Consultation with Mistress M

Not long after Elise and I met I said, "I like being submissive to a strong woman."

I told her that if, for example, she wanted a sandwich, all she had to do was tell me. She could say, "make me all sandwich," and I'd make her a sandwich.

This was not something Elise would naturally do.

A year after we met we moved in together. I realized that even if she was exhausted after a long morning of cleaning the house, she would still march into the kitchen and make her own sandwich while I sat in a chair watching a game.

Eventually I became her husband. She was never comfortable giving me a command.

The idea of submitting to a woman had been a life long fantasy of mine. So when I told Elise about this fantasy I was telling her something essential about myself that I had feared telling every other woman in my life.

I added this: I said, "you don't have to dress in leather boots or carry a whip though that would be hot if you wanted to, at least at times. Just be confident enough to say, 'make me a sandwich,' without the "please" or the 'would you mind making me a sandwich.''

When I told Elise this she paused and then said, "I think I could do that."

When she said this I think she was describing a wish of her own. That she wanted to be genuine and more direct, that she was tired of being the giver and wanted something else, particularly from the man in her life.

But, on another day, when we were sitting in the kitchen and she was eating a blueberry muffin I had made her she said, "If you were really submissive I wouldn't respect you." When she said this a blueberry lodged itself in a corner of her lips in such a way that I knew she couldn't tell it was there. I got a napkin, held it before her and asked if I could wipe away the blueberry stain. She allowed me to.

Elise agreed to play the role of Mistress in my life but it was difficult to know if she did so for me or for herself. One time, after she laid out the clothes she expected me to wear to a dinner party, I said, "I think you're a natural Mistress."

"No." She said. "You just want me to be. I want you to look nice when we go out together."

As part of my submissive fantasy I told her I'd stay in chastity: no orgasms without her permission. I felt kind of proud about committing to this because in past relationships I'd been a secret chronic masturbator, and had my own private collection of favorite porn videos that I'd jerk off to five of six times a week.

I hoped Elise took my chastity, as a sign of my commitment to her. I guess I wanted some kudos for this from her. But when I told her she said "that's fine," as if it didn't matter.

Occasionally she'd tease me. She'd say, "I bet you would like to cum tonight wouldn't you?" And sometimes when I was hard in the morning and pressed against her thigh she'd wrap her fingers around the base of my cock and pull up and down, long slow hard strokes that brought me right to the edge. Then she'd stop and say, "now be a good boy and go make me some coffee and maybe I'll let you cum when you bring it to me."

I once wrote her a poem about her vagina that I called, "Raising My Flagpole." I thought the poem was cute and funny. It made her smile. I wrote her many poems like this, one a month. Sometimes I look back on them and wince, embarrassed at my mawkish purple prose. Too much sexual romanticism can feel insincere. I knew I walked a fine line.

Just after we met Elise got her vagina waxed so that it was completely bare, and baby soft. She came home that night pulled her leggings and panties off and lay spread legged in front of me and plucked out little pieces of wax from the area around her clit. When I came near she smirked and said, "No touching me for a day darling." Her vagina apparently needed a full day to heal from the trauma of the wax.

She became more comfortable in her role as my Mistress but not real comfortable. She reminded me that she wanted me to be an ordinary husband, plan a trip to the beach. make the bed, surprise her with a night out at the state fair, even be a little rough and unreasonable with her at times so she could complain about me like women do who love their husbands.

She enjoyed how quickly her Mistress words could cause me to get an erection. But one day, after I'd responded to a request she made by saying "yes Mistress," she stamped her foot and said, "I'm not your Mistress."

The shame I felt when she said this was sharp and wounding. I blamed myself. I felt as if I was pressing the subject. Lately, her dominatrix voice had gone quiet. She stopped the playful Mistress texts. It might have been boredom, but I suspected it was due to our growing intimacy. We couldn't knock against each so casually as we did at first. We were in love. We were a couple. I'd had long conversations with her father. It was as if the closer we became the more sensitive she was to the idea of being my Mistress. For example, when we first met I often licked her pussy and sometimes my tongue slipped down and into her asshole. I loved the submissive feeling I got by doing this. But in the last six months she'd squirmed away, self conscious, when I tried to do it. You'd think familiarity would breed a kind of openness but that was not our case. There was more to lose, more threads that bound us, that might get cut, were our perverse play like my tonguing her sweet butthole to drive us into a ditch.

