My Journey to Submission, Pt. 01

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I stood, naked, with my back against the 6X6 post in the center of the room. The leather cuffs around my wrists were connected by a snap hook through a steel eye-bolt, which was screwed deeply into the wood on opposite side. Struggling against the cuffs was futile, of course. And I couldn’t hope to budge the 6X6, which was secured to the subfloor and ceiling joists by a half-dozen 5/8-inch carriage bolts.

I knew this detail because I’d supervised its installation, just as I’d watched over every aspect of the renovation of the space where I now found myself.

The previous owner of my Kalorama townhouse had turned the spacious basement into a luxurious recreation area. Wet bar, home theatre, the works. His pool table alone had cost more than most people’s cars. After I bought the house, I replaced all this with a recreation area more suited to my own hobbies: a well-appointed dungeon, where I could fulfill virtually any sexual fantasy that might come to mind, as I enjoyed the pleasures provided to me by my numerous submissive partners.

Some people who enjoy BDSM are drawn to the squalid. They like the look and feel of filthy concrete floors, dripping drain pipes, rusty bedsprings, and so on. Not me. My tastes run to thick fur rugs, polished wooden furnishings, and satin sheets.

The British define a gentleman as someone who is never rude, except on purpose. My attitude to kink was similar. I inflicted pain and degradation precisely as I intended. No more, no less. And when I’d prepared a woman to receive it — bound, exposed, helpless — then I wanted her focused on what I was about to do to her, not on some minor discomfort resulting from the way I’d tied her up.

So, even in my current predicament, I found myself admiring my surroundings. The large St. Andrew’s cross of solid oak. The steel suspension cable, whose remote-controlled electric winch had allowed me easily to control the tension on my submissives, as they squirmed under my ministrations. And, of course, the king-sized canopy bed, with its top-end mattress, eiderdown duvet, and sandalwood frame. As I’ve always said, the ideal bed is as comfortable for sleeping in, as it is convenient for restraining a submissive in preparation for a proper fucking.

All this was visible in the firelight coming from the large gas fireplace behind me.

The fireplace itself I could not see, since my wife, Ellen, had secured my neck tightly to the post with a three-inch wide strap. Its leather was stiff, and it caused a choking sensation if I tried to swivel my head from side to side. I was, though, able to nod slightly. This was necessary, because she had stuffed a pair of her dirty panties into my mouth, which meant that nodding was the only way I could respond to her questions and commands.

Ellen’s back was to me. She was dressed all in black, in a mid-length, sleeveless cocktail dress of expensive-looking crepe, with silk stockings and spike-heeled boots, which rose not quite to her knee. The dress wrapped around her neck, exposing the flawless skin of her back and shoulders, and its slim lines accentuated her perfect ass and legs. I’d never seen her in this outfit before, so I guessed that she had gone shopping in the two hours that she left me alone to wait for her.

She stood before a large table a few feet away. At her orders, I had displayed there all the instruments of bondage and chastisement that I’d collected over the years. She selected a thin rattan cane and flicked it through the air a few times, the flexible wood producing an audible whoosh with each stroke. She laid down the cane and picked up a heretic’s fork, testing the sharpness of its spikes against the palm of her hand.

She was in absolutely no hurry. She ignored me, as she carefully examined each item in turn, wordlessly demonstrating her ability and willingness to use it. I recalled the times when I had tested her limits, and I imagined that she was contemplating some sort of terrible vengeance.

In the time that she was gone, I’d become aware that the corners of the post were digging into the skin between my shoulder blades. Worse, a bead of sweat had run down my spine to the small of my back, and I’d struggled in frustration, unable to rid myself of the irritating tickle.

But in Ellen’s presence, these sensations faded, replaced by an incredible desire to touch my wife’s body, and a fear of what she was planning to do to me. Both of these sensations were heightened when she finally turned around. Desire, when I saw that she was braless, and that the cocktail dress perfectly complemented her magnificent breasts. Fear, when I saw that in her right hand, she held an eighteen-inch baton with two prongs at one end.

