My Journey to Submission Pt. 09

Literotic asexstories – My Journey to Submission Pt. 09 by Antipater999,Antipater999
“I think a relationship is like a shark. It has to constantly move forward, or it dies,” said Alvy Singer, Woody Allen’s gloomy alter ego in his classic film Annie Hall. I’ve thought a lot about that quote over the years, and to this day I’m still torn as to the truth of it.

As dating advice for young people, there’s something there. When two people start a romantic relationship, there’s a finite period of so-called limerence, when they can’t keep their hands off each other, want to spend every minute together, can’t imagine life without each other, and all the rest. If they’re smart, they use this window of opportunity to agree on fundamentals: What are their shared goals and values? What lifestyle do they aspire to? How will they balance career and family? That type of thing.

With a bit of luck and effort, they gather enough momentum during this phase of the relationship to carry them through the inevitable next phase.

Because when the limerence wears off, the couple learns that they haven’t come close to resolving the thousands of conflicts that comprise real life. Doing so turns out to be a pain in the ass, and often one or both of them start to think it would be easier to break up than to discuss for the umpteenth time such questions as: How much time watching sports is too much? Is learning to fold a fitted sheet a critical life skill? Does grabbing take-out on the way home count for as much as cooking a meal on the scoreboard of household contributions?

One tried-and-true way stay together during the post-limerence phase is to invest into the relationship, so that the cost of breaking up becomes higher than the cost of dealing with whatever bullshit is up for discussion at the moment. They delete Tinder profiles and contacts of booty-call partners from their smartphones. They move in together, consolidating furniture and linens and dishes. They abandon pre-relationship friends in favor of friendships with people who view them solely as a couple.

This type of investment is, I believe, what Alvy Singer had in mind by “constantly moving forward.”

But at some point, a couple reaches a final destination. Right? When they can just live their lives without endlessly brooding about the progress of their relationship. Right? Take my friends Senator Mike McCleary and his wife Jennifer, for instance. They’ve been married for twenty odd years, and their everyday lives haven’t changed much in well over a decade. Now, I’m sure Mike would protest that his love for Jennifer grows deeper every day, blah, blah, blah. But come on, let’s be realistic. These two don’t need to “move forward” any more, because they’re already there.

On the other hand, Alvy Singer’s observation seems to be much more salient for couples in BDSM relationships, at least in my experience. The reason for this, I believe, is the central role of kink in defining what the relationship is all about. No vanilla couple I’m aware of spends nearly as much time negotiating their sexual dynamic as a typical kinky couple. Are they Dominant/submissive, Master/slave, or something else? Do they switch roles? Is kink just for playtime, or does it govern everyday life? What are the sub/slave’s soft and hard limits? How much polyamory is permitted and/or encouraged? And on, and on, and on.

I obviously consider kinky relationships as “normal” as vanilla relationships (in fact, much healthier in some ways). And kinky couples must navigate the same minefield of day-to-day relationship issues that vanilla couples do. But at the end of the day, there’s a reason why every fetish forum and website labels itself as NSFW and 18+.

BDSM, at its core, is focused on transgressive sex (“transgressive” in the purely non-judgmental sense of “not the norm for the majority of people”). The problem is, the longer a kinky couple’s kinks don’t change, the less transgressive they feel. And if the couple wants to get back into the transgressive zone, then they must try something new. This, I believe, explains why denizens of BDSM forums and chat rooms so often use phrases like “exploring boundaries” and “pushing limits” and all the rest.

This is a long-winded way of explaining why, in my opinion, the tremendous heartache that I was about to suffer at Ellen’s hands was inevitable. She was trying, in Alvy Singer’s phrase, to avoid finding herself with a dead shark.

Understanding this did not make it any easier.

***********

I thought that my first extended lockup as Ellen’s slave would end on a high note. She’d been pleased with my behavior throughout the sixteen days, and she’d rewarded my endurance with the best sex that I’d had since the beginning of my submission.

That evening, we returned home from our perfect dinner date and immediately headed up to bed, our physical desire clearly mutual. It had been a while since she’d let me see her in the nude, and the simple perfection of her body took my breath away. We lay on the bed caressing each other affectionately for a long time, and she even ignored her longstanding prohibition on open mouth kissing.

Then her pent-up sexual need took over, and she guided my mouth to her crotch. This time, she didn’t require anal worship before allowing me to lick her pussy to climax. And after she came, she leave me frustrated. Instead, once she’d recovered her breath, she lay purring contentedly next to me, and she massaged my cock until I was fully erect.

She took me inside her.

Befitting her status as my Mistress, she positioned herself on top of me. But instead of assuming reverse cowgirl or Amazon as she usually did during coitus, she straddled my hips facing me. She held my hands as I fondled her breasts. She moaned in pleasure and rocked her body rhythmically, her vagina massaging my shaft. Of course, I knew better than to cum inside her. But when I told her I was ready, she dismounted and stimulated me with her hand for a few moments.

