My Journey to Submission Pt. 06

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I removed the first six parts of this series due to some fairly emotional negative feedback. Against my better judgment, I've decided to put them back in response to a lot of personal messages I've received. Once the first six are approved, I will continue the series until the end.

If you haven't read these yet, you should know that the story is about a highly intelligent woman who manipulates her husband into a strict and harsh (or, as has been argued by my critics, abusive) femdom relationship in order to satisfy her ever-growing sadistic urges. If this type of story isn't your cup of tea, I strongly discourage you from reading it.

**********

Ellen was as wonderful a dominant as she'd been a submissive, and she managed our D/s dynamic brilliantly -- gradually pushing my limits, expanding my horizons, deepening my adoration for her. For most of my first year, in fact, I never doubted that what practioners would call our Female-Led Relationship (FLR, for short) was one that I would adjust to and even come to feel very grateful for.

Sure, Ellen was strict, but she was always fair. She simply held me to the same exacting standards to which she'd always held herself.

There were occasions, of course, when she felt the need to take me to the dungeon for harsher punishment than just a sharp word and a swat or two with the crop, which was her usual method of correcting my errors. For these, she gave me a safe word (pineapple), although I was much too proud ever to use it. And she was also very good about aftercare -- comforting me, praising the way I'd endured my pain and degradation, helping me understand and correct the behavior that had led to it.

There were many things about being Ellen's submissive that I found surprisingly pleasant. For example, when she had me sit on the floor next to her instead of on the furniture, it was often not to punish me, but to allow her to pat my head or stroke my hair while she praised me for some good behavior or other.

She continued to take me into her confidence, consulting me frequently about various questions or problems that she had. (I remained, let's not forget, one of the most influential men in Washington, so I did know a few useful things, and she greatly appreciated my ability -- not just my willingness -- to help her out on important matters.)

I also greatly enjoyed our rituals, especially kneeling at her feet and polishing her boots on Sunday evenings, because it provided a welcome distraction from any worries that I might have about the upcoming week.

I was even beginning to find that chastity had its upsides. Since I could no longer fuck, or even jerk off, whenever I wanted, I became sensitized to any sexual attention I did receive. Though she unlocked me most evenings at my request, sometimes she she'd keep me lock up overnight her own amusement. She'd tell me how attractive she found me in my cage, and make jokes about keeping me locked up permanently. She'd show me photos and posts from various chastity forums, showing men who'd had their penises pierced to make their lockup more secure, men's penises squashed into progressively smaller cages, and so forth.

At the time, of course, I found these images horrific. Little did I realize... But that's a much later story.

Ellen turned into an incurable tease. When we were at cocktail parties or out shopping, she'd find excuses to brush by me and give my cage a little tug to remind me of her control over me. My knees would buckle. When we were chatting with friends, she'd make double-entendres using words like "lock" and "key" and "freedom." Later, she would mock me for my embarrassment, often while edging me to the point of insanity.

For the most part, though, and for most of the time, our lifestyle was very similar to that of most vanilla couples, just as it had been when I was dominant.

***********

Ellen had given me some valuable advice, which I took, to great effect. I rechannelled my energy from sex into work. Specifically, I put into action an extremely profitable scheme, one I'd had in mind for a long time. With my dick locked up and no longer a distraction, I had time and energy to pursue it.

I won't bore you with a lot of technical details, but the short story is this:

Every year a pharmaceutical company has an active patent on a drug, it can charge monopoly prices, which can result in billions of dollars in excess profits. That's why, for example, Pfizer took such a giant hit to the bottom line when its patent on Viagra expired. But under U.S. law, the 17-year protection period starts when the patent is granted, which could be many years before the drug is actually approved for sale by the FDA.

My scheme was simple: We'd get the FDA to change the rules for certain drugs so that the patent clock would start ticking only when the drug came on the market. Which drugs? Well, whichever ones that an informal working group decided. Who was on the working group? Well, me, together with a few close friends from Congress, the White House, and industry.

If I pulled it off, I would have the entire $300 billion American pharmaceutical industry by the balls.

