My Journey to Submission Pt. 08

I felt my pride, my manhood, even my sense of worth as a human being drain away.

The chores that Ellen had assigned me weren't difficult, even in the shackles. But that wasn't the point. The point was to make me feel sub-human. To see myself as a drudge, toiling purely for the sake of toil. Even today, having suffered every imaginable degradation at my wife's hands, I can think of few with a more powerful emotional effect than simply being hunched over, naked and shackled, as I went about my day.

Even my reward, such as it was, turned to ashes in my mouth like the fruit of medieval myth. I went to the laundry room, and as Ellen had promised, I found a half-dozen pairs of her soiled panties in a basket atop the washing machine. A veritable treasure trove of sensual pleasure -- or so it would have been at any other time. I should have felt myself an adoring husband, blissfully breathing in the feminine aroma of my perfect wife, content in my submission to her.

But after nearly three hours of shuffling around, bent over in the shackles, I finally understood that I was no longer Ellen's husband. I was no longer in loving submission to her. I was her slave. Not a person, but a possession. A thing to be used like any of her other things, and no more valuable.

I had no hope of ever again standing beside my wife as an equal, or even as a man. I was unworthy of her love or respect or even the most basic human consideration from her. I was a vile, repulsive, panty-sniffing pervert, lucky that she even deigned to claim ownership of me. Indeed, as I contemplated my wife's panties, I would have felt myself lucky if she thought it worth her while even to spit in my face.

I joylessly put the panties in the sink, globbed a bit of laundry detergent over them, and turned on the cold water.

"I'm finished, Mistress," I said to Ellen, a few minutes later. She was sitting in the family room with her iPad and a cup of tea.

"Very well," she answered without bothering to look at me. "I'll trust that you did a good job. You may go to the basement. I'll be down shortly." Not taking her eyes off her iPad, she picked up her cup and took a sip.

I glumly shuffled off and fumbled my way down the stairs to the dungeon to wait for her.

I had ceased to look forward to my impending sexual gratification. What did an orgasm matter to a worthless slave? Spilling my pathetic sperm onto the brick floor of my basement wouldn't change the fundamental fact that my life no longer had any value to anyone. I stood alone near my wooden post, hunched over and miserable, for perhaps twenty minutes.

Finally, my wife came down the stairs, and I saw that she had changed into a severe-looking charcoal gray power suit and had put on her spike-heeled boots. She carried her riding crop in her right hand.

My long-hoped-for day of release wasn't turning out exactly as I'd envisioned it.

Ellen wordlessly removed my shackles -- first cutting the string around my scrotum, then taking off my wrist and ankle cuffs. She left the cuffs chained together and hung everything neatly across a couple of hooks on the wall. Presumably, she would be putting the ensemble to use again in the near future.

You might think that immediately upon being freed from the weight of the chains, I would have stood erect and tried to regain a bit of my humanity, if not my dignity. But I didn't. I collapsed at my wife's feet, wrapping my arms around her ankles and hugging her boots. Waves of humiliation and degradation flowed out of me, replaced by overwhelming gratitude at being released from my shackles, and adoration of the woman who had shackled me to begin with.

I started to sob, and my tears wet the black leather.

After a few moments, she reached down and stroked my hair, then put her two fingers around my collar and pulled me to my feet -- not angrily or impatiently, but affectionately, as she might with a misbehaving but still beloved dog.

"Shhhh... It's OK," she said, as she positioned me with my back to the wooden post.

"I love you, Mistress. I love you so much," I said, still sobbing with emotion.

"Shhhh... It's OK," she repeated, as she tied my wrists with rope around the post. I continued to incant my adoration of my wife. "Shhhh... It's OK," she repeated again, as she replaced my collar with the stiff, three-inch wide leather strap, immobilizing my head.

"I love you, Mistress. I adore you, Mistress," I said.

"Shhhh... It's OK," she said one more time, as she pulled her panties down from under her skirt and stuffed them into my mouth.

Finally, she took the key from her bracelet, and she knelt down to unlock my cage. My first extended lockup was about to come to a close. But this momentous event, which had occupied such an enormous share of my conscious for the past sixteen days, no longer held much meaning for me. The end came not with a bang, but a whimper.

