Size Matters—Think Long and Hard

After 25 years of marriage, at the age of 56, my wife, a keen reader with a new Kindle, discovered Paranormal Romance, a genre of adult fiction focusing on the sexual Dominance of the vampire and the submission of his victim. Think Twilight with an added layer of kinky sex.

I’d noticed she had begun initiating love-making, something she hadn’t ever really done before, but, grateful for the extra sex, I didn’t stop to question it. She came out to me at the beginning of a long drive. “I’m a submissive” she told me, “And I’m pretty sure you’re a Dom” I knew what a Dom was, short for Dominant.

So began a strange few months during which we went from being spouses to being Dom and sub—the Dom is always capitalised, the sub never is. Our roles in this status transaction, this power exchange, now set, initiated by the sub.

She introduced me to Fetlife.com, the largest online community of folks interested in kink and fetish where, at that point, only two things were banned: scat and anything involving children. Ageplay—adults behaving like children or babies—was welcome, along with all and any other curious sexual interests. It was an easy-going, laidback and open community filled with all manner of human misfits.

Our sex life exploded. We went to fetish events, sex clubs, munches (lunch with likeminded souls all dressed in normal clothes so as not to risk exposure—that’s right, there’s a munch near you), and demonstrations to improve our flogging, whipping and caning.

We toured the stalls at events. Alongside the usual dildoes, whips, canes, paddles, crops, buttplugs and a broad array of fetish clothing, boots and shoes, we found new things. What’s that? A “Sound?” What’s it for? Oh, I see. You insert it into the male urethra? All the way down? And they come in different thicknesses? Oh, I see. You can buy a set, and work up to the thick one? Right-oh.

Fuelled by our new hobby and delighted with the renewed vigour in our relationship I created a hook point upstairs in our office—we ran a business together—and using my new skills, tied her up and suspended her from the ceiling on her tiptoes. I didn’t hurt her much. I loved her. But I did photograph her and share the pictures on Fetlife. The photos were hot and before long we had a following.

One of those followers in particular enjoyed my pictures a great deal and sent her the first of a series of private messages that convinced her to no longer dally in the arms (or ropes) of a beginner. No. She was ready for the big time and within weeks had devoted herself to her new Master.

It was clear to me that our relationship was undergoing radical change but it took almost a year before I found out about “Master.” Him and the other one I call “Piss Guy” because although Master pisses on and in her now, “Piss Guy” only ever really wants to piss on women, especially women in cages. Sure they can be dragged out and fucked vaginally or anally and even throat-fucked, but pissing on them is the main thing, ideally several guys to keep the quantities of piss up.

When I found out, her response was delight. “Part of our arrangement,” she explained, “Has been that Master must not mark me in any way, so you didn’t find out. Now you know, I can be marked!” I’d rarely seen her more excited.

I took our youngest son on holiday with me, a trip to visit family overseas and hopefully gain some perspective on my disintegrating marriage. Afterwards I discovered Master had come to our family home and caned her in the conservatory—the possibility of discovery adding to the frisson. Fortunately, our older son didn’t return home unexpectedly and walk in on them.

Caning, if you don’t know, is painful, leaving deeply bruised welts and sometimes striped open wounds across buttocks, and both the back and front of the thighs. As Master told her “I will hurt you, but I wont harm you.” The wounds heal, no permanent damage but a handy reminder of her submission.

She moved out about six months later, leaving our bewildered sons with me, and enrolled at a University near Master. By then she’d lost contact with me, our sons, her eldest daughter, her grandchildren, and most of her friends. She couldn’t tell her parents and siblings about her new partner (he was married with teenagers) or her new interests, so she lied to them leaving them as angry and confused as her kids.

It’s been five years now. We’ve been divorced for a year. Of her four children, only one maintains any kind of relationship with her. As far as I can tell she continues to be devoted to Master, at his beck and call, making herself available at a moment’s notice, being a good girl, complying at all times with Master’s wishes.

