period time

Our relationship started off normally. That is, our relationship wasn’t any different from anyone else’s. We’d go out on dates, to the movies or to dinner, and if I was lucky we’d have sex. Then slowly she began to get more and more controlling. She began to regulate my sex life. She told me that I’d have sex when she told me to have sex – only when she wanted it. I was not to ask her if we can have sex, but rather she would tell me when she wanted it and I would oblige. This was not a problem since we were both deeply in love and I would do anything for her. I wanted her to feel sexually satisfied and not sexually pressured. I am always in the mood for sex, but if she doesn’t want it I can always masturbate and wait until the time we are both ready.



But eventually she told me about my performance problems in bed. She suggested that I seemed distant and only doing it for my pleasure – that I was not paying enough attention to her. I was hurt, but willing to do what was needed to have a healthy, sexually satisfying relationship for the both of us. Evidently she located the problem. The problem was my pornography consumption. She did not want me to look at anymore pornography. I wasn’t really too keen on the idea, but she insisted that I give it a shot. She believed that if I concentrated my sexual energy towards her and her only that I might be able to, in her words, actually bring her to orgasm.



I knew that I was not terribly experienced with relationships and sex, but I was unaware of my inadequacy. I wanted to bring her pleasure, I wanted her to enjoy having sex with me, and I realized after she brought it up that I was quite sub-par. So I did what she told me. I stopped looking at porn and I tried to think of only her when we had sex.



But then she informed me that I still wasn’t living up to what she needed. I still didn’t seem to be passionate enough. I was rather boring in bed, she told me. So her solution was that I cut back on masturbation. In fact I was to stop completely unless she informed me that she didn’t plan on having sex for a while, at which point I could masturbate. I really didn’t want to do this, but as she frankly informed me I was atrocious in bed. I wasn’t going to let her slip through my fingers. I loved her. I needed her. She’s my bottom step in Maslow’s pyramid of needs. She’s more important than food, water and oxygen. I did whatever it took to make her happy.



The problem with not masturbating was that I finished way too quickly. Her fix to the problem was simple enough: I’d spend most of our romantic time eating her out and once she was near enough to orgasm then I was allowed to penetrate her. This seemed to fix the problem for a short period of time. Even though I knew I was quite inadequate in bed, we were able to find a solution and I felt good at having finally resolved the problem. In fact it worked so well that she asked me to move in with her. I was so happy about that. It wasn’t even a difficult move since she had all the things we really needed: like a double bed, refrigerator, TV, etc. I brought my essential personal belongings over, like CDs and stuff, which she put in a trunk under the bed: no need to screw up the decoration she style she had created.



We had problems when I moved in at first. I wasn’t doing my fair share of house work; I was messy and unappreciative of how hard she had to work for her job. So we divided up the chores. She told me that if I wanted to continue the relationship I would have to do at least 50% of the housework. Eventually she told me that it just simply wasn’t feasible for her to do the housework because she made more money than me and worked longer hours and I simply had no choice but to quit my job and take over the housework by myself. As unhappy as I was about this new arrangement she was right, as she always is. In order to get everything that needed to get done and maximize our income, I simply had to bite the bullet on this one.



But living together for a long period of time had a negative impact on our sex life too. What we were doing simply wasn’t cutting it for her. This was quite evident since in order to maintain a satisfying amount of sexual energy in the bedroom I had to spend six days a week eating her out without reaching orgasm just so that I could stay horny for her. And this was getting really difficult since it felt like my balls were going to burst most days, just waiting until I could orgasm for her.



Her solution was to get kinkier, which I was fine with me. What she wanted to do is introduce a little bit of BDSM into our relationship. She went out and bought handcuffs, riding crops and whips some huge leather boots and that was that for a little while. She’d yell at me, degrade me, call me a whore or a slut, whip me, punish me, constrain me and torment me.



Eventually we took it a step further and extended this foreplay to include whenever we were together and in private. Whenever she came home, she’d put on her bondage clothes and I’d lick her boots clean. I wasn’t allowed on the furniture; I had to sit on the floor while she was watching TV, sleep on the floor when she went to sleep, eat out of a dog bowl on my hands and knees during dinner. I waited on her hand and foot. She never had to lift a finger while she was at home. I dedicated myself to her. I was no longer concerned with my own pleasures and I no longer had to make decisions. In a sense I was finally free from myself, dedicating myself only to another. She controlled everything about my life; my clothes, when I was allowed to masturbate, when I could talk, what I was allowed to believe about politics (libertarian, BTW), EVERYTHING.



Unfortunately, love is fleeting. And when we had both fallen out of love and more into habit, she decided that it was time to move on. So, what she did was sell me to another mistress. Mistress Sandra, who happened to be crueler than cancer and colder in heart than Antarctica. She brought me a level of pain and bondage greater than I thought was possible…



[to be continued]

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