Archivi tag: sex

Nov6

Sulla Relazione e piccole novità.

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Prima di raccontare alcune evoluzioni sulla situazione, volevo prendermi un pò di tempo per chiarire la relazione che ho con Lui. Mi sono resa conto, tramite alcune delle mail dei lettori, che la situazione è facilmente fraintendibile, e che io sono una tipetta piuttosto strana che non permette di figurare bene la situazione.
Quindi precisiamo un pò di cose.

– Il cuckqueaning e il bdsm sono due cose diverse. Penso sia importante sottolinearlo: il cuckqueaning è a pieno titolo un fetish, che non implica necessariamente la presenza di un rapporto di potere sbilanciato tra i due partner. Avete presente gli scambisti? Non mi pare che si umilino a vicenda mentre scopano altri (o almeno, non tutti lo fanno); ecco, siamo su questo livello del fetish. Di per sè la cuckquean o il cuckold che si fa una sega guardando il partner andare con un altro non implica necessariamente una posizione subordinata. Che questo accada nella maggior parte dei casi, è responsabilità dei praticanti nel darsi effettivo del fetish, non è una regola della pratica stessa.

Un lettore in particolare mi ha posto la domanda “Si può definire cuckquean una slave?”. Non è una domanda stupida. Per niente. Pensiamo a questa situazione emblematica: un Master che offre la propria slave ad altri; lui è forse un cuckold? Sa che lei va con altri, magari assiste anche, la cosa lo eccita anche. E’ un cuckold lui o è lei un oggetto offerto al primo offerente dal Master che può fare di lei ciò che vuole? Se una slave è costretta a servire le amanti del suo Master, è una cuckquean che ricava piacere assoluto dalla situazione o è una slave che obbedisce agli ordini?

Sono una paranoica dei livelli (mi pareva si fosse già capito col mega post sulla Metacomunicazione), perciò direi che sebbene il confine sia labile è bene essere precisi, per evitare ambiguità e superficialità. Una sub (arriverò poi alle slave) non può essere trattata come una cuckquean: se il suo piacere deriva dall’obbedire al Master, questo non è la stessa cosa del dire “la eccita saperlo con un’altra”. Ci rendiamo conto dell’immensa differenza?
Io cuckquean posso permettermi di tornare a casa e trovarmi il mio Lui con un’altra sul divano che ci danno dentro come se fossero tornati in auge i riti dionisiaci; io sub se tornassi a casa e mi ritrovassi in una situazione simile con Lui che fraintende il mio volerlo servire con i suoi capricci accontentati sempre e comunque, avrei tutti i diritti di prendere una sedia e giocare a bowling con due birilli formato umano.

Il cuckqueaning, così come il cuckolding, prevede che il cuck chieda/proponga/accetti con un grande pollice in su l’adulterio da parte del partner. Non è una costrizione, non è un’imposizione, è una LIBERA SCELTA. Il cuck sa già di esserlo e si prodiga per farlo capire al proprio partner (e mi riferisco al lungo purgatorio che molti cuckold devono passare per convincere la propria moglie ad andare con altri e che loro non sono andati fuori di testa), oppure davanti alla proposta dell’altro capiscono che l’idea li eccita immensamente. Sono i primi a rendersi conto che c’è una risposta sessuale immediata al pensiero del partner con un altro/a, non ci sono livelli intermedi del tipo “io servo Lui; ergo accetto che Lui vada con altre; ergo mi eccita che Lui vada con altre perchè così confermo il mio servirlo”. Sono cose diverse.

Tornando alla domanda iniziale: una slave implica un contratto in cui lei ‘dona’ la propria volonta al suo Master. Lascio perdere il fatto che per me è essenziale che nel contratto ci sia la possibilità da parte della slave di metacomunicare e di avere metaregole nel caso in cui le cose non vadano, ma più in generale, se la situazione della slave prevede che a lei va bene tutto quello che il Master fa, lei lo deve solo accettare. Ma anche qui, siamo alla definizione di Cuckquean. E’ semplicemente la moglie consenziente all’adulterio del marito? O è qualcosa di più? Una Cuckquean non è forse la moglie consenziente ed eccitata all’adulterio del marito?

La slave accetta, la Cuckquean spinge. La slave obbedisce, la Cuckquean propone. La slave serve, la Cuckquean offre servigi.

– Dopo questa lunga introduzione, arriviamo al mio caso personale. E’ tempo che vi facciate un pò idea di come funziona tra me e Lui il mondo bdsm&fetish.

