What, You Thought I'd Gone For Good?
Posted 12 August 2006
Hmm, where do I start?
Maybe I'd better begin by giving a heartfelt thank you for all the kind words of support and compliments you sent to me when I announced that I would no longer be updating the site. It's no exaggeration to say that your words truly touched me and I'll shamelessly admit that at moments I had to wipe a tear from my cheek. I'd like to apologise to those of you have written over the last few months as you won't have received any response. I didn't deliberately ignore you, but once I'd removed my web pages I simply didn't log into the mariasdiary site again until just last week.
Almost without exception the general sentiment was: Maria, we've loved reading your diary, we are going to miss it so much, but we fully understand your reasons for stopping. We wish you every good luck and the very best for the future. Go after your dreams. But the individual reasons given as to why the diary meant so much were not so similar, and it's here that I realise I'd reached out to an audience much greater than I was originally expecting.
In the Feedback & Requests entry in mid-January, I wrote:
"This diary exists to give me sexual kicks. I get off on knowing that many male readers can't sleep until they've masturbated themselves close to exhaustion thinking about me. I want the remote worship for sexual gratification, not so I can become some sort of femdom icon or agony aunt who is going to act as marriage guidance counsellor for submissives and wannabe cuckolds worldwide."
That sentiment was expressed at a time when I was being deluged with email after a link to my site had been posted on a cuckold forum. Prior to that I had received very little traffic and I was entirely comfortable with that. And then suddenly I was besieged. Writers were asking me very deep questions regarding my marriage and husbands were seeking advice as to how they could encourage their own wife to become more like me. My mailbox was filling faster than I could respond to these questions and I always find it impossible to ignore mail. Overnight it seemed as though my diary had become a burden rather than an enjoyable pastime, and I reacted in a manner that I knew would deter many future writers.
I won't for a moment deny that the principal reason for the setting up of this website was so that I could reveal and display myself to men and get a sexual kick from their adoration. I'm well aware of my sexual power and I wanted to wield it in a wider sphere than I have so far. The Web gave me that chance and I got exactly what I wanted (and then some). However, there is no doubt that as time went on the diary began to mean more to me than this alone. It became clear from the elegantly written correspondence I was receiving that I was dealing with a highly educated readership of considerable sophistication. My site was popular with you because it was in many ways the antithesis of the sordid, exploitive, porn sites that make the Web such a depressing place to surf and which do so much to endanger what should be a growing freedom to discuss sexual tastes and experiences with like-minded individuals without fear of reprisal or censure.
There were no banner ads on my site, no pop-ups, no cookies, not even a single link to any other site on the Web. Nor was there any attempt to make you pay to read my words or look at my pictures (and there isn't ever going to be - anyone who believes this was my ulterior motive for setting up Maria's Diary should move on elsewhere, because after reading several thousand words of mine you still don't get it). I did nothing whatsoever to promote the site. My pages were not indexed by Google and I must have been one of the few website owners who didn't want much traffic. It suited me perfectly that appreciation of the site was only spreading by word of mouth. As long as that situation remained then I didn't have to worry so much about being recognised.
The punters who were looking for open-legged shots of 'hot wives' being serviced by well hung studs moved on elsewhere - my site was too tame, and who the heck wants to read all that introspective crap anyway? And so I was left with a core readership that was very much in tune with what I had been discussing. You understood the symbolism and ritual of the femdom and cuckold lifestyle, or at least you wanted to understand it; you were excited by it. Sure, most of you were feeding off my entries for sexual arousal - that's exactly what I wanted. But importantly, it wasn't just simple physical pleasure you were deriving. I'd also reached you on a higher mental level, and it's that combination which you found so compelling.
I was also delighted that a number of wives found my diary stimulating. Some were already enjoying a cuckold relationship and were much further down this road than I was, but for others my entries became a means by which they could understand their own husband's fantasies. Although in correspondence I always advised any husband who contacted me against showing my diary to his wife (too much too soon I felt), those that did so largely received a positive response. Reading the words of another woman, one who showed no fear in expressing her sexuality, seemed to take away much of the inner guilt that prevents many women from at least exploring either domination or cuckoldry. I think my writings demonstrated to them that their husband's desire to be dominated or cuckolded is not some aberrant kink but is in fact a sincere expression of love.