It was my cattle prod.

I’ve always believed that the single most important characteristic of a good sexual dominant is empathy. If I remained attuned to my submissive’s deepest feelings — her pleasure, her pain, her yearnings, her fears — then I could manipulate them to maximize the effect of our sessions on her psyche and ensure her complete satisfaction. To that end, I’d experimented on myself extensively in the privacy of my dungeon, and I understood intimately the sensation produced by every instrument on the table.

While any of them, properly wielded, could induce immense suffering, the one that I truly feared was the cattle prod.

The concentrated electric shock had been surprisingly intense even on my calf, and much worse on my inner thigh. I’d used the instrument on only a couple of women who truly craved pain, and I always made them beg for it first. I’d never worked up the nerve to test it on my cock and balls, so I could only imagine what it might feel like should Ellen choose to do so now.

I steeled myself, determined to take whatever pain she decided to inflict on me without showing weakness.

As she slowly approached, my growing nervousness fed my arousal. I felt my cock stiffen and the glans peek out of the foreskin. She noticed, and she chuckled derisively, amused at my desire for her. She’d never laughed at me like that before. But somehow her scorn only made her seem even more attractive.

I was relieved when, instead of a shock from the prod, I felt her take me in her hand, firmly but not roughly. She knew exactly how to work my penis, rubbing her thumb along the nerve on the underside, where the head joins the shaft. In a few moments, I was fully erect, and she moved her hand down to take my scrotum, caressing my balls gently and rhythmically. My soft moan was muffled by the cotton panties in my mouth.

She looked me in the eyes and spoke. It was the first time since she had entered the room, about twenty minutes earlier.

“Men are such ridiculous creatures,” she said, shaking her head with mock sadness. “You compete obsessively with each other all day, every day. And for what? Power? Money? Prestige? And all the while, you have no understanding at all of your true vulnerabilities. You’re all so stupid. But you — you’re the most ridiculous one of them all. One of the most powerful men in Washington, at least according Politico,” she scoffed, referring to a recent cringy profile of me on the influential political magazine. She continued by quoting from the post. “‘The consummate behind-the-scenes operator.’ It’s all so stupid.”

She continued to massage my scrotum, and her eyes pierced through mine. “You know, I could show you how pointless all your power and money are right now, simply by closing my hand.” She chuckled to herself softly, and then continued. “It would be so easy. Slowly squeeze, until you start to squirm. Then keep squeezing and squeezing while the agony builds. Until your need for me to stop occupies every synapse of your brain. Until all the things you used to think are important just fade away.”

As she spoke, she demonstrated what she meant by tightening her grip on my balls. I became acutely aware of my utter helplessness.

What if she were serious?

There was absolutely nothing I could do to stop her from torturing me. Not even beg, since my mouth was stopped up with her panties. My pleasure turned to discomfort, which turned to pain. She must have seen the distress in my face, but she continued to increase the pressure on my scrotum very gradually.

“Did you know that you could actually die if I squeezed hard enough?” she asked. “Men have, you know. Died from testicle torture, I mean. Although for that, I’d probably need to use pliers. Is the toolbox still in the storage room?” Her voice was friendly and nonchalant, as though she were informing me of some fun fact that she’d come across on her Facebook feed. As the pain increased, I found it more and more difficult to breathe through my makeshift gag. After what seemed like five minutes, although it was certainly much less than that, she finally released her grip on my scrotum.

She took a step back and looked down at my cock, which had gone flaccid.

Ellen laughed out loud. “Look at you. You’re so pathetic.” She took a moment to place the unused cattle prod back on the table, then turned again to me. She reached out, this time taking the end of my now completely limp dick.

She kept her eyes focused on mine as her fingers extracted my glans from the foreskin, where it had retreated from the pain. She took me forcefully, and now there was not even the pretence of affection. She pinched my shaft just behind the cock-head between the bony ends of her thumb and middle finger, causing arousal but not pleasure. She continued to fix my gaze with hers, and I saw a smile play over her lips.