HONEY – I’m seeing a Dominatrix

Honey, I’m seeing a Professional Dominatrix. In fact I’ve been seeing Dommes for substantial parts of our married life. I always wanted to tell you I was a masochist but, as the pile of lies grew, it became more difficult to see the other side.

( This post will make more sense if you’ve read the previous post here)

I want to tell you my story, the story I didn’t tell you when we started going out together, didn’t tell you when you became pregnant for the first time, didn’t tell you when I asked you to marry me and have kept to myself through all our years together.

It’s a story that started with the eight year old me smacking myself with the hard case my father kept his sunglasses in and progressed through wanting to play spanking games with other kids to an adult life of frustrated, unsatisfactory, self administered pain. Through all that time I worried about being weird, failing, in that pre-internet age, to understand what drove me to do this and yet aware that it was satisfying a deep-seated need.

Finally after I split up with S (my first wife) in my late thirties, I summoned up the courage to make my first visit to a Dominatrix. I found her in the back of the What’s On magazine and, this being near Christmas, she was offering a “Cruel Yule”.

Cruel it certainly was. That first meeting left my entire backside covered in vicious purple bruises and welts for two weeks. It frightened me, horrified me; not the beating itself but the knowledge that I would want to go back for the fear, the pain and the total loss of control.  The frightening question I asked myself was this: “if  this was an ‘introduction to CP’, what might I be paying people to do to me in two years time, or ten years time”. I felt I had awakened a beast that could quickly become out of control and destroy me.

I saw the Dominatrix just that once before we hooked up together and a year after that, you became pregnant. In truth, at that point, I’d been planning to end the relationship, perceiving that you were too like my first wife, too similar in outlook and, now I was aware of the word, too vanilla.

But in you and your pregnancy I imagined a chance to be “normal,”  to have a normal family and to delight my parents, saddened by the childless break up of my first marriage. I would put this frightening new world of Dominatrix’s, spanking benches, nipple clamps, whips and canes behind me and live a “normal” life.

In you and the child you carried, I saw the chance to finally stop hitting myself.

It seemed for a while it might work out fine. We were having such fantastic and frequent sex that my sado-masochistic tendencies were suppressed. However, whenever troubles appeared in our relationship that was where I went for solace, hitting myself in angry, lonely frustration.

Then you had your affair and it crushed me. I found an Irish submissive working in London. We’ed beat each other and have sex. It was a horrible, ugly period for me and, even if only for a few hours at a time, she provided a place where I felt whole.

When you eventually agreed to end the affair I stopped seeing her.

We never worked through the affair, each blaming the other for it. The fact that you continued to have him as a business contact was a source of smouldering anger and resentment and, arriving home early from a business trip to find his car in the drive and you in the kitchen looking like you’d just been fucked, it became hard to believe that’s all he was.

I found another professional, a switch, someone who, like me, likes to both give pain and receive it. We’ed beat each other and she’d make me come. I don’t think that over four years of seeing her, we ever had sex. There was always a different level of guilt in having sex and I had enough guilt going on already. For years that was enough. Once every couple of months I’d get the itch, go and see her then carry on with my “normal life.” Occasionally I’d want more and see a Dominatrix for a harder session; more pain, more beating, greater relief from the feelings of failure and inadequacy that dogged me.

You and I sort of rubbed along, trying to do our best by the boys, but never really communicating. I know I was at fault there, but it always seemed that for you, communicating meant listing all the things I was doing wrong in the relationship while refusing to listen to the alternative view.

Two years ago I saw a Domme in America. She took me apart, pushing past all my pre-conceived notions of how much pain I could handle, how much pain I could eroticise. It started an exploration deeper into my sadomasochism that I am still on today.

In truth, it’s become more than merely  satisfying the need for pain that’s been there since I was eight. I’ve become a rampant hedonist, wanting everything; I’ve had threesome sessions with a Dominatrix and a submissive; I’ve been brutally beaten by a man and let him masterbate my cock afterwards; I’ve spanked a beautiful young submissive and then had sex with her. Even that wasn’t enough, so I’ve spanked and flogged two submissives and had sex with both of them, always wanting more, always looking for the next thrill.

And the thread running through all of it has been the professional Dominatrix I now see. She leads me ever deeper into pain and submission, exposing me to depths of emotional and physical challenge I’ve never experienced before: looking deep into my eyes as she slaps my face again and again; whipping me until I break down and sob tears into her shoulder. My opera trips were never business outings but evenings with her, paying for her time but talking freely and openly, for once being myself, all of myself, not just the part of me that you’ve lived with for twenty years. It’s been freeing, renewing, wonderful.

So, Honey, I’m seeing a Professional Dominatrix.

And I guess knowing that might help you make the decision you seem to be on the verge of, a decision to leave me and find a new life for yourself. While it’s a decision I would find difficult to understand if you only knew the truth I’d allowed you to see, if you knew all the truth it might make perfect sense.