Because Ellen let me out of my cage nearly every night, I had some limited freedom to jerk off, which I took advantage of once a week or so. Had she been stricter with the key, I would have had to ask her permission for these extracurricular orgasms, and I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do it. But as it was, she had no reason to think that my daily request to be unlocked signalled an intention to sneak off and rub one out, because it usually didn’t.
A kaleidoscope of female flesh danced across my closed eyelids — nothing specific, just random images of women’s asses and breasts and legs and cunts. But as I became erect, these random images slowly morphed into images of Ellen. Ellen’s ass. Ellen’s breasts. Ellen’s legs. Ellen’s cunt. My lathered hand moved up and down my shaft and squeezed tighter. My thumb worked the nerve underneath leading to my cock-head.
I saw Ellen wanting me. Ellen needing me. Ellen submitting to me. Somewhere down in my groin, an orgasm began to build. My hand accelerated, and I could feel Ellen’s warm flesh against my body, as real as if she were in the shower with me. Her mouth and cunt and ass all embraced my cock in turn. She moved her body with desperate passion against mine, and she begged for me to cum inside her. I was breathing heavily, and I was so near the edge, that I could almost count the number of strokes I’d need to climax — seven, six, five, four…
“What on earth are you doing?” My bliss was shattered by a harsh, schoolmarmish voice.
I opened my eyes to see standing before me, fully clothed and with riding crop in hand, the very woman who two seconds earlier had been naked and submissive in my fantasies. She reached in and turned off the water.
“I asked what you were doing,” she repeated.
“Taking a shower? What does it look like?” I said sarcastically. The shock of her appearance had shaken me from my submissive mind-set. I gathered myself. “I’m very sorry, Mistress. You startled me. I was taking a shower.”
She wagged a finger in my face. “Don’t lie to me. Answer my question.”
“I was taking a… I’m sorry, Mistress.” I interrupted myself when I peeked up her face grow stormy. Shame overcame me, and my next words came with difficulty. “I was masturbating.”
“You were masturbating,” she repeated. “Touching yourself like a filthy little boy. Is that it?” I nodded guiltily. “How often do you masturbate?”
I choked on my embarrassment, but she gave me an impatient look, and I had no choice but to answer. “I don’t know. Once a week. Twice maybe. I don’t know.”
There, I answered. Now, please, for the love of God, stop asking questions about this.
“And how long has this been going on?” she demanded. “Did it just start, or have you been playing with your penis the whole time you’ve been in submission?”
I realized that it was pointless to obfuscate. Defeated, I answered miserably, “The whole time, Mistress.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand you, I really don’t. I gave you a little freedom, so that you’d start to see the benefits of chastity and grow to want it on your own. And how do you reward me? By sneaking off to pleasure yourself. By thinking dirty, nasty thoughts and touching yourself like a naughty little boy. You sicken me.”
Let me at this point offer a piece of advice to any reader who is considering a female-led relationship: If you don’t want your soul ripped from your body, thrown onto the ground, and stomped into the mud by your wife’s stiletto-heeled boots, you should avoid telling her about any childhood trauma you might have experienced.
If, for example, your brilliant but psychologically-abusive, ultra-conservative Catholic mother heaped shame on you throughout puberty with each new manifestation of your budding sexuality. Or, if the clique of popular girls in your Catholic middle-school (which included the girl you secretly adored) made you the particular target of their relentless ridicule and cruel pranks for several years running. (To this day, catching even a brief glimpse of a girl in a white blouse, plaid skirt, and white knee socks can dampen my mood for several hours.)
Of course, I’d made my admissions to Ellen when I was in the relative security of my position as her dominant, but it just goes to show that you can’t rely on things not to change.
“I just didn’t think it was a big deal,” I protested. “You never told me not to.”
“You don’t get to decide what’s a big deal,” she answered. “Do I have to list out every little thing you’re not allowed to do?” She continued in a mocking voice, “‘I’ll unlock you, but don’t run off to play with yourself.’ Don’t be childish.” She shook her head and paused for a second, then she conceded in a tired, resigned voice, “Alright, you’re a man, so I guess so you can’t help yourself sometimes. I can see how once in a while, you might need release. But why didn’t you just ask my permission?”
