Literotic asexstories – My Journey to Submission Pt. 07 by Antipater999,Antipater999
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the continuation of the story, which I previously deleted. If you didn’t like the first six parts of this series, you really won’t like this one or the ones to follow, and I suggest that you skip them.
**********
Sixteen days. That’s how long Ellen kept my cock locked up the first time. Of course, sixteen days seems trivial today, since she gradually increased the duration of my lockups until at their peak they reached several months. But back at the beginning, it seemed like an eternity.
The first night, I woke up in a panic, pawing at my cage, desperate for some kind of sexual sensation. But with my mitts, there would have been little pleasure for either my hand or my cock even without the chastity cage. With my dick cowering behind steel bars… fuggedaboutit. I rolled over and tried to put the frustration out of my mind. Sleep came with difficulty, but it was all the more welcome for that.
The next morning, I almost immediately discovered one of the ways that Ellen had found to help me become an “acceptable slave” to her. It was a Saturday, so I got up early to make her breakfast. I needed to run out for a few groceries, so after I showered, I started to get dressed. But when I opened my underwear drawer, I found that all of my boxer-briefs had been replaced with frilly, pink women’s panties. I stood in front of the dresser for a moment, silent and bemused.
“Oh, I bought those for you,” said Ellen sleepily, still lying in bed. “I’ve decided that developing your feminine side would be a good way for me to help you control your masculine urges and embrace your new status as my eunuch slave. I don’t think we’ll bother with a bra, at least not at first, but women’s panties are definitely a must. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I was so relieved to hear that she wasn’t going to make me wear a bra that it took a couple of seconds for the phrase “eunuch slave” to register in my brain.
When did I agree to that?
“Wait, what?” I sputtered. “I’m sorry, Mistress, ummm… ‘eunuch slave’?”
“Well, sure. You saw my new butcher’s knife, didn’t you? What’d you think it was for?” she asked. She waited a moment for horror to overcome me. “I’m just kidding,” she laughed. “Geez, lighten up. I don’t mean ‘eunuch’ literally, obviously. I just mean that with time, you’ll come to enjoy chastity more, and you’ll find your own sexual release less important. That’s all. We’ll take it slow. As you always used to tell me, ‘I won’t do anything to you that you don’t beg me to do.’ Alright?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered, although I was very far from convinced that it was alright.
***********
Ellen instituted another change that same night: When I came up to the bedroom, I found her already under the duvet, wearing a negligee. It was the first time in all our years together that she hadn’t been nude when she climbed into bed.
She sat up on the side of the bed, and I knelt between her knees. Once my sleeping mitts were snugly buckled, she explained, “I’ve decided that you’re no longer allowed to look at my body. I’ll sleep in a nighty, and if you happen to be in the room when I want to change or take a shower, then you must either leave, or stand in the corner until I’m decent. This will keep your brain from getting overstimulated, so you won’t be so tempted to touch yourself. Won’t that be helpful to you?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered, “very helpful.” Which was a big, fat lie. I knew for a fact that it wouldn’t help at all, since the sight of my wife in lingerie (or sexy clothes of any kind) could send my brain into overdrive just as quickly as her naked body did.
I understood later that her decision had nothing whatsoever to do with protecting me from overstimulation. The reason she did it was to deny me even a moment of relief from that small but gnawing sense of degradation, which a naked man always feels in the presence of a clothed woman.
I had to admire Ellen’s attention to detail. It was what made her such an effective dominant.
“Now, even though I’m going to keep you locked up for a while, I’ll still require you to service me from time to time,” Ellen continued. “But I’ll give you a blindfold, so that you won’t be able to see my girly bits. But by now, you’ve pretty much figured out where everything is, so you don’t really need to use your eyes anyway. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“That’s a good boy,” she said. She reached into her side table drawer and took out a black blindfold, which she tied around my head. “Now, show me how a good slave pleases his Mistress.”