Premetto il fatto che nessuno dei due ha spinto l’altro ad entrare in questo mondo, ci siamo conosciuti che avevamo già queste spinte. Lui era già interessato alle relazioni M/s e al bdsm in generale, e io ero già una piccola pervertita ossessionata dal tradimento.
Già, perchè la sottoscritta ha in testa questa cosa dall’infanzia. Devo averlo accennato in qualche altro post, ma per me la competizione si è sempre mischiata con qualche livello di tradimento, perciò nella mia testolina infante immaginare una scenetta in cui la mia personcina ne usciva fuori vittoriosa e stupenda, implicava sempre e comunque la quasi perdita di qualcuno, la competizione, la ‘lotta’ e la mia vincita personale.
Quando io e Lui ci siamo conosciuti io non ero minimamente pronta ad incontrare i suoi desideri. Ero così accecata da questa mia vittoria nella competizione, che non concepivo una situazione in cui dovessi abbassare la testa. Ero testarda, cocciuta, orgogliosa nel peggior senso possibile, ed egoista a livelli sinceramente curiosi.
Abbiamo entrambi avuto modo di maturare, lontani ma sempre rivolti l’uno all’altra. Lui ha formato la sua meravigliosa personalità, il suo carattere dominante, ha personalizzato il sesso in modo da conformarlo al suo carattere, è diventato un Uomo. Io ho imparato che il mio orgoglio aveva milioni di modi più costruttivi di esprimersi, ho ampliato i miei orizzonti attraverso interessi e studi che mi hanno resa capace di vedere l’Altro rispetto a me, ho trovato il compromesso che mi permetteva di essere Libera.
Quando io e Lui ci siamo reincontrati e ci siamo innamorati di nuovo, gli anni di teatro mi avevano già fatto capire quanto amassi entrare in personaggi che erano fuori da me. Avevo già sviluppato un Estetismo che mi spingeva verso milioni di interessi, i quali mi davano tutti una certa dose di autostima, permettendomi di sentirmi Bella. Avevo ancora in mente la valchiria che volevo essere nell’ambiente cuck, ma in aggiunta avevo anche capito quanto ero in grado di piacermi mentre mi inginocchiavo.
Sono una sub sicuramente atipica, vado ben oltre ciò che mi viene chiesto e lo faccio per puro piacere personale, vedo in Lui il riflesso della mia figura, e mi piace così tanto che continuo a servirlo per compiacermi. Forse mi piace la discrepanza che si forma tra il mio orgoglio e il mio carattere fermo e a tratti aggressivo, con la me sottomessa e composta, dignitosa e calma.
Ne parlo spesso con Lui, più che sub sembro una cortigiana, dipende dalle giornate.
Lui conosce questi miei tratti e li sposa perfettamente con il suo carattere, dandomi sempre nuove possibilità di esprimere me stessa. Lui traccia la strada perfetta, e quando decido di percorrere una strada alternativa perchè sento che mi piacerei di più in quell’altra, trovo che Lui non solo l’aveva già prevista, ma me l’ha anche decorata. Lo sento accanto a me e contemporaneamente tre passi in avanti, ci lasciamo la libertà di essere noi stessi completamente.
E’ l’unico verso cui avverto il desiderio di sentirmi Bella servendolo. Mentre con tutti gli altri (e specialmente le donne) sono persino dominante, con Lui non posso fare a meno che abbassarmi, perchè so che non perdo nulla della mia persona nel farlo, non mi forzo in nulla, ma mi affido a Lui che mi conosce e sa anticiparmi.

Ora, dopo queste immagini molto carine, sottolineo il fatto che io e Lui metacomunichiamo in continuazione. Non c’è un solo giorno in cui non parliamo di come ci sentiamo riguardo ad una cosa piuttosto che ad un’altra. Dopo ogni fantasia cuckquean, mentre ancora ansimo per l’orgasmo mi fermo a raccontargli cosa mi è piaciuto e cosa no, cos’è che avrei voluto e cos’è che si potrebbe fare. Abbiamo entrambi lo stesso potere nel metacomunicare, entrambi proponiamo, discutiamo, decidiamo insieme il da farsi.

In questi mesi ho amato fondere alcuni tratti sub con il cuckqueaning. Ci siamo entrambi divertiti come matti trovando nuovi modi per ‘umiliarmi’, sia verbalmente che fisicamente. Ho imparato tantissimo in quest’anno, e sono anche maturata su moltissime cose, ho imparato a vedere diversamente tantissime altre.
E’ stato Lui a dirmi che era il momento di separare più nettamente il lato sub da quello cuckquean, perchè il periodo di vita che sto vivendo richiede che io sia aggressiva e decisa, per puntare il più in alto possibile e non fermarmi davanti a niente. Non me ne stavo rendendo conto, ma stavo naturalizzando le umiliazioni verbali, mi accoccolavo come un gatto pronto a ricevere una carezza e due pizzicotti, contenta di avere attenzioni. E’ una strada legittima, ma non è quella più utile. Temeva che questo potesse ripercuotersi fuori dal cuckqueaning, fuori dal bdsm.
Ne abbiamo parlato e abbiamo deciso di accentuare la metacomunicazione, cosicchè ogni volta che stiamo parlando all’interno della dinamica cuckquean, dobbiamo avvisarci a vicenda, per non rischiare nemmeno inconsciamente di confondere i livelli.

Questo mi porta direttamente a parlare delle piccole evoluzioni che ci sono state.
Dovete sapere che io effettivamente questa nuova amica di Lui l’ho conosciuta. Partendo un pò dall’inizio della giornata, io dovevo avere un esame nel primo pomeriggio, e dovevo decidere se lei poteva venire in casa nostra per studiare tutto il pomeriggio con Lui. Dico che dovevo decidere perchè avevo l’ultima parola a riguardo, perchè non dovevo assolutamente rischiare di distrarmi durante l’esame, così se avessi scoperto che l’idea di loro due insieme in casa NOSTRA da soli mi faceva deconcentrare, l’avrei detto a Lui e loro due si sarebbero visti in biblioteca invece che a casa.
Invece è stato tutto estremamente naturale. Ero totalmente rivolta al mio esame e nemmeno per un istante il pensiero di lei con Lui mi ha fatta deconcentrare. Sono andata in università mentre mandavo sms a Lui per sapere se lei era arrivata, poi ho aspettato di poter entrare nell’aula ripassando gli argomenti e nei momenti liberi persino fantasticando su loro due insieme. Ho fatto l’esame dando il 110%. Ci ripensavo mentre tornavo a casa, che quello era proprio il tipo di atteggiamento che volevo avere: quando ad Aprile parlavo con Lui del mio feticcio per i tradimenti, avevo sottolineato quanto trovassi estremamente motivante il fare qualcosa di importante, non essere solo una fidanzata immobilizzata da qualche parte che si tocca (nulla togliendo a chi lo fa, semplicemente non è la mia strada).  Volevo essere una cuckquean che cavalcasse l’onda, più che starsene sotto di essa in una bolla protetta. Così mentre tornavo a casa pensavo che era stato estremamente soddisfacente dare un esame e sapere che Lui stava con lei da solo in casa. Mentre tornavo fantasticavo di poterli trovare in qualche momento intimo, di sbirciarli dalla finestra. Ho percorso i 2 km che mi separavano da casa con l’ansia di un bambino che aspetta la mattina per aprire i regali di Natale. Volevo tornare a casa e vederli.
Sono arrivata sotto la finestra in punta di piedi, ho assaporato come mai mi era capitato il momento in cui decidevo di sbirciare. Li ho visti sulla poltrona, seduti vicini che parlavano. Ho avuto un attimo di delusione per non averli scoperti in qualche gesto più intimo, ma poi ho pensato che era stato meglio così, quella giornata era perfetta così com’era. Così sono rientrata in casa, mi sono presentata a lei, ho raccontato com’era andata la mia giornata, loro mi hanno raccontato la loro, io ho parlato senza peli sulla lingua del mio fetish (sapendo che tanto lui gliene aveva già parlato), dandolo per scontato, e godendo nel vedere il suo viso forzatamente composto mentre io parlavo di un mondo così lontano dal suo. Mi sono sentita superiore perchè comprendevo e condividevo una realtà totalmente estranea alla sua, ed era lei a doversi sforzare per capire come fossi in grado di pensare così.
Lui mi ha stuzzicata chiedendomi se sarei dispiaciuta tornando a casa nel trovarlo a scopare, o nel vedere dei preservativi usati sul tavolo, e io ho sinceramente risposto che mi sarebbe dispiaciuto solo perchè non avrei potuto assistere. Le ho potuto spiegare che non sono il sogno di ogni ragazzo (clichè), perchè in realtà la posizione che ha Lui è tutto fuorchè facile, giacchè non si tratta semplicemente di andare con altre, ma di coinvolgermi sempre e comunque. Le ho messo bene in chiaro che la mia figura è imprescindibile, e nel momento in cui lui va con altre, anche se non sono presente fisicamente, sono implicata nella situazione. Non è mai una scappatoia da me, ma qualcosa di cui io faccio parte attivamente.
Lei ha continuato a non fare una piega, a registrare le notizie senza far vedere cosa ne pensava. Probabilmente le serve del tempo per metabolizzare la cosa, o forse non le interessa nemmeno.
Intanto sa che se vuole interessarsi a Lui, farebbe bene a tenere sempre a mente me.
Lui poi quella stessa sera l’ha riaccompagnata a casa, si sono scambiati l’ormai solito abbraccio stretto e poi lui ha raffreddato un pò i rapporti, sia per non viziarla troppo che per darle modo di capire bene le cose.