Then Ellen's loud laugh broke the spell.

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "I've read about men getting blue-balled before, but I never imagined that your balls would actually turn blue." With Ellen's panties in my mouth, I couldn't explain to her that the discoloration of my scrotum came not from the denial of orgasm for sixteen days, but from the loss of circulation for three hours due to the string around my balls.

Which was probably just as well.

She stood up and faced me, and she smiled. "Alright, now let's have some fun," she said.

She started by stroking my body lightly with her riding crop. Since the strap around my neck prevented me from looking down, I couldn't see anything, but I felt the crop's soft leather tongue glide slowly over my arms and shoulders and chest and stomach and thighs. I began to relax, taking pleasure in the crop's caress.

The Ellen flicked her wrist, and a sharp sting on my left nipple broke into my consciousness. She continued to stroke me. I luxuriated in her touch, I relaxed, then I felt another sting. The crop caressed; I relaxed; the crop stung. Caress, relaxation, sting. Caress, relaxation, sting. Over and over and over.

The mix of pleasure and pain wasn't sexual, and it didn't make my cock rise. But it did bring me acutely into the here and now. The gloomy fog of my time in the shackles lifted, and all my senses were heightened. I was deeply aware of Ellen's presence. Though she touched me only through the medium of the crop's leather, she felt as close to me as she did when we had sexual intercourse.

At last, she took my cock in her hand and began to massage it. My arousal was quick and intense, and I soon became erect. I moaned through the panties in my mouth, as she rubbed the nerve leading to my glans. Then she let go of my shaft, and my moan turned into a groan of disappointment.

"Shhhh...," she said. "Don't be in such a rush."

She went to the table and returned with a device I'd not noticed before. It comprised two pieces of thick plexiglass. The larger piece was a square, maybe six inches on each side, with a large hole near the top and several smaller holes around the bottom and sides.

"The penis is much more sensitive when it's isolated," she said, showing me the device. "So, you go through here," she said, putting her finger through the larger hole to demonstrate. "Then this piece goes behind the scrotum and connects with these screws."

Ellen demonstrated by putting the two pieces of plexiglass together. The smaller piece was fitted with machine screws that matched the small holes in the larger piece. She inserted the screws through the larger panel and secured one with a wingnut. "You see? Your testicles go between the plates, so I can squeeze them as tight as I want and still have my hands free. Isn't that a good idea?"

My face must have betrayed fear, for she continued, "Don't worry. I've no intention of torturing you, at least not today. But before I let you achieve climax, you must give me complete control over yourself. Do you understand?"

I nodded as best I could.

"Hmmm... I've changed my mind about the gag," she said. "I think I'd rather hear you begging."

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, when she'd removed her panties from my mouth. "I'll beg you."

She laughed. "I'm quite sure you will." I felt her take my now-flaccid shaft in her hand and work it through the hole in the plexiglass. She lifted my genitals, put the second panel behind my scrotum, slid the screws in place, and attached the wingnuts. She looked intently in my eyes, as she slowly screwed the panels together to increase the pressure on my balls.

Just as I started to sense discomfort, she stopped. "Alright, that's enough for now. But if you displease me, then I'll tighten them further. And you don't even want to think about what I'll do to you if you have an orgasm without my permission. Do you understand?"

"Yes Mistress," I answered. "I understand."

"That's a good boy," she said, again taking my cock in her hand. Despite the slight throbbing in my scrotum, or perhaps because of it, I quickly became erect again. "Mmmmm... Do you like that?" she murmured, continuing to massage my shaft.

"Yes, Mistress, very much."

"You've been a very good boy," she said softy. "I enjoy rewarding you when you please me." She took a moment to put a large squirt of lube on her hand, then she continued rubbing me. Her hand was warm and tight and sensual. With the lube, it felt nearly as pleasurable on my cock as her pussy did. "I'm very pleased with how quickly you're adjusting to your new status," she continued, looking into my eyes, as she pleasured my cock. "Are you happy to be my slave?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered. "You know I am." I felt the initial rumblings of orgasm deep in my groin, and my moaning grew louder.

"I know you want to climax," she said. "But I need you to wait. When you can't stand it anymore, you may beg. A good slave should always beg his Mistress. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered between moans.

