Only after I came did I realize that I was not really sure whether drinking piss was something I wanted to do. That's why it was just a fantasy--fantasies don't always have to be acted on. However, now that it's out there and associated with such a humiliating and exciting experience of confessing, it was bound to be something we'd try.
It was while trying to get permission to cum that I confessed so many more things: that I was interested in worshipping feet and armpits, that I might not mind if his ass is sweaty or just a little dirty when he makes me eat it and that I'd love to be choked out by his big ass on my face, that I might want to try giving a blumpkin, etc.. Eventually, we got into the more submissive and service-oriented fantasies: that I'd love being naked around the house and ordered to do chores, forced workouts, etc.
The problem was of course that I had to make a confession every time I was super-horny and desperate to cum. And, whenever he didn't believe that my confession was true, he'd prohibit me from cumming for 48h, regardless how often he'd cum in the meanwhile. That way, I'd be even more desperate and willing to dig deep for the dirtiest and most humiliating things that had ever crossed my perverted mind. Very soon, I was resorting to confessions that I wasn't so sure about--they had crossed my mind but I wasn't sure whether it would be something I would want to do. Things that seem hot in that moment might not be once you've cum. This included being gang banged and given golden showers by strangers, more intense pain and torture sessions, permanent power exchange scenarios, etc. Of course, these confessions didn't mean that he'd make me do all of this--I was confident that he'd always respect my limits and safe word--but having him know these things gave him ever more power over my sexuality.
There was one confession, however, that I was deliberately holding back. I knew once I confessed to this one that I'd permanently give him complete power. Was I ready for that?! It was that I fantasized about giving him control over my orgasms. Of course, he already had control, as I asked him permission. He had also forbidden me from masturbating without his permission to make sure that I'd always be properly desperate after he cums. Ultimately, however, he only had control as long as I was willing to give it to him. If I helped myself out, there would be nothing he could do to stop me, except for making me feel like a naughty boy! What I was not ready to give up was the physical control over my dick: a cage with a key. I knew that once he had that, there was no limit to his control over me, beyond my safe word.
So, my submissive nature was more than satisfied in our relationship, and his dominant side had really come out and flourished. However, there was still the verse side to him that remained unfulfilled.
Though the immediate reason for us to get married was a set of practical concerns (health care, home ownership, etc.), in retrospect I also believe that it was an unconscious attempt to paper over that simmering inequality in our relationship: I got everything I could ever want sexually and while he gets a lot out of it, there's something very important I couldn't give him. I believe that subconsciously we hoped that getting married would ease that tension--much like straight couples who run into tensions get kids.
Of course, it did little to solve that issue long-term, but I do believe that making this public, long-term commitment strengthened our resolve to find a solution to this problem together rather than allowing ourselves to grow apart. On our wedding night, spooning after a passionate long night of hot and rough love-making, Oliver joked that I'm now his housewife and that we should take our cues from 1950s relationships: I should stay home and do all the chores, he has the final say and my job is mostly to look pretty. He also said that I should only ever wear an apron around the house. I wasn't sure to what extent he was joking, but it sounded pretty good to me. I love being naked around the house and I love doing chores--I already do most of them anyway. I even don't mind giving him the final say in most things, because I pretty much always agree with his decisions anyway. Thinking of myself as a submissive 1950s housewife somehow just felt right--even putting his pleasure first fits the picture: after all, no 1950s housewife would put her sexual needs before those of her husband.
That's when it struck me, as it felt just so right to be held by the man I loved and I couldn't help but think of him as the man of the house. Thinking of 1950s housewives, I could help but think of the quintessential 1950s man of the house for our generation: Don Draper from Mad Men. The solution for our problems was so obvious: Oliver should just cheat on me and find what I cannot give him with others. That's the prerogative of the man of the house!
I was so excited on that early morning of our wedding night: the first morning sun was cracking through the window, he was holding me, and we were drifting off asleep. I wasn't quite ready to tell him my wonderful plan yet, I had to think about how to convince him, but I fell asleep content knowing that there was a perfect solution to our problem!
One thing was certain, he had trained me to always confess my fantasies to him, and I was now bound to tell him that I want him to cheat on me while I remain at home, chaste, and committed to him alone! It was maybe the most romantic thought that had ever crossed my mind!
To be continued!