Ora siamo al punto in cui loro devono rivedersi da soli, lui forse ci proverà, o magari le parlerà direttamente chiedendole se le interessa la cosa. Non lo so sinceramente. Sono stranamente più tranquilla, mi va di scoprire cose nuove e l’ansia non mi prende più come prima. Forse ho confermato che ce la faccio, che so farmi valere anche in mezzo al cuckqueaning, che non sono una povera fidanzata il cui fidanzato approfitta della sua assenza.
Sono una tosta.
Bella e austera. Continuerò ad inseguire questo ideale.

p.s. Ultima precisazione: ragazzi (inteso in senso totalmente universale, mi riferisco a tutti i lettori, maschi femmine e di qualunque età)…cercate di capirmi, scrivo in prima persona di un’esperienza non esattamente semplice da descrivere in modo chiaro. Non dimenticatevi dei post in cui scrivevo di stare piangendo come una bambina terrorizzata, o quelli in cui dicevo di essere totalmente nel panico e incapace di fare un solo passo in avanti. Chi credete che mi abbia raccolta col cucchiaino in quei momenti?
Mi sento padrona del mio fetish nella misura in cui ho al 100% quel 50% di potere nel parlarne e decidere sul da farsi che ha anche Lui.
Sono un pò troppo intraprendente per essere una sub da manuale, lo ammetto. Questo non mi impedisce di godermi una sana sculacciata o cinghiata (ultima grande scoperta, quanto mi piace!) o qualsiasi cosa gli venga in mente o mi venga in mente.
Perciò non pensate così automaticamente che io sia quella che ‘tesse le fila’, andrebbe contro il tipo di cuckqueaning che voglio mostrarvi di avere. Io e Lui portiamo avanti INSIEME questa cosa, venisse meno uno dei due, crollerebbe tutto all’istante.

Detto questo, continuo a gradire immensamente le mail che mi mandate, vi invito a continuare senza ulteriori indugi

Lug23

The Masturbation

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Don’t think badly of me, if I write a lot less than usual. But these are days in which are happening very subtle things, and it’s hard to write them. Just as it is difficult to write thoughts and fantasies without being boring and/or chattering. I always prefer to wait to have a substantial bundle to ‘give’ to my readers.
But today is a bit different. It may be because something finally starts working, and I don’t want to read this blog in the future and find only stories in which I plodded taking up the cudgels on my behalf. Maybe it’s also good for me telling the little steps, the little ones that are less recognized, but those one that if added together day after day they lead to big changes over time.

As I already told you, yesterday I was able to masturbate thinking of him with another girl. Difficult and not very satisfactory from the physical point of view, from the mental point of view it unlocked a great confidence. I finally felt back the control of my body: no longer subdued to sudden bouts of anger, panic, crying. I was again the very Owner of all I am, and finally I was able to decide what to do. And I decided I had to have an orgasm, out of pure self-satisfaction.
I was scared. Especially of the possible guilt that eventually would have come later. Those widespread seconds of disgust that usually follow an orgasm. I was terrified of not being able to look at myself, once I realized what I had done, facing the fact that I touched myself imagining what hurt me most.
It has something of sublime this embracing ones source of suffering.

I focus a moment on the fantasy that I have tried to have. I’ve never been good at imagining scenes, my dreams have never had a sexual background and in order to masturbate I’ve always depended on the porn video I found on the net. Especially because of this, being able to masturbate out of the blue without even being excited only imagining a given scene was particularly difficult.
In my head I was exactly like in the reality, lying on the couch, while He and X were on the chair-bed in front of me. I name her X because I haven’t even tried to imagine her face, I put her back on me astride him and I freed myself from the trouble of having to imagine her pretty (and I didn’t want to risk giving her a face already known to me) .
Enjoy the fantasy and sharpen the picture were two separate things that I couldn’t do both at the same time. Focusing on physical sensations to guide the orgasm meant losing control over their figures which became two pink boxes stuck on a  Prussian blue chair . When I concentrated only on them I had seconds in which the wave of Pain struck my belly, this allowed me to transfer the burning feeling from the stomach to my v… yeah, that, through the operation Masochism/Blackness (whichever was it I still don’t know). But it only lasted a few seconds, and quickly they clouded again.
A struggle, seriously.

