My Journey to Submission Pt. 05

Ellen froze. And I mean, she really froze.

Every muscle in her body tensed at once, and it seemed that her blood temperature dropped ten degrees in half as many seconds. "Did you just ejaculate into my vagina?" she demanded in an imperious voice. Her back was still to me, so I could only imagine the look of incredulity and revulsion that must have come across her face.

It took me a moment to recover enough to answer. "I think so, Mistress," I finally said, miserably.

She dismounted and turned around to face me. "You think so? You think so?" she repeated, her voice dripping in sarcasm. "How could you possibly not know whether you've just had an orgasm or not? Good god, you're pathetic sometimes."

She reached between her legs and inserted two fingers into her pussy, then pulled them out and held them up for inspection. Her face fell in dismay when she saw that they were, indeed, covered with my sperm. "Oh, that's so gross," she said, her tone of voice reinforcing her disgust. She wiped the slime onto my face and commanded, "Get away from me. Go stand in the corner."

I hurried to obey, in my embarrassment even forgetting to answer, "Yes, Mistress." While I stood, looking glumly at the floor in front of my feet, I heard her go into the bathroom and turn on the shower, presumably to cleanse her vagina of the offending substance.

For a while, I wondered bitterly if she ever thought about all the times when she'd begged me to cum inside her pussy or anus, or to release a load onto her face. But this line of thinking only added to my guilt and shame. I began to feel horrible about all the times I'd taken her for granted, all the times I'd failed to treat her body with respect, all the times I'd deprived her of the adoration that she deserved.

"Turn around," Ellen ordered, interrupting my thoughts. I did so, and through my lowered eyes, I could see the riding crop in her hand. "Now, come here and expose yourself." I took two steps toward her, then I locked my hands behind my back -- high enough to leave my ass unprotected, as she had trained me -- and opened my legs.

She rattled the crop between my inner thighs to widen my stance and increase my vulnerability. Then, she flicked her wrist with lightning speed, snapping the crop up into my balls. Before I could even register my shock, she repeated the movement, giving me a second smack.

The pain from a blow to the testicles is unique. It's not stingy, like the cane or the flogger, and it's not thuddy, like the paddle or the strap. It leaves no welts or bruises. Instead, it depletes a man's will to live by radiating up from his groin and spreading throughout his gut in an intense, blinding, debilitating nausea. (Death from testicle torture usually results from the victim choking on his own vomit.)

My knees buckled from the first two strikes, but with great effort I managed to keep my legs straight and open, and my hands locked behind my back, even as my stomach started to heave.

Ellen put a forefinger under my chin, and raised my eyes to look into hers.

"You're like a little boy," she said slowly and deliberately. "A filthy, nasty, little boy." She punctuated this judgment with another, harder strike at my balls, and this time it was even more difficult to keep my crotch open for her. I doubled over and took quick, hard breaths through my nose to calm myself.

"You know," she continued regretfully, "after this evening, I really thought that we might begin to explore ways to become more intimate. But now you've spoiled everything by giving in to your own filthy desires. Thinking only of your own dick, like you always do. And for what? For ten seconds of orgasm? How selfish can you be?"

She waited for an answer, but I was too overcome with nausea and sorrow and self-loathing to give her one. I made some kind of gurgling sound, but I couldn't formulate any actual words. She shook her head in disgust. "You sicken me," she said, smacking my scrotum a fourth time.

She looked into my eyes, waiting for me to recover enough to focus on her. Then, very slowly and deliberately, she spit in my face. "Now, turn around and face the corner. I don't want to look at you." I turned to adopt my original position, but she barked, "And keep your genitals exposed. I'm not done with you yet, not even close."

I obeyed. I felt her saliva drip slowly down over my upper lip, but I didn't dare wipe it away.

I waited for her, my dread at what I was going to have to endure roiling my gut. I listened intently for any sound that might tell me where Ellen was and when she would return. After a few minutes, I heard the water run in the bathroom sink, and I surmised that she was getting herself a drink. A moment later, she was standing behind me.

She began to lecture me in her most schoolmarmish voice, criticizing my lack of self-control. She called my orgasm prima facie evidence of the selfishness that had ruined our marriage. She drew parallels between my failure to hold in my sperm now, and my inability to keep my dick in my pants before my submission to her.

And she emphasized every point by smacking the riding crop up between my legs, each time more severely than the last.

After three or four more blows, I lost count. The pain from each was enough to drive the air from my lungs, and I was gasping like a fish out of water trying to keep them filled. At some point, my self-discipline gave way, and my hands moved instinctively to protect my groin. But she merely took this as further evidence of my lack of respect, and she swatted them away with the riding crop.

She continued berate me and strike my exposed testicles, again and again and again, until I finally collapsed onto the floor, writhing in agony.

She still wasn't done. She started kicking me hard, her continued fury seemingly fuelled by overpowering feelings of revulsion. When her foot solidly connected with my crotch, I involuntarily curled up into a fetal position to protect myself, and she stopped, frustrated, after a few more kicks.

I lay on the carpet, moaning and sobbing, and she leaned down to spit in my face again. "You can sleep on the floor tonight," she said in coldly. "I don't want you next to me." She climbed back into bed, and after another minute or two, she added, "And stop that whimpering. I need to get some sleep."

Her rejection hurt more than either pain of the ball-busting or the humiliation of her spitting on me. I lay naked on the carpet, choking back my sobs, determined to obey her command to keep silent. I was so miserable and so desperate for any connection at all to my wife that I would have been glad just to feel the cold steel of her chastity cage on my cock. But even that small comfort was denied me.

After several minutes, I began to shiver. I don't know whether she heard me, or whether some maternal instinct kicked in, but I heard her get out of bed and go to the closet. After a moment, she slid my pillow under my head and covered me with a blanket. I could no longer hold back my tears.

She knelt down next to me and whispered in my ear, "Don't cry. Everything will be alright." She began to stroke my hair, and the floodgates opened. "Shhhh... Stop crying now. In the morning, this will all be forgotten, and we'll start fresh. You'll try harder to please me, and that will make me very happy with you. Would you like that?"

I felt overwhelming gratitude for this small token of pity and affection. "Yes, Mistress, thank you," I said through my sobs. "I'm so sorry, Mistress. I am trying, you know. Really, I am. It's just so hard sometimes..."

"Shhhh... I know you are," she said gently, still stroking me. "Everything will be alright. I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. Go to sleep now."

Unbidden, I took her hand and kissed it. "I adore you, Mistress."

"Go to sleep now," she repeated. She gave my head a final pat, then climbed back into bed. I was asleep within two minutes.

***********

Nothing nearly so severe as this incident of ball-busting occurred during my six months in submission (that particular evening came at the beginning of my second year). To be honest, had Ellen subjected me to that level of pain and cruelty very early on, I doubt that I would have been able to handle it.

I would have walked away from the marriage, despite everything.

But she got me used to emotional and physical abuse so gradually that I didn't even realize it was happening. I allowed myself to fall into the pit of pain and degradation, from which I could barely extract myself.

Next, I will explain how Ellen ensured that our relationship would develop in this way...