Then — miraculously — she put her lips to my cock and took it in her mouth, the first time she’d done so since I’d asked her to become my Mistress, so many months before. She swirled her tongue on me expertly, maximizing and prolonging my pleasure at the same time. When she knew that I could hold back no longer, she removed her mouth and gave me a few final strokes with her hand until I had a huge and satisfying (unruined!) orgasm, my second of the day. My body writhed and jerked, and my head slammed back repeatedly into my pillow.

She smiled at me, as I panted in exhaustion. “Look at you,” she said. “You made me so happy today that I completely forgot about my all of my own rules.”

“I’m very glad you did,” I replied. “That was amazing. Thank you, Mistress.”

She stroked my hair. Then, in a curiously tender gesture, she dabbed a bit of the sperm that had spurted onto my stomach with her index finger, and she held it to my lips. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I opened my mouth obediently and sucked her finger clean. Somehow, the vile substance seemed a little less slimy and awful-tasting than it had when she’d forced me to lick it from the dungeon floor earlier that afternoon. She stroked my hair affectionately and fed me my sperm until it was gone.

It was one of the most intimate moments of our marriage.

“Hold me,” she said, laying her head on my chest. I wrapped my arms around her for the first time in many months, and she sighed contentedly and nuzzled my neck. I closed my eyes, happier than I’d been in a very long time.

But just before we dozed off, Ellen roused herself. She got up to go to the bathroom, and when she returned, she was wearing her negligee and carrying my chastity cage. She sat on the side of the bed and snapped her fingers in a signal for me to come and kneel before her. A few moments later, my cock was locked up, and I was wearing my sleeping mitts.

Cinderella’s carriage had turned into a pumpkin.

***********

As I was getting ready to go to work the next morning, Ellen announced that my current chastity period would last for three weeks, and that she would increase my deprivation by one week after every release. So, my next lockup would be four weeks, then five, etc. Her tone voice when announcing this policy made it clear I should not ask how long the longest lockup would be.

The week started off badly. It ended much worse.

On Saturday morning, I served Ellen her breakfast, as I usually did. I waited patiently with my head bowed as she finished eating, then took her dishes to the sink. When I returned with the coffee pot to refill her mug a second time, she waved it away.

“I’ve had enough, thanks,” she said. “But breakfast was just lovely. I really appreciate how much effort you put into it.” She rewarded me with a brilliant smile.

“It’s always my pleasure, Mistress,” I said, and I meant it. I would have cooked ten breakfasts in exchange for one of her smiles.

“Now, I’m going to Tysons to meet the girls for some shopping and lunch,” she said in the same friendly voice. “And while I’m gone, you will tidy up the bathrooms and kitchen, and to scrub the toilets and floors extra clean. And also vacuum the carpets while you’re at it. Is that clear?”

“But Mistress, the maid will be here on Monday,” I ventured. “That’s in only two days.” When Ellen was my submissive, I’d never made her do housework. What was the point, when I already paid for a maid service?

“But that’s exactly why I want you to do it,” she said. “It’s embarrassing to let a total stranger see our house in such a filthy state. You don’t want me to be embarrassed, do you?”

“Of course not, Mistress,” I said. “But it’s…” I intended to say that the house was already spic and span, and that the maid service was nearly superfluous as it was. But my wife interrupted.

“Well, then,” she said. “I’m relying on you not to let it happen. I can rely on you, can’t I?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said resignedly, looking around the spotless kitchen. I suspected my wife couldn’t give a wooden nickel for the maid’s opinion. She simply wanted a pretext to deepen my humiliation and feminization. She immediately confirmed my suspicion.

“That’s a good boy,” she said. “Wait here a second.” She went to the front closet and returned with a garment bag. “I bought this for you,” she said, unzipping the bag. “Isn’t it adorable?”

She proudly displayed a French maid’s uniform — black, with a white apron and white frilly trim, topped off by a black and white lace headband. My face fell.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked with mock disappointment. “I got you some stockings and some gorgeous five-inch heels to go with it. It may take some time to get used to the heels, but the stockings should feel nice, since you already shave your legs. You seemed so unhappy when I made you wear shackles the last time you did chores, and I thought that this would be much more comfortable for you. Wasn’t that a good idea?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I answered. It was true that wearing the heavy iron shackles had been mentally and physically torturous, and in the face of Ellen’s veiled threat to force me into them again, it was an easy choice to assent to the maid’s uniform.

My wife was determined that our relationship would not become a dead shark.

***********

Over the next several months, Ellen steadily tightened the bonds of my slavery. In addition to regular increases in the duration of my chastity lockups, she seemed constantly on the lookout for ways — big and small — to humiliate and degrade me, and her punishments grew more frequent and more varied.

She developed an unfortunate taste for ball-busting. Since my first day as my wife’s submissive, I’d often felt her soft, feminine hand squeezing my nuts to demonstrate her power over me. But it was an intimate, almost playful form of torment, always done with a smile, albeit a cruel one. Once she’d dubbed me her slave, however, she added my scrotum to her list of targets for her ever-present riding crop. Soon after that, she made stomping on and kicking my genitals with her boots her go-to punishment when the cane was insufficient to correct my behavior. I’ve already described my first experience with ball-busting, and won’t re-live the horror of it here.