Today he’s finally come home, and as I already imagined, we didn’t lose much time before starting our games. We must say that my enthusiasm was (is) due to the week of ‘chastity’ which for some improvised black hole in my brain I had agreed to. Therefore for a week on my body were only my hands on the clitoris (under strict control of him of course). However, while we were preparing my second orgasm, He blindfolded me quietly, tied my legs so they were bent and spread wide, ordered me to keep on touching myself and as he approached his cock to my mouth he said, “And so you masturbated yesterday, eh? “.
I knew where he was driving at. I wanted to try it too.
I told him what I had imagined the day before, he incited me telling me that in the future I’d have to prepare him for his fuck with someone just like that.
Some other little joke, and within 20 minutes it’s over. I had a bit of disgust, I cannot deny it. But his presence reassured me a lot, I never felt dirty, nor humiliated (in the worst way possible) and the orgasm was as strong as my usual.
Speaking after that I told him that it would be nice if the next time it would be him to speak and to lead my orgasm deciding for me what to imagine.
I do the fool in time of war, I say so just because if they are the words of another person which I have to imagine in my mind, I lose responsibility on them. Just as I can masturbate on things I find being barely legal, in the same way it was perfectly possible for me to masturbate on a scene so painful and humiliating, but not dictated by me. Because it was just like I was not the author.
He likes to think that I am present and do something (which it could be cleaning, lubricating her, keeping her open, touching myself in front of him), but I realize that for me it’s humiliating. To show to a stranger that I’m interested in that makes me feel naked in a high school class. Surely if I wanted to test the psychological submission, this would be a major step, but for now it revolves around the perverse pleasure I feel thinking myself in there but ignored. Invisible. Present, but as behind a double-glazed where I can see them but where they cannot see me.
My imagination can go this far. I know that it has done this in the past. I have perfect memory that I masturbated once thinking about the little girl friend on who I had a crush while she was being kissed by her neighbor (something they actually did before me, dancing on ‘Gift’ of Elisa, a song hopelessly tied to sex for me).
In reality I go into panic if he says “I have to speak with her  on the phone.”

The next month goal?
Gather my bipolar raptures and be able to see myself in one piece at the mirror.

Ps. Gosh, such an evocative title!

Lug22

The Strength – ENGLISH VERSION

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I felt again that feeling.
That desperate one, the tight of the stomach and the loss of breath.
All due to 24 hours not particularly easy: yesterday I had to wait for him until 3 in the morning; I could hear him only an hour (just enough time for me to relax a little and start speaking) and then he fall asleep; I stayed up until an indecent time; today he showed up at half past 4 in the afternoon because he had no money; tonight he’d have had to be there for me at 11pm to finally have a chat but he has to go out with friends so I was offered an hour on the phone before he goes out (bartered for the 4 days he’d have had to be away with them in August, but honestly I’d preferred by far to have that call with him).

Chasing after him for more than 24 hours, knowing he was doing other things and that I was prevented from talking with him, with PMS advancing and the loneliness of the house without him, I felt again that anxious feeling.
So much so that when on the phone he told me he had to go out with his friends, my brain reacted as in early June when he used to tell me “Tonight I’ll try to do something with her.” A particularly masochistic part of me even asked him if I had to stay awake for him, just to hear him say “I don’t think I will come back anytime soon, I hope to be there for 3am”.

I imagined that out with his friends some girls would try to pick them up, that where they will be some girl will notice them, and perhaps even approach them.
I tend to stray too far from this side of cuckqueaning, lulled too much in that side made of calls, text messages, photos, movies and books. I forget that there is the part where he’s gone, the one where I have to wait and wonder how long will his absence be this time.
He’s just going out with friends, but for me this is a whole world. Each absence of him makes me think of the cuckqueaning; I’d dare to say that in some moments, the very betrayal itself is his absence. Not necessarily he has to go with another girl, he just need to get away from me to make me feel those feelings. With him ON some girl is certainly worse, I cannot deny it.

I’m trying to keep on striking while the iron’s hot, to keep alive the progresses made in these months despite Her disappearance and despite the fact that 2 to 3 times HE is the one disappearing. I’m hurting myself on my own in practice.
I am giving myself tasks to boil my Cuckquean side over low heat: I signed in a beautiful Italian forum for cuckolds, and reading of so many first-experiences made me realize that even in the male counterpart what passes into the mind is always the same thing for everyone. We are all on the exact same boat. Though I don’t know yet if the ‘turn on’ issue is easier for the male or the female cuck.

About being turned on, this morning I finally succeeded in masturbating imagining him with another girl. I don’t really know why I decided to try. Maybe I wanted to convince my brain that I could do it with a little effort. That it was not impossible, that it was just my CHOICE to exclude sex from Cuckqueaning. Because for some cucks (like me) it’s simply a matter of choice; not necessarily we start already wet thinking about our boyfriend or husband with another woman. Sometimes you have to learn to enjoy it.
I’ve tried it. It was a huge effort, it took me over 40 minutes (and I don’t recommend to no one 40 minutes of clitoral rubbing while completely dry, seriously), but eventually I did it, imagining something much stronger than him fucking a girl. Because if thinking of him in front of me fucking another girl was enough to make me feel some king of sensation in the lower abdomen, to trigger an orgasm I needed something more. That something more in my case was the french kiss, one of those limits that he has decided: one of those gestures he will NEVER do with anyone but me. Here it is, I imagined their mouths opening to make room for their tongues, and after a last great effort I managed to have an orgasm. Small and unsatisfactory, but that minimum of endorphins, which seemed to say “Oh, it’s finally over,” rather than “I liked it.”
For me it’s important. It’s a huge step. Almost annoyed by the road that I imposed to myself (no submission and no sexual approach), in a dynamic where I felt increasingly stifled and constrained by the course of events, I wanted to give me all the painful freedom I needed. Now I really have a choice whether to say yes or no to the submission, because I tried it. Now I really have the choice to put a hand between my legs and force me to come or not.