I felt my orgasm start to build. "There you go. Are you ready to beg me?" she asked.

"Yes, Mistress, please," I said. "Please, Mistress, make me cum. Please keep touching my cock."

She again withdrew her hand. "Please don't stop, Mistress," I pleaded. "Please keep touching my cock. Please."

I felt the sudden, sharp sting of the riding crop on my shaft. I gasped in pain and surprise, and she struck me twice more in rapid succession. I softened quickly.

"What did I tell you?" she asked gently. "I'll allow you to finish only when you've given me complete control over you. You're not ready for that yet."

"But you do control me, Mistress," I said. "You do. Please tell me how I can show you."

"To begin with, you can remember that your body is my possession. All of it." She mockingly quoted me, "'Touch my cock, Mistress.' 'Touch my cock,' you said." She clucked her tongue. "But it's not your cock at all, is it?"

"No, Mistress," I said. "It's yours. I'm sorry, Mistress. It's your cock. Please keep touching your cock."

"You know, you always say all the right things, but I don't think you really mean them," she said. "I think you're really just a very clever little boy who knows what I want to hear. But I could help you be a better slave, so that you really do start to mean the things you say. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered. "Please help me."

I felt the vise tighten around my scrotum. I grunted in pain, but Ellen continued to turn the screws, looking in my eyes to gauge the level of my distress. "There you go, that's better," she said. "That will remind you that your genitals are my property. Isn't that helpful?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, panting. The pain made me short of breath. "Thank you for helping me." She took another squirt of lube into her palm and resumed her massage, and again I quickly grew very hard, despite the pain.

"When you're ready for orgasm, you may beg," Ellen said.

It didn't take long. In just a few moments, I was pleading for release. Again, she stopped. Again, she applied the riding crop my shaft until I softened completely. Again, she increased the pressure on my scrotum, until the ache in my balls came to the forefront of my consciousness.

"It hurts me, Mistress," I said. "Please. It hurts."

"I know it hurts you," she said gently but firmly, as she continued to turn the wingnuts. "But I will continue until you understand that I control your pain, just as I control your pleasure." She stopped tightening, and she again took my shaft in her hand.

With her skill, it was a simple matter for her to take me to the edge of orgasm and keep me there. "You see? I can give you as much pain or pleasure as I please," Ellen said. "Now, I know you want to climax, but I need to know that you've given me control over you. Tell me who you are."

"I'm your slave, Mistress," I answered, breathing rapidly, aching for release. "You know I am. Please let me cum, Mistress. Please."

"You're still not ready," she said, shaking her head and withdrawing her hand. Another few smacks of the crop. Another tightening of the vise on my balls. By now, my eyes were flowing with tears of agony and frustration. But my wife's manipulation of my cock was masterful, and soon after she started touching me, I was begging again for orgasm.

"Tell me who you are." She repeated.

"I'm your slave, Mistress. Your slave," I repeated, but she shook her head and clucked her tongue. She withdrew her hand. "I don't know, Mistress," I blurted out desperately, terrified that she would further torture my testicles, and even more terrified that she wouldn't let me cum. "I don't know what to say. Please, tell me what to say. Please."

"If I tell you, then you'll say it, but you won't really believe it." Her warm hand enveloped my shaft again and took me to the brink. "I need the words to come from inside you. Now tell me who you are," she insisted.

I cried out in despair. "I don't know! I'm your slave. I'm nothing. I'm your husband. I'm your possession. I'm garbage. I'm a dog, a worm, a pig, I don't know. I'm whatever you say I am. Please. I'm whatever you say I am. Please, please help me."

"There, you see? That's the right answer," Ellen said, keeping me at the edge. "And you even got it without my help. You're whatever I say you are. You have no being of your own, only what I give you. You have no will of your own, only what I tell you. You have no purpose, only unthinking obedience to me. Forever. That's what it means to give me complete control. Now, is that what you want?"

"Yes, Mistress." She slipped up and gave me one stroke too many, and I could feel my sperm surging out of control. "Please, Mistress, please, I can't hold it," I cried out, and she eased the pressure of her thumb. It took every bit of strength I had to squeeze my sphincters sufficiently, but I managed to hold it in.

"Do you give me complete control over you? Truly?" she asked, resuming the rhythm on my cock.

