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...