Success required me to call in every favor owed me on Capitol Hill and in the Executive Branch, but boy oh, boy, was it worth it. Pharma execs lined up to write me retainer checks, and I had three or four Ivy league-educated associates working overtime to draft appropriate language to include their favorite drugs in the scheme. (Under U.S. law, it's not allowed for a government regulation to refer to a specific drug like "Viagra." The rule has to say something vague, like "certain blue pills that make your dick hard.")

The culmination of these efforts was a call out of the blue from Pharma Douche.

"Mister Pharma Douche," I said, in a friendly and confident tone, when I saw the name on the screen of my iPhone. "What can I do for you?"

"I'll cut to the chase," he said, trying to wrest control of the conversation. "I've heard about your scheme, and I want in."

"Scheme? Sorry, you'll have to be more specific," I replied.

"Don't fuck around. I have three products in Phase 3 testing, and I need their patents extended. They should qualify under what you're doing."

"Hmmm..." I said, feigning puzzlement. "I think you may have been misinformed. I'm not aware of anyone working on extending patents on pharmaceuticals. I have been to some industry meetings with FDA and Congressional staff to discuss patent timing, but..."

"'Been to a few meetings', my ass!" he shouted. "You're organizing them. Everyone says so. You can't freeze me out."

"Well, I'm sure the FDA wouldn't agree that I'm organizing anything," I said. "I have heard about a meeting tomorrow morning. I'll text you the details, and you'll have the same chance to comment as everyone else. I'll forward a draft of the rules under discussion."

"A draft? How many pages?"

"Six, seven hundred maybe."

"Bullshit. I can't have my lawyers go through seven hundred pages of government gobbledygook by tomorrow. I'll send you the details, and you can work them in."

"I'd love to help," I said sincerely. "But it would be highly improper, since I don't work for you. If you named us your Washington reps, that would be a different story."

"You son-of-a-bitch, you set this up. OK, fine. I'll hire you, but you'd have to prove yourself. You deliver on this, then we can talk about a representation deal."

"Wow," I replied, in a shocked voice. "I'm not sure how to respond to that. As I understand it, you've already incurred an awful lot of legal exposure. Are you sure that this is a good time for you to be proposing a highly illegal success fee contract?"

"What would it take to make it legal?"

"Well, like any law firm, we work on a strict billing basis. So I'd imagine a retainer up front. Maybe two thousand hours at eight hundred an hour, half up front... We'll provide full transparency over our hours and expenses, and we'll..."

"Fuck you," he interrupted. "You'll have a check for eight hundred thousand by close of business. So get to goddamned work, and don't even think about telling me you need to wait for the check to clear."

"Of course not. I'm quite sure you value PharmaCo's reputation much too highly for that. I'll send you an update on our progress tomorrow." I was perfectly happy to allow him this shred of dignity. After all, Pharma Douche was now my most lucrative client.

**********

As you can imagine, I was feeling pretty jaunty when I arrived home that evening, despite the late hour. Miraculously, there had even been a parking spot open on my own block, saving me the usual fifteen minutes or so of looking for a place to leave my car for the night. The perfect icing on a brilliant cake of a day.

I walked through the front door and went straight upstairs to take off my clothes, and just a few minutes later I found Ellen in the family room, engrossed in a movie playing on the TV. I waited with my head bowed, and after a moment, she hit "pause" and snapped her fingers.

By this time, I'd come to adore kneeling at her feet, and the snap of her fingers ordering me to do so was one of the most welcome sounds I knew. She stroked my head for a minute before putting my collar around my neck, and I positively purred with contentment.

"You seem quite peppy," she noticed. "If I didn't know better, I'd be suspicious that some new woman at the office has caught your eye. Some dewy-eyed young research associate, perhaps?"

I was taken aback by this, since our new lifestyle had, in fact, had the desired effect of driving even the slightest thought of other women completely from my mind. "Of course not, Mistress," I answered, looking up into her eyes unbidden. "You know that I'm very happy to have you holding my key."

She smiled at me. "I'm just kidding," she said, gently nudging my head back down into its proper position. So tell me why you're so happy? I mean, other than having the perfect Mistress to serve?"

