Slavery, Submissiveness and Becoming Unexpectedly Aroused in Tesco's Car Park

It's probably clear now that our lifestyle has a number of different 'levels' that I, in particular, live within for certain periods of time.   So it's probably worth a quick note on names and things just to clarify matters so you don’t get too confused! 

When I’m in slave mode- that lowliest, but often most satisfying and, to be honest, most securest mode as I pretty much relinquish all responsibility for myself- which is paradoxically, fabulously liberating- I call my husband My Lord, and will refer to him as such in this diary.  Out of slave mode and into a standard submissive [but still flirty] housewife one, I refer to him usually as Alistair or, if I am feeling or of course being made to be particularly submissive, I call him ‘Sir.’  ‘Master’ was used from the outset by me, and for old times I sometimes slip back into using that title for him.to him, and it now adds an extra bit of nostalgic ‘frisson’ to our relationship at any particular time and I use it to my own ends I must admit, usually when I am being caned or spanked, and I need that extra bit of enthusiasm put into his swipes at my bottom.

I was out shopping this morning and went down to the High Street for some bits and bobs.  It’s still not that cold despite being the end of December and I put on a yellow and white small checked cotton dress, a little denim jacket  topped off with a Hermes scarf Alistair had got me for by birthday a couple of years ago and of course the obligatory,  yellow high heels.  I love those shoes- shiny canary yellow, you can spot me a mile off in them, just how I like it.

Well Santa's Little Helper Gets a Mouthful [and more]

Christmas Eve went as planned, anyway!  It's always nice when a plan goes to..well...plan :))

Not that it's particularly difficult to get what I want from Alistair during the Festive Season.  He usually hunkers down into tired but lovable hubbie mode; it must be something to do with mulled wine, mince pies and the world stopping- for a little while anyway, not that it stops for very long these days, not like it did when we were younger.  Now everything is closed for just one day, Christmas Day, then everything returns to that endless shopping opportunity routine.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not adverse to shopping- what girl is- but I must admit I like that feeling when everything seems to have ground to a halt, the world outside has slowed down a little and life is that little bit simpler.

Probably explains why I enjoy the role of being a submissive wife.  It makes things simpler, but as I've said before, not necessarily less interesting....

Santa Baby

Trying to get my blog to look just right hen I have a chance...I think it's coming together.  Busy time at the moment, with it being Christmas Eve, although alistair isn't being overly demanding of me at the moment.  I'm hoping for a good seeing to later this evening though, when I do my Santa Baby routine for him, I'll let you know how that turns out!

The 'pin-up' template I was using for a week or so was fun, but i wanted to keep this blog relatively 'business-like,' but I liked it so much I'm going to use that other template for a blog I'm going to associate with this one- a more 'girly' place- which I'll probably call the'Naughty Housewife' or something.  I'll put a link up to it as soon as it takes shape.

I hope you like the photo in my header- I'm wearing a pair of my favourite blue shoes and my panties are just where I like them...around my ankles!  Ah, I'm such a happy little slut :)

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas and, for those of such a persuasion, I wish you a spankingly good New Year!

Garden Centre Treats

 
The days go by… part of our lifestyle is the turn-over of routine; we hardly live constantly on the cusp of endless excitement as we are obviously not super-human. But that’s not a problem; I –we- don’t find routine a chore because it is built into The Lifestyle, and therefore a constant source of inner satisfaction. It’s called having your cake and eating it.

We go through days sticking to a meticulous schedule and it gives me comfort. It is wonderful to know exactly what I am supposed to be doing and precisely when- and then know I will get rewarded in some way for whatever I do. And I mean whatever. If My Lord is pleased with one of my completed tasks- say a sparklingly clean cooking hob- then he may treat me to a [small] box of fine Belgian chocolates or some particularly expensive lingerie, although of course arguably the latter is as much as a treat for him as it is for me!

If I perform the task poorly- say my cleaning of the blinds in the bathroom has been particularly slapdash due to airheaded daydreaming- I may end up chained to the bathroom plumbing, gagged, with pegs on my nipples an iron clamp on my vaginal lips, with my buttocks red and sore after a severe spanking. Needless to say, I often deliberately under-perform in my domestic duties…

Play Room Barbie

Friday night and Alistair came home cranky. Long week. I made a nice Beef Wellington and he opened a bottle of Merlot. He was tense but I was alive with anticipation; the worse his mood, the more chance I had of some rough- but very sexy- treatment, and I felt as if I had deserved that, I needed to be chastised and the gruffer and more off hand he became through dinner, the wetter I became.

I’ve already mentioned the play room. All manner of things go on in there, but one of its main functions is, simply, as a ‘toy’ playroom. My name is Barbara and guess what that reduces nicely down to? That’s right, Barbie, and one of my master’s favourite games is just that- I am his Barbie doll, his very own little fuck dolly and, of course, I dress to suit.

Pink is always the theme, well what else could it be? As I am filling the dishwasher the possibilities of what lies ahead jostle for attention across my mind’s eye. Will he be quick or take his time? Will it involve mechanical bondage, or just his own considerable, physical, brute force? Both hold their own special allure; although being pinned down by his strong arms, or his strong grip on my hair pulling my head back as he fucks me in the arse have a very delicious appeal to my senses today.

