“Now, masturbate,” she commanded.
“What?” I asked. I was taken aback, but I recovered. “I’m sorry, Mistress. You mean right now?”
“Yes, of course now,” she answered impatiently. “You wanted to masturbate, so go ahead and do it. If you want to fantasize about me, I’m right here. If you’d like, I’ll even give you a little peek at my boobs” she added mockingly. I continued to hesitate, and she said, “It’s up to you, I guess. But in five minutes, I’m going to lock you away, so if you want release, you’d better get it now.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered. I reached for my cock and began to squeeze it rhythmically in my fist. I hoped that she would leave to give me some privacy, but instead she stood right in front of me, staring down at my cock with a mixture of amusement, disgust, and impatience. I squeezed and rubbed and massaged, but I felt no stirring, no burgeoning erection.
I’d never before jerked off with anyone present, unless you count giving myself a few final strokes before squirting onto the face of a bound submissive who’d just had my cock in her mouth. I continued to work myself under Ellen’s cold stare, but without result.
I was caught in a vicious circle: her impatience fed my nervousness, which fed my flaccidity, which further fed her impatience. I saw her begin to tap her thigh with her fingers, a sure sign that I was running out of time. “You’re so pathetic,” she said. “Do you need me to help you?”
“Please, Mistress, it’s just very difficult with you watching me.”
“Well, I’ve decided that you’re no longer allowed to have an orgasm without my supervision,” she answered. “So, you’d better get used to it. But just this once, I’ll give you a few strokes to get you started.”
She took me in her hand, and with some difficulty she succeeded in getting erect. Then she stepped back and continued to watch dispassionately as I continued on my own. In my nervousness, it took a lot longer than usual, but I finally managed to entice an unsatisfying load out of my semi-flaccid dick. Not exactly a ruined orgasm, but close. My cum splatted onto the floor of the shower cabinet, mixing with the remains of my pubic hair and the shaving cream that I had just used to remove it.
Ellen turned on the water. Without waiting for it to warm, she brought the shower head close to my groin and sprayed away the last dribble of semen from my cock-head. She lifted my scrotum and sprayed underneath to rinse the last bits of shaving cream from my crotch. My cock shrank from the cold, and my testicles rose up, so that my ball sack became a wrinkled walnut at the base of my shaft. Just when the water was beginning to warm up, she turned it off.
She took a hand-held mirror from the counter and held it below my waist, to give me a better view of my shaven cock and balls.
“There, you see?” she asked. “That’s what a submissive’s genitals should look like. You have a tiny, bald pee-pee, just like a little boy’s. I think it suits you. Don’t you agree?”
I swallowed my shame, and I answered, “Yes, Mistress.”
She turned the water back on to rinse off the rest of my body. Then she led me, still dripping, in front of the large mirror over the sink. “Take a good look at yourself,” she said, as she reached for my collar from the sink counter and put it around my neck. “This is who you are, now. Everything you were before is washed away. You are now my slave, and that’s all you’ll ever be. Do you understand me?”
It was the first time she’d ever called me her slave, and I understood that things were going to be different from now on.
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered.
“I need you to say it,” she said.
“I’m your slave, Mistress,” I said. “That’s all I’ll ever be.”
“Good boy. From now on, you will shave yourself every other day, and you will use cold water to rinse yourself off. That way, when you look at yourself in the mirror, you’ll be all shrivelled up, which will help you embrace your servile nature. Isn’t that a good idea?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I replied.
She took my chastity cage from the counter. “Now, up to this point, I’ve not done nearly enough to help you control your urges,” she said, as she stuffed my dick into the metal basket and locked it in place. “And I’m very sorry for that, because I think that’s been a big part of your problem. So this time, I’m going to keep you locked up for a while. Do you understand?”
“How long, Mistress?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows, and I corrected myself. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have” she agreed. “Especially since the answer should be obvious: for as long as I decide. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Mistress. I’m sorry” I repeated, chastened.
“Good boy. Now, clean up this mess,” she ordered. “And be quick about it, unless you want to spend the night on the floor. It’s been a long day, and I’m going to sleep. Don’t you dare wake me up to ask permission to come to bed.”
