My Journey to Submission Pt. 06

"Sometimes, Mistress," I admitted.

"Just sometimes, or all the time?"

"All the time, Mistress." I felt miserable, but at least the truth was now out in the open.

"All the time," she repeated. "I see. And do you think you deserve to fuck me?" she probed.

"No, Mistress, of course not," I said hurriedly. This was the truth, and I hoped she sensed that.

"Well, that's something, I guess," she said, which made me feel a bit better. "But tell me this: Why do you continue to hope for something that you know you don't deserve?" I hesitated, because I genuinely didn't know the answer. I'd never thought about it like that before. She gave my nose another squeeze between her knuckles. "Don't waste my time thinking up a lie," she barked. "Answer quickly, and tell me the truth."

"I don't know," I blurted out. "Honestly." I searched inside for more of the truth, but I came up empty. "I guess I just can't help myself," I finally concluded.

"Ah. You just can't help yourself," she repeated. She stared at me a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. "There, you see? Now, I think that we're starting to get to the heart of the matter." She removed her hand from my chin and caressed my cheek with the backs of her fingers. "So what you're trying to say is, you'd like to be a good slave," she continued in an encouraging voice, "but your weaknesses sometimes get in the way. Is that about right?"

That sounded like the ideal way to put it, so I agreed. "Yes, Mistress. Sometimes."

"That's only natural," she said, continuing to caress me. "You know, there are things you could do work on your weaknesses. I could help you with them. Would you like me to help you?" I nodded, but as before, she shook her head and said, "I need you to ask me."

"Please help me work on my weaknesses, Mistress," I said.

"Alright. Give me your hands." I laid my hands palms up in her lap, and she reached into the drawer of her bed table. She took out a pair of what looked like boxing gloves, but without the thumbs. She slid my left hand into a glove and tightened its buckle at the wrist, then repeated the procedure on my right.

My "sleeping mitts," as my wife called them, were made from soft leather -- flexible, but thick enough to deaden my sense of touch almost entirely. They allowed my hands some movement, but not enough to make use of my individual fingers. As I got used to wearing them, I learned what I could and couldn't do. For example, I could take a drink of water by holding a glass between the palms of my hands, but I couldn't do anything as intricate as brushing my teeth.

"I've decided that you're no longer allowed to touch me without my permission," Ellen explained. "During the day, I'll be able to discipline you, but these will help you control your urges at night. Isn't that a good idea?"

"Yes, Mistress," I replied.

"If you wanted, I could find other ways to help you become an acceptable slave to me," she continued. "Would you like that?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, and I added without her needing to tell me, "I'd like to become an acceptable slave to you. Please help me."

"That's a good boy. You already took a couple of big steps today, and I'm very proud of you." I smiled at her approval, and was rewarded with a smile in return. "Alright, go back to your side of the bed and go to sleep."

"Thank you, Mistress," I answered.

I eventually figured out that since top-end bondage gear can take a week or longer to deliver, Ellen must have ordered my sleeping mitts well in advance. So, it turned out that the events which led to my transformation into my wife's slave hadn't been nearly as spontaneous as she'd made them seem. I was chagrined to realize that she'd manipulated me.

But in the moment, I felt nothing but the utmost sincere gratitude. Besides, since I'm something of an aficionado of the techniques of sexual domination, I had to give her a ten out of ten for creativity and execution.