We stand on the precipice of a new phase of our magical journey through the Forbidden Forest: I’m moving away. No, not far away–an hour via four-lane boring ass country highways with a 65 mph speed limit.
But still, away. It’s making us both sad and yet hot at the same time.
Sad because obviously we’re not going to see one another daily as we have grown used to seeing one another.
Hot because we know she is so willing and able to fill the void with the bulls from her stable. And she promises me she will.
I’m keeping my home in town, so I will be coming home on my off days Lord willing the and Creek don’t rise. I’m trying to cast this as “working out of town” instead of what might more truthfully be called “relocating” or “moving.” As in, GONE.
I’m upset, of course. I will miss her just as much if not more than I used to miss her when she was married. I used to half-jokingly wave goodbye to her after our Thursday fuck dates and say, “See you next Tuesday.” But now I really will be waving goodbye to her for five days in a row (or more if the schedule doesn’t permit me to come home).
The part of me that’s red-hot about this, though, is the cuckold part of me that wants to be hurt. I haven’t been getting hurt as much this summer as I did last summer when she was in the dick fog for real with Mr. Dumpling. I know it’s because we have been going through our long-delayed honeymoon phase, fucking in a real bed and sleeping with one another all night (as opposed to just euphemistically “sleeping together”). We have had some spectacular sex since April. I’m sure we will have more.
But I miss the pain. I miss knowing that someone is giving it to her the way she likes it, that another man can make her orgasm in ways that I didn’t even know existed.
Why is that such a scary proposition for men? This idiotic DJ on the radio this morning was giving this woman who called in a hard time about being sexually satisfied with her extramarital affair. “Aren’t you guilty?” he kept asking, incredulous when she would unashamedly answer that she was having the time of her life.
“Nope. I’m enjoying every minute of it.”
I know my Master does, too. For what is life if not the luxurious variety to be found all over our world. Dicks, strokes, stamina, even the flavor of cum and the dirty words that bring them vary from man to man–or woman.
So what if I will be locked in my cage while she gorges herself on the best sex of her life? It’s what makes US happy. Who is anyone to judge what the engine should be that drives any couple forward, always, homeward toward bliss. When she sends me blog posts of fucking another man, as she is writing for me right now, across the table from me at Starbucks, or pix and videos of her dirty deeds to make me jealous, it only makes me livid. Furious. And binds us closer together.
Why? What could make me want to be closer to a woman who cheats on me like the Rich cheat on their income tax returns? Because it is the way I was taught to love by my family of origin. Master gets that. And she is not troubled that others may look at the give and take of who we are and complain about my rights or my happiness.
Look, I gave up my rights when I gave myself to her completely. I am a registered slave. I do NOT take those vows lightly. I knew full well what I was getting into with her, and she has surprised even me with how fully she has accepted her role as the Powerful Privileged Protector of me.
I am her Property. She adores me, but at the end of the day she can do whatever she wants with me.
Words are bullshit. I have always known that. To love me the way you must, you must prove your love to me.
For me to love and respect you, you must demand the same proof of me.
I am only the happier for giving it.