This upset me.

I had an idea that I asked her about a few days later.

I thought a consultation with a professional Dominatrix would be enlightening. We rarely spoke of our erotic life to others. I thought talking to another woman who liked dominating men might empower Elise, give her more internal permission to be a Mistress, so that the whole idea of dominating her husband would feel more acceptable.

It took me a while to get up the nerve but one evening I called Mistress M. She's a dominatrix in our city who had an ad on a website called Back Pages. She said she "consults" with couples to help them establish a female led relationship.

Elise shrugged and said, "I'll learn a few things." when I told her I was going to make the appointment.

We arrived at noon on a Saturday in mid July and knocked on the door of a red brick house on a corner lot in a treeless suburb.

M opened the door. She stepped back welcoming us with one hand signaling us to come in, the other hand shading her eyes from the sunlight. Built like a woman in a Rubens painting, her mouth was full, her hips thick and wide. We paused in the foyer. A large living room lay before us punctuated by a vast array of blue silk pillows sitting on light chocolate colored leather furniture. A small red wool sofa sat in front of the white brick fireplace.

M stepped between Elise and I.

"Why don't you go sit in the car and wait." She said.

She stared at me. The chin of her cherubic face rose slowly, lifting her nose. She stood blocking me from Elise and cocked her head to the right sinking into a stance that said "there's nothing else to discuss."

Elise looked girlish, thinner and slightly pale, overexposed in the light that poured in from a skylight. Her grin filled her face, her eyes sparkling like little crystal chips of joy as if she'd been freed of some burden. "You wanted this" her look said, "do as you're told."

"Okay," I said.

I walked back to the car. The heat of the shadeless concrete street was suffocating. Normally I'd go for a long walk if I had to wait for Elise, even in the heat, but M's words touched off a sense of trepidation. I'd best be sitting in the car when Elise came out.

I waited. An hour passed which was the amount of time I'd purchased for our consultation.

I watched the doorway expecting my wife to emerge at any moment. I imagined she'd do so with M near, a reassuring hand on Elise's back, the two chatting and laughing as if they'd become friends through an intimate mutuality they'd shared about men who want to be submissive. But at a quarter past the hour a car parked nearby and a single man got out and entered M's home.

At half past the hour I was soaked with sweat. Thirty minutes later Elise emerged alone, got in the car and kissed me on the cheek.

"You're hot," she said looking at my sweat drenched shirt. "Let's go."

The drive home was quiet. It doesn't come naturally for Elise to describe what's happened. I attribute this to a propensity to second guess her words, as if she was always at risk when she spoke. I suffered from almost the identical form of hesitancy especially when it came to sex. We worked hard to balance being respectful with a desire to speak honestly. Our independent sexual and intimate desires brought the greatest test to that balance.

"How was it?" I offered.

"Fine." She responded watching the road.

"What was fine?" I asked.

"There's a party next Saturday night for couples only. Do you want to go?"

"Sure" I said quivering. "Do you?"

"Maybe. I think so. I really don't want to see you submit in front of other people though. That wouldn't turn me on."

"What kind of party?"

"A femdom party." She said saying the word "femdom" for the first time.

I wanted to know more about her meeting. What did they talk about? What did she learn? Was there a plan? But that was all she said and I didn't ask any more questions.

@@@@@

On Monday at midnight I awoke and began caressing her. She was asleep, wearing just a tee shirt and panties. I imagined the upcoming party. I ran my hand along her hip which had the curve of a guitar when she lay on her side. I caressed her belly with my fingertips, pulled at her nipples, rousing her to have sex. She pressed her bottom back. My hand slipped inside her panties. I tasted the back of her neck, just below her hairline, where she's sensitive, ticklish. She was salty. I circled with the tip of my tongue, small circles, then kissed my way down to her lower back, to the top of her bottom. I slide down, griped her cheeks and pried them apart. She shifted uncomfortably. My tongue touched her asshole. She jerked away, rolled onto her back suddenly, twisting up, and she punched me in the chest with her open palm. "No." She shouted violently. Her face crinkled. She spat out an exhale and glared at me in the darkness.

