Sex with a married man, to me, was the best sex in the world. The thrill of being a mistress and knowing he was fucking me better, harder, and more adventurously than he fucked his wife got me excited in ways nothing else could. Sexual encounters with married men allow them to be assertive and in control in ways they might never have attempted with their spouses. Husbands often found themselves in power struggles at home, browbeaten over every little thing. It could make a man understandably tense. With a mistress, someone like me, they could release some of that pent-up tension and be in control of everything—when they see me, where they see me, how long they see me, and with whom I can interact. A mistress is a woman in a box, constrained, completely subject to her married lover’s will.
As restrictive as that kind of arrangement sounds, I loved being the other woman… savored it, even. And although my relationship with my married lover was limited to a specific place at a specific time, I was privy to a view of him that his wife would never see, a side that would disturb her if she ever did. I knew the real him, unmasked. I knew the man who loved to indulge in edgy things, sadistic things—things that weren’t always conventional or socially acceptable. Within the four walls of our motel, he was my overlord and master, able to manipulate me with his brutal touch and the promise of his superior cock.
I relished the sway my married lover held over me, and in time my need to be sexually dominated by him became a narcotic and as necessary as the air I breathed.
It was late in the evening and I was waiting for him at our usual spot—a dingy, dirty motel steps away from the highway and a truck stop. When I wasn’t with him in this sleazy lair, I was an upscale, professional woman who enjoyed the finer things in life. I preferred plush hotels like the Four Seasons and The Peninsula, liveried valets, and Michelin-starred room service to some low-class dive like this. I would have never chosen it on my own, but for him I was willing to be downmarket. For him, I would get in the gutter.
This location, from the very beginning, had been his idea. We needed a spot, he said, where dark deeds could go unnoticed, a room where he could “put me in my place.” This place delivered just that, with its cheap curtains, seldom-laundered bedspread, and threadbare sheets, all spattered with mysterious stains.
I waited, geared in knee-high leather boots, a body-hugging black vinyl dress, and a red cape. I glanced at the clock radio next to the bed, anxious, eager, nervous, and a little afraid. I never knew how he would come at me, how he would leave me; the battle scars he left me with were different each time. They became a road map to our couplings, bruises that spanned my body in odd patterns, each revealing everything and nothing about who we were. I paced back and forth, around and around, like a feral animal, trying to still my mind in anticipation of his arrival.
I dug into my overnight bag, checking my supplies, rustling through the body wash, vibrators, lotions, and handcuffs. I searched and took count, double-checking I hadn’t forgotten the things he liked. Suddenly a firm hand wrapped around the right side of my throat and squeezed as another hand clasped the left side. My heart raced, my body electrified by the thrill of surprise. Even though I’d expected him, he’d caught me unaware. His body pressed into my back as his hands slid down to my shoulders and shoved me facedown onto the bed.
He flipped me over and loomed above, a dark scowl on his face. I whimpered with fear, even though I was aroused. He leaned down, close to my face.
“I’m late,” he growled, “and it’s all your fault.”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked. It was always my fault. It always would be. Without fault, there could be no punishment, and I needed to be punished. I was a bad, bad girl.
“So what are we going to do about it?” he asked, his dark eyes piercing mine. “Do you think I should cut you a break?”
“No, master.”
“Then what should I do?”
His finger trailed up the inside of my thigh, over my moistening slit, resting on my fleshy mound.
“Hmmm?” he asked again.
I trembled beneath him. He gripped my crotch, squeezing it tight. My pussy throbbed at his violent touch.
“Tell me, you cunt. What should I do?”
“Show me no mercy,” I whispered.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Show me no mercy!” I shouted.
He released his grip and mounted me, his legs pressed tightly against the sides of my hips. He grabbed my throat with both hands, first choking me, then slapping my face as he grunted with anger. My cheeks went numb, and my body was on fire.
He ripped my cape open.
“I brought…”
“Shut up!” he barked, slapping my face once again.
He grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a rag doll, then flung me back down with disgust.
“If I hadn’t been late, we’d be fucking by now.”
“I know,” I cried, my cheeks burning with pain.
“Maybe you did it on purpose,” he sneered. “Were you fucking someone else?”
“Never,” I said, reaching between his legs. “I only want you.”
He slapped my hand away.
“Say it again,” he demanded with another slap to my face.
“I only want you.”
“Say no one fucks you better.”
“No one fucks me better.”
“Louder!” he ordered.
“No one fucks me better than you!” I screamed at the ceiling.
He wrapped his hands around my throat, wringing it tight.
“Now say it.”
