Jacking Update

Posted by VERITAS

First jack of the New Year and to the usual fantasies – the Bitch Dom, in stilettos, black lace bra and panties, straddles me as I sit in the armless chair she always reserves for me, naked except for my briefs.

She talks to me as though I were a toddler or younger – infantilizing me with her word choice and tone – singsong, cheerful, breathy, with a dash of the pedagogical and, sometimes, of admonishment; that of a mother addressing a small child as though it needs to be calmed, instructed – a tone that turns me on as, together with her manner of address, she stimulates me in more carnal ways as well, fondling my nipples, removing my penis from my briefs to stroke it, harden it further (“Kimochi ii desu ka?” / “Does that feel good?” . . . “Kimochii ii desu ne!” / “It feels good, doesn’t it!”), proceeding with her usual combination of arousal and humiliation – the humiliation lying simply in her speaking to me in such an infantilizing, such a condescending tone, as though I were a child she were talking down to, manipulating, whose true feelings she doesn’t really care about or respect, when, in fact, I’m a nearly sixty-year-old man. The humiliation feeds my arousal and vice versa. The humiliation is part of the turn on – neural pathways that run so old, so deep.

After giving my penis another few strokes, she pulls up my briefs, stretching them over my hardened member, and instructs me to get off the chair and assume a doggy position on the softly carpeted floor of the spacious, high-ceilinged living room of her opulent condo, to which I’ve come with such desperate eagerness to accept this degradation – to luxuriate in it. I follow her instruction readily, without hesitation.

Gingerly, she pulls my briefs down below my buttocks to mid-thigh and says, “Jaa, kore wo yatte mimashou . . . ” (“Soo, let’s try this and see what happens . . .”). Sitting on the carpet with her calves folded under her thights, seiza style, she gives me a few light spanks while leaning down to study my penis. “Waaa! Honto ni – motto ookikute, kataku natta nee!” (“Wow! It really got bigger and harder, didn’t it now!”), she observes, then, fondling my hardened member with exquisite delicacy, her fingers treating it as though it were a piece of treasured porcelain, one of her most prized possessions, adds “Saaa, maikai spanku spanku shimasho, ne!” (“So then, then let’s give you a spanking every time, shall we!”).

Applying a dollop of calendula oil to her palm from a glass and silver dispenser, she spreads it lazily with several strokes up and down the length of my shaft, then kneads it into the skin. Quickening the pace, she jacks me nearly to orgasm, then, instructing me to lie flat, face up, on the carpet, licks her lips before spreading her mouth over the head of my tumescence and taking in nearly the entire length of my shaft, rapidly finishing me off, consuming the greater part of my load in a succession of deep, audible swallows, then squeezing out the final drops and licking them from the tip with assiduous alacrity. She then instructs me to resume the doggy position, pulls my briefs from where they’ve bunched down near my knees back up over my buttocks, positioning and firmly tucking in my now flaccid member and giving it some strokes and pats through my briefs as she observes, “Omochaa watashi to issho ni asoberu no wa daisuki desu ne. Ippai asonda kara, totemo tsukarta nee! Totemo chiisaku natta ne! Demo, daijoubu desu – shinpai shin aide. Kondo chikai uchi ni mata asobimasho ne!” (“Your thing really loves playing with me, doesn’t it now! It played so much, it’s totally exhausted isn’t it. It really became small didn’t it! But it’s OK – don’t worry. Let’s play again sometime real soon OK!”)

She instructs me to return to the chair, which I do promptly, my saliva starting to flow with anticipation. Straddling me again, she butterflies her arms behind her, undoes the clasp of her bra, removes its straps to let it fall, exposing her fulsome breasts; looks into my eyes while fondling my nipples, making them hard, talking to me as she does so: “Ojousama no me wo mite.” (“Look into madame’s eyes.) “Nanimo kotaenakutemo daijoubu desu yo.” (“It’s OK if you don’t reply at all.”) “Just shake your head yes if you agree with me . . . wakatta?” (“Do you understand?”) I shake my head yes. “Ojousama no eiyo no nomimono daisuki deshou?” (“You really love madame’s nutritional drink, don’t you?”) I shake my head yes. “Itsudemo, dokodemo, nomitai deshou?” (“You’d like to drink it anytime, anywhere, don’t you?”) I nod my head. “So desu ne . . . ne.” (“Yes, that’s right . . . so right.”) “Jaa, so dattara, nonde kudasai.” (“So, in that case, please drink.”) Placing a hand behind my neck, she draws my mouth to a hardened nipple which my lips and tongue eagerly latch onto – what bliss! – and the breastfeeding begins . . .

All of which many readers might wonder why I can’t, in these erotically liberated times, simply accept as just another aspect of myself – of my identity, and sexual identity in particular – considering that I can’t, in fact, accept it as such, not any of it; not simply; not anywhere near completely. Not with enthusiasm or even some reasonable measure of equanimity.

For you see, for one thing, I’ve always been a straight arrow guy, so to speak – completely straight, vanilla, routine in my true sexual “nature,” as I like, in any case, to perceive it, that is; and as I present it to the world. When I was a teenager, a major part of me, at least, aspired to the ideal of the All American Boy; and as an adult, to that of the All American Man. No BDSM for me – no way! Not for my ever-aspired-to mainstream image.

And for another thing, fantasies like these, involving BDSM, lie, in my case, at the confluence with some very muddy – muddy as in not clean, not pure – waters. For you see, like Hamlet, I have bad dreams. (“I could be bound in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space were it not that I have bad dreams.” Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2). The bad dreams in my case involving certain aspects of my childhood, chief among them those related to my having been sexually abused, from a young age, by my father.

And so, you see, any BDSM that I have – will ever have – is tainted in this way, by its resonance – or the resonance I can, in any case, perceive – with the suffering I experienced in my childhood. And, so tainted, the fantasies always seem to leave, post-jack, a residue of deepest sadness . . .

Verily I say unto you: it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a child sexual abuse survivor to enter BDSM heaven . . . To ever, that is, feel pure and complete and wholly satisfied about a BDSM scene, even one simply imagined . . .

At least, that’s been my experience.

And yet these fantasies arise unbidden – how they hound my imagination! What is their deeper message? What, in fact, is the deeper nature of their resonance with my childhood abuse, and how might they assist me in my healing?

Apologies, by the way, for the sudden change in tone – from the erotic to the ever so serious; but I made a promise, you see, to be truthful . . .