I can't speak for everyone of course; I can only relate to my own experience with Martin, but what I think happened with my husband is that deep down he felt that sexually he wasn't worthy enough for me. It's interesting that most men who write to me on cuckoldry issues state that their wife is extremely attractive to other men and also that when she is dressed to excite she is quite stunning. It's almost as if these men feel the need to share their wife with others to show them how lovely and sensational she is. It starts with her just being put on display, dressing powerfully and seductively. Look at her, she's just perfect, see how lucky I am. In time a husband's desire to exhibit his wife in public develops into a fantasy to see men enjoying her just as he has enjoyed her. And if he feels (or knows) that he's not as attractive as his wife or has physical deficiencies then his fantasy becomes that of wanting to see a better man take her.
A wife in such a position needs to understand that any perversion she sees in her husband with his cuckolding fantasies has effectively developed out of her own desirability. It's the husband's love and adoration that has nurtured his needs. If the idea of having sex with others doesn't appeal to a wife in such a position, then of course she has every right to refuse to take the fantasy further. But at the very least she should recognise that she is a luckier woman than most.
In Martin's case this desire to be cuckolded is combined with submissiveness, and I'm not sure the two are completely intertwined. As a result my own relationship has become one where I dominate my husband, humiliating him and punishing him. I actually get sexual enjoyment from hurting him both physically and mentally and it is this aspect of my diary that I think is very dangerous for wives to see to soon. It's not in any way a requirement of cuckoldry for a wife to dominate her husband in this manner, whipping him and even penetrating him for her own sexual reward. I love hurting Martin (I may as well be honest about it), cruelly rubbing his face in the dirt with the soles of my boots, then picking him up, wiping away the tears and kissing him better. He made me like I am; now he suffers for it.
One thing I've constantly tried to warn all men about, both in my diary and in emails, is that the 'better man' aspect isn't just an artificial contrivance of cuckold fantasy. It's very, very real. Martin now has to live with the fact that he will never be able to give me the sexual pleasure that Matt gives me. Part of this is due to my lover's physical desirability. There's no question that (for me) being serviced by a tall, handsome, athletic man beats the pants off being screwed by a short, plain, slight one. And then there's Matt's incredible prick. I sometimes wish he hadn't been so perfect in this area because I sense that other men (and there are going to be a lot of other men, I know that now) will always be a little disappointing in this respect. In all truth I think the significance of his size during intercourse is partly mental rather than physical, but it doesn't really matter - the plain fact is that I get better orgasms because of it. And as for sucking Matt's cock - well, I just can't describe what pleasure I get from this. Matt once sat and watched a video of me entertaining myself for nearly an hour as I licked, sucked and kissed his prick. I'm always unzipping him and taking him into my mouth, and as I'll be discussing in another diary entry, I've now got video of Matt ejaculating over my face and spurting into my throat. The scenes are fabulous, and utter torment for my husband to watch.
Some wives won't rub their husband's inadequacy in too much for fear of hurting his ego. He may see the greater pleasure she's getting if he's allowed to watch his spouse being attended to by her lover, but this awareness often remains unspoken. In my case though I pummel the fact into Martin. I like to crush him with it, to use it as a means to flay his self-respect. I combine this weapon with techniques that make him appear even less of a man in my presence, until all sense of masculine worth is beaten out of him. I am utterly brutal with my husband; you should never be in any doubt about that.
And yet I love him. I love him more than anything in the world. A number of correspondents have asked why I would want to stay with Martin when I have a lover who is apparently superior in almost every respect. I can't easily answer that question. Partly it's because of the unequivocal love Martin bestows on me - I'm not sure I'll ever get that from anyone else. And no one can make me laugh like Martin can. Matt simply cannot touch my husband's amazing wit. But also I only have to ask a few simple questions: If I fell badly ill, who would I want by my bedside, wiping my brow and telling me I'll be better soon? Who would I turn to if I got into trouble, for whatever reason? To whom can I open my innermost, deepest thoughts without fear or shame? And perhaps most telling of all, out of all the people on this planet Earth, who is the one person I worry about losing most? No, I don't believe Martin can never be replaced and I think most of you understand that my husband and I are now both feeding off my sexual encounters despite the agony it brings him. It's a sado-masochistic relationship in its purest form.
So, why am I posting once more? Well, despite the undeniable logic that says putting the pages online again is a bad idea, I simply can't resist updating everyone with the latest state of play and letting you know about some of the things that have happened in the last few months. Before your imagination begins to run away with you, let me make clear right from the start that my life hasn't been one of frenetic sexual activity with numerous new partners in the period since I last wrote. Without the online diary urging me remorselessly onwards I was able to gain much needed perspective in my life and I've had time to seriously plan what I want to achieve over the next few years. So, although there's quite a lot to talk about regarding the development of the triangle between Martin, Matt and myself, it's only in the last six weeks that my efforts elsewhere have begun to flower. It won't surprise you to learn that it's the enormous turn-on of recent events (and what they portend for the future) that have brought me back online.