With that, she rotated her hips all the way back, hiked up her negligee, scooched to the edge of the bed, and pulled my face into her ass.
My first-ever girlfriend was a sixteen-year-old redhead named Shannon Murphy. Although Shannon would go as far with me as French kissing, she, like all good Irish Catholic girls, was diligent about keeping my hands away from her breasts and crotch, even over her clothes. But oral stimulation was better than no stimulation, and we would make out for astonishingly long stretches, enjoying the taste of each other’s mouths and the feel of each other’s tongues.
Ellen had taught me to think of her anus as my new girlfriend, one that I should want to make out with for as long and with as much pleasure as I used to do with Shannon Murphy’s mouth. She even gave my new girlfriend a name: Rosemary, because one time I commented that she smelled like the rosemary and mint scented body wash that my wife preferred. When Ellen was in a frisky mood, she’d say something like, “Rosemary told me she wants to see you. Wouldn’t it be nice to make out with her for a while?”
And by this time, I was doing so eagerly. I’d lock my lips around my wife’s beautiful anal bud, swirling and probing with my tongue, lapping her, kissing her, never tiring of the sensation of touching her tender flesh so intimately, and of feeling her respond to me.
But that evening, I simply couldn’t focus on the task at hand, because I found myself completely distracted by the aroma of my wife’s vagina.
I know that it’s a cliché to say that when a person is deprived of sight, his other senses become proportionately heightened. But that’s exactly what happened. As I knelt beside the bed, unable to see, my face buried between Ellen’s ass cheeks, her feminine scent penetrated my subconscious and intoxicated me, and I became desperate to taste her. Several times, I removed my tongue from her anus and moved my head toward her pussy, but each time my wife pushed me back down to continue making out with my new girlfriend.
I lapped and lapped, as she required of me, but in all honesty, all I could think about was my desire for her pussy.
By the time she finally let me up, my lust for her was completely out of control. I furiously locked my lips on her vulva, and I thrust my tongue into her as deeply as I could, as though her between her inner labia there was a pool of juices, which I could slurp up to slake my thirst. I grabbed her hips as well as I could in my sleeping mitts, and I pulled myself tightly into her.
Now, in BDSM erotica, I think that some writers overuse the word “worship.” A normal rim job becomes “ass worship,” every act of fellatio becomes “cock worship,” and so on. Personally, I’d never demanded “cock worship” from any of my submissives. “Suck it, you fucking whore” was more my style.
But with Ellen, the act of cunnilingus had become for me just as worshipful — just as religious — as any Catholic ritual from my childhood. Ellen’s orgasm had become my Holy Eucharist.
I always started my vaginal worship with long, slow kisses to her along inner thighs and around her pubic mound, before starting to lick the outside of her labia. Only when she responded to this — when I heard her soft moan and felt the flesh of her pussy lips begin to swell — did I dare enter her Holy of Holies with my tongue.
This ritual was not one that Ellen had trained me to perform. Rather, it seemed the only proper way for me to acknowledge the tremendous privilege I enjoyed in being the one chosen to service sexually this most perfect of women.
So, my actions that night — my ravenous assault on my wife’s pussy, my focus on satisfying my own lust instead of her desires — felt to me nothing short of blasphemous. I half-worried that I’d be struck down mid-lick by heavenly fire for daring to desecrate my wife’s most sacred place so violently with my base carnal desires.
But instead of a lightning bolt from above, I felt Ellen’s hands take my head and draw me even closer. She moaned and pulled me up to her clitoris, which was already swollen. I swirled my tongue around her a few moments before settling into a rhythm. She moaned louder and louder, and moved her hips faster and faster against my mouth. Her breathing grew heavy, and I could feel her orgasm start to build.
Then she stopped and sat up, withdrawing her pussy from me.
“Mistress?” I asked. “What is it?” With the blindfold, I couldn’t see her face, and I began to panic that I had displeased her in some way.
