My Journey to Submission Pt. 05

Literotic asexstories – My Journey to Submission Pt. 05 by Antipater999,Antipater999
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I removed the first six parts of this series due to some fairly emotional negative feedback. Against my better judgment, I’ve decided to put them back in response to a lot of personal messages I’ve received. Once the first six are approved, I will continue the series until the end.

If you haven’t read these yet, you should know that the story is about a highly intelligent woman who manipulates her husband into a strict and harsh (or, as has been argued by my critics, abusive) femdom relationship in order to satisfy her ever-growing sadistic urges. If this type of story isn’t your cup of tea, I strongly discourage you from reading it.

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Ellen was right. It did take me some time to adjust to my new status. But to be fair, she was much stricter with me as her submissive than I’d been with her as mine, so I had a lot more to adjust to. Here are a few examples of how our life at home changed:

When I was dominant, Ellen had called me “Sir,” but she’d used it less as a title, and more as a substitute for my name. So it didn’t come up all that frequently in conversation. When she took charge, however, she required me to append “Mistress” to most of the phrases that I addressed to her, and to acknowledge her every command with “Yes, Mistress.” (If you can imagine a friendly conversation between, say, a Lieutenant and a Colonel in the army, you get the idea.)

As Ellen’s dominant, I’d never paid much attention to her posture, as long as she carried herself respectfully and submissively, which she always did. But she was a stickler about my posture. In her presence, I was required to keep my head bowed at all times, and I was forbidden to look in her eyes, unless she explicitly ordered it. If I entered a room where she was, I was required to stand until she ordered me to sit, and as often as not, she either left me standing or told me to sit on the floor. Likewise, if she entered a room where I was sitting, I had to stand up until she told me whether and where to sit back down.

When Ellen was my submissive, I’d always enjoyed sleeping next to her, holding her close and letting her feel the security of being owned and treasured by a powerful man. But she made me kneel next to “her” bed each night and ask for permission to share it with her. She refused only when she had a very good reason to, but she always made it clear that sleeping in the bed was a privilege, not a right.

And I was never, ever to sully her bed with my body when I was by myself.

This meant that no matter how tired I was, I had to wait for her to go to bed before I could. Sometimes, I’d doze off in the armchair near the bed, and if she’d fallen asleep in the meantime, I had the unenviable choice between spending the night in discomfort, or waking her up to ask for permission to get into bed. Ugh.

She also imposed many more day-to-day rules than I had, and she was meticulous about their enforcement. When I transgressed in any way, I never failed to receive a sharp smack or two on my bare buttocks from her riding crop, which she kept within reach at all times. (Unless we had guests, I was naked and collared at all times, as she had been.) At first, I found it difficult to keep track of all her rules, which were never written down anywhere, but her keen eye caught everything, and she never let slide even the most minor infraction.

“Look, the only way this arrangement will work, is if we make it work,” she once patiently explained to me. “All the experts agree that the key to effective discipline is consistency. And I think you deserve a wife who will put in the effort to punish you consistently. Don’t you agree?”

Of course, my only possible answer to this was, “Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

One rule seemed to sum up the others, although she never put it this way: “You will always remember that Ellen is your Mistress, and you will always treat her as such.” Obeying this unspoken rule went a long way to keeping me on track, even when I didn’t remember exactly what I was supposed to do in a particular situation. I’m sure it saved my butt a lot of welts.

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I remember one day kneeling contentedly at Ellen’s feet, as she stroked my hair to reward me for some good behavior or other. Since she seemed to be in such a kind mood, I dared to ask her why she was so much stricter with me than I’d been with her.

Big mistake.

She froze, withdrew her hand from the top of my head, and used her forefinger to lift up my chin slowly until my eyes met hers. “Do you really need me to explain that to you?” she asked, giving me a withering look.

“It would be nice,” I answered, with just a hint of sarcasm. “When I agreed to this, I thought things would stay basically the same, but with our roles reversed.”

“Oh, you mean with me constantly cheating on you and lying to you?” she retorted coldly.

“Come on. You know what I mean,” I said, allowing a measure petulance into my voice.

