My Journey to Submission Pt. 04

It wasn't long before my concern for the tender feelings of Mrs. Pharma Douche was displaced by discomfort on my own behalf.

I saw Ellen lean in close to the executive, nearly nuzzling him, whenever she wanted to make a private observation. The two shared quiet laughter, and more than once I thought I saw a furtive gesture in my direction. Were they laughing at my expense? A few minutes later, I noticed that Pharma Douche's right hand wasn't visible, and I imagined that at that very moment he was giving Ellen's thigh a playful squeeze under the table.

The dinner continued.

Mike jovially plied his guests with meat, while Jennifer ensured that everyone's glasses remained full. Around the table, the conversation among the Texans had, as Mike predicted, turned to football. To my right, Mrs. Pharma Douche continued to radiate glacial coldness. Directly across from me, there was more nuzzling, more shared laughter, more furtive glances and gestures.

In my mind's eye, I could see Pharma Douche's fingers as clearly as though the table were made of glass -- inching their way up my wife's thigh, pushing up the hem of her dress, stroking her pussy over her panties. The silk would grow moist beneath his touch as he pressed his index finger between her labia. And then he'd...

Ellen's giggle caught my attention, and she winked at me.

A wink? What on earth is that supposed to mean? Jesus, snap out of it. What am I thinking?

I took a deep breath and a quaff of beer, trying to clear my head so that I could re-join the conversation around the table. One of the Texans made a wise-crack about the longstanding rivalry between the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins (as they were known at the time), and I responded with the kind of indignant pro-Redskins comment that everyone would have expected. Laughter ensued.

OK, you've got this.

But then, the most terrible thought imaginable crossed my mind:

Had Ellen shown Pharma Douche her little brass key and explained to him what it was for? Was that the reason for their shared laughter?

Once this insidious worm took hold of my brain, I was done for.

My imagination spiralled out of control, until utterly insane conspiracy theories seemed perfectly plausible. A half-dozen of these flashed through my mind in the space of ten seconds. Probably the nuttiest: Ellen had obviously bought my chastity cage well in advance of that evening. Perhaps she'd timed our first session purposefully, with the intention of announcing my new sexual submission to the dinner party that very evening, in order to ruin my friendship with the McCleary's, along with my career at the same time.

OK, get a grip. That's clearly over-the-top.

But she must have at least told Jennifer about the cage. Right? She shared every other detail of her life with Mike's wife, so why not this? Right? I knew that Jennifer reacted viscerally to the even slightest hint of marital infidelity, so when Ellen had told her why she'd had to put me in chastity, Jennifer would certainly have supported her. Had she encouraged my wife to start an affair with Pharma Douche as revenge? Or at least to embarrass me by flirting with him publicly in order to teach me a lesson?

This whirlwind of emotion -- my confusion, my jealousy, my rage -- seemed centered on my cock, or more precisely, on the pitiless piece of steel surrounding it. The chastity cage seemed somehow to restrain not just my ability to get an erection, but to do say or do anything at all. I felt as helpless in the face of my wife's flirting as I would have been if my whole body, not just my cock, were locked away. I was emasculated in the truest sense of the word -- my manhood completely stripped away.

I started to hyperventilate.

"You alright, there, Son?" Mike's concerned question cut through the fog in my brain. I looked around the table, startled. It seemed as though everyone were staring at me.

Where the fuck am I?

I took a second to reorient myself, then answered, "Sorry, I was thinking about something else. What was the question?"

"I asked," Pharma Douche said to me smarmily, "what, in your opinion, sets apart the top D.C. lobbying firms from the also-rans?"

What kind of an idiotic question is that? Oh, yeah, the soft-ball kind that every lobbyist longs to hear. The kind that allows him to brag shamelessly, while hinting at sufficient wisdom, as well as access to the inside, to justify his outrageous fees. The kind that I've answered at least a thousand times.

The kind I could under no circumstances answer for Pharma Douche at that moment.

"Experience. Our firm has eight-six attorneys on staff with over a thousand years of experience working on Capitol Hill, on every major committee. Over the past two years, we've..." And on, and on, and on. I was spewing the most insipid blah, blah, blah imaginable, and the look on Pharma Douche's face told me that he recognized that fact.