"No," she said again and sank back into her pillow, her back turned away.

I sat up. My penis got soft. She'd never ever been so vicious. She usually just squirmed away with a "stop." And I stopped.

I knew I was wrong- that my fantasizing about the party had gripped me, that I wanted to break a barrier with her, to go deeper. I'd imagined she'd press her little bottom back onto my tongue whispering something dominate like, "that's it, lick my ass darling, like a good submissive boy."

Often I live alone in my fantasy world and make up stuff in my head that I think my wife will go for and totally miss where she's at. I do this a lot more than I'm willing to admit.

Before she fell back to sleep she whispered. "That's way too gross for me. Don't ever do that."

The truth is that I would lick her asshole every night if she'd let me, better even if she commanded me to. "Make me a sandwich. Lick my asshole." Same thing. It was gross but submissively gross.

The next afternoon she texted, "No sex the rest of the week. You're in chastity now, at least until the party. I don't want your cock near me."

I sensed the consultation had had an effect. Her Mistress voice was blunt and bold, and sometimes perverse. That Wednesday night she called me out to the backyard, where she'd been pruning the sage and lifted up her running shoe which was thick with dog shit. "I should make you lick it off," she said.

"Gross," I said.

She smirked, slipped off her shoe and handed it to me.

"Go clean it off."

@@@@@

That Saturday she dressed me for the party, laying out my brown wool pants, a white shirt, black belt and matching shoes and socks. She wore a black cocktail dress, made from a fabric that reminded me of doilies. She wore black heels and stockings but put her hair up in an organized bun and wore her glasses, giving her a governess like look.

We were the first couple to arrive. M greeted Elise with a hug and directed me to the kitchen to pour both of them a glass of Chardonnay.

I returned to find Elise sitting in a chair, in a pink walled guest room, her hair down, and M gently brushing it out in long sensual strokes as a mother might brush her nine year old daughter's hair.

I handed Elise her glass of wine and put M's down on a beauty stand where she had directed me to place it with a nod.

I stood in silence.

"Undress Nick, fold your clothes and place them on that dresser." M said.

After stepping out of my underpants, folding them carefully and placing them gently on top of my other clothes, I turned around, my hands behind my back as if I was offering myself for inspection. My eyes were directed towards the rug beneath Elise's feet. I expected a comment about my shrunken flaccid state which I knew looked small when I was nervous and cold.

"Go kneel in the living room in front of the red sofa."

I padded my way down the hallway and dropped to my knees as told, a foot in front of the red sofa, my hands behind my back, my head down. I exhaled and sank back, the pull in my thigh muscles temporarily painful.

Years before I'd met Elise I'd visited a professional Mistress several times who worked out of an office in the industrial area of town. She made me kneel in her waiting room, just inside the glass door that opened to the parking lot, and wait for her before each session. With each visit she made me wait for a longer period of time. Kneeling conjured a solemnity, a religiously tinged humility and opened a place in my mind where I quivered with a kind reverence, as if I were a tiny little boy awaiting the sound assuring presence of my mother, whose presence I was sure would completely absorb or erase any outside worldly concerns. I had yearned for Elise to make me kneel. I'd ask her to tell me to kneel in a corner, or some part of the house on say a Tuesday evening and wait, like a monk waits, until she decided I didn't have to kneel anymore. Though she seemed amused by the idea she never asked me to kneel.

The doorbell rang and I heard M through the intercom say, "come in, it's open." The door opened. People shuffled through the entry. A woman spoke, "oh look, there's a good boy." I assumed she was referring to me. I kept my eyes down.

Within the next half hour five more couples arrived, greeted each other, fixed themselves drinks, mingled, talked, saying "good" or "wow" or "really?" to each other, conveying an ebullient affection. They ignored me, as if I was part of the furniture, though never as if my presence wasn't meaningful in some symbolic way.

Though I couldn't see her, at one point I became aware that M had come into the room with Elise at her side.

"Good evening, hello, hi," she announced as if she expected everyone's attention to move to her which it did as the room grew still.

"We have a new couple here tonight they want to learn what we are about. This is Elise. She is Nicks better half and that's Nick kneeling. Turn around Nick."