She sighed impatiently. “Fine, I’ll explain,” she said. “You didn’t need to be very strict with me, because I was already the woman you wanted me to be.” Well, I certainly couldn’t argue with her on that point. “Your situation is entirely different. My task is to rewire your brain completely. To rid you of all your harmful attitudes and habits. To help you discover a nature that you’ve buried so deep you don’t even know it’s there. So I can’t afford to be lax with you. Do you understand?”

Not really.

But I anyway replied, “Yes, Mistress.”

“Besides, if I’d told you that I was going to be this strict, would you have refused my terms? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. If you want, we can put an end to this right now.”

“Of course not, Mistress,” I said hurriedly. Even the veiled threat that I might possibly lose her sent a shiver of fear through me. “I’m very grateful to you for helping me. And I apologize for questioning you.”

“It’s quite alright,” she said, nudging my head back down to its humbled position and giving me a pat. “I’m always here for you. Part of my job is to help you understand things, so you should never be afraid to ask me questions.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“But don’t think I didn’t notice the tone of your voice just now,” she added in her schoolmarmish voice. “You were disrespectful, and you will be punished for that.”

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One thing that did stay pretty much the same as it had been before (but with the roles reversed) was our set of rituals.

Every day when I came home from work, I immediately went upstairs and stripped, taking a few seconds to wash myself off, especially during the oppressively humid Washington summers. Then I hurried to find my wife, usually in the family room sipping a glass of wine, and I stood with my head bowed to wait for her attention. When she was ready to give it, she snapped her fingers, and I knelt at her feet so that she could attach my collar. This was also my chance to ask her to remove my chastity cage for the night, which she was usually willing to do.

On weekend mornings, I got up first to make us breakfast, and afterwards I kept her coffee cup full. I began to take great pride in my new-found abilities — for example, poaching eggs to the precise degree of hardness that she favored, or adding just enough cream to her coffee to maintain her preferred shade of tan. And, of course, my weekend was complete only when I could clearly see my reflection in Ellen’s newly-shined, knee-high, black leather boots.

Over time, I came to enjoy these rituals more and more. And one fine day, I realized that I’d not only accepted my status as Ellen’s submissive, but actually preferred it in some respects to my former status as her dominant.

Wait, what? Really? Why?

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In my opinion, the American TV series Billions contained one of mainstream media’s more realistic portrayals of a femdom relationship. A lot of vanilla viewers may have been surprised to see someone like Paul Giamatti’s Chuck Rhoades, the ruthless, powerful US Attorney for Manhattan, submit himself to bondage and torture at the hands of his wife in order to meet some deep-seated sexual need.

But not kinky people. Kinky people know that the more avidly a man plays the role of Beta in the bedroom, the more likely he is to be an Alpha in his professional life. After all, the reason why top-end professional dominatrices are able to charge hourly fees that would make the managing partners of the whitest of white-shoe law firms blush is quite simply that their clients — C-suite executives of Fortune 500 companies, successful entrepreneurs, prominent politicians, and so forth — can afford them.

Unfortunately, the writers of Billions used Chuck Rhoades’ masochism kink as a mere plot device, not as a central feature of his character, and they never bothered to explain where it came from. Which is a shame, since a sympathetic portrayal of a BDSM relationship on primetime television might have gone some way to normalizing kink. And which is also a bit odd, because the dynamic that impels powerful men to cede power to female dominants is fairly straightforward and would have made perfect sense in the context of the series.

This dynamic, in short, is that most men have a limited capacity for accepting responsibility. Men in highly influential positions must take decisions every day (most often, many times per day) that have a tremendous impact on the future of their families, their co-workers, their organizations, and often of society itself. The consequences of these decisions can be overwhelming, but what is even worse is the relentless pressure to make them quickly and the inability to share the burden with anyone else.

Sure, it’s lonely at the top. It’s also exhausting.

To illustrate, I’ll describe a hectic, but by no means unusual day in my life as a Washington power broker. This was the day, a few months after I’d agreed to become Ellen’s submissive, that a long-dreaded omnibus pharmaceutical bill arrived on Capitol Hill. I won’t bore you with technical details, but understanding what an “omnibus bill” is will help you understand how that day went for me, and how I felt when I finally returned home to my wife.