My intention is to put the pages up for a time again and then after a while I'll probably remove them once more. I know that a fair number of former readers return to the site now and again in the remote hope that I'm posting and with luck these loyal followers will be rewarded for their refusal to accept that I had gone for good.
A point regarding contacting me: I do very much enjoy receiving feedback and I always attempt to eventually reply to mail. However can I please ask that you avoid trying to engage me in lengthy exchanges. I'd especially like to direct this request to those men who want advice on how to make their partner act like me and wear the sort of clothing that I do.
The messages that have been most enjoyable to read have mainly been one of two types: first, feedback from admirers who have briefly described why they find me so interesting and which diary entries and pictures appeal most to them. Second, your suggestions (especially from wives in a cuckold relationship) as to how I can increase my husband's frustration through techniques of denial and humiliation, together with acts I should perform with other men to heighten his shame. I thought I was inventive, but some of the ideas I've been given by women readers have left me staggered at their sheer audacity and exquisite mental cruelty. It seems I have much to learn.
I've no idea when I'll be posting the next entry and it's going to be a difficult one to write, so don't expect it too soon. In it I'll be describing what happened when Martin went abroad for a week and Matt stayed with me for most of that time. During my husband's absence Matt and I shot over fifteen hours of video together and even after several months I've still not got around to editing all of it. You must know by now that regrettably you're not going to see anything but a few fairly innocuous captures from them, but I hope to be able to give you a good idea of what Martin has had to witness me doing with Matt from my written descriptions alone. All along I wanted something that was more than just a badly shot porn movie, something that would have a gut-wrenching effect on Martin when he saw the scenes. Yes, there's Matt penetrating me in many positions, but there are other elements which I know will leave far deeper psychological scars on my husband's psyche due to their symbolism and unashamed kinkiness. I seriously wonder how many husbands would be able to endure the things Martin has seen a real man do to his wife.
In my final February entry before the diary went offline I said I intended to continue writing a private diary, and that's exactly what I've done. As I've mentioned before, when I'm not constrained by what I can write about and don't have to hold back on my feelings and descriptions, I don't find it difficult to write up the diary, often producing pages and pages of narrative in just an hour or so. Apart from the obvious benefit of giving me a huge turn-on as I mentally relive my adventures and fantasise about extreme sexual encounters, writing helps to clarify my thoughts and intentions. It's in this highly aroused state that I come up with the most novel ideas for the future, but somewhat paradoxically it also seems to be the period when I find the most balanced perspective about how I want my life to develop.
I tend to write up the diary once or twice a week and it's not a case of just casually sitting down and tapping out the words on the keyboard. It's much more of a ritual for me, and I always dress up for the occasion (by now you know what that means). After forty-five minutes or so of preparation I'll go downstairs and find Martin to inform him that I'll be writing my diary for the next couple of hours, which means I'm not to be disturbed under any circumstances. I get a great kick out of seeing him look me up and down longingly, particularly as both he and I know that, in a sense, he is about to be cuckolded once more.
Invariably I will be nonchalantly holding two or three sex toys as I dispassionately talk to him and it won't have escaped his attention that ever since I started seeing Matt, the dildos I prefer to play with are far larger than they used to be. You might recall that in the Working Girl entry I talked through a hypothetical scenario with a business client who wanted to see me pleasuring myself with a giant phallus. When I wrote that piece I tried to imagine what sort of encounter would agitate Martin most if he knew I was playing sex games with one of my clients, but it was also partly my own fantasy. The thought of having my rear impaled on an upright dildo attached to an office desk and then having to sit open-legged as a client rammed a huge, oversized rubber cock into my pussy really did it for me. I've orgasmed whilst reading that little story many times.
A few weeks after writing that diary entry the idea occurred to me that it might be useful to actually buy such a huge dildo if I could get one, just so I could use it to ridicule Martin about his cock size. I trawled a few websites and was surprised to find there are quite a number of such monsters, many of them purporting to be based on copies/moulds of the genuine article. I eventually selected one which was made by the same manufacturer of the large realistic flesh-coloured dildo that I liked to use as a 'Matt substitute' in front of Martin. In fact in the advert the giant version looked pretty similar to the one I already owned, apart from the length.