Then, near the beginning of my seven-week lockup, she exhibited unambiguous sadism for the first time. I’ve already related this episode, but I’ll recap it briefly now for those who don’t recall.

Up to that point, Ellen had beat me only as punishment for breaking one of her rules. She had many rules and an eagle eye for infractions, but even her harshest punishments had always been within the bounds of our Dom/sub (now Mistress/slave) dynamic. This time was different. I’d been on my best behavior, and recently she’d recently even given me an unscheduled handjob as a reward. But then one evening, without any warning or explanation, Ellen took me to the dungeon, bound me in the strappado position, and caned my buttocks severely, for no reason whatsoever.

It was the first time she’d ever inflicted pain on me simply for the pleasure of seeing me suffer. It wouldn’t be the last time.

In retrospect, I should have seen that Ellen’s treatment of me frequently crossed the line from BDSM to abuse. It should have been obvious that my marriage was on a path towards places I’d always said I would never go. But Ellen being Ellen, she made the path so easy to follow that I hardly even noticed where we were heading. The good days with her were so good that they made me overlook or excuse or forget the bad days.

And frankly, I remained so blinded by my love for her, my guilt over the way I’d treated her, and my fear of losing her, that I almost didn’t care, provided that following her path would keep our marriage intact.

Nevertheless, some days were more difficult than others.

***********

On a brilliant October morning, nearly six weeks into my eight-week period of chastity, Ellen and I shot eighteen holes of golf with Mike and Jennifer McCleary. Naturally, we played at the spectacular Congressional Country Club in Maryland, which is arguably the most exclusive club in the United States, since no amount of money or connections would be enough to circumvent the requirement that one be a member of Congress (current or former) to join.

I shot eight over par, two better than my handicap (thankfully, my chastity cage did not interfere much with my swing), so I was feeling pretty good as we relaxed at the “nineteenth hole,” i.e., as we enjoyed a light lunch and a couple rounds of post-golf drinks in the club’s lounge. The conversation was more pleasant than usual, and there was laughter all around. I signaled the waiter to come over to take orders for a third round, but Mike waved him off.

He slapped his thighs with his hands and said regrettably in his west Texas drawl, “Well, Son, it’s gonna be that kinda day. I gotta get back” (He pronounced it “Wail, Son.”) “You ’bout ready to hit the showers?”

I froze. From the beginning of my submission, I’d taken great pains to avoid situations where I might risk someone noticing my lack of body hair, my chastity cage, or my pink, frilly panties. Miraculously, this issue had never come up with Mike before, but there was absolutely no way the I could agree to share a locker room with him now.

Caught off guard, I stammered, unable to come up with response quickly, but Ellen jumped in. “You two always take forever down there,” she complained to Mike. She turned to Jennifer as an aside. “No doubt gossiping about us behind our backs.” Then turning to me, she continued, “Don’t forget, you promised to take me antiquing today, and I’m not about to let you get out of it. I’ll allow you to have a quick shower when we get home.”

At that, Mike gave me a puzzled look. I had a brief moment of panic, worried that he somehow suspected something close to the truth, but then I realized that he was simply taken aback by Ellen’s phrasing, which made me seem more than a little henpecked.

If only he knew the half of it…

However, Ellen’s intervention had saved me from having to come up with an excuse, and I was at least grateful for that.

It’s strange how even a very minor event like this can sometimes set off a landslide of negative emotions. Obviously, I had no burning desire to take a shower with Mike after our round of golf. But it bothered me that I couldn’t do it. And as Ellen and I drove away from the country club, it bothered me more and more, and it got me thinking about all of the other things I couldn’t do since I started submission.

Like fuck my wife, for example.

I didn’t bring this up in the car. In fact, we didn’t speak at all on the way home, but Ellen didn’t seem to notice. She had her own business to attend to that afternoon, so when we walked in the front door, she went to find her iPad, leaving me to my own devices. After stripping off my clothes and donning my collar, I grabbed a beer, walked to my office, and switched on the National League playoffs.

I stared at the TV, but the game barely registered in my consciousness.

I drank my beer and stewed about my situation. I missed the way things had been before. Nothing to do with BDSM or my lost status as a sexual dominant. Just ordinary life. I missed pissing standing up. I missed wearing clothes. I missed sitting on furniture. I missed sleeping in once in a while on a Saturday morning. I missed walking around my own house without worrying about keeping my head bowed. I missed not having to ask for permission any time I wanted to do anything at all, except go to the office in the morning and come home in the evening.

As I was in the kitchen getting my second beer, I began to stew about our current relationship more generally. Again, my focus was not on BDSM. I didn’t necessarily object to my wife’s countless rules, or to the degradation and punishments (ignoring for the moment their increasing frequency and abusiveness) that she inflicted on me when I failed to obey them. Rather, I missed being treated with a modicum of dignity — not as a dominant, but merely as a partner worthy of some consideration.

