Pussy Whipped?

Last week Suzanne had a little piece over at All Mine on a phrase that has a certain 60's - 70's tawdry feel to me: Pussy Whipped. You can read here take, Here.

Of course, her perspective was from the purported "whipper",  how her female friends would use the word derisively to suggest maybe Suzanne had her boyfriend a little too tightly wrapped around her little finger. And of course, she also thought of it in the context of how she had her beaus "trained" to tend to her "pussy" with their lips and tongue firs,t before they could expect any reciprocal attention.

But what about from the guy's perspective. When your male buddies used the term, it was usually in the context of a guy who would rather spend his Friday evening, or some summer afternoon, hanging out with his girl-friend rather than with "the guys", maybe at a high school football game, or a pub crawl evening in college.

I can recall a crowded three room suite at my alma mater, when I would appropriate the room I shared with another fellow for an evening with a tall, sexually curious woman for some "everything but" sexual activity. My roommates, who were probably just jealous, would use terminology like "pussy whipped" when it became clear that I'd rather spend time in a horizontal position with this tall but hardly a beauty woman than get high and listen to Quadraphenia with them all night.

Of course, back in those days, Slave had hardly a hint of what real female dominance might involve. I just knew it was more fun to be with a women where there was at least a hint of sexual opportunity than with a bunch of dopey, clueless guys.

But what about the notion that Suzanne introduced: the sexual connotation of the term that suggests that "pussy worship" must always come first as the gateway for any lowly male satisfaction. 

While I was hardly reluctant to deploy that strategy in prior relationship, I have a very vivid memory of the first time Mistress and I "got together" about 24 years ago. 

We were both married to other people. She was in her mid-twenties. I was a "dirty old man" at 38. Our smouldering mutual attraction had finally gotten the better of us, and we arranged to meet at a bland suburban motel for some "private time".  That gorgeous, young Molly even brought snacks,  I can still taste in a strange way: strawberries and red licorice.

But the taste I can recall most vividly was the taste I savored as I lowered my head between those strong and shapely thighs. It was the way we started off that afternoon, and I can recall at least two cycles that triggered an addiction that lasts to this day.

And ever since, it seems we have almost always commenced any sexual engagement with me using my lips and tongue to give her that tasty starter cum, that hopefully leaves her wanting an "entre" involving my work-a-day cock.

Of course, over the years, this "worship" has become a tad more ritualized. Now I'm her Slave. I can get in big trouble if I forget to offer my worshipful services when the opportunity presents itself. And her dominance of our sexual life is reflected in our written contract and the cock cage I am sometimes required to wear (though not nearly enough according to some of our readers).

I suppose I was irreversibly changed the very moment I first tasted those luscious juices the afternoon we met in that bland outside River City. Sort of like Peter Parker and that nasty spider bite.

Does that make me "pussy whipped"?

You bet.