Considering the new and pleasant meetings that I have done in the forum; the commitment to take more care of this blog (which is giving me great satisfactions, especially for the visits that I’m getting: really, thanks); the adding of new pages to enrich the cheating topic; the constant self-analysis exercises to bend over to the total freedom I want to have…it is not an easy period, and these 24 hours were really impossible for me.
Despite the unfriendly and often aggressive mood, I’m really loving myself. I feel sorry for him that willingly or unwillingly ends up being pulled into the midst of all my rants, and I seriously think that he’s seeing a very little of the beautiful I have in me. But I see myself. I’m seeing myself.
I feel like Atlas, I’m holding up the entire Earth planet.
I’m feeling under my skin all the strength I have.

Lug19

First Taste – Final Report – ENGLISH VERSION

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I had promised myself to write as soon as possible and not to let too many days go by because then I would have to face more “backlog”, but in the end I’m back after more than a week. And a lot of things have happened.

A feeling that I was still brooding over was the Defectiveness: as if every single feeling or thought were profoundly wrong, always. If I thought one thing, it’d  have been more appropriate that I didn’t. I shouldn’t hate her; I shouldn’t hold a grudge, I shouldn’t cry; I shouldn’t despair; I shouldn’t hurt myself; I shouldn’t oppose; I shouldn’t be obsessed by it; I shouldn’t be turned on; I shouldn’t submit myself ; I shouldn’t have fun.
My superego prevented me to be able to overcome the impasse, and he was on the other side telling me that I couldn’t go on like that, that I had to react.
In my head constantly coexisted something that shouldn’t be there for my well-being and something that shouldn’t be there for the idea I had of myself. These two groups always included irreconcilable opposites.

The wave of security due to the party where I met her and where I shone just enough to let her know that opening her legs wouldn’t be even worth a thought by him during the day, allowed me to push myself towards experiments designed to overcome my pain.
Because she wasn’t playing on my area (due to lack of character, or because there wasn’t a right way), I started playing on her area, fusing together what was being a Cuckquean with the BDSM. It was an alternative path, where I could put in the BDSM Roleplay details of  Cuckqueaning. On a purely associative level, this thing would make sense, because putting the reality of my Cuckqueaning in the BDSM game would make that reality a game itself during the session. And a game is by definition something that under the right rules can’t harm me.
Anyway I started to experiment with different positions, helped by curiosity, by the desire for revenge, by the challenge of something new and by his involvement that finally could see me ‘in action’ too.

The problem? The problem arose when for the nth time she had a tantrum and we decided to close things. Close in the sense of eliminate her, elide her, delete her, exclude her, disintegrate her, exile her, abandon her and a hundred other particularly colourful adjectives.
The curious thing is that she herself, the same night of our decision, even before we could prepare a speech for dismissing her, sent him a message saying that her boyfriend had found out everything about them and that therefore they couldn’t see each other anymore.
Do I believe her? Absolutely not. The next day they even left for a vacation. He must have taken it quite sportingly, right.

So now it happens that everything with her has come to an end (she might want to try new approaches, but frankly, neither of us is willing), we are at more than half of the summer and our pressing commitments have begun to be felt.
And there’s no time to treat such a relationship. We cannot do it with girls who stick like mussels because they are in love. It’s not the right time for that kind of game, and maybe I’m not even ready for that level.
In light of the experience we had in such a short time, we have reopened the discussion “How should she be”

The first characteristic is: self-sufficient; we can’t keep up with her and comfort her every day when she is in crisis, reassure her when she doubts, cuddle her when she wants attentions etc.
He spoke of the fact that the ideal would be taking a girl that I trust, because I could refine that game which in a different context it’d become reality for me, as it would be reality for her. If she does it for fun and with conscience and respect for my position, then we can all move for the ‘good’ policy. I still think it is quite an impossible opportunity, since there is no one I trust so much to put in her hands a part so delicate and vulnerable of myself.
Alternative: girls / women who are already involved in a relationship AND who aren’t looking for a serious love story. A girl who doesn’t want a substitute for her flabby boyfriend just because she doesn’t want to be alone. For this there would be specialized sites but we will see in due course.

This  month and a half has shocked both of us, and many of my exaggerated and schizophrenic reactions hadn’t been foreseen. There is the need to re-engage the gear, tidying the mess made by the hurricane and learn how to put the shutters in order to create a controlled current rather than a typhoon.
Finally, after more than a month I come to pick up some of my beats: to study, learn, play, watch movies, read, paint, eat and sleep (!) and many other healthy things.
I don’t want to stop everything, of course.
What I learned in this period was a lot, and a part of me is shocked by the sudden interruption of the flow of acid which invested me every day. Almost as if they brought me back in my home after having thrown me for a month in a battlefield. There is the initial reaction of “What the hell am I doing? I should be somewhere else,” but slowly even this will straighten out.

Accepting the possibility of being a Cuckquean was certainly the greatest revolution of 2011, and I won’t quit.
Stubbornness or enlightenment we will see.

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Humiliation Station – ENGLISH VERSION

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I keep on doing things that surprise me.
I told myself I wasn’t in a sub-position, that I wasn’t searching for humiliation and I didn’t like it. Despite everything, I look at my experiences and I realize that it’s as if I’m looking for situations outside the provided framework just to test me. To see if I can. If I can still breathe with my lungs underwater.
Well, I can.

Lately our dear girl has been capricious like a child, and she changed her mind a dozen times about seeing my boyfriend before or after her vacation. I was irritated because I couldn’t bear to see her dictating us, deciding when doing it was better or worse; that she could dare to push him to choose one way rather than another; that she believed she could influence him in some way, as if I didn’t exist. Probably that’s how it is: for most of the time she is convinced that I don’t exist. It must be one of her ways to escape from her guilt.
She could grow a pair of horns (devil’s horns I mean*) and play the field to spice up the situation, but maybe I’m asking for too much.