"Yes, Mistress, I do. You know I do." I was panting from the exertion of holding back my orgasm. "Please, Mistress, please let me cum."

"I need you to say it," she said.

"I give you complete control over me, Mistress. Please."

"And that's what you really, truly want?" she insisted.

"Yes, Mistress, please. I give you complete control," I said. "Now, please. Please, please, please."

"Then cum for me!" she commanded.

I exploded.

Sixteen days of pent-up desire and frustration pulsed out of my cock in six or seven bursts onto the brick floor at my feet. Only the strap around my neck prevented me from slamming my head hard into the wooden post behind me with each pulse. "Oh, god. Oh, god, Oh, god" I repeated over and over, panting hard. "Oh, god, thank you, Mistress. Thank you. I adore you, Mistress. Thank you. Oh, god."

The orgasm was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Of course, it was powerful. After all, it was probably the first time in forty years that I'd built up a full load in my balls. But that's not chiefly what was different. It was the first time that I'd ejaculated by the will of another person. It was as though I'd lost control over an integral function of my body, as though my genitals responded to commands from my wife's mind, not my own. The feeling was as alien as if Ellen had commanded my heart to beat, or my intestines to digest food.

Ellen wanted me to feel her complete control over me, and I did.

I was still breathing hard when she unbuckled the strap around my neck and started to stroke my hair. "You're a very good boy," she said, smiling at me. "You really deserved that. To be honest, I was acting pretty cruel towards you by the end of your lockup, but you never stopped trying to please me. I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you, Mistress," I said.

"I'd like to make it up to you. How about you take me out for an extra-nice dinner, and when we get home, we'll have a bit more fun before I lock you up at bedtime. Now that you've let off some steam, so to speak, I think that I could keep you in my pussy for a long time without worrying about you having an accident. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Mistress, thank you," I said. Her admission of desire to feel me as a man meant more to me than any orgasm, no matter how powerful, ever could. "I'd do anything for you, Mistress."

"Don't tempt me," she answered with a laugh, as she untied my wrists. I took a moment to stretch my shoulders and neck. Then I realized that she'd forgotten an important detail: my balls were still squished between the two panels of plexiglass.

Had she forgotten? Or did she just want to see if I'd have the discipline to ask her for release?

"Mistress?" I said, looking meaningfully at my genitals. "May I..."

"You may remove the device from your scrotum," she answered.

"Thank you, Mistress." I unscrewed the wingnuts and let out long sighs of relief, as the pressure on my testicles eased.

"Alright," Ellen said, when I'd placed the testicle vise on the table. "We should probably get ready to go out. But first, I want you to clean up your mess."

"Of course, Mistress," I replied. I started toward the bathroom to fetch some toilet paper.

"Stop!" Ellen's voice came hurtling after me, loud and harsh and terrible.

I froze.

**********

"Did I excuse you?" Ellen's voice behind me was cold.

I turned around. "But you told me to clean up my mess, Mistress" I said, puzzled, and a bit shaken by her 180-degree change of tone. "I was just getting some tissue."

"I did tell you to clean up your mess. But I didn't say anything about tissue paper."

Her implication was clear, and I recoiled in horror.

I shouldn't have been surprised, to be honest with you. Any perusal of online femdom or chastity forums will quickly inform the reader that a majority of dominant women believe that if they are going to take the time and effort to help their submissives achieve orgasm, then the least the submissives can do in return is to eat their own mess (It's nearly always referred to as their "mess").

More directly, I'd made Ellen lick my cum from various surfaces numerous times when our roles were reversed, so I knew for a fact that she was well aware of the practice. But now that it was my turn, I was drained of the will to live.

***********

I achieved my first orgasm neither from sex, nor from masturbation, nor from a wet dream.

One day after school, when I was in eighth grade, I was lying on my bed with my pants pulled down, playing with myself and thinking about the girl in my class whom I secretly adored. I imagined her entering my room. Unbuttoning her white blouse. Freeing her newly-budding breasts from her training bra. Unzipping her plaid skirt and letting it drop to the floor. Pulling down her white cotton panties to reveal the great mystery between her legs. Offering me the most precious (especially to an Irish Catholic girl) gift of her virginity.