I could barely breathe, let alone speak. I mouthed the words, my face flushed, my eyes stinging with tears. He released me, flinging my head back. I exploded in a fit of coughs and gasped for air. His smile was sinister as he watched with indifference.
“Prove it,” he said.
I reached up, running my hand over his shirt, searching for his nipple. I pinched it as hard as I could, twisting it cruelly, enough to break the skin. A tiny dot of blood appeared.
“You bitch!” he cried as I took advantage of the moment and shoved him away. I rushed from the bed, away from him, across the room, cowering in the corner near the window. My cape had fallen onto the floor. He stepped over it as he came toward me, kicking off his shoes, removing his tie, peeling out of his shirt and pants with quiet seething. His dick was a knife inside his briefs, aimed at me, ready to kill.
“Come here,” he demanded.
Nervously, I did.
He circled me, slow, deliberate, deciding his next move. He stopped behind me, his arm across my throat, pulling my head back. He squeezed my breast with his free hand, squeezed it hard enough to make me spill tears.
“No one can save you, you know,” he whispered.
His hand slid down the black vinyl dress, past my stomach, stopping at my loins. He cupped my hot wetness, gently at first, then hard and vicious, lifting me up by my pussy. I moaned in delicious agony.
“I don’t want to be saved,” I said in reply.
He bent me over with a harsh shove and delivered a series of slaps to my ass that radiated through my wet hole all the way to my clit.
“You’re a whore,” he barked as he slapped me again.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I’m a whore.”
“You’re a fucking slut.”
“I’m a fucking slut.”
He lifted my dress, his angry hands gripping my fleshy bottom.
“I love this fat ass, you fucking slut.”
“Then fuck it,” I begged. “Fuck my fat ass.”
He pulled out his cock, bending me farther, putting my ass in the air. He crammed into my sphincter. It resisted at first, and then bloomed like a lotus, letting him inside. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and snatched my head back, thrusting deep inside me over and over.
“Take it, you bitch!”
I wriggled and writhed against his evil fuck stick. He pumped a few more times, then pushed me away, onto the floor, his dick snapping out of my ass with a pop.
I tried to crawl forward, but he grabbed me by the hair again and hauled me backward toward the bed.
“Get up there and lie down with your feet facing the headboard.”
I climbed weakly onto the bed, my asshole, ass, and face stinging raw.
“Lower. I want your head hanging off.”
I scooted a few inches, eager to please him. He was upside down as I watched him now, blood rushing to my head, making me dizzy.
He shoved his dirty cock in my mouth.
“Now suck it.”
I grabbed it with both hands, pulling it in, tasting my body’s discarded remains.
“Suck my dick, you shitty-mouthed whore!”
I twirled my tongue around the head of his meat, and then pulled the shaft deeper inside. He began pumping, slow at first, then faster, harder, beating my mouth with his monster. He groaned in ecstasy as he fucked my face, my saliva bubbling around his cock, out of my mouth, onto the soiled carpet.
I began to gag, but he continued pumping, demanding I service him despite all else. I kept on sucking, my pussy dripping with hot desire. I held on to him with one hand, touching my aching clit with the other.
“Leave it alone,” he said. “Your pussy belongs to me.”
He pushed my face away, removing his dick, then grabbed me by the hair and neck and pulled me onto the floor.
“On your knees!”
I crawled forward, onto my knees.
He lifted the back of my dress, grabbed the back of my red thong, and ripped it off. The sensation of the material being pulled quickly against my clit sent a spasm of pleasure through my body. He ran his index and middle fingers down the crack of my ass, stopping at my very wet pussy. He was on his knees behind me now, his cock toying at the entrance to my love tunnel. He moved it up and down against the wet slit, torturing me with the promise of more.
“Put it in,” I begged. “Please fuck me right now.”
He positioned himself with exact precision, and then plunged his steel rod as deep as it could go. He hit the bottom, awakening the entire length of me inside. My walls quivered, their juices fully unleashed, as he did a slow grind against me, stirring his dick around inside. He pushed in hard. He pulled out slow, stopping right at the edge of my tunnel, close to the exit, the most sensitive area inside my walls. He lingered there, his dick rubbing slowly against the floor of my pussy. I was dying inside, on the verge of explosion. He pulled back a little bit farther, then plunged back in, all the way to the balls. The dam burst inside me.
“I’m cumming!” I cried.
He slapped my ass, and the sting resonated, making me cum harder.
“Do it again!”
He slapped the other cheek as he pounded me with his cock. My body buckled beneath him as my hole gushed and gushed. He held on to me, pulling me back into place, pumping with renewed vigor, raising his thigh so he could maneuver his thrust even more.