“Because it’s embarrassing. I didn’t want to.”
“Because it’s embarrassing? Or because you think that I’m such a bitch that I’ll deny you just out of spite?”
“Of course not. I didn’t know what to think. I guess I just didn’t think.” When she put it like this, it seemed completely obvious what I should have done. But still, how could she not see how mortifying that would be for me? My gut started to feel queasy, and I was afraid that if the conversation continued any longer, my head would explode from a volatile combination of confusion, shame, regret and guilt. “Look, I’m sorry, alright?” I said, emotion rising in my voice. “Just let it go. Jesus Christ.”
Ellen snapped her wrist and furiously struck my crotch with the riding crop. Thankfully, my balls were mostly stuffed between my thighs, but the blow to my shaft was still very painful. I winced.
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me,” she warned. “And don’t you dare tell me to let it go. I decide when to let it go. Now, tell me about your fantasies.”
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.
“Fantasies?” I cringed. Obviously, I knew what she meant, but I couldn’t believe that she’d ask me something that private.
“Your fantasies,” she repeated. “Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself. Do you picture yourself with other women?”
“No, Mistress, just you, I swear.” This was the one truth that I was not ashamed to reveal. It’s not that I was turned off by the idea of fucking a woman other than my wife. It’s more that since I’d been in submission, the idea just never occurred to me.
Ellen lifted up my head and looked into my eyes, and she apparently saw that I wasn’t lying. “Well, that’s something, I guess,” she said pursing her lips. “But even so. In your fantasies, do you respect my body? Or do you use me like a whore?”
“I don’t know. It’s complicated. Images come and go. It’s like…”
She gave me another stinging swat on my shaft. “Tell me the truth. Do you picture yourself fucking me?”
Well, if she put it like that, I could only answer, “Yes, Mistress.”
“Where do you fuck me?” she demanded.
I was confused. “What? I don’t know. Nowhere in particular. The bedroom. The dungeon. What difference does it make?”
I again felt the painful sting of the riding crop on my shaft. “You know what I meant,” she barked. “In what part of my body do you insert your penis?”
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“In your vagina, Mistress,” I answered, desperately hoping that she’d drop this line of inquiry.
“Only in my vagina?” she demanded. I hesitated, and she smacked my cock again. “Only in my vagina?” she repeated.
“No, Mistress.”
“Where else? And don’t you dare make me repeat the question.”
“In your mouth, Mistress. And…” I stopped, and in the few seconds it took me to overcome my shame sufficiently to say the rest, the crop again snapped down. “And in your anus.”
“In my anus,” she repeated in her clipped voice. “I see. So, it turns out that after I showed you a little kindness, you immediately rushed up here and started fantasizing about fucking me in the ass. Is that right? And what else went through your filthy little mind? Did you picture me tied up? Were you whipping me? Was I begging you? Did you picture your nasty sperm dripping from me when you were finished using me?”
What the fuck? Were my brainwaves being broadcast over wifi as I jerked off?
Later, of course, I realized that she’d simply participated in enough of my fantasies as my submissive to know what turned me on. But in any case, I had no choice but to confess, “Yes, Mistress.”
“Which part of it? And don’t you dare leave anything out.”
“All of it,” I said, utterly broken down and miserable. I felt tears of shame well up in my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mistress. I just want you so much…”
She smacked my cock again. “Shut up. You sicken me.” The bathroom was silent for a few moments. Then Ellen said in a curious voice, “So, you just want me so much. Well, let’s see about that.”
She reached out, took a squirt of gel into her hand and started massaging my cock. I didn’t expect this gesture, and I squirmed a little out of surprise and nervousness.
“Shhhh… It’s OK,” she said. “You can relax. I’m here with you.”
As I mentioned before, her movements when giving me a handjob had usually been cold and clinical, designed to bring me release quickly. But this was nothing like that. She was warm and sensual, and after just a few seconds, my desire began to displace my guilt and shame. I moaned slightly.
“Mmmmm, do you like that?” Ellen asked seductively.
“Yes, Mistress.” My cock started to grow hard.
“I know you do. It’s OK to like it.” Her voice softened to a whisper as she continued to massage me. She formed her fingers into a faux vagina and worked it up and down my shaft, until my hips started to move against her hand.
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