Last night we were at the birthday of our dear friend (see one of the initial posts for clarifications) and she was there too of course, plus the parade of girl friends.
He and I were very well dressed. I had spent more than two hours to get ready, but he in 20 minutes was able to shine more than I would have ever been able to. He was just charming, and I did my best to match up.
At the door I was very nervous to the idea of finally seeing her, talking to her, giving my memories a realer shade.
She opens the door, wearing a mini sheath dress that blows up her forms from all sides. I seriously thought that she might have breathing problems with a dress that tight, but her intention was to show off at least at that juncture.
We exchange two sentences of circumstance and she’s very quick to ignore me. She goes back to her friends and I get to be deliberately put aside. I know that she does it for fear and discomfort, but a part of me thinks that it can also be intentional.

When our friend does the honors and shows us the apartment, I finally see the room where my nightmares have taken place. I had a weight on the chest and clearly heard the pressure drop below my shoes. I forced myself to concentrate on useless things, but I kept noticing details that I had heard or seen in the photos. That is the mirror she used to take her nude photos, that‘s where she masturbates in the shower thinking of him, that‘s the BED where they rubbed on each other. I felt tiny in that room and I was feeling really bad. I noticed the many clothes left out and I guessed her indecision in choosing the dress for the evening.
Finally we go back in the living room with everyone else.

Dinner time: he is very sweet next to me and doesn’t miss half of a chance to kiss me, caress me, hug me, boast about me and look at me with the typical look of the “you charm me even after 5 years, you see?”  I chat with everyone and try to shake off the anxiety. He insists with me to make me recite Hamlet’s soliloquy in English, and though with some reluctance I do it. I notice her eyes always on him, and when hers meet mine they’re sometimes annoyed  and sometimes curious. I finish my acting and they’re all  clapping their hands, I’m still embarrassed by the sudden “performance”.
More time passes and we all begin to feel more comfortable, we can speak seriously about our studies and we are much more friendly. Everyone but her, who doesn’t talk to anyone and with every kind of excuse disappears somewhere.

At the end of the evening 5 of us remain and she still avoids us as if she held a grudge against us.
We sit on the sofa, she is beside me and he is on HER side, but they don’t talk to each other. She decides to go to sleep shortly after with the excuse that she had to wake up early (but she was just begging him through sms to stay for the night a couple of hours ago!) and she does the most pathetic scene of the evening: she greets everyone with kisses and hugs and then turns to him and…. gives him a wave of her hand.

Now, if she really wanted to act like the innocent one and not making me suspect anything, she has really failed. How could I not think there was something suspicious?!
He teases her and gets up to say goodnight, she touches his cheeks with hers but she looks terrified, I have an inquisitorial gaze that was telling a great deal.
After she’s gone, just the time for some befitting and we also go back home.

Result of the evening from the cuckqueaning point of view: disappointment. Disappointed because I was prepared for a battle that didn’t happen. I would rather believe that she is so subtle as to not even having to commit to prove something to me or tease him on these occasions because when I’m gone she can do whatever she wants; but instead she was just so uncomfortable that she didn’t say a word and had to camouflage herself with the furniture.
How can I feel superior to a piece of furniture? C’mon, it’s idiotic, and I’d look like a fool.
I was hoping for some gesture, phrase or attitude that didn’t happen. I found myself hoping that she would try to humiliate me. Anything better than that cowardly silence.
In her place? In her place I would have made sure that I’d wanted to get away from that house and that I could no longer find where I parked the car through my veil of tears. I would have been so mean to me in her place.

Any idea?
– She had the chance to do the honors, and show me in detail her bedroom where he almost fucked her.
– She had the chance to let slip many details of the times he stayed with her all night. Songs, speeches, anecdotes, anything would have worked.
– She had the chance to take advantage of the fact that for the first 20 minutes he had gone into the kitchen and had not yet had the opportunity to be affectionate with me, so she could have reached him and talked to him.
– She had the chance not to wear panties, and after having reached him in the kitchen, making him notice it.
– She had the chance to touch herself and then come to compliment my necklace (a gift from him) by touching it with wet fingers and forcing me to smell it.
– She had the chance to send him some pictures while we were at dinner. He would have received the pictures but wouldn’t have been able to show me anything right then (as he usually does), so I would have known for certain that she had sent them to him and I’d have gone paranoid about the fact that I was excluded.
– She had the chance to find excuses to be alone with him. When he went to the bathroom, for example, she could have reached him and everyone at the party would have done “innocent” jokes about the fact that both of them were gone. I would have been the only one who knew that the rumors had some truth.
– She had the chance to offer to masturbate him so he would have returned from the bathroom with a raging hard on, and I would  have known what had happened.
– She had the chance to ask him to help her with the books that she had to give him back, but oops they were in her room and they’d had to look for them…
– She had the chance to strike up a chat with me and make me a speech about betrayal, about her (fake) bad experiences and how lucky I was to have a boyfriend so in love and faithful.
– She had the chance to sit next to him at the table and play footsie with him.
– She had the chance to be the social one and with the excuse to continue with some conversation with me, follow us when we went to the balcony because he was smoking, in order to not leave us alone.
– When on the balcony he pricked himself twice with the plant that was behind him, the second time she could have tried to protect him, she could have pricked herself or pretended a sprain to make him worry for her and take care of her.
– She had the chance on the couch to put her knees high towards him, so as to show that she had no underwear. Or she could have done it to show her panties. She could have done it even closer to me, but putting her back towards me to speak with him.
– She had the chance to ask him a foot massage and then slyly at me “you don’t mind, do you?”
– She had the chance to send text messages to him throughout the evening.
– She had the chance to talk to him about anecdotes in which I had not been present, to exclude me.
– When she had to say goodbye, she had the chance to bend down to be over him.
– She had the chance to put some music, and very naturally begin to dance staring at him.
– She had the chance to pretend to have received a message for which she was very upset, and could have asked him to talk in private. With a sufficiently convincing face no one would have thought bad of her, because if something serious had happened it was possible that he already knew the circumstances and that therefore she trusted to confide in him.
– She had the chance to bring the dog down for a walk and could have asked him to accompany her, as he was the strongest man present. “So I’m safer.”
– Sha had the chance to make matters worse every time she took him for herself by saying “I’ll steal him a moment” or “I’ll borrow him.”
– Again on the idea of taking off her panties, she could have come to him and put them on his hand on the sly. He would have had to find a way to get rid of them or hide them, and I’d have discovered it later, and then I would have gone into paranoia.
– Moving the general conversation on sex (which is not at all difficult) she could have boasted that she was particularly tight, or that she could control her muscles very well, or she could move very well. Whatever.
– She had the chance to ask me to go with her into the kitchen to help her and then leave me there doing the dishes.
– Clearing the table, she could have bent down over him to show her cleavage.
– She had the chance to stand in front of me and then, having her back to me, lean forward toward him.