“Shhhh… It’s OK,” she said. I heard her open the drawer to her side table, and a moment later, I felt her press a piece of rubber against my lips. I opened my mouth and took in about two inches of the device until I felt a barrier of leather. The rubber turned out to be silicon gag with a facial harness, which Ellen strapped tightly over and around my head, and buckled in place.
She lay back down on the bed and drew me towards her groin, and I surmised that the gag was attached to a dildo, which I was to work inside her vagina. I probed forward awkwardly, searching for her, until she guided me into herself. She lay back and held my head, moving her hips, showing me the rhythm that would satisfy her. I began thrusting my head back against her, and soon I was rewarded with her moans of pleasure. These quickly grew louder and more frequent as she rocked back and forth against me.
“That’s a good boy,” she said a few minutes later, after she had climaxed. She removed the gag and the blindfold, and she smiled at me. “Alright, now you may get into bed.”
“May I please get a drink first, Mistress?” I asked. My jaw was sore and my mouth dry.
“I’ll get it for you,” she answered kindly, gesturing to my sleeping mitts. She patted my head and stood up.
She returned after a moment with a glass. She sat back on the bed and brought the water to my lips, helping me drink and stroking my hair, as I knelt at her feet. “You know, you’re doing very well for your first couple of days,” she said. “I can see that you really do want to be my slave, and that makes me very happy.”
I lived for these little moments of intimacy. I basked for a little while in her approval and affection before climbing under the duvet.
***********
Later on, Ellen came to call blindfolded sex with the dildo gag “mole fucking,” because I reminded her of a sightless mole, rooting around as though searching for grubs, satisfied only when I’d succeeded in burrowing my snout into her pussy.
After she’d blindfolded me and buckled the gag around my head, she’d usually lay me on the floor and connect my wrists and ankles behind my back in a hog-tie position. She’d then sit several feet away and watch me squirm blindly toward her. She’d laugh at me and call me her “grubby little mole,” while I struggled to reach her crotch with the dildo.
I got the distinct impression that the pleasure she derived from the dildo gag was much more about my degradation than it was about any inherent benefit in the device itself.
Sometimes, she made mole fucking into a game. She’d zip-tie my hands behind my back and hide somewhere in the house, giving me a certain amount of time to find and satisfy her. I’d stumble around blindly, her insults and mocking laughter my only clue as to her whereabouts. The game ended when I either brought her to climax, resulting in a reward, or ran out of time, resulting in punishment.
I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I did not enjoy mole fucking. At all.
Even as a dominant, I’d made scant use of vibrators, dildos. butt plugs, and so on, almost always preferring the sensation of flesh against flesh. And using the dildo gag was not only uncomfortable, but physically very strenuous. I had to lie on my stomach, craning my neck up at an unnatural angle and bobbing my head back and forth as vigorously as I could. Sometimes, she’d put me on my back and straddle my face, in which case she did most of the thrusting herself. But at my age, lying on my back while hogtied was torturous, and with each downward thrust, Ellen slammed my head on the floor and jammed the rubber gag painfully into my mouth.
And the humiliation was even worse than the discomfort. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked — naked, hogtied, blindfolded, gagged, with a piece of silicon sticking out of my mouth, writhing around desperately seeking to bury my face in my wife’s crotch.
In sum, the act required me to endure a lot of pain and degradation in order to satisfy a silly, capricious desire on the part of my wife. One which gave her little pleasure other than my suffering, and which most definitely gave me no sexual sensation of any kind in return.
Which was the whole point, I suppose.
**********
I went to the office the following Monday morning several degrees less of a man than I had left it the previous Friday. I was no longer my wife’s submissive, but her slave.
Of course, I played the role of the prominent government affairs attorney as well as anyone could have could have expected me to — chairing the morning partners’ briefing, prioritizing research and lobbying assignments, and so forth. But I was incredibly self-conscious, virtually certain that every single person I met was able to see my shaven body and frilly panties through my suit and tie. Every time I’d hear laughter around a corner or stumble onto a whispered conversation, I was certain that I was being made an object of ridicule.