In brief, an omnibus bill works like this:

1. The White House and Congress agree in principle on the urgent need to pass a particular law, let’s call it the “Child Drug Use Prevention Act” (CDUPA). After all, how could anyone possibly be against preventing child drug use?

2. The CDUPA is circulated, and Members of Congress looks for any conceivable excuse to grab some cash for their home districts. For example, an art museum in Podunk, Ohio has an exhibit on child drug use? The CDUPA should include a big grant for the museum. But wait, doesn’t practicing yoga keep kids from taking drugs? The CDUPA should include subsidies for youth yoga programs.

3. The cost of implementing CDUPA “unexpectedly” grows from an anticipated one billion dollars to ten or fifteen billion.

4. Frenzied horse-trading ensues, until a final package, which has little to do with the original purpose of the CDUPA but which nevertheless costs three times the original estimate, is passed and sent to the President for his signature.

5. Everyone boasts about how CDUPA shows that they are diligently fighting for our children.

Please forgive a brief rant here: I get very annoyed at election time, when I see political ads that say something like, “Senator Smith voted in favor of child pornography sixteen times last year. Let’s get rid of child porn. Let’s get rid of Senator Smith.” In 99.9% of cases, these ads are complete bullshit. It always turns out there were sixteen votes on some $25 billion spending package, which happened to include a few million for an anti-child porn program. Everyone, including Smith, voted “no” on the package, until some crucial problems — having nothing whatsoever to do with child pornography — were fixed, and then they all voted “yes”. But the sixteen initial votes allowed some political hack to smear poor Senator Smith as a child pornographer.

In any event, when one of these omnibus bills comes along, it’s my job to ensure that my clients end up with their fair share of the loot. It’s an enormous job, and it requires understanding thousands of pages of legislative gobbledygook, and knowing where hundreds of members of Congress stand on matters ranging from health care to transportation to defense contracts.

The relentless stream of messages coming across my iPhone reminded me of an arcade game, where the aliens attack from the top of the screen, and you shoot lasers at them in a furious but ultimately futile attempt to fend them off. Inevitably, reach the bottom and crush you.

Senator Smith has agreed to XXX, but he wants me to give him YYY. Is that OK?

Senator Jones will compromise on $XXX. Can I agree?

Senator Black wants XXX, but Senator White wants YYY. What should I do?

Senator Jones says he can deliver the votes, but he needs to talk to you personally.

And on. And on. And on.

And every message worth perhaps billions of dollars to my clients, not to mention millions of dollars in fees for my law firm.

By 7:00 PM, we had been going for ten hours straight. I was exhausted, and all I could think about was going home, curling into the fetal position on the floor in front of my wife, and worshiping Ellen’s feet. And we still had four hours to go.

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A major change our lives was our sexual relationship. We still had sex frequently, although it was much different than it had been.

As a dominant, I’d had an iron-clad rule against performing cunnilingus. The very idea of abasing myself before a female submissive (as the phrase “going down on her” certainly implies) was absurd. Also, I found the smell of some women’s vaginas to be offensive, so I couldn’t imagine that I’d enjoy the taste of one.

But during my first months of submission, Ellen patiently taught me to make her pleasure more of a concern during sex. (It didn’t take her long to upgrade her pleasure from “more of a concern” to “your primary concern,” and then “your only concern.”) Oral service, of course, played an important role in ensuring her pleasure, and she trained me to bring her to climax with my mouth and tongue before even thinking about anything else.

At first, oral service meant only her vagina. But one night towards the end of my first month, as my mouth was locked on her clitoris, and I was hoping soon to put her over the edge, she rotated her hips backwards, withdrawing herself from me. She took my head in her hands and forced my face down, deep into her ass, until my tongue found her anus, and she rewarded me with a soft moan of pleasure. I was surprised at how willing I was to kiss and lick this most ignoble part of her body (although, I reminded myself, the most ignoble part of perfection is still perfection).

The worm hadn’t taken long to turn.

