Ex-Wife's Revenge Pt. 03

This is the story of my life, edited for public consumption. Read this third installment of a saga, if -- and ONLY if -- you enjoy the idea of a voluntary and mutual-consent relationship between a submissive man and his humiliating, dominatrix wife. If you dislike the premise, please do not read on. And certainly do not offer insipid cliches and bromides as advice such as "grow a pair" in the comments, nor moralistic objections. De Gustibus non est Disputandem..

I was now fully integrated back into the marital household, but not so much as husband but rather as servant and constant target for sexual teasing and torment. My wife had never been enthusiastic about sex when we was trying to establish a "vanilla" relationship, and had only grudgingly offered minimal cooperation with complete lack of interest and enthusiasm. I had considered the possibility that she might be a lesbian. But, no, that didn't really seem to be the case. Her resistance to marital sex seemed more to stem from her hard-core feminist ideology that she picked up from the political-cultural trend of the times. She frequently lectured me about the misdeeds of "the patriarchy" and such accusations often interrupted my attempts at love-making. That situation -- her apparent frigidity -- had now come to full fruition since I returned to her after my wasted attempt to find happiness by leaving marriage. What's more. I lived under the oft repeated threat that her strict, harsh, man-hating mother was soon coming to live us.

There was no opportunity for sex whatsoever. Instead, she had me locked in a plastic chastity device, incapable of achieving even an erection, although I filled that device with the most gorged, needy, available two inches of man-flesh imaginable many times per day. Let me describe the goings-on.

In the mornings, I rose around 6 a.m. to prepare her coffee while she continued her beauty sleep. At 6:30, her alarm went off, awakening her. II was expected to be kneeling by the bedside and have her coffee on a tray at the moment the alarm woke her. I had hell to pay if I did not. And if the coffee was not hot enough ---or lacked the exact amount of sugar or cream she expected, the soul-crushing stream of humiliating insults she would heap on me quickly trained me to make her coffee service a priority.

"Where is my properly coffee, you stupid, incompetent idiot?" she growled if she was displeased with the coffee. "You can't do anything right! Take this back and bring me a proper cup of coffee. What a poor excuse for a man you are! Wait till my mother gets here. She knows how to break and train a man."

Within a week, I had mastered all the household chores except cooking. That was designated a woman's realm, and I was not to intrude upon it. After she had cooked dinner, i was to adopt the manner and attitude of a solicitous waiter, serving her, hopping back and forth from the stove to her place at the table. fetching salt & pepper, refilling her water or wine without having to be told, etc. When she was finished with her meal, I cleared the table and cleaned up the dishes, glasses and silverware before she would permit me to serve myself whatever was left over. While I ate, she would direct her criticisms of whatever faults she noticed in my servitude. Then I would clean up again and stay out of her way while she read, watched TV, or chatted with her mother on the phone.

I was to remain close by in case she needed anything. In this after dinner time she would have me tend to her needs, at her beck and call while she issued brief, commands, sometimes communicating her needs with a snap of her fingers or a single word.

Placing one hand over the mouthpiece of her phone while in conversation with her mother or one of her feminist friends, and without so much as looking my way, she might utter the word "lotion!" That meant I was to quickly fetch a bottle of skin lotion and kneel before her, waiting for directions. Still engaged in her phone conversation, she might simply point in the direction of her feet, and I knew what to do. I always remove her shoes as gently and carefully as possible in order to avoid getting a sharp rebuke for distracting her from her TV watching or phone conversation. I find it particularly humiliating if Mavis calls me out in loud, unequivocal terms that are audible to the party with whom she is speaking, whether it be her mother, another feminist militant or a gentleman friend. She makes no effort to spare my reputation to the person on the other end of the phone conversation who gets to overhear my being reprimanded by my wife in the most insulting way, calling me "idiot" and "imbecile" for the mistakes I may make while tending to her feet. Often she will share with the other party some disparaging assessment of me and my efforts.

"Would you believe what a stupid incompetent this former husband of mine is? He can't even follow instructions. I don't put up with his laziness." And then, hearing affirmation of her assessment from the other party on the phone, she will remark further. "I'm glad you agree. You always wondered why I put up with his stupidity. Well now, he's learned his lesson, and he has to do what I tell him."

Sometimes, actually quite regularly, she has me work on her toe nail polish, removing the old polish with solvent and applying new polish, sometimes a new color, or replacement of the original color, all according to her exorbitant instructions. It affords my wife another among many diverse opportunities to avoid having to perform such menial tasks herself and at the same time keep me fully aware of my lowly status.

