Looking at the stats on my blog, I see that you really like descriptions of heavy BDSM sessions and their aftermath, while erotica goes quite well but takes longer to get established. Oh, and you all go completely nuts for anything that includes a naked picture of Mistress Elita. That last one is SUCH a surprise! Lascivious lot! So obviously my next post is going to fit one of those categories, right?
Wrong? My next post (this one) is, I suspect, going to be a darkly introspective, maudlin piece of gloomy self loathing. Feel free to take a rain check and come back when the sun is out again. I won’t hold it against you.
On a good day my dual life seems perfectly in balance. On that day I justify my forays into BDSM as satisfying needs that are unmet in my marriage, keeping me happy and motivated to the real benefit of everyone in my life. On that day I look forward to my next session with excited anticipation, just I look forward to being home again with my family afterwards. But then a cloud will waft its way over the horizon and rain big drops of self hatred on me. That cloud is the need to tell another set of lies to someone who, despite the ups and downs of our married life, remains important to me.
So here’s the thing: I fucking hate telling lies
So here’s another thing: I’m really fucking good at telling lies
And here’s the third thing: I fucking hate that I’m really fucking good at telling lies
I told my first kink driven lie when I was in my teens. I’d bought a riding crop and when I was alone in the house I would hit myself with it, masturbating at the same time. (I am ALL the confession today!). My parents found the crop and asked why I had it. I had given no thought to this moment, never considering the possibility of discovery. So how did the lie materialize in my head so immediately, so perfect and fully formed? One moment the room was full of the question, pregnant with danger; the next, magiced from somewhere deep in my subconscious, the perfect lie stood alongside it, patiently waiting to be told.
“Oh, that. I was going out with a girl from near school who has a horse. It was a birthday present but we stopped seeing each other before I gave it to her. You can get rid of it.”
To this day I have never really known if they believed me or if the lie was just easier for them to rationalise than the truth.
I lie all the time; these days mostly without thought or immediate remorse. As long as my wife isn’t being too nice to me, telling a lie barely causes a ripple on my self esteem. But then she’ll do something or say something that makes it clear how much she still cares for me and I’ll hate myself.
Just a bit.
So what I’m going to do is share some lies with you, real lies from my double life: perhaps to get them out of my system; perhaps to show you what a horrible person I am; perhaps as a warning to anyone contemplating extra marital sex.
The Scene: Going to bed. She asks why I’ve started sleeping in my underwear.
The Lie: “Oh, it’s getting cold and (jokey voice) it stops my cock from flopping around.”
The Truth: The bruises and whip marks I brought back from the Mistress I saw in America just refuse to fade. In any case, I actually enjoy the memories triggered every time I glimpse them in the mirror.
The scene: Exchanging diaries for the month ahead.
The Lie: “I’ve been invited to Covent Garden by that company that wants our business. They want to go for drinks afterwards so I’ll stay in town.”
The Truth: I’m going to the Opera with Mistress Elita. We will chat about sadomasochistic sex and much more over dinner. We’ll laugh a lot and the opera will make her cry. Afterwards she will tie me to a bench in my hotel room, blindfold me and put a butt plug in my arse, before pushing me into sensory overload with clips, gags and rope. She’ll kiss me lightly on the cheek as she leaves.
Yet another bloody lie:
The Scene: I’ve arrived home around midnight, earlier than normal. She’s still up. “How was poker?”
The Lie: “Great. Nice crowd. Couple of bad players. I won a few hundred pounds but the game broke”.
The Truth: I’d been beaten so deep into subspace I hadn’t trusted myself to play poker for money. That’s why I’m home early. The evening had cost me a few hundred pounds.
When I’m really being down on myself the petulant immature version of BibulousOne sits on my shoulder and says: “Yes, but you can justify all this because SHE had an affair;” as if her fling 10 years ago justifies any level of sadomasochistic debauchery and sexual self gratification on my part for all time.
I’m not sure it does.
Recently I was approached by someone who had read my blog. This person asked for advice about how to explore their kinks outside a largely sexless marriage. My immediate thought was: “Don’t do it, the lies aren’t worth it.” The truth though, is that to deny the kinks; to try to live a life without letting the kinks live too; that would almost certainly be worse.