I freely admitted (even to myself) that Ellen made much better choices about our relationship than I had when I was dominant. And I saw that our female-led relationship (FLR) had benefits for me, as well as for her. Frankly, I’d become much less of an asshole since donning the chastity cage. Still, I felt that I’d been relegated to the role of a mere appendage to Ellen in my own marriage. And this didn’t sit well with me.

I was on my third beer, when I finally got to the heart of what was bothering me so much.

A central aspect of BDSM that people rarely discuss on fetish forums is the vastly different role played by sex in maledom versus femdom. This difference, I believe, was best summed up by the great psychiatrist Frasier Crane: “Men can’t use sex to get what we want. Sex is what we want.” The iconic image of femdom is of an imperious dominatrix in bondage gear looking down cruelly at her kneeling, naked, cowering submissive and announcing that he can expect no sexual release for the foreseeable future. It would be laughable to depict this scene with the genders reversed.

Maledom is fundamentally about ensuring the sexual availability of the submissive female. Usually, this means having sex frequently, often more frequently than she wants. Hence, the ubiquitous images on BDSM sites of women tied up and penetrated, or being forced to achieve multiple orgasms on the Sybian or with vibrating wands applied to their vaginas.

Sure, one sees the occasional image of a woman in a chastity belt. But the implication of female chastity is not that the submissive is denied sex, but rather that she is allowed sex only at the discretion of her dominant — which, again, is probably at least as frequently than she desires.

The male chastity cage serves an entirely different function. The female dominant uses the cage to control her submissive’s non-sexual behavior by limiting his access to sex. The implication is that she has no needs or desires of her own (at least none that her partner could fulfil), and that male sexuality is a regrettable vestige of evolution — something that she must consider only grudgingly, usually as a reward for obedience. I can’t even begin to think of how a dominatrix might “force” her submissive to achieve an orgasm.

I fully understand, of course, that many men have a chastity kink, and they are immensely turned on by the sexual frustration and denial of femdom. And I respect that. But it’s not my kink.

So, as I sat watching the Milwaukee Brewers get pounded by the Atlanta Braves, I concluded that, in my case at least, this asymmetry was profoundly unjust. Enforcing rules more strictly than I had, beating me harder and more often, and so forth was one thing. Fundamentally changing the nature of our sexual relationship was something entirely different.

And my complaint wasn’t just about sex. Since declaring me her slave, Ellen had begun denying me all kinds of affection and intimacy, things that I’d never denied her when she was my submissive — being naked around each other, sleeping in each other’s arms, kissing for no reason other than the pleasure of being close. I’d be lying if I denied that what I missed most of all was the intimacy of sex and the warm feeling of knowing that Ellen desired me. But these other forms of intimacy were undeniably important.

Such were the thoughts that were going through my head when the Braves went to bat at the bottom of the sixth inning. When I took a pull at my fourth beer and prepared to wallow even more deeply in my emotional funk.

When Ellen entered my office.

***********

Many couples in BDSM relationships schedule a regular “check in” session, perhaps once a month, or more frequently if needed. These sessions provide the submissive a safe space where they can let their dominant know how they are feeling about the relationship, raise any concerns they may have, ask questions that might otherwise be forbidden, and so on. This practice lets the submissive know that their voice is heard, and that they’re not just a victim of caprice on the part of their partner.

It’s also a good way to hold their partner to account. If a dominant, who has taken responsibility for the sexual and emotional well-being of their submissive, finds themselves answering too many questions with “I don’t know why I did that,” or “I just felt like it,” or “Because I said so,” then perhaps they should rethink whether they are really cut out for the role. Likewise, a sub who feels unsatisfied with the answers they receive might want to start looking for a new dom.

Even though I consider these check-ins overall to be a good idea (for vanilla, as well as BDSM, couples), Ellen and I didn’t schedule them regularly, neither when I was dominant nor when she was. But both of us were pretty careful about monitoring the other’s emotional state and would initiate something like a check-in on an ad hoc basis whenever it seemed necessary.

So, I guess I should have been happy when I realized that Ellen had come to interrupt my ball game and my gloomy mood not for punishment or chores, but rather to make sure that I was OK.

But I wasn’t happy about it.

***********

“Hi,” Ellen said. I struggled to pry myself out of the deep leather executive chair. “Don’t get up,” she said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. You were pretty quiet earlier.”

“I’m alright,” I answered, reluctantly turning from the TV to face her. I was profoundly not alright, but I didn’t want to get into the reasons for my foul mood. I figured that if she’d just leave me alone to watch the game and stew in peace for a while, then maybe I’d snap out of my funk.

She looked at me suspiciously. “Have you been feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No, Mistress, I’m fine,” I answered. But I was unable to muster the required cheerfulness to make my answer convincing. She took my chin in her fingers and forced me to look her in the eye.

