. Part of this is because you trust me implicitly and have faith in our relationship, so most threats and verbal attacks ring hollow. Add to this that most of the times we’ve played with psychological sadism has been in connection with jealousy or anger play, so when the words do ring true they have a tendency to ring very true. But we are nothing if not persistent, so onward I push. I start in easy.

You are wet as all hell so I ask why you always want to play drunk or while you are asleep. Is it because you can’t stand me? Because you can’t get wet? Is your cunt broken or just your brain?

Soft whimpers. Okay, this is good. You are getting nervous about where we are going. You have a date in a few days and I ask you about him. Is he going to fuck you? You know he doesn’t want to fuck you. Nobody wants to fuck you. You are so desperate you might as well ask people on the street to fuck you. Protests and whines come through the gag.

Has he called you? No, because he is too busy with other girls! You know he’s playing with other people that he would rather fuck. You know how many of them he would prefer to fuck than you? All of them!

You fold. The whining stops. Your face turns down at the corners of your mouth. The gag is starting to affect how well I can read your reactions, so I take it off and ramp up the questions in search of those precious tears. So if X is not interested in fucking you. What about Y? Is he even interested in fucking you? You know he fucks everyone. What makes you so special? One of your partners doesn’t want to fuck you and the other doesn’t care. Where does that leave you?

You sink lower and lower and just as we verge on tears you get quiet. I slap your ass and punch your thighs. You moan and whimper. I take a little break to fuck you. You are a mess. Wet as hell and waiting so I lay into you. As I feel the urge to cum rising, I pull out. My dick is covered in blood.

You dirty little whore! You are bleeding all over me. You groan with embarrassment. I have you lift your head and suck me clean. You like the taste of that? You think your other partners like the taste of that, the smell of that? You are a mess and no one wants to play with you! I pull out a sheet that is for just such occasions and make you lay on your back with your arms pinned beneath. You wriggle around trying to get centered on the sheet and not ruin our bedding. I slap you a couple of times to make you move faster. You finally get squared away and I climb back on top and fuck you some more making sure that you know how thoroughly disgusted I am. You fall into the fucking and lose yourself. This is all hot and good, but it is not getting us where we want to be, which is with you as a tear-soaked mess and me cumming on your face. What I need to do is get off the physical humiliation and start working on the harder psychological aspects.

What do you bring to a playdate other than tits and a high pain threshold? No response. I throw in some more abuse to get a reaction.

You know you are being left behind for other girls, don’t you? Nothing. More beating, spanking and general abuse to prime your body and counterpoint the emotional with the physical.

You know you can’t get anyone you play with hard? Slap! Zip. You know you are unattractive? Punch! Zilch. You know you are selfish, you’re ruining our marriage, you’re a bad mother!!! Bite, scratch, punch! Crickets. Silence.

You have gone inside yourself so deeply that you have completely shut down. I am not sure if I should consider this a win or a loss. I mean the point was to break you, right? What is more broken than catatonia? The problem is that while you may be broken, I really want the tears, the bawling, the warped sad ugly face that means that you have lost all sense of self. I need to snap you out of it so I can get behind you and fuck you some more.

Hard, cervix-bruising fucking accessorized with punches to the ass and thighs. I grab the rope holding your arms and force you back onto me harder and harder. I tell you to push back, to work at it for a change, and you make a feeble attempt to push back. I pull out and jump off the bed.

Fuck it! You don’t want to try I will find someone who will! I pull on my pants and grab my phone. I storm out of the room, slamming the door as well as I can without waking up everyone in our building. I head out to the kitchen and turn on the chime for the security system so you can hear the back door opening as I leave. I walk quietly back up the hallway listening for signs of life. Nothing. I open the door and you are in the same position that I left you. Un-fucking-believable.

Are you asleep?!? Are you that jaded, that much of a whore, that you don’t even notice when I’m gone? You try to argue and tell me that you are awake. Then what the fuck happened? You don’t care whether I am here or not? You stupid cunt! I untie your legs and arms and turn you over. Your head goes back and smacks the foot of the bed with a thud. I laugh and pull you back onto the bed and fold you in half touching your knees to your chest. I grab your hair and try to rip clumps of it out with every thrust. You grimace and gasp. Does that hurt? I am hoping you say yes, but you say no and I realize that you are too gone to even feel anything. I think it’s time to finish this off.

I turn you over and have you put your arms under you in the classic molester missionary style. I grab your shoulders and continue to fuck you. The mess between you legs is insane, wet beyond belief. You are enjoying this way too much, so I pull out and drive into your ass. You gasp and I quickly get up a good pace. Again the whimpering starts and again I ask if it hurts. Again, you say no. Dear god, bitch, you are insatiable! I speed up and cum hard in your ass and then before you have a chance to catch your breath I start again, redoubling my efforts for a second orgasm deep in your ass. And. I. Am. Done.

I get up and go to bathroom to clean up leaving you laying in the middle of the bed with cum slowly dripping from your ass. When I come back I have to get you up and put your head on the pillow at the other end of the bed. You take the cue and roll out of bed to get cleaned up. I lay down and quickly fall into an orgasm-induced coma.

Bhakti (Take One)

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…