I shook violently against him from the intensity of my orgasm. He pulled out and picked me up, placing me on my back at the edge of the bed.
He rammed his cock deep inside me, thrusting with desperation. I gazed up at him as my throbbing clit pulsed anew. He slapped my face and squeezed my breasts, staining the soft flesh with bruises. I raised my hips to meet his thrusts, but he didn’t like that. He wanted to be in control. He always had to be the one in charge.
“Bad girl,” he grunted, pulling out of me. “I run this show.”
“Then run it,” I said, daring to be bold.
Angered by my flippant remark, he lifted me up by my pussy with his right hand and grabbed me by the back of my head. He flung me higher on the bed. I landed with a flop, terrified and turned on. He climbed on over me and shoved two fingers inside my pussy, fucking me hard, so hard that it hurt. My eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to. The pain was delicious. My clit was engorged to capacity, throbbing with fury. My walls trembled as I neared release. He pulled his two fingers out, balled his hand up into a fist, and shoved it inside me. I came with a jolt, my body rocked so violently, it caused me to sit up. That didn’t stop him. He fisted my pussy, all the way up to his wrist, working his closed hand inside me, setting me off even more. I reeled with ecstasy, collapsing back onto the bed, dizzy, delirious. I felt like I would faint.
He removed his fist and placed his hand, drenched with my pussy juices, open-palmed on my face. He stuck his fingers inside my mouth.
“Open wider,” he said.
I widened my jaws, sticking my tongue out. He put his whole hand inside. I licked and sucked his fingers, savoring my taste.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
He patted me on the cheek and got up from the bed.
I watched him, wondering what would come next. He gathered his clothes from the floor and began to get dressed.
“Wait!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
He stared at me plainly.
“I have to go home.”
I rushed over to him, my body fully alive from the thrashing it had just taken.
“But I thought…”
“Sorry, honey. I just needed to get some aggression out. I could never do this at home. You don’t know how valuable you are to me.”
He touched my cheek, and then finished dressing.
I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, knowing this drill.
“Till next time,” he said as he stood at the door.
His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, and then he was gone.
I grabbed my clothes from the closet and got dressed, giving him time to get in his car and leave. I followed behind a few minutes later.
He got home first. I arrived ten minutes later. I could hear him in the shower as I walked into our bedroom and tossed my bag of goodies into the back of the closet. His shirt hung halfway out of the hamper, stained with a tiny dot of blood. I pushed it all the way down and tossed in my soiled clothing. I took a fresh nightgown and underwear from my dresser and showered in the bathroom down the hall.
He was already in bed when I returned to our room smelling clean and wholesome. I slid in next to him. We watched Conan’s monologue, our usual routine, and then he reached robotically for me, climbing on top, in our usual, boring missionary fuck.
In all marital relationships, someone assumes a dominant position. That position, ideally, should be shared between the two of you, alternating depending upon the circumstance. Perhaps your husband is the dominant voice when it comes to making repairs around the house. Maybe you play a more dominant role when it comes to caring for the children. Whatever the case, there should be a balance of power. Neither of you should exclusively be the dominant person in every area of your lives together. Such a scenario is not conducive to a healthy relationship.
A woman or man who is dominated by a mate often experiences diminished self-esteem, lack of confidence, and, in many cases, a fear of making decisions, lest the repercussions of those decisions create additional duress. Such relationships also prove rife with resentment, in both parties. The more dominant person may resent the fact that the mate doesn’t speak up more or take the initiative, thus causing him or her to lose respect for that mate. Where there is an absence of respect, the door opens for all manner of infidelity and betrayal. Conversely, the more submissive person may despise feeling as if he or she is being controlled or suppressed, and may also seek comfort and solace outside the marriage. Both partners must wholly encourage each other and play a positive, active part in maintaining a balanced relationship. Only then can you thrive together.
That said, however, in the bedroom—or whatever setting you choose for your sexual encounter—role-play involving dominant and submissive partners can, if properly executed, lead to extremely fulfilling and explosive sex.
While not everyone is into domination, it can be a fun and exciting way to add variety to your relationship. I must emphatically state again that it’s imperative there be mutual consent beforehand. This is not the type of thing to spring on someone in the middle of intimacy. Everyone doesn’t always respond the same to an unexpected slap in the face or a nipple pinched hard enough to draw blood. Your mate could easily misinterpret it as you taking out your anger under the guise of engaging in sexual play and sour on the whole experience. Things like this can turn ugly very quickly unless you clearly define what is and isn’t allowed.
