Literotic asexstories – My Journey to Submission Pt. 04 by Antipater999,Antipater999
Ellen returned to fetch me after about half an hour. Without speaking, she unbuckled the strap around my neck and freed my hands. My relief at being released after nearly four hours in bondage was indescribable. I lifted up each leg at the knee a few times, then bent at the waist and stretched down to touch my toes. When I stood back up, I rotated my stiff neck and shoulders, and I felt the blood slowly return to my muscles. My groans were audible through the cotton panties in my mouth.
Hmmm… What’s the protocol for that? Should I take the gag out myself, or wait for her to do it?
“You may remove my panties from your mouth,” said my wife in answer to my unspoken question. The clipped tone of her voice left no doubt that she would be taking her new role very seriously. “Take them upstairs and put them in the laundry. And while you’re up there, you should probably take a shower and get dressed, or we’ll be late.”
Oh, crap. I’d completely forgotten about Mike McCleary’s dinner party.
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered, after I took out the gag. My mouth was so dry and my jaw so sore, that I had a hard time getting the words out.
“But take a minute to tidy up my ropes and toys before you go,” she continued, pausing to let the phrase “my ropes and toys” sink in. “I’m sure that I’ll be needing them again soon.” She turned to go upstairs, leaving me to obey her command.
Showering turned out to be an awkward experience. I always started my routine by working up a healthy lather in my pubic hair and using the foam to give my crotch a good scrub, including a few pleasurable, soapy pulls along my shaft. It was automatic, something that I did without thinking. So, I was stopped short when I reached down for my cock and grasped instead the steel of the chastity cage.
Oh, boy. How do I deal with this?
I looked down and tried to figure out the best way to proceed, finally deciding to drip some shower gel through the bars along the length of my cock and spray it around with the shower head. Good enough for now; a better solution could wait. I also needed desperately to take a piss, after being unable to do so for so long. Fortunately, the cage turned out to be fairly convenient for that, and my stream spattered only slightly against the bars that curved over the front of my cock.
An important — indeed, a critical — fact dawned on me. The cage prevented me from touching myself or getting an erection, and only Ellen could unlock the cage. This meant that I now, in effect, had to ask my wife for permission any time I wanted to jerk off.
Now, on YouTube and TikTok, kids today talk about masturbation all the time. But among men my age, it’s just not something to be discussed, especially with women. Ellen must have known, or at least suspected, that I did the deed frequently, but it was more of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” situation. The idea of begging my wife to unlock me so that I could rub one out was mortifying in the extreme. Remember, this was a woman who just a few days earlier would gladly have gotten on her knees to suck me off at the snap of my fingers.
What on earth had I agreed to?
I needed time to process all this, but I was in a hurry. For the moment, I just put the thought out of my head and turned off the shower. As I was in the bedroom towelling off, Ellen entered. She was still wearing the black crepe cocktail dress and silk stockings, but she’d removed her stiletto-heeled boots.
She sashayed in front of me, as though nothing unusual had taken place in the previous four hours. As though I didn’t have an alien robotic parasite clinging to my dick. “You never commented on my outfit,” she said. “Do you like it?”
Does she really expect me to act like nothing’s wrong?
But, as she’d reminded me, I was in this predicament entirely by choice, so I could do nothing but put on a brave face and try to act as insouciant as she. “Sorry, I was distracted,” I answered. “But you do look incredible. Is it from Neiman Marcus?”
“Nordstrom’s downtown,” she answered. “I’ve had my eye on it for a while, and I thought it would be perfect for tonight. But now I’m thinking it might be too much. What do you think?”
Oh, this is just great. She’s just going to keep pretending that everything’s normal. Or maybe she’s not pretending. Maybe for her this is normal now.
In any case, I had no choice but to soldier on. “Well, if were just us and the McCleary’s,” I answered, “that’d be one thing… But, you know, with Pharma Douche coming, it might be…”
“A bit much,” she agreed. She took a moment to think about it, then decided, “How about this: I’ll keep the dress, but lose the stilettos and put on a bra. What do you think?”
“Perfect,” I replied, smiling. And the very act of smiling made me feel a little better.
***********
Senator and Mrs. McCleary lived in an old farm house across the river in Vienna, a tony suburb about 30 minutes away from my Kalorama neighborhood. I say, “old farm house” and it is, built just after the Civil War. But one shouldn’t get the wrong impression. Sure, when Mike bought it, it was creaky, drafty and ramshackle, but it’s astonishing how many home improvement projects one can accomplish with a couple of million bucks.