Edith and the Kingpin

We live in typical suburbia.  A nice brick detached house built in the thirties.  It is nothing too showy; it’s perfectly ordinary and thoroughly respectable; well on the outside, anyway.

In fact I suppose the house we live in and our outward appearance is the cliché that proves the rule that clichés are the essence of truth.  Behind the proverbial net curtains and the newish German company car on the driveway, perversities romp rampant.

So I’m sorry if I disappoint you with my predictability, but it’s no point pretending I am someone I’m not.  I’m a tall, slim forty-something, middle class [well now, anyway] housewife with a carefully coiffured blond perm regularly maintained by Chloe at Mandy’s in town.  I have nice tits, a neat arse and great legs.  I am the consummate company wife, although I haven’t always been such, but more of that at some other time.  I’m happy with my stereotypical image though, because it makes the sexual deviance and delicious depravity that goes on behind closed doors all the sweeter.

Do you know Joni Mitchell’s song ‘Edith and the Kingpin?’  It’s on ‘The Hissing of Summer Lawns.’  I always thought of myself as Edith; in fact as a young girl I would fantasise about being her, an attractive woman falling under the spell of a powerful man and I would take my fantasy further, I would be entirely in thrall to him, I would do his every bidding and allow him to do what he wished to me within the limits of relationship in return for his care and protection.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not a shrinking violet or a weak willed woman who would do anything just to be loved.  Far from it.  I used to be a career woman and a successful one at that.  But that doesn’t necessarily mean I found it a ‘full’ existence; it was in fact quite empty, and in many ways the exact opposite to what I feel today, beneath the hand and kneeling in front of the hard, twitching cock of my Master, which stands a few inches from my face as the ultimate compliment, the ultimate statement of need.

Us

My husband is my master and I am to all intents and purposes in thrall to him but that is the lifestyle we have chosen and we may have clearly defined dominant and submissive roles- I am more than happy to be the submissive housewife- but we are also equal companions. 

Our sexual relationship is electric and, I’m not ashamed to say, our relationship is based deeply within the sexual energy we generate between each other.  That exhilarating sense of love, lust and emotional need we embody, as much ‘gland in gland’ as hand in hand, as my husband describes it more often than not.  I of course always smile as this favourite little saying of his, although if I have had a tiresome day and I am in need of a severe spanking, I will raise a mocking eyebrow and purse my lips in faux mockery at the triteness of his witticism, and smiling inside will prepare myself for panties down in the Play Room.

Nature is based in balance.  It is always seeking to find a balance, and will even create one if an imbalance persists.  It’s a basic law of the universe and the Holy Grail of all human quest: to find emotional balance, and someone else to achieve that balance with.

I have my own blissful balance here, in this house, with my husband and master.  I may be controlled and subjugated and privately [willingly] degraded and debased but I am also protected, cherished and loved without question.  What more does anyone need, really?

Our relationship is our own religion.  We need no other.  I’ve read a lot about this submissive wife concept being a ‘Christian’ thing but we do not fall within the orbit of that or any other creed, well not in the goodie-two shoes Bible quoting fashion anyway.  That’s not to say my husband isn’t connected to the church- he is, in a rather fundamental way, but more on that when the time is right- we do however have our own moral framework based in pleasure and pain.    And if you want to get philosophical about it, it is perhaps not that different from what is found in the Bible really, because when it comes down to it, what is Christianity, if not a torture and death cult?  Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a bit prissy to try and believe otherwise.

So my husband/master and I, we are enjoined as soul mates, but that doesn’t for example exclude my husband and master enjoying watching me being fucked by another man, if that so pleases him.  The beauty in our relationship lies in its complexity, and one of the aims of this blog is to explain the various strands of that interweave to make up that relationship in its entirety.

A Snapshot

It’s always daunting starting something like this.  It’s something I want share though….something I need to share.  It’s something sublimely pleasurable, painful, humiliating, uplifting, tortuous and self-affirming in one sweet maelstrom of delicious submission.

Well one has to dive in somewhere and this is as good a place as any.  Alistair my husband and master has just returned from work and I am in the kitchen preparing his supper as usual.  I’m wearing nothing special, just the usual day wear as demanded- a simple blue shift dress, matching high heels, gloss tan stockings- and as he steps purposefully into the kitchen I am overwhelmed by the need to sink to my knees before him and wordless I do so.  He doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t need to, as I pull down the zipper of his trousers and his already hard cock springs out and I waste no time in enveloping it with my lips and mouth and it’s there where it should be, firm in mouth.  His hand are in my think, permed hair and this is bliss, this is how it should be, as he shoots into my mouth and, gratefully, I swallow my masters come.  His seed, my nourishment.

I expect more later.  Maybe bent over the back of the sofa he will fuck me till I scream, perhaps he will drag me out to the summer house and bind me then defile me, or maybe he will do nothing but sit in his study and ignore me, watching me squirm, enjoying  my anxiety, my own frustration at being neglected, my own needs rejected…

…yet still there is pleasure in being denied.  And of not being certain what he will do.  The unexpected has a fascination of it’s very own and if it means I must at the end of the day pleasure myself with my fingers instead of enjoying being impaled on his hard cock then so be it.  Because there’s always tomorrow.

Beginnings

It's a start.  My story soon...