***********
A few minutes later, with the shower cabinet spotless and the bathroom floor dry, I presented my newly pre-pubescent body to my wife. “Please Mistress, may I share your bed tonight?” I asked, kneeling on the floor next to her with my head bowed, as she had trained me.
She looked at me without raising her head from the pillow. “I don’t know,” she answered. This shook me, as it was the first time that she’d not granted permission right away. “I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe it’s not a good idea for us to sleep together. Now that I know the kind of filth that goes through your mind, I don’t want you touching me.”
“But, Mistress, I told you, it’s not that way at all. You know that. You’ve taught me to respect your body, and I do. I admitted that I had fantasies when I masturbated, and I’m really sorry. But that’s the only time I’ve ever done it. I promise. Please let me sleep next to you.”
She sat up on the edge of the bed, so that my shoulders were between her knees. She took my chin between her fingers and raised my eyes to look into hers. “I don’t believe you. Answer this, and don’t you dare lie to me: When you touch me, do you want to fuck me?”
How can I answer that? If I say “Yes” then I’ll be admitting that I’ve failed in my submission. But if I say “No” then I’ll be saying that I no longer want her, which is worse.
“I do miss it sometimes, Mistress,” I finally said. “But just as a way to show you how much I love you and how much I want you. It’s not my fault you’re so beautiful,” I added, a little petulantly. I thought that my answer threaded the needle nicely, but I was wrong.
“So, you do want to fuck me,” she said in the voice of the triumphant cross-examiner, which she’d no doubt perfected back in law school. “Now tell me this: Do you secretly hope that someday I’ll let you fuck me?” I hesitated, and reached out and squeezed my nose between two of her knuckles like I was a third-grader. I winced, more from humiliation than pain. “Do you?” she repeated.
“Sometimes, Mistress,” I admitted.
“Just sometimes, or all the time?”
“All the time, Mistress.” I felt miserable, but at least the truth was now out in the open.
“All the time,” she repeated. “I see. And do you think you deserve to fuck me?” she probed.
“No, Mistress, of course not,” I said hurriedly. This was the truth, and I hoped she sensed that.
“Well, that’s something, I guess,” she said, which made me feel a bit better. “But tell me this: Why do you continue to hope for something that you know you don’t deserve?” I hesitated, because I genuinely didn’t know the answer. I’d never thought about it like that before. She gave my nose another squeeze between her knuckles. “Don’t waste my time thinking up a lie,” she barked. “Answer quickly, and tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know,” I blurted out. “Honestly.” I searched inside for more of the truth, but I came up empty. “I guess I just can’t help myself,” I finally concluded.
“Ah. You just can’t help yourself,” she repeated. She stared at me a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “There, you see? Now, we’re getting to the heart of the matter.” She removed her hand from my chin and caressed my cheek with the backs of her fingers. “So what you’re trying to say is, you’d like to be a good slave,” she continued in an encouraging voice, “but your weaknesses sometimes get in the way. Is that right?”
That sounded like the ideal way to put it, so I agreed. “Yes, Mistress. Sometimes.”
“That’s only natural,” she said, continuing to caress me. “You know, I could help you work on your weaknesses. Would you like that?” I nodded, but as before, she shook her head and said, “I need you to ask me.”
“Please help me work on my weaknesses, Mistress,” I said.
“Alright. Give me your hands.” I laid my hands palms up in her lap, and she reached into the drawer of her bed table. She took out a pair of what looked like boxing gloves, but without the thumbs. She slid my left hand into a glove and tightened its buckle at the wrist, then repeated the procedure on my right.
My “sleeping mitts,” as my wife called them, were made from soft leather — flexible, but thick enough to deaden my sense of touch almost entirely. They allowed my hands some movement, but not enough to make use of my individual fingers. As I got used to wearing them, I learned what I could and couldn’t do. For example, I could take a drink of water by holding a glass between the palms of my hands, but I couldn’t do anything as intricate as brushing my teeth.
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