…..but she didn’t.

Concentrating I could find other things, millions of other things. She could have made me live the worst night of my life, and instead I’ve been like a porcelain doll: perfect, untouched.

He now tells me that he intends to move with the speech on a more psychological domination, and he wants me a little closer to her in order to “use” me to pile it on. Still don’t know what he has in mind but I like the idea.
Lately I like all the ideas. For some strange reason, when he speaks about what he wants to do I feel a slight burning sensation in the stomach, different from panic or jealousy. It’s as if it warms more than burns.

This is the “more …”-feeling I was talking about.
These days I also played the subdued role much more than usual. We did a bdsm session which he improvised from scratch, I didn’t even have the time to prepare myself and it was very exciting.

I send him photos that technically she should send to him, but I do it for a sort of a small pinch of territory, as if to prove that even on these small things I can do much better than her.
Finally, speaking in general about cuckqueaning, it’s taking a strange tone. In addition to our usual metacommunication, occasionally this different kind of tone makes me point out some humiliating nuances, makes me write on the blog all the things she could have done to show off, tells me that I have to get closer to her almost as if we were friends. It becomes a meta-metacommunication sometimes, but He assumes a voice different even from the one he uses with her. A voice to which I basically can’t say “No” because it makes everything seem exciting. “Excited” in the sense of “Intrigued” (see post 1).

She is a piece of shit, this is already established. But with her used as a weapon to spice things up, he and I are discovering those kind of games that bind us even more.

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The Conspiracy of Silence – ENGLISH VERSION

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This would be so much easier if I were really turned on. I repeat it a million times a day. Every time I look at him and the pit of my stomach closes thinking about him on her, I repeat to myself that I should just push a hand down my pants and force myself to come.
Probably I’d end up vomiting, but maybe that would be the first step to wash my brain.

I am afraid of being chattering with him, and not being able to talk about anything else. Moreover, this is still something that occupies my head completely, from when I wake up to when I fall asleep.
Some time ago I liked this kind of fantasies: having always something to think about in the dead times of the day was reassuring, and I almost waited for my free time to do so. I would fantasize and cradle myself listening to music or staring into space  or a particular detail that I used as a springboard to dive into my mind.
Now it’s as if everything was reversed, and my entire life has locked itself up in dead moments when this thing doesn’t drill my brain.

With the passing of the days I try to understand how I can stop feeling overwhelmed in a corner, choked by dust. I realize that as long as it’s just sex, I don’t win anywhere, I’m just the girlfriend he leaves behind the door in order to be with her. If sex is what she wants, well, she gets exactly that, and satisfied by it she goes on with her life feeling no shame at all.
She is exactly in the position where I used to be in all my other relationships. I was the one “arrived last” and I always had to roll up my sleeves to make sure that I was the only thing the X boy could think of. My task was to oust those who were already there (not  talking about existing relationships necessarily, I hardly took boys already in a love relationship). She’s there. And perhaps for the first time I feel really bumped because I know what her intentions are, because I wasn’t born yesterday and I’ve been there first.
She has no real possibilities, it’s true, but the idea that she DARES still bothers me.

In my fantasies he’s at a party which appear to be like a debutante ball, and talks with this or that girl. If there is one in particular, she’s in love with him and tries in every way to be desired by him. One dance follows another, he’s having fun. I always imagine myself isolated, perhaps in the garden adjacent to the hall. I imagine him noticing my figure under the moonlight for a single moment, and suddenly he can no longer see anything else.
This is the kind of “eclipse” I wish to see. I wish everyone could feel that shadow that suddenly becomes longer, as if he was the spotlight that looks away.

With her craving his body, whatever she wants is in her ability to get. With or without me making noises and scalping. This is the impasse.
She’s attacking something close enough (the physical side) to put me on alert, but far enough away to have it without me complaining about something real. If she was in love and craved a deeper relationship, there she would receive all the walls on the face that I would like. But perhaps not even those, because for the sake of “We must keep her so I can’t say something that could make her go away,” she would receive ambiguous and inconclusive answers that would raise her hope of having time to try, and from my point of view they would reduce my figure to a poster that anyone can choose not to look at.

The day before yesterday there was their call and I asked him to be able to listen through earphones. She had such a flirtatious voice that I wanted to shout to put off that beautiful mask, because her sluttiness was already clear to the world. After a few befitting and some openly horny answers from her (are you really drooling over MY boyfriend?) He orders her to start masturbating and then goes away for another phone call, leaving me with her, groaning in Dolby Surround.
After he returned the call didn’t last long, and I spent the time in my usual apathy,  the perfect barrier for when I have “sessions” to bear.

Friday there will be a party, and she -sassy as ever- initially asked him for me to be there, so she could thank me for helping her with the paper (see initial posts) and then confessed that she was “curious.” She later recanted because she realized that she should pretend nothing happened with him, and after asking him to remain with her the whole night (has she already forgotten that I should be there too? What the fuck) she began to ask him to see each other in private early next week.
So, probably next week there will be a meeting, and I begin to do mental gymnastics.

In the meantime I try to get rid of the guilt that I feel every time I try to keep those wonderful daily routines that he and I had for months. Was it watching a movie, an anime, reading a book, learning a new thing, taking a walk, visiting a church … whatever it is, as soon as I feel relaxed, a part of my brain makes me alert and yells at me because I shouldn’t sit so much at ease while there’s an intruder in my house. It’s like having thieves in the house and continuing watching TV while they empty the safe.
My tears have passed the phase of Shock, Anger, Injustice, Abandonment, and now land on Nostalgia, where I miss the good times that I can’t touch, now that there’s this twig stuck in my rib.