“You have been feeling sorry for yourself, haven’t you?” she insisted. “Why? Have I done something wrong?”

“No, Mistress,” I answered, “of course not.”

Except everything.

“You know how much I hate it when you get like this for no reason,” she said. “Maybe I should take you downstairs right now. If I put your private parts in the vise, I could probably squeeze some of the negativity out of you. And even if I couldn’t, you’d at least have something to feel sorry for yourself about.”

I couldn’t help mumbling under my breath, “Whatever.” Aloud, I said in a tired voice, “Yes, Mistress, if that’s what you want.” I stood up without waiting for her command and made to take a step toward the door of my office.

She jabbed her finger into the middle of my chest to stop me. “Sit down,” she commanded sharply, pushing me back into the chair. “Alright,” she said in a more conciliatory tone. “I guess I shouldn’t have gone there right away.” She picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “Now, tell me what’s going on with you.”

I paused, still not wanting to talk about it. But then, perhaps because my tongue was loosened by the three beers I’d already consumed, I blurted out, “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” she asked.

“Normal life,” I said. “You know. Living like everyone else.”

Ellen laughed. “When have we ever lived like everyone else? For a couple of months, maybe? Five years ago? How can you miss what you’ve never had? Do you miss normal life, or do you just miss the way it was before? Do you want to top me again, is that it?”

“No, I don’t want to top you,” I said tiredly. “I know you don’t believe that, but I really don’t. It’s all the other stuff.”

“All what other stuff?” she asked.

Her tone seemed to invite candidness, and since I was more than a bit tipsy, I let myself spill all the beans about what I’d been brooding over for the previous hour. I complained about pissing like a girl, about always worrying about someone seeing me in my panties, about always bowing my head and sitting on the floor. She nodded thoughtfully, as though in agreement, so I continued. I confessed to my general unhappiness with our relationship, especially with not seeming to count for anything. My candidness, however, did not extend as far as confessing to my desire for more sex.

That topic was simply too risky to raise with the woman who held the key to my chastity cage.

“I don’t get how any of this is different from the way you treated me.” she asked when I’d concluded. “Except that now the shoe’s on the other foot.”

“It’s a lot different, and you know it,” I answered. “I was never anywhere near this strict with you.”

“But we’ve already discussed why that is,” she said. “We agreed that you need me to be strict.”

“And I admit that it’s been good for me in a lot of ways,” I said. “But it seems like the more I try to please you, the stricter you get. For the first few months, I was really starting to enjoy being your submissive. But it’s getting hard.”

“But you’re not my submissive anymore,” she said. “You’re my slave now, and you need to get used to that. I agree that you’ve been working hard to please me. That’s exactly why I keep trying to help you be better. You don’t want me to stop helping you, do you?”

I shook my head. We were talking past each other, as thought we were living in two different realities. “There’s just so much I miss from before,” I said. “Being close to you. Being intimate with you.”

At that, she rolled her eyes and said sarcastically, “Oh, so you want more sex. What a surprise.”

“I didn’t say sex,” I said. “I said being intimate.”

“Whenever a man says he wants to be intimate with woman,” she said, “he really means he wants to put his penis in her vagina.”

“Sure, sometimes. OK, usually. But this isn’t about that,” I said. “You just seem so far away all the time. Like I don’t matter to you at all.”

She paused and looked into my eyes, as though that one struck home. “Certainly, you matter to me,” she said. “You’re the most important person in my life. I’m sorry if I don’t do enough to show you that.”

“I’m not trying to make you sorry,” I replied. “I’m just… Never mind, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” I was already tired of the conversation, and just wanted to get back to my ball game. But Ellen surprised me by taking a conciliatory tone.

“Alright,” she said. “Tell me what you mean by ‘being intimate.’ How can I help us be closer and show you that you matter to me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But you used to be affectionate. We used to talk, about things that were going on with you. I have no idea what’s going on with you these days. Let’s start with that.”

“Well, being affectionate and talking seems reasonable,” she said.

“But I’m not going to lie,” I said. “I think that sexual intimacy is also important. We always had it when you were my submissive.”

“Meaning you fucked me whenever you wanted,” she said, a note of sharpness creeping back into her voice.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I said. “Couples who are close have sex; that’s just how it is. And when you made me your submissive, I still felt that we were intimate, even though you never let me fuck you.”

“I told you, you’re not my sub…” She interrupted herself before again reminding me that my status had changed. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I need to remind myself to see things from your point of view.” She paused, as though making up her mind which way to take the conversation. “Alright,” she said. “I asked you to open up to me, and you did. So, I guess I need to take what you’re saying seriously, or there’s no point to it.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” I replied.

After another pause, she continued, “I agree that we need to be closer. I’ll give some thought to ways that we can become more intimate and enjoy sex together. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied. “Thank you.”

She gave me a pat and a smile, and she turned to walk off. When she got to the doorway, she turned around. “You know I’ll be very disappointed if this is just about you having more orgasms.”