It took about an hour for me to convince myself that this was impossible, so that I was able to focus on work.
I soon learned that one inconvenience of wearing women’s panties was that I was no longer able to use the urinal in a public restroom. Even while wearing my cage, I could work my cock out through the slot in my briefs and tip it up to achieve the required angle. So, unless someone happened to be using the next urinal over, the risk of being discovered was minimal. But the panties required me actually to drop my trousers in order to free my cock, which meant the I had to use the stall and sit down like a woman.
Every. Single. Time. I needed to piss. Only later did I realize that this restriction was not an incidental bug, but rather a planned feature of my emasculation.
But I also came to experience another sensation from wearing women’s panties, one that I didn’t expect: the thrill of transgression. Of course, young people in these enlightened days have no concept at all of transgression, at least as far as sexuality is concerned. They celebrate and dream up names for every conceivable difference in preference or sexual orientation or gender identification or kink. But you have to remember that I put on my first pair of pink frilly panties before anyone had heard of COVID, and that I’d just turned fifty-two years old.
By breaking gender norms in the staid corridors of power in Washington, DC, I was somehow getting away with something that my colleagues would never know about. Everyone who looked at me saw the ultimate alpha male, dominating every meeting, acting as the ultimate arbitrator on countless crucial decisions of public policy. Little did they know that my wife was gradually turning me into a degraded, pathetic beta, bound to obey her every command. Despite my emasculation, possessing such a secret gave me a strange sense of power whenever I walked into a meeting.
Then, just after lunch, another thought struck me.
Would Ellen unlock my cage when I got home?
I had already spent three nights in lockdown, which was by far the longest time I had gone without an erection since the age of thirteen. Surely, Ellen would understand that a fourth night would be too torturous for me to endure. Right? OK, so maybe she wouldn’t give me a handjob. But she seemed to enjoy making me masturbate in front of her, so she’d at least let me try that again. Right? The act had given me little pleasure the first time, but after three days in my cage, even the humiliating idea of jerking off under my wife’s scornful glare was starting to seem very appealing to me.
I tried to put the topic out of my mind and concentrate on work. No luck. Once the seed was planted, it took root and began to grow, rapidly branching out along my neural pathways until it occupied every cubic millimeter of my brain. All conscious thought was driven from my mind, replaced by the single, persistent question:
When will Ellen release me?
I sat in meeting after meeting, barely able to focus on the discussion at hand. I checked the time on my iPhone — every hour, every half-hour, every five minutes. I needed some space, so I went to my office and closed my door (something I ordinarily never did, since I consider a closed door a powerful symbol of poor management). I pretended to read some piece of draft legislation or other, but after ninety minutes, I found myself stuck on page four, completely clueless as to the content of the three pages that I’d already read.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time passed incredibly slowly, until at last it was seven o’clock, the first more-or-less acceptable time to be seen leaving the office. I’d already turned down several invitations to dinner, so that I would be able to get home all the earlier. I grabbed a sandwich and a protein bar from the office kitchen and headed down to the parking garage.
Forty minutes later, I knelt naked at Ellen’s feet and exposed my neck for the collar, hoping against hope that the ritual would end with her unlocking my cage for the night. I knew that asking her to do so would be pointless. If anything, it would only make her more inclined to keep me locked up. But just in case, I’d prepared a short, humiliating speech requesting permission to masturbate in her presence.
Waiting for her to buckle my collar, I looked up at her expectantly, perhaps hoping that my eyes would convey to her my desperate need, and that she would take pity on me.
She didn’t. And since I was so focused on my cock, I was a little caught off-guard by what she did say.
“Do you worship me?” she asked.
“Of course, Mistress,” I answered in surprise. “You know that I do.”
“I need you to show me,” she said, and she gently but firmly pushed my head down to the floor.
Her meaning was clear. Although I would much preferred to have been ordered to masturbate, I immediately got to the task and hand and started kissing the tops of her feet. I looked up after what I considered an appropriate amount of time, but she nudged my face back down and said, “Don’t stop.”