Master tells her whether to wear her hair up or down. He sometimes allows her to wear trousers on a cold day—a caring Master, as she sees it. She doesn’t buy clothing or underwear without his WhatsApp approval. Master dictates her masturbation, has her “edge” for days in the lead up to their meetings—she must record the edging and report it to him. When they meet he inspects her for pubic hair and punishes her if she’s not completely smooth. This can take the form of punching or strapping her between her legs. Slapping, caning, nipple clamps, butt plug, tens machine are all commonplace.

One of the most shocking things she told me about was an early episode in which she had reported to the appointed hotel room, arriving before him. He’d decide beforehand whether he wanted her “wrapped” or not. Wrapped meant, in her underwear. He’d generally choose a hotel room on the ground floor, preferably overlooking the car park and have her stand at the window, waiting on him, with the curtains open so passers-by might catch sight of her.

On this particular day she’d been instructed to be unwrapped, nothing but high heels. She was to stand by the window facing out, curtains open and when she heard him enter the room she was not to turn around or make any attempt to look at him. Being a good sub and fearing the consequences of disobedience, she did exactly as she was told.

She heard him enter. She heard him lay his bag on the floor, remove his jacket and tie. She heard him approach. What happened next took her totally by surprise. He wrapped her from the top of her head to her waist in industrial clingfilm. Her arms, by her sides, were encased with her upper body. Panicking, she realised she couldn’t breathe and, with no free arms, could do nothing about it. Even breath now was in the gift of Master.

Master grabbed her roughly, threw her onto the bed, rolled her onto her back and taking a penknife, created a slit at the point in the plastic where her lips were. She desperately gulped to fill her burning lungs with air. Respite was temporary however, as Master wasted no time in using the opening for his own pleasure, forcing his erection though the gap into her open mouth. “I thought he might be going to kill me” she confessed, eyes blazing with excitement.

She was his fifth submissive, he was her first Master. My feeble attempts didn’t really count. Master is a powerful, wealthy, intelligent, educated man a few years her elder. I messaged him. “I’m curious as to how you managed to capture her so completely?” I asked him. “Her needs” he told me “are no different to the needs of any other submissive. They need to be used, abused and reeled back in. Have you ever seen her in that place?” I hadn’t, and I was no longer likely ever to do so. I found his reply kind of chilling and at odds with the outpourings of love she was now freely expressing for him.

I found some of her WhatsApp messaging with him. That’s how I discovered their relationship—she’d emailed a backup of their chat to an email account on her work computer and I found it by accident whilst trying to close a document we were both working on. The shock of realising my wife was in a sexual relationship with another guy was slightly tempered by realising she was using the same old schtick she’d used with me when we met—about how we fitted together physically and how clear it was we were meant to be together.

I’d known when I met her that her previous marriage had ended when she’d been discovered having an affair in a nearby town, so it shouldn’t really have come as a surprise to me. But after 25 years? I think I can be forgiving for imagining she was someone different.

On the rare occasions I catch a glimpse of her now I am horrified by what I see. The woman I loved wore natural fibres, no makeup, little jewellery. She was a natural beauty, at ease in her own skin. A caring mother, a loving wife. The woman I see these days is over made-up, highly sexualised—think skin-tight jeans, low-cut blouses, and tottering in shoes or heeled sandals that look dangerously high for these uneven rural streets. At 62 she seems to me to epitomise the phrase “mutton dressed as lamb”.

But I’m not an impartial judge of these matters, and my word for this should not be taken.

I always admired her for not taking the easy route, for choosing to leave a marriage that was no longer satisfying for her, for sacrificing everything and voting for herself. I still have to work on my forgiveness for Master. He’s a predator. There will be other victims and I don’t mean the women he is using and abusing, I mean the children of those women, who lose mothers in service to Master.

I can’t end this piece without a confession of my own. I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. “Is his cock bigger than mine?” Why did I even have to ask? And what difference does it make?

“Yes,” she answered “but it’s not as hard.” What a great answer. Any ladies out there, about to be discovered, you can minimise the damage done to your freshly cuckolded husbands with that answer.