“I understand, Mistress,” I said. “I promise it’s not.”

***********

A week or so later, when I went downstairs to perform my daily foot worship ritual and receive my collar, I found my wife wearing her spike-heeled boots instead of her usual house slippers. By this time, I was beginning to recognize this as a signal that I would soon be suffering in order to slake her growing sadistic urges, but I prostrated myself before her without hesitation.

For the very first time as my dominant, Ellen was wearing what was unmistakably bondage gear (although when in the mood, my wife could look every bit the imperious dominatrix no matter what she wore). Her forearms were encased in supple black leather gloves, which buttoned above the elbow. The garters supporting her silk stockings were suspended from a mesh body suit with leather straps, and her perfect breasts and nipples pressed against the mesh. The regalia exposed more of her skin than I had seen in months, although her holy of holies remained concealed by a small triangle of thicker material.

In my opinion, many online dominatrices, whether in YouTube instructional videos or on private erotica channels, look a little silly. Usually, they’re overly made-up, or they’re trying to stuff too much flesh into not enough red neoprene body suit or black leather corset. And I’ve yet to see one convincingly pull off the popular pseudo-fascist look (the body-hugging black leather jacket and skirt, the SS-style officer’s hat, the occasional sunglasses).

But Ellen being Ellen, she had managed to select an ensemble that was at once highly sexual, and demonstrative of her exquisite taste and elegance. Combined with her natural shapeliness and the fact that I had not seen so much of her body exposed in such a long time, the effect was overpowering.

As I knelt at her feet, I needed all of my willpower to keep my eyes properly averted.

After I’d spent several minutes kissing and fondling the pungent black leather of her boots, licking her soles, and sucking on her stiletto heels, Ellen decided to amuse herself with me for a while, before taking me to the dungeon for a more formal punishment. She stood up and wordlessly prodded me with her feet, until I was lying flat on my back with my limbs spread. Unsatisfied, she kicked at my thighs several times until my legs were far enough apart to expose my genitals completely.

Ellen looked down at me with the faintest hint of a malicious smile. Then she cleared her throat and let a large gob of saliva mixed with phlegm drip from her mouth. Her spit was thick and viscous, and it remained attached to her lips by a thin, sticky strand, which stretched slowly downwards, closer and closer to my face, until it finally broke. I felt the splat just below my left eye.

She lifted her foot and planted it directly onto the gob. With a slow, cruel twisting motion, she ground her spit into my cheek, and I could almost feel her contempt flowing into me through the sole of her boot. She stepped up onto the side of my face, putting all of her weight there for a moment, until she jabbed the spike heel of her other boot viciously into my right breast, nearly hard enough to break the skin. She took her foot off of my face and stood on my chest.

I gasped, as the full weight of her body forced the breath from my lungs.

Ellen trampled me mercilessly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and from her toes to her heels and back again. She was completely indifferent to my suffering. She kept her back to me, so that she couldn’t even see the anguish on my face, and she took no notice at all of my wheezing and groaning. Each time she pushed down hard on one of her stilettos and kept it in place for several seconds, she left a horseshoe-shaped bruise, half an inch across, which lasted through the following week. Looking in the mirror later, I counted thirteen of these marks imprinted on my chest and stomach.

Finally, she stepped off my torso and, standing between my legs, turned around to face me. I gazed up at her, searching for some hint of tenderness or compassion in her expression, but I saw none.

Locking her pitiless eyes onto mine, she lifted her boot and slowly drove her heel into my scrotum. I cried out in pain. She lifted it and stepped down again, this time pushing the spike into my shaft, which was, thankfully, protected somewhat by its steel cage. Still without breaking eye contact, she turned her attention back to my balls, this time grinding them into the hardwood floor with the same slow, cruel twisting motion as before. She stepped on me again and again and again, each time jabbing a stiletto painfully into my thigh or pelvis or genitals.

As usual when she was in one of her more sadistic moods, she didn’t deign to speak to me at all as she toyed with me. Her face was completely devoid of emotion.

Through my pain and humiliation, I felt my cock start to throb. The emotions which drove my desire at that moment are complicated and hard to explain. I reveled in her rejection of me. After all, the woman standing above me was perfect: utterly beautiful, utterly powerful, utterly unattainable. And yet, of all the men in the word, she had — miraculously — chosen me to spit and trample upon. My stomach churned at the realization that my wife would never again truly respect me. That she no longer needed me or wanted me sexually. Worst of all, that she was right not to do so, that my lowly status deserved no consideration from her at all. If she bothered even to show her scorn for me, I should be grateful.

I was her slave. I was no longer her husband. No longer her lover. No longer her friend. Her slave, nothing more.

But the more I convinced myself that I could never have her, could never deserve her, the more I wanted her. I felt that if I could only show her how eagerly I suffered at her hands, how completely I accepted my own insignificance, then she might notice me and take pity on me. She might allow me to touch her, to take from her perfect body some small measure of sexual pleasure, no matter how undeserved.