I didn’t feel like spending half an hour in an Uber, so I walked a couple of blocks up the street to where I’d left my black BMW 5-series. Some asshole had parked three inches from my front bumper, so it took me a few machinations to pull out of the spot, but then I circled back, double-parked in front of our townhouse, and got out to wait for Ellen. After a few minutes, she walked down the stairs from our front door, looking nothing short of spectacular.
When she joined me beside the car, I had a moment of uncertainty. “So, ummm, what’s the protocol for this?” I asked. “Do you drive now? Do I still drive? What?”
“You drive, of course,” she answered. “Among your other roles, you’re now my chauffeur. Besides, why should I have to bother with car keys? The only key I need is right here. She turned over her wrist to show me the brass padlock key, which she’d attached to the underside of her tennis bracelet. “I’ll keep it with me, just in case I need you for something,” she said.
“Got it,” I said, and opened the car door for her, a practice I’d long since abandoned.
“Good boy,” she said, and she kissed me lightly on the cheek as she got in. When she was seated, she looked up and smiled. “I think this arrangement might work out for us after all, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I closed her door and got in the other side. I looked over to Ellen. “Aren’t you worried that someone might ask about the key?” I asked.
“Me? Of course not. I have nothing to hide. You’re the one who should be worried.” She looked at me, and she saw the horror in my face. She added, “Alright, alright. I’ll try to be discreet.”
I shook my head slightly and started the car.
As you might imagine, it would have been a gross understatement to say that I wasn’t in the mood for a dinner party that evening. But I could think of two very good reasons why it was in my best interest to suck it up and go.
The first reason was that Mike had arranged the event specifically as a favor to me.
When, upstairs in the bathroom, I’d reminded Ellen that “Pharma Douche” would be at the dinner, I didn’t actually say “Pharma Douche.” I used the name of the new CEO of PharmaCo, a major, family-owned pharmaceutical manufacturer based in the northeast. Like “Pharma Douche,” “PharmaCo” is a pseudonym, of course, since using the company’s real name would invite a very serious lawsuit. Ellen and I came up with “Pharma Douche” only later, and for reasons that I’ll make clear presently.
Pharma Douche had come to Washington to scout out law firms, which could provide his company with top-notch legal and political representation. His family’s company had long scorned the grubby business of lobbying, but they came to see the its value when they ran afoul of the FDA and the Justice Department, and they found themselves facing billions of dollars in fines, not to mention actual prison time for Pharma Douche and members of his family.
Firms such as mine started circling PharmaCo like sharks around a life raft adrift on the Pacific Ocean. Everyone expected the company’s annual legal bills to total millions of dollars, and the firm that signed on as their lead representative in Washington would take home the lion’s share of the loot. For PharmaCo, of course, this would still be the deal of the century, if by paying one of us off they could reduce their fines even by a billion or two.
So Mike’s idea was to give me some time to chat with Pharma Douche in a relaxed setting (not to mention at the private residence of a powerful U.S. Senator, who might prove exceedingly helpful later on) so that my firm would have a leg up when PharmaCo made its final choice.
The second reason to go to the dinner party was simply that Ellen wanted to. And from the moment that she’d locked me up and taken possession of my key, her desires trumped mine. Always.
***********
“Damned glad you could make it, Son.” Mike greeted me warmly, upon opening his massive front door. He was from west Texas, and he talked like a parody of that old cartoon rooster, Foghorn Leghorn (who, in turn, was a parody of Beauregard Claghorn, an even older politician from west Texas). He’d always called me “Son” even back in grad school, although he was only two years older than I. “Ellen, you are positively glowing,” he said, giving my wife an avuncular peck on the cheek. “Is that a new dress?”
“Why thank you, Senator,” she replied. “It is new. I picked it up today, and I’m glad that at least one of the men in my life noticed.” I ignored this dig, knowing it was just her way of making conversation.
“Dammit woman, when are you going to start calling me ‘Mike’?” asked Mike. “Hell, it’s been over a year since you left the Committee. And, I might add, the staff’s gone to hell in a handbasket since you abandoned ship. You hardly ever come around even to say ‘Hi’,” he complained.
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