Is it a sex blog? A mommy blog? A bitch & moan blog? Um, . . . yeah. This is my place to be totally honest. In my real life, I feel like I'm always lying to somebody about something. Here, I am totally honest. Brutally so. However, no matter what bad things I say about my kids, I adore them and would never ever really, say, sell them on Ebay. The husband, often referred to as Spousehole, is another story. Oh yeah - if you are under 18 (or if you are my husband), please leave now.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

No title

This story is about sex, but it is not sexy. It's a story I've never told my husband. My BFF knows only rudimentary details. I'm hoping in telling it, I can purge the demons.

She trembled as he wrung yet another orgasm from her, licking, touching, sucking until she could hold back no more. “May I touch myself?” he asked, almost pleading. “Of course not,” she replied firmly, “You know the rules.” Then she realized he was rubbing himself on the bed. “That will not do,” she scolded, reaching for the paddle.

She was single, in her mid-20s, an associate at the firm. Small as law firms go, but the largest in the county. The big school of fish in their small pond. He was a partner in that firm, mid-40s, married to his high school sweetheart, a father of four children. She was bright and wrote briefs the partners loved taking credit for, but she lacked organization and discipline. He was a pillar in the community, admired and somewhat feared. His life was all about precision, organization, and self-discipline. She loved technology, he refused to use email or a cell phone. They despised one another.

Liquor makes strange bedfellows. A drunken office party had led to them hooking up in a conference room one night. He had a taut, fit body, shaped by years of athletic endeavor. Overall, however, she wasn't impressed; he was as selfish as arrogant pricks like him usually are. She decided that it would never happen again. Life was too short for bad sex and she didn't like the idea of messing up someone's marriage. A week or so later, he came to her office to discuss a project on which they were collaborating (i.e., she did all the work, he took all the credit). She was having a crummy day, her office was a mess (not a surprise), and it was already 6:30 at night and she'd been here since 7 a.m. She just wanted to go home, walk the dog, and crash. But no, here he was. They discussed the project, he complained about her messy office, and then segued into “that night.” He seemed to think he had rocked her world and he wanted to continue rocking it. On her last nerve, she lit into him. Told him just how bad he had been, that he clearly had no idea how to please a woman, and that she pitied his poor wife. His face flushed in anger. She half expected to be fired on the spot. Then she realized that the more she insulted him, the harder his erection seemed to strain at his zipper.

She had never considered herself a Dom; it had never occurred to him that he was a sub. In the vanilla world, their personalities and their positions at the firm were the reverse. But that's how it works sometimes. Initially, as they played their little games, she taught him the finer points of pleasing a woman – manually, orally, with toys – rudely admonishing him until he learned his lessons well. Once he mastered the lesson of the day, she would let him jerk off. Not touching him and not letting him make love to her was both a punishment for him and her way of justifying fooling around with a married man. After six months or so, she stopped letting him touch himself at all. It became all about him getting her off, over and over again, and her leaving him with his erection untouched. Usually she ordered him to go home and make love to his wife. She would set the number of orgasms he had to give his wife before he could come and he claimed he followed her instructions to the letter. Sometimes she brought other men to the apartment and he watched while she had sex with them. Sometimes the other guy knew, sometimes he didn't.

When the partner was with the associate, if he said something out of line, asked to touch himself, or – the greatest offense – had his own orgasm, punishment became necessary. Initially she just laughed at and insulted him. But physical punishment soon entered the picture. It started with swats of her hand on his ass, accompanied with terrible insults, of course. Nipple clamps joined the repertoire, as did a wide leather belt and a wooden paddle. Over time, it gradually got more violent. He loved it more than ever, she was beginning to be sickened by it all.

As she reached for the paddle to punish him for having the temerity to ask to touch himself, he said that he had brought something new. He quickly added, however, that he had changed his mind – the new toy was too much and he didn't think he was ready. That meant, of course, that he desperately wanted her to punish him with the new toy. She opened the bag.