Paradoxically, I felt that by sincerely demonstrating my utter unworthiness, I might somehow become worthy of her, if only for a little while.

And so, as she again ground her foot into my balls, looking down at me with cold disdain, my pelvis began writhe, my pitiful cock pleading for her attention. I wanted this woman more than words could ever express, and if the price of fulfilling my desire was measured in pain and degradation, then I would have been glad to pay it in any amount. My cock started to grow erect.

Ellen noticed the stirring in my cage, and a look of profound disgust came over her face. Before my erection grew large enough to strain against the steel bars, she stepped out from between my legs. The trampling session was over.

She reached down and grabbed a fistful of my hair, then dragged me to her chair and sat down, holding my head up so that she could attach my collar. But my pathetic desire wouldn’t abate, and I managed briefly to sniff and nuzzle the magnificent breasts that were just inches from my face. I knew that Ellen would punish me for such a sacrilegious act, but I couldn’t help myself. I would have done anything for even the slightest touch of my wife’s body.

She angrily finished buckling my collar and threw me to the floor. To emphasize the depth of her loathing for me at that moment, she shoved me away from her violently with her boot. I curled into a fetal position on the floor and began to wail, perhaps hoping that my pitiful whimpering might induce her mercy. But she ignored me and let me wallow in her contempt. After a few moments, she stood up.

The snap of her fingers ordering me to follow her downstairs to the basement was superfluous. At that moment, I would have followed her unbidden through all nine circles of Dante’s Inferno.

When we entered the dungeon, she snapped her fingers again and pointed to the spot beneath the steel suspension cable. I stood there as ordered, while she cuffed my wrists, hooked them to the device, and pushed the button on the winch’s remote control. The electric motor whirred to life, and in a moment, I was completely at her mercy, my hands raised above my head. She took a moment to cuff my ankles together, then pushed the button again, lifting my wrists until my arms and shoulders bore all of my weight.

Painfully.

Another push of the button lowered the cable a couple of inches, just allowing me to relieve the tension by standing on my toes. But after thirty seconds or so in that position, my calf muscles started to give out, and I was forced once again to accept the pain in my arms and shoulders. I squirmed, shifting the stress from one set of limbs to the other.

My wife left me alone to enjoy my predicament for several minutes, while she unhurriedly adjusted the dungeon’s atmosphere to her satisfaction. She selected a playlist of Bach fugues on her iPhone and tuned the room’s sound system to a volume that was noticeable, but not intrusive. She dimmed the track lighting on the ceiling and positioned lit scented candles around the room. She spent a long time examining the array of instruments on the large table, as though trying to make up her mind about which forms of bondage and chastisement best suited her current mood.

Oh, boy. What am I in for this time?

When she finally turned her attention back to me, it seemed that what I was in for might turn out to be surprisingly pleasurable. The electric winch whirred for a couple of seconds, lowering me enough so that I could put my heels on the floor and relieve the pain in my limbs, although I remained helpless and immobilized. Ellen stood in front of me, so close that I could smell her myriad feminine scents, and she gave my cheek a soft caress with the back of her gloved hand.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” she said. These were the first words she’d spoken since I arrived home that evening.

I took a short breath. I’d learned from (literally) painful experience that this type of wide-open question, without any context, was potentially very dangerous. I might unwittingly admit to an insufficiently servile attitude, giving her displeasure and therefore cause to punish me severely. Given her present sadistic mood, severe punishment seemed inevitable, but I was anyway anxious not to displease her, if I could avoid it.

I stalled for time by focusing on the banal.

“My shoulders are sore, Mistress,” I answered. “And it’s hard to stand on…”

“Don’t be clever,” she interrupted sharply. “I’m not trying to trick you. Just tell me what you’re feeling.”

Despite her assurance that she wasn’t trying to trick me, I still wasn’t convinced that it was safe. “Love, Mistress,” I answered. “I adore you. I worship you. You know that I do.” It was hard to go wrong with this answer, and it had the additional benefit of being truthful.

She shook her head and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “No, no, no. That’s still too safe. I need you to be honest with me. Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” she insisted for the third time. “Don’t lie to me, and don’t try to hide anything from me.”

I continued to hesitate. She arched her eyebrows, signaling that her next insistence would likely be accompanied by a sharp blow of the cane or a kick in the balls.

“Desire, Mistress,” I finally confessed. “You’re so beautiful.” Then I broke down and spilled all the beans. “I want you, Mistress. I want you so much. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Not to fuck you like before, I promise. But just to be near you, to be inside you, to feel you next to me.” I knew that I sounded pitiful, but I didn’t care.

She smiled at me. “That’s a good boy. Now you’re telling me the truth. I know you want me, and that’s alright” she reassured me, her voice gentle and encouraging. “It makes me happy when you’re open with me about your feelings. Do you want to be closer to me? Physically and emotionally?”

“Yes, Mistress. You know that I do.”

“And would you like us to be sexually intimate more than we have been? Is that what you’ve been missing?” she asked. I hesitated, but she reassured me, “It’s alright. You can tell me.”