"My husband doesn't like to talk about himself," Ellen broke in. "A big part of the firm culture is 'under-promise, over-deliver.' But as for what you can expect by working with him -- well, let's just say that we've adapted Colson's Rule as our family motto."

"What's Colson's Rule?" asked Pharma Douche, glad to turn his attention back to Ellen.

"Chuck Colson was Richard Nixon's chief political strategist. His rule was, 'If you've got 'em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.'"

The CEO let out large laugh. "Now, that's what I'm talking about," he said, giving Ellen his most dazzling prep-school smile. "Are you sure you're not the one running the A-list lobbying firm? Maybe we should hire you instead?"

"Sorry, I've been out of the game too long," Ellen answered humbly. "I wouldn't be much help."

"Maybe you should consider getting back in. We could talk about a private arrangement."

This was the most douchebag move imaginable, offering my wife a job right in front of me. He might as well have pulled down his pants and got his dick out for a measurement contest. Unfortunately, while I would normally have been happy to engage, I wasn't at that moment in a position to have anyone measure my dick, even if only metaphorically.

"You'd be very lucky to get her," I said, trying to get back into the conversation. "There's not a smarter or better-connected attorney anywhere within the beltway. But as I said, your problems are beyond the talents even of my wife. You need the kind of broad experience that a firm like mine can provide."

"You know, for the past two days a lot of people like you have been telling me what I need. And I'm getting pretty sick of it," retorted Pharma Douche. "I'm not hiring someone to tell me what I need. I'm hiring someone who will do what I tell them to. I'm the one who makes the decisions, and I don't need lawyers telling me what to do."

"Oh yeah? And how's that working out for you so far?" I asked rhetorically. "I hear Danbury's very nice this time of year." OK, hinting at the name of the "Club Fed," where our nation's elite white-collar criminals do their time, was, I admit, a bit too much.

"You know, you'd be a hell of a lot better off if you listened to your wife more," he answered. "If she were running the show, I'd be ready to sign your firm right now. As it stands, not so much."

"And you'd be a hell of a lot better off if you'd pay a little more attention to your own wife and a little less to other people's. You might not be so deep in the shit."

Without waiting for a reply, I stood up and stormed out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in my wake.

The evening had turned dark, but when I walked out onto the deck from the kitchen, a motion-sensor turned on the lights. I preferred the dark. I went to the darkest spot available and looked out into the dark woods. There was a half-empty bottle of Shiner Bock on the railing, but whether it was mine or Mike's or Pharma Douche's I couldn't say.

Who cares? I picked it up took a sip of warm beer.

Through the open kitchen door, I heard the conversation pick up again, but it wasn't long before it died down again, and I gathered that the guests were on their way out. I later learned that Mr. and Mrs. Pharma Douche had left in a huff almost immediately after my noisy exit. After a while, I heard Ellen and Jennifer come into the kitchen, laughing -- about me, I naturally assumed.

"I told you that sumbitch was a piece of work, didn't I?" Mike's voice interrupted my brooding. He gently replaced the bottle in my hand with another. "Thought you could use a cold one," he said.

"Thanks, man," I said. "Sorry for fucking up your barbecue."

"There'll be others. But what the hell's going on? If you're still worrying about the appropriations mark-up, don't. I told you, it's wired."

"It's not that," I said. "It's just some stuff at home."

"With Ellen?" He was surprised. "Hell, she's about the last person I'd suspect would give her man any trouble."

"It's not her. Not exactly."

"Well, I ain't gonna ask. The last place you'll ever find me is between the two of you. But I tell you what, this Congressional session's gonna be a right sumbitch, so you're gonna need you're A-game all the way up to Christmas. And probably a couple of months after. Whatever you got going on, I suggest you get it fixed."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry about breaking in a new pharma client," I said with a bitter laugh.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Mike replied. "Ellen smoothed things over after you walked out, and she may have even succeeded in pulling your nuts out of the fire," he said. "She's a hell of a woman, and you shouldn't oughta forget that. Sometimes I really envy you." He clinked his bottle against mine. "To wives," he said, and he took a pull.

***********

Ellen was silent for the first three minutes of our trip home, as I drove down the half-mile long private road that Mike shared with a half-dozen neighbors. The only shred of dignity that I'd been able to salvage on our way out was remembering to open the car door for her. It was an act of defiant submission.

