A strapon is the one object in our bedroom that changed something permanently. Not because of what it does to him — because of what it did to me: for sixteen years he was the one who entered, and then one Sunday, with a black harness buckled over my hips and his face in the pillow, that was no longer true.
These are my notes on pegging as a married woman who was scared of the technique and found the technique was the easy part. How the box sat in the wardrobe for three weeks, how he prepared, what I said, what he said into the pillow, and the ten minutes afterwards with his forehead on my knees. Also: milking, prostate play, and what a man looks like from behind when he is entirely yours.

A new evening practice: after the dishes he works the strap-on at my knee with his mouth for fifteen minutes by timer while I read.

Our first time with the strap-on: three weeks the box waited in the wardrobe, then on Sunday I said “tonight”.

Day eight in the cage, a glove on the nightstand since lunch. I milked him face down, lock on: drops on the towel, no orgasm.

He asked once and ordered it himself; the box lay under my tights for two weeks. On Friday I buckled on the straps, kept his cage locked and went in an inch at…

Harness, rug, my husband kneeling in his cage. I set the rhythm with a hand on the back of his head, stop and count to thirty, answer “too deep?” with “you…

A ruined orgasm on my own husband: the three signs, when to take your hand away, ten minutes on the edge of the bed with a wet towel, and how ruined differs…
Everything in these stories, laid out properly: how to step into the role, how to hold power through daily life, how not to burn out — and 41 chapters for him on serving so that it's easy for you.