But these chores she imposes upon me also serve to stimulate my imagination and sexual desire. From kneeling in front of her while going about my tasks, I have ample, prolonged opportunity to gaze upward along her magnificent legs and thighs, rendered absolutely perfect as to the curves and tone owing to the diligent program of exercise in which she engages at the local gym where she has most of her social contacts. She rarely displays modesty during my sessions of tending to to her. In fact, I actually try, though usually fail to avert my eyes from the distant "vee" of her panties, stretched over her plump pudenda, partially shadowed by the overhanging canopy of her skirt. Then I really suffer from the confinement of wearing a tight chastity device, because my manhood responds, though ineffectively and in a supremely unsatisfactory way, constricted as it is within the unyielding plastic chastity device. This suffering grows worse as days, and then weeks, pass without any orgasmic relief.

Usually after I have completed a such chores, Mavis will -- in the most indifferent and condescending mode possible -- offer me her idea of a reward.

"Go ahead," she will say. "This is your reward. Kiss them. Kiss my feet. KIss my legs. Unless, of course, you don't want to." She ends with a slight laugh, because by then I have fallen enthusiastically upon her smooth legs and thighs poring kisses and tongue as I abandon all pretense of manliness. And although, it will only compound my discomfort, I cannot resist the temptation to press my mouth and nose against the thin fabric shielding her sacred vulva. On occasion, this will result in stimulating Mavis, who however, always remains in full control of her desires. Thus, she may call it quits and send me to bed, or she may send me to fetch her vibrator so that she can consummate her excitement by self-satisfaction. Rarely, she will instead recruit my oral services when she so chooses. In such circumstances, she will instruct me how to carefully and lovingly pull her panties down from around her hips and off of her legs and ankles. This alone sets me into a sort of restrained frenzy of sexual excitement as I see and feel the smooth softness of her hips and buttocks, breathing in deeply as my face is brought close to her nether parts. At last, she will wordlessly point with one finger to the high point of her holy-of-holys where the clitoris resides, awaiting the worshipful friction of my tongue. Although she doesn't use the following term, I cen't help thinking of what I am doing as "oral servitude."

All of this unfulfilled excitement drives me to near madness which seems to amuse Mavis immensely. Rarely -- very rarely -- after I have succeeded in giving her a series of great orgasms, she will put on an act of mock sympathy, cooing softly and making a sad, sympathetic face while expressing concern for my frustration.

"Oh, the poor dear. He's so, so frustrated. It must be terrible in that awful device. The poor little pee-pee all squeezed and squashed."

On rare, very rare occasion her teasing will end like this: "Would you like me to unlock you?'

What choice did I have but to say "yes," as I struggle to find the voice to speak, since my throat gets so dry and constricted with over-the-top excitement.

"I'm sorry," she says. "Is that a yes?" When I reply affirmatively, she half laughs and half continues the charade of sympathizing with my frustration.

"Tell me -- why don't you -- just how much you would like for me to unlock your little thing." Naturally I then undertake a round of begging, demeaning myself with overt desperation as I plead my case from a position of kneeling before her. After an unbearably long interval, Mavis actually produces the key from a necklace around her neck and hands it to me to unlock the chastity device.

Sitting back and assuming a posture of supreme superiority, she then watches as I remove the unlocked plastic tube encasing my member and proceed to display its rapid expansion in length and thickness.

Still maintaining the attitude of cold-hearted superiority, Mavis then prods and pokes my erection with a finger, or squeezes it between her thumb and forefinger with curiosity, as if assessing its rigidity, its turgidity. Finally, she will give me permission.

"Go ahead. I know you really want to. Let me see you jerk yourself," she says on those occasions with a laugh. "Just don't get a drop on my floor or furniture." I ask permission to get up and use the bathroom.

"No," she replies to such a request. Take your undies off and let's catch your stuff as it comes out." I remove my shorts. "Now get down on all fours." I obey.

"It's time!" Mavis laughs. "Time to milk the goat!" She leans over from her sitting position and grabs my rigid member, which, while stiffly erect, is pointed straight to the floor where the fabric of my shorts is arranged to catch the ejaculation. Mavis takes it in her firm grasp, in a blase, off-hand manner, and begin to repeatedly pull it the way that a cattle farmer or cow maid would perform their morning chore. I experience joy like I had never known before.

I realize then, that this situation was what I had sought all those unhappy, contentious years that I had spent trying to coax Mavis, my wife, into a role as my dominatrix. It hadn't worked, and our marriage had fallen apart until she, herself had come to identify with the role. Until she had acquired the kind of scornful, condescending attitude that I had always wanted her to have. As I respond to her infrequent "milkings" and experience not only orgasm, but a transcendent euphoria, a thought came to me. An ultimate, heavenly thought.

"I can't wait until her mother gets here."