So I continued. I kissed her a while longer, then I picked up one foot in my hands. I removed her slipper reverently, and I began to massage her sole with my thumbs. For a few seconds, I breathed in her aroma deeply through my nose, then I began to suck on her toes, inserting my tongue between them. I slowly licked the bottom of her foot down to her heel, and I paused there, passionately French kissing this lowest part of her body. When I’d shown proper obeisance to one flawless foot, I picked up the other and began again.
I looked up at her, wondering whether it was enough.
“Good boy,” she said, reaching for my collar. “You did very well for your first time.” My heart lifted at the sound of her praise. “From now on, you will earn the right to wear my collar by worshiping my feet every day when you come home,” she commanded.
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered.
***********
I say “she commanded,” but “she allowed” would probably be more accurate. The minutes that I spent massaging and kissing and fondling Ellen’s feet each evening came to be my favorite time of the day, when I could let all my work-related bullshit slip away and concentrate solely on my wife.
In a certain sense, I came to enjoy foot worship even more than cunnilingus. This may seem odd, considering that Ellen’s pussy had become for me the ultimate symbol of her perfection. But no matter how hard I tried to make licking her pussy entirely about her pleasure, there were still aspects of it that seemed selfish — the thrill that I received from helping her achieve orgasm, the privilege I felt at being the one whom she’d chosen to service her sexually. Not to mention the luscious smell and taste of her vagina, and the intense pleasure of feeling her most intimate flesh against my tongue.
But with foot worship, there was no room for such egotism, and I was able to lose myself in complete adoration of my wife. Of my Mistress.
***********
One evening, maybe six months after I began performing daily foot worship, I came downstairs for the ritual and was surprised to find Ellen wearing her spike-heeled boots. I knew right away that she’d put them on entirely for my benefit, since she herself always walked around the house in slippers. At the same time, she certainly knew that I would have greatly preferred to kiss her bare feet, because we’d discussed my preference for flesh-to-flesh contact many times. Her boots were a barrier to intimacy.
But I didn’t dare to express displeasure or to hesitate before showing her boots the same obeisance that I would have shown her feet. I sniffed and kissed and fondled the black leather, then I lifted one up in my hands and ran my tongue slowly along the sole. It was pristine, of course, so I couldn’t even enjoy the feeling of complete submission that comes from performing such a degrading act as savoring and swallowing dirt and grime for the sake of my wife’s pleasure.
Instead of sucking on her toes, I sucked long and submissively on her heel, although I’m ashamed to say that I couldn’t take its full seven inches into my mouth without gagging. Ellen seemed amused by this, and she forced my head to the floor and sadistically pushed her foot down into my face, jamming the spike all the way to the back of my throat, and keeping it there as I gurgled and choked.
I saw a cruel smile light up her face when she withdrew the heel to give me a moment of relief. Then she pushed her foot back down again. And again. And again.
When she finally got bored with boot worship, she lifted my head up by the hair so that she could attach my collar. Her movements were cold, without affection. There was no stroking my hair, no pat on the head, no “That’s a good boy.” Instead, she put two fingers through the ring on my collar, stood up, and dragged me downstairs to the dungeon like a disobedient dog. I crouched down and followed as best I could — half-walking, half-crawling.
Ellen didn’t speak, not even to tell me which position to assume. She stopped under the steel suspension cable dangling from the ceiling, and she went to the table to find the gear that she required. She buckled leather cuffs around my wrists and connected them behind my back with a snap hook, then attached the hook to the cable. She found the remote-control, and I heard the electric winch whirr into action for a couple of seconds before I felt the cable tighten.