Now that you’ve agreed this is going to happen, know your boundaries and limitations. Agree upon and employ the use of a safe word—we like buttons because it has a nice, harmless ring to it, but feel free to come up with your own—for when things have gone beyond adventurous play for either of you and made you feel physically threatened, genuinely humiliated, and/or afraid.
Where you choose to have your encounter take place is just as important. Will it be at home, and, if so, can you clearly separate the marital bed where you make sweet, gentle love from the place where you smack each other around and call each other less-than-flattering names? If you have no problem doing so, by all means, proceed! If, however, using the same place for all your sexual experiences blurs the lines too much, consider a location outside your bedroom. In the case of domination, a seedy motel might add to the atmosphere of simulated humiliation you’re trying to create.
While there are plenty of local stores and places on the Internet to purchase the necessary costumes and accessories, you may already have a store in mind where you plan to go for everything you need. Wherever you choose to shop for your goodies, make sure that on the big night you look the part. For this particular fantasy, Coco de Mer is the perfect high-end fantasy supply store. Trashy Lingerie is moderately priced. Feel free to Google sex shops in your local area. All such stores have back entrances, so don’t feel strange about visiting. Or visit any one of these shops online!
If executed correctly, the domination theme is a certified winner. With the perfect cocktail of pleasure and pain, the hits—and you—should keep on cumming!
Neither of you should exclusively be the dominant person in every area of your lives together.
Role-play involving dominant and submissive partners can, if properly executed, lead to extremely fulfilling and explosive sex.
Things like this can turn ugly very quickly unless you clearly define what is and isn’t allowed.
Talk dirty! Hurl agreed-upon epithets!
Can you clearly separate the marital bed where you make sweet, gentle love from the place where you smack each other around and call each other less-than-flattering names?
Wherever you choose to shop for your goodies, make sure that on the big night you look the part.
Not unlike other fantasies, a faultily implemented domination fantasy can have ugly repercussions. The dynamic with this particular fantasy is a tricky one, because it involves the abandonment of any power struggles. One of you chooses to be clearly submissive and the other, clearly dominant. There’s no fence straddling here. If you and your husband have power-struggle issues in your relationship, especially unaddressed and/or unresolved ones, the moment when those issues will rear their beastly heads is now.
So here the two of you are, role-playing. In fact, you’re reenacting the very scene from the Domination chapter. Cheap motel, cape, knee-high leather boots, black vinyl dress, the whole thing, all the way down to pretending he is married. There’s the slapping, the degradation. You’ve already been getting heated over the things he’s been saying. “Dirty slut!” “Fat, nasty whore!” And the one that really got to you as you were still reeling from being called fat…“ Shut up, you stupid bitch, and suck my cock!” Stupid? He called you stupid? And with those words, he broke the fourth wall and what was supposed to be a fantasy suddenly began to feel, for you, very real.
As you can see, these words sound all cute, fun, and edgy when you’re reading them on the page and imagining your man saying them, but it can be a different story when they’re actually said as you’re being smacked around during an intense, experimental act of sexual role-playing.
That’s right, ladies. Saying you want to participate in a fantasy is one thing; actually going all the way and immersing yourself in that specific fantasy is another. A domination fantasy means one party having power over another—physically, sexually, emotionally, and mentally. If you’re the one who acts as the submissive partner in this scenario, that calls for letting yourself be overtaken in all ways. As noted in other chapters, this kind of fantasy should not be approached lightly. It has the potential to tap into really sensitive areas in relationships. You and your partner, depending on which of you will be the dominant force in the fantasy, may find yourselves saying things that you really mean, but haven’t otherwise broached. The things being said and done under the supposed cloak of indulging in a fantasy can get downright nasty vicious.
So you’re in the moment, as we noted, and your husband is the dominant one. He’s slapping and cursing and calling you everything except a child of God, including, as we already mentioned, the dreaded terms slut, fat, whore, and stupid bitch. He has even gone on to throw in a few choice words about your mother. Things you’ve suspected deep in your heart that he really felt about her, but dared not say aloud partially out of deference to her and partially from fear of repercussions from you. But now—well, now the gloves are off and he’s saying all manner of things about your dear mother. He’s casting even more despicable aspersions at you, her hell-bred spawn (his words, not mine). All that aspersion casting has him majorly aroused, harder than string theory, but you’re not turned on in the slightest anymore. When the night first began, you were into things, but then, as he became more aggressive and derogatory, you began to grow uncomfortable. You even used your safe word, and—silly forgetful man—he totally failed to recognize it and kept on going. Now you’re long past the I’m uncomfortable stage and find yourself full-on seething. Him smacking you around isn’t helping. In fact, nothing about this moment is feeling the way that you imagined it would.