"Well, that didn't go as planned," she finally said, as we turned onto the main road.

"No," I answered, not wanting to encourage further conversation.

After another couple of minutes, she tried the direct approach. "Do you want to tell me what the hell just happened back there?"

I paused for a minute, then I answered her question with one of my own. "Who did you tell?"

"Who did I tell what?"

"Who did you tell about me?" I repeated, exaggeratedly enunciating my words. Then I clarified, "Who did you show the key to?"

"What?" she asked, and she sounded genuinely surprised. "No one, of course. I told you I wouldn't."

"Not even Jennifer?"

"No. No one, I told you. What's gotten into you?" Since Ellen was preternaturally incapable of lying, that settled the matter. So I changed tactics.

"What's gotten into me is that I didn't sign up for public humiliation," I said. "In all the time when you were my sub, did I ever treat you with anything less than complete respect when we were with friends? Even one time?"

"What on earth are you talking about? When did I show you disrespect?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I exploded. "Pharma Douche! Everyone noticed how you acted around him. It was embarrassing. I wouldn't be surprised if Mike's friends were taking bets on whether or not you'd crawl under the table to suck him off."

"What? Oh, come on, that's ridiculous," she said. "Was I a bit flirty? Sure. But that's my job in situations like that. The only ones there who couldn't see that were you and him, and I'm not even sure about him."

"'A bit flirty,'" I repeated dryly. "Is that what you call it? Did you let him feel you up under the table?"

She looked at me in utter disbelief. "Feel me up? Are you insane? Where on God's green earth is this coming from?"

"You know goddamned well where it's coming from."

"OK, look," she said, forcing herself to take a rational tone. "I suppose that it's possible, on whatever demented planet you seem to be inhabiting right now, that I decided to open up the deepest, darkest secrets of my sex life to a total stranger for the sole purpose of embarrassing you. I suppose it's even possible that I've suddenly turned into someone who gets off on letting random men put their hands under her dress in public." She paused to let my ridiculousness sink in, then continued, "Or maybe, just maybe, I thought that a little harmless flirting might help you get the gig as the guy's lead rep. You did say something about a multi-million-dollar contract, didn't you?"

OK. So I was the asshole. But I wasn't done yet. "Maybe it's not worth it," I pouted. "How much would you sell your dignity for?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, grow up," she said.

There was silence in the car for the five minutes it took me to cross Memorial Bridge and maneuver around the Lincoln Memorial and down Constitution Avenue. Up ahead, the marble of the Capitol building and the Washington Monument burned orange-yellow in the glow of the Mall's sodium spotlights. No matter how shitty a mood you're in, D.C. always looks stunning after dark.

Ellen softened a bit. "Look, this isn't going to work if your approach to it is going to be to sit around feeling sorry for yourself," she said. "This was your choice, don't forget. And since we're doing it mainly for your own good, then maybe you should focus on the positive aspects of it."

"Positive aspects," I repeated dryly. "And what might those be?"

"Well, work for one," she answered. "How many hours a day did you use to waste thinking about your dick? Well, now you don't have to think about it anymore, so you can spend those hours doing something productive. Like not fucking up a multi-million-dollar account, for example."

"Wow, that's harsh. But I guess I can see your point," I conceded.

"And our marriage, for another. Remember our marriage, the little thing we're trying to fix right now? Think how great things could be if you'd put aside your ridiculous ego and concentrate on pleasing me. If you did that, you'd pretty quickly see that ninety-nine percent of what happens inside the beltway is just so much bullshit that you can safely ignore. Happy wife, happy life, and all that."

"Maybe," I replied, unconvinced.

"Take tonight, for example," she continued. "Suppose for a second that you'd trusted me, and you'd followed my lead with Pharma Douche. Right now, you'd have a fat retainer check in your wallet. We'd be laughing our heads off about what an asshole the guy was. And I'd be feeling proud of you, maybe even enough to unlock you for some fun when we got home. Instead, you let your ego get in your way. And how did that work out?"

I paused for a second as I navigated the tricky pattern around Farragut Square and onto Connecticut Avenue. Then, I agreed, "The guy was an asshole."

"You're missing the point."