The strappado position was developed by the Spanish Inquisition as a simple method of extracting confessions from suspected heretics, wherein the victim’s arms would be tied behind their backs with rope, attached to a pulley, then raised up very gradually. This was much worse than it sounds. The torturer pulled the rope slowly, pausing every couple of inches and securing the rope around a post in order to provide the Inquisitor a chance to demand the heretic’s confession. Discomfort would turn slowly to pain, and then to agony, as the tension began tearing apart muscle fibers, eventually rending muscle from sinew, and sinew from bone. In the end, the joints could no longer support the increasing stress, and the humerus bones would be ripped from the shoulder sockets. The inevitable result of the strappado was permanent maiming, usually including paralysis of the limbs from extensive, severe nerve damage.
The heretic could, of course, end the torture by telling the Inquisitor what he wanted to hear, but confession meant an imminent and horrible death by burning at the stake. Countless souls accepted this fate, rather than continue to suffer the torture.
Ellen, of course, had no intention of permanently maiming me.
Nevertheless, she released her finger from winch’s remote-control only when she heard me start to groan in pain. I could reduce the stress on my arms and shoulders somewhat by bending down, but that it made it much more difficult to breath. My wife relieved me of the decision about which position was less painful by attaching a chain to my collar and looping it through a ring on the floor, shortening it until I was bent over as far as I could go, then securing it with a snap hook.
Needless to say, she did this not to make me more comfortable, but rather to increase the exposure of my bare buttocks to her ministrations.
Strangely, I was less concerned at that moment with my own discomfort, my difficulty breathing, or the impending agony of my punishment, than I was with Ellen’s disquieting behavior. I could think of nothing that I’d done to make her angry with me. On the contrary, even though I’d been very busy at work, at home I’d been intently focused on pleasing her. In fact, as a reward for my good behavior, she’d even unlocked me early for a handjob a couple of days earlier.
“Mistress? Is everything all right?” I asked. Rather than answer me, she took a red ball gag from the table. Without speaking, she forced the rubber into my mouth and behind my teeth, and she buckled the strap around my head. I suppose that was her way of saying, “Don’t ask.” Whenever Ellen gagged me during a session, she always put into my hand a foam rubber ball, which I could drop in lieu of saying my safe word, but this time she didn’t.
She picked up the thin rattan cane, walked behind me, and struck my flesh with all her strength. No teasing, no warm-up. Just immediate, excruciating pain. I felt blow after blow sear my ass and thighs. After the first half dozen, I started to cry out through the ball gag, as each strike of the cane burned a new stripe into my skin. But Ellen seemed unmoved, dispassionate, her arm moving almost robotically. After perhaps two dozen strokes, she stopped.
There was no aftercare.
Wordlessly, Ellen lowered my arms, undid the snap hook from one of my wrist cuffs, and walked away. I looked after her, stunned. The click, click, click of her stiletto heels on the polished brick floor was the only sound in the basement.
She still wasn’t speaking to me later that evening when I knelt between her knees and asked for permission to share her bed. She merely nodded curtly after affixing my sleeping mitts.
But after we lay together for a while, she turned her back to me — not in rejection, but in a seeming invitation for me to spoon her. It had been a long time since I’d last held her like that, but I didn’t hesitate. I put my arms around her, and she took them and pulled herself into my embrace, wrapping my body around hers like a security blanket.
“Mistress?” I ventured. “I’m here for you, you know.” She didn’t answer, just pulled my arms even more tightly around her. I thought I heard her crying softly. But I said nothing further. I held her tight and rocked her gently back and forth until she fell asleep.
I lay awake and pondered what had just happened. Thankfully, my conscience was pure, or I might have tortured myself for hours over any real or imagined sins I may have committed. But if I had done nothing to make her angry, what was going on?
The best explanation I could come up with was that Ellen’s year-long tenure as my dominant had finally awakened in her a long-dormant sadistic streak. She wasn’t angry with me, not really. Rather, she felt intense shame over the fact that she’d finally given in to the overpowering urge to see another human being suffer at her hands. She didn’t know how to handle these feelings, so she transferred them onto me, the only other person around.
I was guilty of making her feel guilty.
I wished that she’d opened up to me, because I understood those emotions, almost certainly better than she did herself. They’d been a part of my life for a very long time.
