Life as a Laissez-Faire Domme

Nine months ago, Mr. Tungsten (or Declan, since he’s out now) signed a contract granting me full discretion over his orgasms: to give, to deny, to dangle like a piece of yarn in front of a kitten, even to withhold for weeks and then make humiliating kitten comments on my blog, although to fully appreciate said humiliation you would have to understand that Declan believes cats are trying to kill him, so fears and loathes the little fluffsters like you wouldn’t believe.

Anyway, I’m here to report that I’m enjoying this power. Also that the last paragraph was actually one long sentence, but I digress.

Number one on the list of why D enjoys life as a laissez-faire domme is that kinkytiems, as they say online, have become easier. Not only do I no longer raise my voice in scene, bur scenes themselves are more everyday. We’re blurring the line between regular married life and playtime so it’s not like I have to work myself into any kind of mood. The mood is all around.

My topspace persona is also decidedly more mellow than I ever could have imagined. I used to treat power exchange with a great deal of seriosity, just like I used to take all the made-up words out of my posts. Now? If Declan’s not getting what he’s craving, tough titty, or rather tender titty that shall not be touched.

The core of our enjoyment has a lot to do with Declan craving my selfishness. You can read more about this on his blog, but it boils down to this: the more I tease and deny him, the more sexually pent-up he feels, the more I legitimately do not care about how long he goes between spooging into that condom and whether it’s inside of me at the time, the more he loves it.

I know this because we seem to be communicating fairly well these days. He tweets and texts, we converse, he even writes heartfelt letters at three in the morning when he can’t sleep due to being so jittery with frustration. Thank you kinky lifestyle. Also, thank you therapist. (Can you tell we live in California?)

So when Declan cuddles against me in our big, wide IKEA bed, his cock insistent against my hip, I enjoy the warmth and the closeness and yet feel no obligation to take care of it. He loves being denied perhaps more than anything we do and it’s easy to give him that because I’m getting what i want, like not caring about when or how much I masturbate.

See, my body is stingy. Not only do I have to get myself into a very specific headspace in order to basically invite my own orgasm, I’m also a capacitor of sorts: the longer the charging period, the more powerful the release. Call me unusual, but trying to get off more than a couple of days in a row leaves me not only sore-ish, but with just the barest flutter of sensation during a climax that’s taken ages to achieve. And, yes, I’m admitting that for the first time, because I used to have this idea that as a sex-blogger and smut-smith, I am obliged to become a tactical nuke at the drop of the proverbial chapeau, non?

Perhaps not. Gotta say, one of the benefits of getting older is being able to say “I am that I am”, burning bush jokes aside.

All the way up ’til earlier this year, the urge to jill off would leave me calculating: how busy were we, how likely was it that we’d sex would happen given night? If nothing happened should I wait longer, or sneak one in and hope he didn’t ask for sex for another few days? No matter how often I’ve said that it’s not necessary or even desirable for me to peak every single time, my orgasm has always been a big part of Declan’s enjoyment. Maybe because of being raised by a single mom during the Alan Alda years, or perhaps he’s always been that submissive. Whatever the reason, this orgasm-rationing on my part has been a big part of our married life. I never realized how stressful being on the dole was until I started saying “fuck it.”

Now I take a clit breaks whenver. I also have Declan please me without flipping the coin, or even acknowledging he’s anything more than a throbbing mass of man-need with an extremely talented tongue.

It’s a blissful kind of freedom for us both.

Well, maybe more blissful for me. But he wanted it that way.

Insert devil-emoji here.

Featured Image: – The Hammock, Edward Killingworth Johnson  1881 via Plum Leaves at Flickr