"No, I'm not. I get your point. I really do." Trusting her was really my only alternative, so I resigned myself to my fate. "And like you said, all of this is my choice, so it doesn't make sense for me not to try to make it work."

"That's a good boy," she said. After another pause, she switched to her schoolmarmish voice. "Now, I understand that you were very upset this evening, so just this once I'm going to overlook the way you've been speaking to me. But make no mistake, your tone has been completely unacceptable, and from now on I won't tolerate it."

"I understand," I said. "I'm sorry, Mistress."

I turned onto Wisconsin, the final stretch home. It was just a couple of blocks out of our way to swing by Whole Foods, so I asked Ellen, "Should we pick up anything on the way home? Some ice cream, maybe?"

She gave me a sharp look.

"What?" I asked.

"What did I just tell you about your tone?" she asked.

Oh, shit.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know all the rules yet," I said. "What are they, exactly? I mean, should it be 'Mistress' all the time now, or what?"

She shook her head, as though mystified by my denseness. "I would have thought that some things would just come naturally. Do you really need me to spell everything out for you?"

"I'm sorry for being dense," I answered, "but yes, it would be helpful."

She paused as she thought of the best way to formulate her will into a rule I could follow, then continued.

"Alright. Obviously, given your position, we should be discreet in public," she finally conceded. "I understand that. But when we are alone, or with anyone that I decide we should be open with, then you will always address me as 'Mistress' and adopt a proper tone and demeanour. The tone you're using right now is still not nearly respectful enough, by the way."

I thought for a second about pursuing the question of being open with other people, then decided it wasn't worth it. At least not yet. "I'm sorry, Mistress," was all I said. "I promise I'll do better."

"Well, I suppose we must take into account that it's your first day," she replied. "Nevertheless... Alright, turn around, and let's get some ice cream. I have a feeling I'm going to want some."

***********

Twenty minutes later, I turned the key in the lock of our townhouse, and opened the door for my wife. I'd forgotten how pleasant such chivalrous acts can be, and I saw that relearning some old habits could be a potential upside to my new situation. Plus, one can't very well characterize acting chivalrous as misogynistic, when the beneficiary of the act literally holds the key to one's cock.

I handed Ellen the little grocery bag containing the ice cream and automatically headed to my office to catch up on the news.

"Stop." Caught off guard, I stopped and turned around. "Drop your trousers," she commanded.

"Mistress?" I asked.

What the hell? Hadn't we just agreed that she would overlook my first day mistakes?

"You heard me," she said. "Drop your trousers."

I hesitated for a moment. But not wanting to compound my earlier mistakes, I undid my belt buckle and top button. I looked into her eyes, silently asking whether she really intended to go through with what she seemed to be planning. She looked back at me impassively. There was no getting out of it. I pulled down my zipper, and my pants and fell to my ankles. My wife continued look at me wordlessly, until I reluctantly pulled down my boxer briefs.

"Now, put your hands on the coffee table," she said. I didn't move, still reluctant to believe that this was actually happening. "Put your hands on the coffee table," she said again. "Don't make me repeat myself again." She enunciated every word in a voice that I'd never heard her use before, not even when she had to call a bunch of unruly lobbyists to order at a meeting. The voice wasn't loud, but it was clear, confident, and commanding. It was a voice that assumed obedience.

I obeyed.

Bent over, with my palms flat on the coffee table and my bare buttocks flapping in the breeze, I felt a completely new sense of humiliation. Earlier that day, Ellen had bound me naked in the basement and asserted her dominance over me with some (as yet) mild cock and ball torture. That had been humiliating in the sense that she'd taunted me and made it clear that she could inflict any amount of pain that she wished if I failed to submit to her. But there was something "adult" about CBT. The act was overtly sexual, and as carried out in the dungeon it seemed more like a kinky game than anything having to do with "real life."

Kinky sex was kinky sex, and marriage was marriage. Entirely different things. Right?

This wasn't a game. It wasn't the use of bondage and torture play to assert control in a sexual relationship between consenting, albeit kinky, adults. It was an act of pure discipline, of a superior correcting the behavior of an inferior. In real life, with nothing sexual or game-like or kinky about it. With my pants pulled down in front of my wife, I felt no different than I'd felt as a small boy in trouble for having disobeyed my mother.