And then, he is suddenly choking you. Hard. He has his two big strong hands encircled tightly around your neck to the point that they’re cutting off your ability to breathe. You thrash and sputter as your face runs the gamut of the rainbow, but he is so caught up in this moment of permitted sexual domination that he is oblivious to your genuine plight. Remember, this is still a fantasy for him, and he is all in it, sexually intoxicated, drunk with power. So his hands clench tighter. You can’t even utter your safe word again because, well, you can barely even breathe! His hands—the same hands that lovingly hold you at night, cradle your babies when they wake up crying, mow the lawn, finger paint with his daughters, and help him earn a living to take care of you and your family—are now strangling you as he simultaneously pumps, thrusts, and denigrates you and your mother. It’s hard for any woman to not become furious in a moment like this, and you are beyond furious.
He finally notices, releases your neck, but is unaware of the gravity of the moment and slaps you one more time for good measure. That last slap—that’s the one that finally ends the game. You shove him off you, the fantasy over. Your vinyl outfit squeaks as you rush toward the bathroom in a coughing fit, clamoring for a glass of water to help you catch your breath. You’re livid beyond words. He stands there with a rock-hard penis, thinking you’re still in character, but you’re not. This fantasy is done. With outrage and unwavering intent, you walk over to the phone in your seedy motel room, and without even thinking you call the police. This fool just tried to kill you. He talked about your mother like she was a dog, he talked about you in ways you never even knew were possible, he called you fat, he beat your ass way beyond what you feel are the boundaries of sexual role-playing, and then he almost strangled you to death!
Or did he? This is the love of your life. Perhaps you’re being a bit irrational because you’re so caught up in your rage.
Who cares? You’re calling the cops!
Your husband tries to explain himself, but you don’t want to hear it. He obviously has deep-seated issues going on that have unexpectedly been set free. What was supposed to be a loving journey to the land of intimate adventure suddenly took a right turn and landed you smack dab in questionable territory, and you’re not happy about it. Not one bit.
Cut to: Ten minutes later, the police show up, and there you are in a black vinyl suit with a cutaway crotch—a cutaway crotch that you’ve forgotten all about, thus giving the police officers a nice eyeful of your peeper—black high-heeled boots, and gloves up to your elbows. A cat-o’-nine-tails is on the floor. He never got to use it on you because he was too busy choking you out. The cops can tell that something really heavy went down, but they can’t get the details clearly because you’re too busy screaming, “Get this motherfucker out of here NOW! He tried to kill me! Look at the marks around my neck!”
Amid your beloved hubby’s cries of panic and pleas for you to explain what was really taking place, the police restrain him. Meanwhile, a second set of officers arrives to assess the situation.
You’ve got a black eye, handprints across your face, thighs, arms, and, of course, your neck. You’re a mosaic of bruises, a real punched-out Picasso. It is not pretty, not one bit. The first cops put your husband’s big, strong, strapping hands in handcuffs, escort him from the motel room, and whisk him off to county jail. Why? Because assault is assault, and this definitely looks like domestic abuse, albeit a freaky example, so it’s Book ’em, Danno! Kiss your man good-bye for the night. Of course, you want his ass to spend a night in jail. It will teach him the lesson of a lifetime.
But what’s this? The second set of police is taking you to the hospital. “Wait, no, that’s not necess… oh, it’s procedure? And they have to take pictures?” Riiiiiiiiight. So now you’ve got to deal with that. Here come a million questions, Polaroids of your black eye, handprinted throat, and black-and-blue body. Plus, there’ll be questions about the state of your marriage, the safety of your children, a possible history of domestic abuse in your marriage. Then you can look forward to counselors and a handful of pamphlets—all because you and your husband wanted to add a little adventure to your relationship.
Not exactly what you pictured when you decided to do this, eh? That’s because you didn’t follow my instructions! Know your boundaries and limitations. Use and acknowledge safe words. Discuss, at length, just exactly what the word domination will entail. This is not the kind of thing you want to figure out after the fact.
A good fantasy shouldn’t have to involve a night in jail and a visit to the hospital. That’s how rumors get started. All you need is for someone you barely know to see you in the emergency room of a local hospital wearing a crotchless, black vinyl catsuit and knee-high boots, plus a black eye and a fingerprint necklace. That’s a pretty decent setup. The acquaintance and the rumor mill will take it from there. Who knows how the story will spin before it makes its way around to you again? But you can trust that it won’t be pretty and it will definitely be far-fetched.