I looked up towards M and saw Elise standing beside her. She wore a different outfit. She was dressed as a school girl. Her hair separated into braided pigtails. She had on a long sleeve white blouse, a plaid pleated skirt, white bobbie socks that covered her calves and black rubber boots.

"Nick is Elise's submissive but Elise herself is a switch, in fact she tells me she is really more submissive than dominant though she enjoys having a husband who submits to her. So tonight in keeping with our desire to please the woman of the couple," she paused, interrupting herself, "Isn't that what a female led relationship is all about?"

"Of course," a male said quietly.

"Thank you Jeffery. Of course it is. We're going to make one of Nicole's fantasies come true which also fits with her boy's fantasy. Step out here sweetheart. Isn't she a darling girl?"

"This is Darien. You met him Saturday." A large man appeared next to Nicole. He was bald, wore an earring, and, had grapefruit like biceps. He unfolded his arms and reached for Elise.

They began a role play they'd obviously discussed. Nicole had been a bad girl and Darien would punish her tonight.

"No." I heard her pout. Her face frozen like a stiff little child who tries to stop the inevitable by refusing to move. Her inner brat has a limited vocabulary.

"Don't be a brat. You ruined your shoes stomping in puddles didn't you?" Darien said moving around in front of her.

"No."

"What happens to bad girls Elise?" His voice firm.

"I'm not a bad girl. Leave me alone." She said in a pouty staccato drawl.

He yanked Elise over to the sofa.

"I don't care what you think. You two. Hold her arms down." He said pointing to two submissive men standing next to their Mistresses. They scurried to obey. Each took one of Elise's small wrists. They pulled her torso over the sofa, causing her pigtails to flop down onto the red cushions like funny animal ears. They held her down. I guessed her bottom was in full view, her cunt lips peaking out between her jittery squirmy legs.

"No."

Nicole huffed, her face, just a few feet from mine, was a stew of taut red puffy perspiring patches, a hateful look taking over her visage, determined, as if she'd lost herself to the irritable, peevish inner adolescent in her soul who rarely got her way and wouldn't now either. For a moment the spell of the scene broke. I wanted her home in bed safe with me, caressing her cheek with the back of my hand.

She closed her eyes. Her pigtails lay flopped on the wool sofa.

She wiggled, and fought. Tears were in her eyes. I knew she knew her safe word but her inner girl is as stubborn as a rock, nothing could cause her to lose face and saying red would be losing face.

I thought of a rainstorm we'd been caught in a state park in west Texas. The red clay stained our shoes. We'd worn yellow slickers that matched. We were not a distant couple. We held hands often. We liked each other's company.

The Dom raised her skirt and began smacking her bottom with his bare hand. Her sweet little bottom I cup in my hands around when she gets home from work everyday. Her face grew redder, but her eyes more distant, as if she been enveloped in a sexual aura, what she once described as a feeling of sexual intoxication. Endorphins. A self protective defiance, her Great Wall.

The spanking stopped and I heard Darian ask for a condom. A hand came forward and handed him a small package. He moved next to me, pulled his black silk pants down revealing a sizable cock with a glistening smooth head, dangling thickly between his muscular thighs. He handed me the condom.

"Put it on."

I sat up. A ceiling fan whirled overhead. He was burning man erecting. M stood behind him, amused, twirling a piece of her hair.

I tore the package open. I thought of touching his cock. Then I did. I put my fingers around it at the base. Perhaps I should jack him off now. Stroke him until he gasped loudly and spurted his load onto my bare chest. I'd be Elise's hero.

It grew in my hand. His cock was a cock hard for the woman I loved. It grew in my hand. It spasmed. I place the rubber at his tip and rolled it down slowly over his girth. He then took my head in both his hands and forced my mouth over the head. He pushed hard on the back of my head. I gagged once before he pulled out.

"That's enough," he said senselessly.

It was over quickly. He ceremonious fucked Nicole, rising behind her like a beast, causing her to grunt and rise too. Each time he thrust he growled like a weight lifter and slammed himself into her harshly, pinning her against the back of the sofa. There was light applause. Nicole panted. He pulled out, took off the condom, turned it over and let his semen drip out onto her bottom, as if he needed everyone to see his gooey prowess. He motioned for me to come kneel behind Nicole and I did.