“Yes, Mistress, more than anything,” I answered. “If it’s what you want,” I added, to be safe.

“I understand. Would you like me to come closer to you right now? To touch you?” she asked.

Of course, I wanted her to touch me. But I was afraid and confused, because all her actions up to that point had prepared me to expect pain, not pleasure. And certainly not intimacy. I found myself unable to answer her with words.

In response to my vague sigh of yearning, she began to run her gloved fingers slowly up and down my back, and then over my ass and down the backs of my thighs. My skin tingled beneath her butterfly caresses. I could feel her breath on my neck.

She wrapped her fingers around my buttocks and pulled herself into me. Her hands went up to my shoulder blades, and she took me in a tight embrace. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt the pressure of her soft breasts against my chest. She burrowed her face into my neck and began nuzzling and kissing me. There was no mockery, no taunting. Just the pressure of my wife’s hands on my back and the warmth of her body next to mine. The pleasure wasn’t sexual, but it was as deep as any orgasm I’d ever experienced.

I struggled involuntarily against my wrist cuffs, desperate to free my arms and wrap them around the woman I adored. Had I been able to do so, I would have been content to hold her there for all eternity.

She embraced me for a while longer, then unwound her arms took a step back. She smiled at me, removed her gloves, and started stroking me again, her skin now touching mine. Without breaking contact, she slowly walked around behind me and stood close. She ran her fingers lightly over my chest and stomach, flicking my nipples and sending shivers through my entire body. She cooed affectionately into my ear as she stroked me, and I began to open myself up to pleasure, slowly dropping my defenses and inhibitions.

Her sensual touch continued. I closed my eyes and moaned softly. I belonged to her completely.

She took my pelvis her hands and pulled my body into hers, grinding her pubic mound against my ass. Her fingers pressed into the nerves leading to my groin, and my cock began to stir in its cage. I looked down and miraculously saw her fingers inserting her key into the brass padlock. A moment later, she had deftly removed my shaft from its steel basket, giving my burgeoning erection room to grow.

Now, I was really disoriented. By this point, I’d been in chastity for well over a year, but the schedule of my lockups remained the central fact of my existence. When I woke up each morning, I didn’t think, for example, “Today is Thursday, October 26th,” but rather, “There are five days left until my next release.” And my last thought before falling asleep each night was always, “When I wake up tomorrow, there will be only four days left.” And so on.

Ellen never unlocked me early, except as reward for some extraordinary behavior, and she always announced her rewards with a lot of fanfare. In the present moment, I could think of nothing that I’d done to warrant early release, and my current lockup wasn’t scheduled to end for another two weeks (thirteen days, actually, but who was counting?).

My body grew tense. “Mistress?” I asked. “But I thought…”

“Shhh…” she interrupted. “No questions.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” I said. But I remained alert and wary.

“It’s alright,” she said, dropping the cage on the floor and caressing my chest. “Just relax.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes again.

She wrapped her fingers around my shaft and massaged it expertly, and in a few seconds, I was fully erect and throbbing with desire. “Mmmm… You like that, don’t you,” she said in response to my quiet moaning. She cupped her soft, feminine hand around my cock, inviting me to fuck it, and I began to move my hips back and forth as she squeezed and released me in a gentle rhythm. I felt an orgasm start to rumble deep within my loins, and she reduced the stimulation just enough to prolong my pleasure. I continued to fuck her hand for a long while.

Finally, she brought her thumb around my shaft to rub it rapidly along the nerve leading to my glans, and I was soon aching for release.

“Mistress, may I please cum?” I asked. She ignored me and continued to massage my shaft, bringing me to the very brink of climax. “Mistress, may I please cum?” I repeated, now desperate. The muscles in my groin contracted in readiness for orgasm, and I was one second away from losing control. Instead of answering, Ellen withdrew her hand and stepped away from me. Sudden frustration overwhelmed me, and my sphincters pulsated, ready to pump out my semen in the event of even the slightest stimulation of my cock.

But there was none.

My wife paid no attention my groaning, not even to mock my disappointment, as she usually did. She wordlessly picked up the winch’s remote control and pressed the button to lower my arms. I rotated my shoulders to get the blood circulating, as she unhooked me from the suspension cable. My groin muscles began to relax, but my genitals continued to ache from the need for orgasm.

Ellen took a step behind me, and reconnected my wrist cuffs behind my back. Then, wrapping two fingers around my collar, she shoved her boot — hard — into the back of my legs, forcing me to my knees. I was taken aback by her sudden roughness. She pulled me down further by the collar, until I was nearly sitting on my heels, and she secured me in place by connecting my wrists to my ankles with a short chain.

She walked over to the table, where she remained out of view for a few moments. When she came back, I saw that she’d donned a black leather crotch harness, to which she’d affixed a thick, ten-inch, flesh-colored dildo. She stood before me, positioning the end of the strap-on just an inch or two from my lips.

“Now, suck my cock,” Ellen commanded coldly.