I soon learned always to service her anus along with her pussy, unless she specifically told me not to. And I learned many other things, which helped me give her as much pleasure as possible with my mouth. How to recognize when she wanted attention to her clitoris and when to move my tongue between her inner lips. When to maintain a steady rhythm, and when to speed up or slow down. How to respond to slight changes in her breathing and moaning, or to the swelling of her sensitive tissues.

With time, I became very used to the smell and taste of her sweat and urine and vaginal juices. But fortunately, there were limits. When I licked her anus, she always encouraged me to probe her ever more deeply with my tongue, but although I always feared that I would one day be forced to taste her shit, she turned out to be much too fastidious for that.

She still allowed me to enjoy her body, within limits. In the afterglow of her first orgasm during an encounter, I adored kissing the perfect flesh of her inner thighs long and lovingly, before moving up to kiss her stomach and then finally her breasts. She often allowed me to fondle her breasts with my hands, and sometimes, she even let me suck her nipples.

But she made it clear that this intimacy was my reward for pleasing her (sexually or in some other way), not an act that gave her any pleasure. She certainly never showed me any affection in return. And she never allowed me to kiss her on the lips, except for the occasional peck when we were out in public.

Although there was no formal rule, it seemed that she gave me about one orgasm for every ten or so of hers — maybe once a week or every other week. And always as a reward for some specific behavior. But her repeated denials greatly heightened my enjoyment when finally she did relent.

Usually, she just gave me a quick hand job, as though relieving the pressure of my pent-up desire were an unpleasant but necessary task, something to get through, rather than to enjoy. But sometimes, when she was in a playful mood, she’d take her time, teasing and edging me until I begged her to let me finish, and laughing at me when I finally exploded.

She never, ever put her mouth to my cock.

About once a month, she took me into her pussy, but when she did, she was always on top. She preferred reverse cowgirl (me on my back, her straddling my hips with her back to me) or Amazon (my legs pulled back, my cock sticking out through my thighs, and her sitting on the base of my butt facing me).

When she inserted my cock into her vagina for the first time as my dominant, she explained, “I may fuck you once in a while when I’m in the mood. But you’ll have to work very hard for a very long time to earn even the slightest chance that I’ll ever let you fuck me again.”

Well, that’s encouraging. At least she hasn’t closed off the possibility entirely.

It was strictly forbidden for me to climax inside her. I was required to warn her when I first felt an orgasm start to build, and then to warn her again when I was at the very edge, so that she could deprive my cock of stimulation just in time to maximize my frustration. She thus made sure that from coitus, I received either no orgasm at all, or at best a ruined orgasm, with my cum dribbling pitifully out of my rapidly deflating dick.

Whenever she ruined my orgasm, she always insulted and made fun of me — for failing to control myself, obviously, but also (somewhat incongruously, I thought) for failing to climax like a real man.

Ellen made it very clear that the most egregious violation of her bodily sovereignty that I could ever commit would be to fail to warn her of an impending orgasm when I was still inside her. In all my time as her submissive, I did this precisely once.

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We’d returned home from Fiola Mare, having shared a lot of laughter, as well as a lovely prime rib accompanied by a truly memorable premier grand cru. We were both slightly tipsy and in the mood for sex, and I helped her come very hard after a long session of oral service to her anus and vagina.

As a reward, she took off my cage, and she fondled me for far longer, and with far more sensuality, than usual. When she finally mounted me, my cock was already throbbing, and I felt that I might burst at any second. I’d grown unused to such intense stimulation, and this combined with my absolute adoration of Ellen and the warm tightness of her wet pussy to intoxicate me completely.

As she rode me rhythmically in reverse cowgirl, I closed my eyes and lost myself for a few moments in the incomparable pleasure of sexual intimacy with this most perfect of women. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.

My hips started bucking wildly against her, partly from the intense pressure of my semen seeking an outlet, but mainly from my panic at being unable to hold it in. What would Ellen think of me, if I were to commit such a blatant act of selfishness and disobedience? I tried to give her the required warning, but in the intensity of the moment, I choked on the words. My writhing hastened the inevitable, and I exploded inside her, my head slamming against the pillow several times from the force of the release.