When I lived as a dominant, I became used to the waves of sadistic urges that flowed through me regularly, like surf on a beach. Usually, I found that the normal routine of a D/s relationship — frequent spankings, regular punishment sessions, the rare chastisement for especially bad behavior, and above all rough sex in bondage — was enough to scratch the itch. I rarely felt the need to inflict pain for pain’s sake.
Periodically, however, I’d experience what I called a “rogue wave,” which would start to build from deep within me, and from causes which I never understood. For a week or two, I could keep a rogue wave under control. Intensive work-outs in the Capitol Hill gym, or competitive tennis matches (my racquet serving as a Freudian substitute for my whip or cane) helped a lot. But the sadistic impulses would continue to grow, until in the end my psyche became overwhelmed by the need — the intense, burning, irresistible, unquenchable need — to see a woman in agony.
When this happened, I would take my submissive near her limits. Her writhing and moaning and screaming would only deepen my hunger, and I would intensify the torment until I had wrung every last drop of pleasure from her suffering. (Here, my finely-tuned empathy was a crucial asset; hearing my victim use her safe word to end a session while I was carried away by a rogue wave would have been catastrophic.)
Even after I’d put away whatever implements I’d used on her, the wave would crescendo. My urges would become focused on my cock, and my need to fuck would grow completely out of control, as though satisfaction could come only from filling my submissive’s mouth and pussy and anus with load after load of my sperm. I’d penetrate her most intimate flesh — ravaging her, violating her, defiling her — and my fucking would be sustained and violent and utterly selfish.
But when I finally exploded inside her, and I felt my semen flow into her in tremendous pulsations, the wave would abruptly break.
I would awaken from my trance, like the protagonist in an old film noir, who regains consciousness next to a mutilated corpse, covered in blood and holding a jagged knife in his hand, but having no idea how he got there. But in my case, the weapon at issue was my own cock, so there was no doubt at all as to whodunit. Self-loathing would flood over me, and I’d feel myself drowning in a sea of emotion as powerful as the sadistic urges that had caused me to abuse so horribly the naked woman next to whom I was amazed to find myself.
I had to hide these feelings from my submissive, of course, or I would have completely spoiled the session for her. I’d take a moment to reorient myself, and then I’d put on a mask of self-confident dominance as I untied her, put a light cotton robe around her shoulders, and led her to a comfortable couch for aftercare. I’d sit beside her, holding her and caressing her, as she poured out all the sensations and emotions that she’d experienced during the session, reliving the ordeal in order to allow the trauma to flow out of her.
I couldn’t let on that my efforts at aftercare were not primarily for the sake of my submissive, but for my own. As she talked, I needed for her to tell me that she had enjoyed the experience, that her pain had brought her pleasure or catharsis or sexual release, that she needed me to be in her life exactly as I was. I was desperate for her to grant me absolution from the guilt of what I had done, and the shame of who I had become.
I never tried to discuss any of this with Ellen. I understood that as a dominant, she felt the need to maintain a high degree of solitude, walling off a part of who she really was from everyone else, including — or perhaps especially — her submissive. I respected that.
But empathizing with what she was going through allowed me to accept her sadism, and to come to accept my own in the process. I learned to see my agony as a way for me to help the woman I adored come to grips with deep and powerful emotions, which she found difficult to manage on her own. Eventually, she came to adopt many of the same coping mechanisms that I had used as a dominant, including the use of lavish aftercare as a way to get in touch with her own feelings, and not just to comfort me.
Over time, Ellen’s sadistic streak grew, and the times when I found her wearing her stilettos for foot worship became more frequent. The smell and taste of boot leather became for me a kind of Pavlovian signal that I would soon be suffering at my wife’s hands.
At least I got Ben & Jerry’s afterwards.
***********
But once again, I find myself getting ahead of the story. Where I left off, I still had to make it through my first extended session in chastity. That’s what I will relate next.
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