How dare I be happy? If I’m quiet and composed how can she notice me? How can I scare her and make her understand the danger if I don’t wake up and growl? How can I make her feel a worm If I go on with my life exactly as if she wasn’t there?
If I were in her place I would have hundreds of ways to take advantage of my conspiratorial condescension.
Am I giving her more cunning than she really has?

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Eagle and Phoenix – ENGLISH VERSION

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There are things I can’t stand.
Things like the seizure of power. Like the fact that she’s getting too full of herself. That he doesn’t agree with my will to kill her.
I was doing well, I was polite and patient, accommodating and creative. All this in favour of that girl. Half of the things with which she got wet during this week came from ideas I had and that he approved. The fact that he is with her is thanks to MY request. She should kiss the ground I walk on.

Instead, she asked about the type of sex that we do and she is all like “I will make you do what she doesn’t do.”
It can’t go on like this. She wants to feel special. And he didn’t smash her face against a wall as I wished. He told her that she has a long way to go to be special. Some may think that it’s a way to discourage her, however, I believe it’s just a way to say “Do your best, because you can succeed if you really want to.”

There have been arguments due to my chaotic mood swings, to my fear after perceiving her intentions as the most malevolent towards me, to my claim to understand what she might think of this or that sentence just because “I’m also a woman.”

I probably don’t know anything. I probably shouldn’t even put my nose in it. The fact that I can read what he wants to write to her is already a lot, and I have veto power on this. When I insist on some sentence because it hurts me, I no longer think that those words would be the most useful in that moment, and he feels like I don’t trust him. Closing my mouth, however, is something I can’t do, although I must admit that at least half of my complaints are based upon the pain of an open wound. There should be guns shooting at lungs just when anyone even considers the idea of putting me in a threatening situation. But this time there is a “Do your best.” It’s not exactly the most deadly blow I have ever seen inflicted to my “enemies.”

The other day I was saying that my intolerance towards her (more than understandable) moves for independence are unbearable because it’s my entire life that women whom I love put their feet on my head, and I can’t accept this treatment from a unknown girl. I accepted things that would have required a clear cut of the relationship, I have endured, humiliating myself, far too many damages, and now there’s this Jane Do popped out of nowhere that happy as a flower wants to feel special. I was patient because I loved those people, but I don’t feel the least affection for her. I feel hurt because I wished that armies would have been raised to stop her. Or rather, I wished that HE would have stopped her, but we disable the alarms waiting for a “real” faux pas. By that point I’ll be already full of scratches, and hers will be the coup de grace. It won’t kill me, that’s for sure, but I can’t stand that we have to wait the 100th attack just because the other ones were ambiguous.

Oddly, yesterday I overreacted even listening to the him of the past, someone I’m already used to. I know that during the period we didn’t keep in touch he went with several girls, but yesterday hearing him talking about them had a different effect, as if their ghosts were part of the “game” and I could feel pain because of them. I yelled at him “I jump continuously from 1 to 100 women and my brain doesn’t have enough plugs of Guess Who* [italian table game: Indovina Chi] for all those you name” as if they were all girls that I still had to bear as I was tolerating her. It took hours for me to calm down and embrace what I already know: that is, I’m all that he needs. He has the patience to say the same things hundreds of times a day, I read the concern on his face and the pain every time I cry or I sigh, resigned.

I look in the mirror and see myself passing through the 5 stages of grief at random, sometimes all 5 simultaneously, sometimes one per second, sometimes one for each day of the week and the last two days in complete apathy.
I think I’m improving, because I can already subdue the panic attacks and crying. Those of anger are much more frequent and uncontrollable, the sense of injustice sometimes makes me say things like “I didn’t want it, I would have done differently if I had been given the opportunity.” Sometimes I let myself go for a second to the morbid sense of abandonment, that rapture that when you’re hurting yourself pushes you to go even further with closed eyes. Like notching oneself’s flesh, arching towards a whip, or imagining your boyfriend while he puts his cock inside her little lover and you think “More…” Because of these excesses of my mind I have incredible feelings of shame. Like I’m accepting a fate I should fight. But what will I lose if I convince myself to accept it and enjoy it? What part of my fighting spirit dies under this apparent submissiveness? How much ground does she gain if I give her the freedom to enjoy something that is only mine?
I try to force myself to embrace something that I asked for myself, but part of me is still screaming that I’d be crawling like a worm if I granted myself the luxury of letting it be. That I’d be handing my head on a platter even while knowing that she wouldn’t have the slightest hope of marking me.

I’m beginning to think that they will have to see each other, otherwise we’ll risk to ruin everything. And how will it be to face their meeting again? That silence stretched over hours, my desperate waiting, the insomnia and the wide-awake nightmares? Will I have new weapons? Will I have more self confidence? Will I have to take refuge in invectives trusted to an ally to taunt the dog to which I offered a juicy dish of mine?
They will have to fuck. He will have to touch her, he will go inside her, caress her, welcome her moans, he will have to think about her pleasure in order to get into her head and make her his slave. He will have to crawl under her skin, he will have his hands and his eyes busy and I will be a lifetime away.
While she will have her legs spread waiting for him, what will I be able to offer to him? What will I do to not let him deny me? How can he get off and satisfy her even while having me in his mind? Having me locked in a house in another universe? Will it be easier for him to think only about what he has to do? And what will remain to me if his head will be emptied? Can I say that another him will be born, functional to the act, ignorant of me? What will he do in order to get off knowing that I’m locked in a cage waiting for him? And if he succeeds even thinking about me, will I really be so small and so helpless to let my boyfriend that says he loves me and only me to fuck someone else? Will I be a thought so small and useless not to influence him at all for real?
Let’s change the cards on the table: if I were into it completely, it would be as if he was driven by my desire, and he’d think he would satisfy me by satisfying her. But things aren’t like that yet. I really have nothing in my hands with her panting on a bed. I would be just myself, I wouldn’t have changed in anything, but he’d be a man who has shared a bed with another woman. What is the passage in order to have my power recognized?

How is it that from a worm I can turn into an eagle?