In my mind I was expecting a very long phallus with the same substantial girth of my 8-inch dildo, but when I opened the package I could barely believe what I was seeing. The thing was enormous. It had the same length/girth ratio as the 8-inch version, but seeing as the length of this was 15 inches, you can imagine for yourself what the girth was like. I had to laugh at the absurdity of it. No woman could take that, I giggled to myself. It's ridiculous.
I thought about just chucking it away, but since I'd paid over £60 for it (over $100) I decided I may as well keep it - you never know, it might come in useful, I told myself. So I dumped it in a drawer in my dressing room along with other rarely used accessories.
About a week later I had just dressed myself up for a diary-writing session and I was wondering what toys to take into the study with me. I hadn't told Martin about my unsuccessful purchase and consequently he didn't know how I felt about it. Could I still torment him with it? How about if I acted as though I was over the moon with my new rubber lover? The actress in me couldn't resist playing yet another role and so I took the mega-dick downstairs with me.
Martin was in the main lounge, half reading the paper and half watching evening TV. These days he often avoids looking at me when I walk in. He knows I've come to show off, to let him see me dressed up in exactly the clothes he loves, and to rub in the fact that I'd rather play with myself alone than waste my time with him and his useless, flaccid little prick. Of course I'm not someone who is going to sanction being ignored and I always grab his attention one way or another, often with a flick of my riding crop across his cheek.
On this occasion I sat myself down on the large sofa, positioned the massive rubber cock next to me so that it was pointing upwards, and then bent over and began to kiss and lick the end of it as I stroked it with my PVC gloves. "Oh yes," I moaned, "Oh baby, you're just gorgeous. What a fantastic prick..."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Martin's head turn towards me and briefly I stopped what I was doing and looked at him.
"What do you think to my latest addition, Martin? I know, I've got a little carried away, but ever since Matt showed me that bigger is much, much better, I can't stop dreaming about massive dicks..."
Martin didn't offer any comment and I just smiled at him dismissively and went back to pleasuring the phallus. I tried to take the head into my mouth but found that I couldn't - it was simply too big - so I just licked and sucked the end until my saliva started running down the sides in streaks. Then I licked that saliva up, my tongue following the raised veins on the shaft.
"Masturbate," I ordered Martin, not even looking at him. Just a single word of command, but he followed it dutifully as he always does. I heard his zip being undone and then in my peripheral vision I could see his arm moving rapidly back and forth. But I was no longer really interested in what he was doing and I found myself getting more and more excited. The huge toy suddenly didn't seem as silly any more.
After a while I lay back and pulled up the pleated miniskirt I was wearing. Then I unfastened the zip on my leather panties and pushed the gargantuan cock head against my by now soaking vagina. There was no way it could ever have gone in, and I had no desire for it to do so, but lying there with the head half hidden inside my briefs, it really looked as though it was gradually forcing its way inside me, especially when I pushed hard. It looked incredible as I pumped my arms back and forth, holding the dildo in both hands.
"Oh yes, fuck me! Fuck me! Oh God, what a COCK! Unreal... Ahh..."
I finally remembered Martin was there and I looked at him with deep scorn written on my face.
"You'd better hope I never meet a man with a prick like this," I said breathlessly. "I don't think I could stand knowing my husband was so small in comparison. Come on, put your cock next to this one. Let's see the difference."
Martin hesitated, but he must have seen the look in my eye and he did as he was told.
"Oh, for God's sake, look at you... you're TINY! And look at this real man's cock... notice something? It's hard, Martin. HARD. You're so limp-dicked that even when you've only been playing with your prick for five minutes you're already losing your erection. Matt stays hard for hours. The only time he's not hard is when he's ejaculated, and fifteen minutes later he's hard again. But you..."
I let my voice trail off as if my despair for my husband's deficiencies had left me lost for words. Then I spoke again in a calmer, less exasperated tone:
"I can't do this with you here. I need to be alone with my cock. But before I go you'd better pass me the crop. You need to be punished for being useless."
Thirty seconds later Martin had his trousers around his ankles and was on all fours by the side of the couch. I hadn't changed position much and was still holding the dildo against me with one hand, the other holding my black riding whip.
"Kiss the cock that's going to fuck your wife," I said in a level, unemotional tone. "Kiss a real prick."
Martin leaned forward and placed his lips upon the immense shaft. The thrill of seeing him do that sent shivers through me, but I didn't show it. I then struck him quite hard on his bottom with the crop, the plaited leather landing on unprotected flesh, something I usually avoid. The sound was magical, a sharp 'crack', and his whole body flinched in a sort of giant reflexive yelp.