"Pharma Douche called out of the blue today," I answered. "He got wind of my deal, and he tried to weasel his way in. I let him squirm for a while, and then I made him an offer he couldn't refuse. And he didn't. The retainer check's in the mail, and we should be able to bill him for close to a million over the next six months."

"Wow, really? I know that's a big deal for you, so congratulations." She looked at her watch. "Hmm... It's already ten o'clock, but if you'd like, I'll allow you to take me to Fiola Mare tomorrow to celebrate. How about that?"

"I'd like that very much," I answered, and she gave my hair a couple more affectionate strokes. "May I go wash up, Mistress?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

Wow.

Between my elation at my victory over Pharma Douche, and my contentment at kneeling before my perfect wife, I'd somehow completely forgotten about my chastity cage. "Would you please unlock me, Mistress?" She smiled, then took the brass key from her bracelet and slid it into my padlock.

Click. I was free until the next morning. "Thank you, Mistress," I said.

"I'm very proud of you. Now, you go may relax a bit before bed. You've earned it." She gave me final pat on the head, and my heart soared with her approval and affection.

As I stood up and walked to the stairs, I heard her movie resume on the TV.

***********

It only took me a few minutes to wash up, but when I was done, I stood in the shower for a while, letting the hot water massage the day's stress from my neck and shoulders. Bliss. I closed my eyes, and without thinking, I put a squirt of shower gel onto my hand and worked up a lather in my pubes. After a moment, my hand moved involuntarily to my cock, and I began to squeeze gently and rhythmically.

Because Ellen let me out of my cage nearly every night, I did have some limited freedom to jerk off, which I took advantage of once or twice a week. Had she been stricter with the key, I would have had to ask her permission explicitly for these extracurricular orgasms, and I don't think I'd have had the nerve to do it. But as it was, she had no reason to think that my daily request to be unlocked necessarily signalled an intention to sneak off and rub one out, because it usually didn't.

A kaleidoscope of female flesh began to dance across my closed eyelids -- nothing specific, just random images of women's asses and breasts and legs and cunts. But as I became erect, these random images slowly transformed into images of Ellen. Ellen's ass. Ellen's breasts. Ellen's legs. Ellen's cunt. My lathered hand moved up and down my shaft and squeezed tighter. My thumb worked the nerve underneath leading to my cock-head.

I saw Ellen wanting me. Ellen needing me. Ellen submitting to me. Somewhere down in my groin, an orgasm began to build. My hand accelerated, and I could feel Ellen's warm flesh against my body, as tangibly as if she were there in the shower with me. Her mouth and cunt and ass all embraced my cock in turn. She moved her body with desperate passion against mine, and she begged for me to cum inside her. I was breathing heavily, and I was so near the edge, that I could almost count the number of strokes I'd need to climax -- seven, six, five, four...

"What on earth are you doing?" My bliss was shattered by a harsh, schoolmarmish voice.

I opened my eyes to see that shower cabinet door was open, and that standing before me, fully clothed and with riding crop in hand, was the very woman who two seconds earlier had been naked and submissive, giving herself to me in my fantasies. She reached in and turned off the water.

"I asked you what you were doing," she repeated.

"Taking a shower? What does it look like?" I said sarcastically. The shock of her sudden appearance had shaken me from my submissive mind-set, leading me to speak inappropriately. I gathered myself. "I'm very sorry, Mistress. You startled me. I was taking a shower."

She wagged a finger in my face. "Don't lie to me. Answer my question."

"I was taking a... I'm sorry, Mistress." I interrupted myself when I peeked up and saw a threatening look come across her face. Embarrassment welled up within me, and my next words came with immense difficulty. "I was masturbating."

"You were masturbating," she repeated. "Touching yourself like a filthy little boy. Is that it?" I nodded guiltily. "How often do you masturbate?"

Again, I choked on my embarrassment, but she gave me an impatient look and I had no choice but to answer. "I don't know. Once a week. Twice maybe. I don't know."

There, I answered. Now, please, for the love of God, stop asking questions about this.

"And how long has this been going on?" she demanded. "Did it just start, or have you been playing with your penis the whole time you've been in submission?"