It was a cat o' nine tails. Wow, she thought, this was beyond anything they had done. The belt left nasty enough marks. Cats draw blood. It was leather, with knots at the end of each cord. His breathing quickened when he saw the cat in her hands. He got on his knees, nearly losing the uncomfortably large butt plug she had made him insert earlier. He trembled ever so slightly as she tried out the cat on the side of the bed. Reluctant to actually strike him with it, she caressed his back and buttocks with the cat. She could see his pleasure building, a drop of his own lubrication at the tip of his already strained member.

He reiterated how very bad he had been and how he needed to be punished. She reprimanded him harshly, for only she decides how bad he's been and what his punishment ought be. Reprimanding him turned her on. Controlling him turned her on. The thought of hitting him with the cat did not. But she knew he wanted it and that's what the game is all about, right? He was biting his lip so hard she thought his teeth were going to go right through.

After another gentle caress, she snapped the cat back and landed it on his ass, but not too terribly hard. He moaned and it wasn't from pain. “Please may I have another?” This was kind of a joke between them, but he really meant it this time. She snapped it back again and landed another stroke on his already bright red ass. He said nothing, but his eyes begged for more. She snapped it back and hit him one more time. A small trickle of blood ran from his ass cheek and down his leg. That little trickle set him off. He held his breath and stiffened every muscle in his body. His cock jerked as he spurted irregularly all over the floor. His hands were still on the bed in front of him.

She went to bathroom of the small apartment and turned on the shower so he wouldn't hear her vomit. She wondered how she had ended up in this situation. As she stepped into the shower, it hit her. 15 months she had been involved with the partner and she only just now realized that the things she said to the partner to humiliate and degrade him mirrored what her rapist had said to her nine years before.

[Rape story deleted.]

Now, in the shower, what she had never consciously acknowledged came to the surface: the partner and her rapist shared the same first name. How could that have never occurred to her? Did she get off on hurting him because he reminded her of the previous “him?” Was she taking out her anger at the ex-boyfriend on the partner, because the ex-boyfriend's death had robbed her of justice? She thought she had dealt with what happened and moved on. Perhaps not. And what kind of fucked-up relationship was this she had with the partner? They played the parts of Dom and sub, but she never felt like she was really in control. It was all about her dominating him for his pleasure – didn't that make him the Dom, really? She only did what he really wanted, it wasn't what she wanted. Or was it? She just didn't know anymore.

She dressed and gathered her things. He was exactly where she had left him, kneeling on the floor, body facing the bed, head laying on top of the mattress with his hands stretched out on either side. The blood had dried. There was more blood than she remembered. She raised his head and, for the first time ever, kissed him tenderly on the lips. She pressed the apartment key into his hand and left.

Epilogue: “She” got a boatload of therapy, quit the firm a year later, and went on with her life. Her experiences probably are what led her to marry the most vanilla man on the planet, a move she sometimes regrets, although it did give her two beautiful children.


Mrs.ZigZagMan said...


ZigZagMan said...

it's funny....the roads we walk when we step off or are dragged off the carefully groomed path......

As my lovely wife put it best...."WOW"...:)

crse said...

I echo the zigs and their wows. The mind is a very curious thing. It forces you to work out things whether you want to or not. Im so glad you got a "boatload" of therapy. (as a fellow recipient of "boatloads of therapy!") and Im glad Ive "met" you.

Heidi said...

thank you for the intimate look.

Anonymous said...

Wow, that took courage to write.

Anonymous said...

I'm sure it took a lot for you to write this out and then to post it for all to see. I am without any real words that would do any good. Just... Wow. This was an astounding post.

rob said...


It doesn't sound sick at all to me - even if you were each responding to something in your respective pasts, it sounds like a fair transaction and mind-broadening. Makes me feel quite staid in comparison.

Semi-Celibate Man said...

Wow. That was an incredible and thought-provoking post.