"Come on, lick it," I urged him. "A cock this big needs to be well oiled. Soak it so I'm able to take it."
Once again Martin obediently did as his Mistress ordered, and as I rhythmically beat his backside he saturated the prick shaft until it was glistening with fluid. Although by this time I was in a half delirious state I remember thinking very clearly: One day, Martin, one day... you are going to do this for real.
I had the good sense to stop then, even though I was close to orgasm - the touch of the dildo head alone against my clitoris was going to do it for me. I was in danger of getting carried away with the whip and in any case I wanted Martin to wonder whether I really would attempt actual penetration with the dildo, impossible as it seemed. So I suddenly pushed him away from me and stood up.
Martin was shaking and perspiration was running in beads down his face. He didn't normally have to suffer a bare-assed whipping, and to his credit he had taken this one without as much as a whimper. His rear must have been on fire.
All harshness drained from my face now and I spoke to him quite differently - a loving tone which was completely genuine (the way I speak and act when dominating my husband has changed significantly over the past few months, which is something I'll be discussing in a later entry).
"Okay, that was too harsh, wasn't it," I soothed, and I bent down and kissed him. "It was the big cock... I just got carried away. You were amazing, Martin. I'm so proud that you were able to take the whip like that. Maybe there's a man in there somewhere after all."
It didn't seem to bother him in any way that he was being spoken to in such patronising terms.
"I'm going into the study now because I need to suck and lick this prick in private before I... well, you know what. But later I'm going to give you a treat - one of my special treats because you've been so good. Do you want that? Do you want me to do one of those special things you like?"
"Oh God, yeah," he moaned. "yes please. Oh thank you, thank you..."
"Yes, well don't wank yourself any more then," I cautioned. "Make sure you save yourself. And set the video camera up in my room. I'll want to show Matt what I do to you."
Ever since that evening I no longer find the dildo ludicrous, although I very rarely play with it. I've now got a slightly shorter 13-inch black rubber dildo which has a more conventional girth and I think this one is absolutely sensational. I like to take it to bed and slide it inside me as I'm drifting off to sleep, or gently make love to it with my mouth. But I don't ever fantasise about being with a man who has such an abnormal prick. As far as I'm concerned Matt's cock is the biggest I'll ever want and I'm certainly not becoming greedy for more. I don't know why I've developed a sort of infatuation for an artificial cock that is several inches longer than my lover's perfect one, so once again you'll have to ask a psychologist. If I had to guess I'd say it's something to do with making Martin seem utterly inadequate and inconsequential in comparison. In any case, I don't suffer any angst over it - the plain fact is that just running my hand along a 13-inch rubber prick makes me go weak at the knees and primes me for yet another orgasm.
This toy is often with me when I lock myself in our study to write up my diary, but then again it's not the only one I play with. I know that Martin will at some point be listening in on me, just as he once did when I used to exchange emails with my online 'lovers'. And he knows that the only time he will feature in my writing is when I'm bemoaning his inadequacy or when I'm describing some new way to torment him, either physically or mentally. Mostly though I'll be describing what I did with Matt or what I want my big-pricked lover to do to me. And then the wild dreams come as I get too turned on and begin to use the toys. Fondled by three businessmen in a lift... group sex in a restaurant with diners watching... Matt spanking me in public... a sex charity night where you can be sucked by leather mini-skirted Maria for £100 or fuck her for £250... going riding wearing black thigh boots and skin-tight white open-crotch jodhpurs, moaning with pleasure as I ease myself on to the two protruding rubber plugs stitched into the shiny leather saddle... and after my double-cocked ride is over, whipping the two gorgeous young stable hands as they kneel and suck my saddle plugs clean...
These are the sort of fantasies that are rarely far from my mind these days and I have to confess that since I cuckolded Martin and the shackles of my marriage fell away, I'm now determined to turn the more realistic of them into reality. But at the same time I've had the good sense to assess my situation carefully, to look to the advantages that my husband's position and my own career provide, and come up with a game plan for the next few years that will hopefully allow me to indulge in bizarre sex with a number of men whilst avoiding the social ignominy a whore such as myself would normally have to accept.
I know I've said this sort of thing before and backtracked later, but this time I'm speaking with the benefit of hindsight - things have already happened which have given me the confidence to believe that my ambitions are by no means unattainable and that Martin is still in the early stages of his cuckolding humiliation.
Yup, I'm on a roll, but that's not really news to you is it?
You know that's why I'm back.
|To contact me, email maria at this site|