I realized that it was pointless to obfuscate. Defeated, I answered miserably, "The whole time, Mistress."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "I don't understand you, I really don't. I gave you a little freedom, so that you'd start to see the benefits of chastity and grow to want it on your own. And how do you reward me? By sneaking off to pleasure yourself. By thinking dirty, nasty thoughts and touching yourself like a naughty little boy. You sicken me."

Here, I offer a piece of advice to a reader considering entering into a female-led relationship: If he doesn't want his soul ripped from his body, thrown onto the ground, and stomped into the mud by his wife's stiletto-heeled boots, he should probably avoid opening up to her about any childhood trauma that he might have experienced and still carries around with him.

If, for example, his brilliant but psychologically-abusive, ultra-conservative Catholic mother heaped shame on him throughout puberty with each new manifestation of his budding sexuality. Or, if the clique of popular girls in his Catholic middle-school (which naturally included the girl he secretly adored) made him the particular target of their relentless ridicule and cruel pranks for several years running. (To this day, catching even a brief glimpse of a girl in a white blouse, plaid skirt, and white knee socks can dampen my mood for several hours.)

Of course, I'd made my admissions to Ellen when I was in the relative security of my position as her dominant, but it just goes to show that you can't rely on things not to change.

"I just didn't think it was a big deal," I protested. "You never told me not to."

"You don't get to decide what's a big deal," she answered. "Do I really have to list out for you every little thing you're not allowed to do?" She continued in a mocking voice, "'I'll unlock you, but don't run off to play with yourself.' Don't be childish." She shook her head and paused for a second, then she conceded in a tired, resigned voice, "Alright, you're a man, so I guess so you can't help yourself sometimes. I can see how once in a while, you couldn't control your urges, and you needed to release your nasty semen. But why didn't you just ask my permission?"

"Because it's embarrassing. I didn't want to."

"Is that it? Because it's embarrassing? Or because you think that I'm such a bitch that I'll deny you just out of spite?"

"Of course not. I didn't know what to think. I guess I just didn't think." When she put it like this, it seemed completely obvious what I should have done. But still, how could she not see how mortifying that would be for me? My gut started to feel queasy, and I was afraid that if the conversation continued any longer, my head would explode from a volatile combination of confusion, shame, regret and guilt. "Look, I'm sorry, alright?" I said, emotion rising in my voice. "Just let it go. Jesus Christ."

Ellen snapped her wrist and furiously struck my crotch with the riding crop. Thankfully, my balls were mostly hidden between my thighs, but the blow to my shaft was still very painful. I winced.

"Don't you dare take that tone with me," she warned. "And don't you dare tell me to let it go. I decide when to let it go. Now, tell me about your fantasies."

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

"Fantasies?" I cringed. Obviously, I knew what she meant, but I couldn't believe that she'd ask me something that private.

"Your fantasies," she repeated. "Tell me what you were thinking about when you were touching yourself. Were you picturing yourself with other women?"

"No, Mistress, just you, I swear." This was the one truth that I was not ashamed to reveal. It's not that I was turned off by the idea of fucking a woman other than my wife. It's more that since I'd been in submission, the idea just never occurred to me.

Ellen lifted up my head and looked into my eyes, and she apparently saw that I wasn't lying. "Well, that's something, I guess," she said pursing her lips. "But even so. In your fantasies, were you respecting my body like a good little boy? Or were you using me like a whore?"

"I don't know. It's complicated. Images come and go. It's like..."

She gave me another stinging swat on my shaft. "Tell me the truth. While you were jerking off, were you picturing yourself fucking me?"

Well, if she put it like that, I could only answer, "Yes, Mistress."

"Where were you fucking me?" she demanded.

I was confused. "What? I don't know. Nowhere in particular. The bedroom. The dungeon. What difference does it make?"

I again felt the painful sting of the riding crop on my shaft. "You know what I meant," she barked. "In what part of my body were you inserting your penis?"

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"In your vagina, Mistress," I answered, desperately hoping that she'd drop this line of inquiry.

"Only in my vagina?" she demanded. I hesitated, and she smacked my cock again. "Only in my vagina?" she repeated.

"No, Mistress."

"Where else? And don't you dare make me repeat the question."