My Journey to Submission Pt. 08

In my fantasy, we somehow ended up having sex, but since I had only the vaguest conception of how Tab A fit into Slot B, the images in my mind weren't very graphic or specific. But they were enough.

I looked down, horrified, as a disgusting, slightly greenish slime oozed from the head of my penis and onto my wool blanket. (My sperm's greenish hue still burns bright in my memory, and to this day I don't know if a boy's first orgasm is different somehow, or if this image was simply the product of an overwrought thirteen-year-old imagination.) But even more than the color, I remember the smell -- a kind of sickly-sweet tang that has made me gag ever since.

In a panic, I yanked up my pants and rushed around the room, frantically looking for a way to clean up after the catastrophe. I was equally worried that I might be afflicted with some deadly disease, and terrified that someone would enter my room unexpectedly.

The reason I contend that this first orgasm wasn't masturbation is that I didn't do it on purpose. I was just lying on my bed playing with myself, as I'd done a thousand times since the onset of puberty, and -- boom -- the stuff just came out. Since the fourth or fifth grade, my Catholic school nuns had been drilling into our heads the incontrovertible truth that boys who masturbate will go blind. But they never bothered to explain what the word meant.

Was this awful-smelling, disgusting, green slime the very same horror that the nuns had been excoriating? No wonder they loathed it so much.

I learned quickly. The next day, after carefully ensuring that I was alone in the house, I went to my room and stripped off my clothes. My hand went to my cock, and I started fantasizing about the female object of my desire, thinking of all the things I might do in the unlikely event that I could ever entice her to be naked in my presence. Again, I climaxed, and this time the sensation was one of wonder, rather than horror.

Over the next several weeks, I experimented. Was my left hand more natural, or my right? Or was it better simply to hump a convenient object? I applied various sensations to my cock -- cold things, warm things, moist things, slimy things. Portnoy's Complaint, of course, had never sullied the shelves of my Catholic school's library, and I never went as far in my experimentation as Philip Roth did. But when, in an American lit course at college, I finally read the book's famous passage, I entirely understood where Roth was coming from.

Within a couple of weeks, I had the practice down pat, and I looked forward to any opportunity when I might find myself alone in the house for ten minutes.

I also learned quickly that masturbation was a practice that utterly disgusted my mother, although she could never bring herself to say the word. "Staining the sheets" she called it, in the first of her many lectures to me about the evils of human sexual desire, and about the absolute necessity of never, ever giving in to temptation. I won't bore you with all the theological nuances of her argument, but the gist of it was this: Since our Lord and Savior's death on the cross was made necessary only by human sin, I was personally causing Jesus every bit as much pain and suffering whenever I pleasured myself, as the Roman soldiers had done when they drove spikes through his wrist and ankle bones.

(Rereading that last sentence makes me wonder what role my erstwhile Catholicism may have played in fomenting my future sado-masochistic proclivities.)

Despite my mother's best efforts, three or four days was the longest I could ever last before breaking down and touching myself to induce the loathsome slime from my cock. After the all-too-brief pleasure of orgasm, I was left with disgust at my inability resist my sinful desires, guilt over the pain that I had just caused my Lord and Savior, and a gnawing sense of fear that maybe my Catholic school nuns were right. Not about masturbation causing blindness, which even as an eighth-grader I realized was nonsense, but more generally about the danger of spending eternity in hell. (The best treatment of the nexus between Catholic guilt and pubescent sexual desire is James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, which I highly recommend and won't try to imitate here.)

I was also left with the disgusting evidence of my sin, which I tried desperately to keep my mother from finding. I rarely succeeded. She threatened to tell my father, which was terrifying for reasons that I won't go into, but she never did. She also made me go to confession weekly -- something my classmates teased me about, since they went only as part of our school's annual First Communion and Confirmation ceremonies.

Thankfully, my mother was not allowed into the confessional booth, so she didn't know that I never did work up the nerve to admit to the sin of Onan in front of the priest. In retrospect, this is a shame, since the priest I usually saw was young and progressive, the kind of long-haired post-hippie, who was fairly common in American parishes before the election of Pope John Paul II. He probably would have made a corny dick joke and told me not to worry about it, which would have saved me a mountain of emotional trauma. In any case, I would love to have the chance now to go into a Catholic confessional booth and ask the priest, "Dude, what the fuck?"

Not that I'm bitter.

Also in retrospect, I'm incredibly grateful that during my puberty, online shopping didn't yet exist, and BDSM was not yet a widely-known phenomenon. Had my mother learned about the existence bondage mitts and chastity cages, and had she been able to buy them in the privacy of her home without visiting some scummy sex shop, I'm morally certain that she would have gotten me a set as a birthday present when I turned fourteen.

By the time Ellen got around to putting me in chastity, I would have found the idea quaint.

One day, when I thought that I was alone in the house after school, I went looking for the morning newspaper. Copies of Playboy and Penthouse were a rare and precious commodity among my friends, and even if I could get my hands on one, I didn't have anywhere at home where I could hide it. So, my go-to porn for jerking off was the print advertising for the XXX-rated theaters downtown (this was a few years before the invention of the VCR put them all out of business). These images weren't explicit, but I learned early on that a woman can induce more sexual desire with a flash of her eyes and a hint of flesh, than she can with actual nudity.

I found a grainy photo of a scantily-clad porn star kneeling seductively near the Eiffel Tower (another image that burns bright in my memory, although I can't remember the name of the film), and I folded the paper to that page. Thus equipped, I went to my bedroom, stripped naked, and got under the covers. The photo did the trick, and soon I was inhaling the foul smell of my own sperm and trying to decide how best to clean it up.

Then my mother opened the door. She took one whiff of the sickly-sweet air in my room, and instantly understood what had just taken place. Without a word, she strode to my bed and tore off my blankets, exposing my naked body, my newspaper opened to the porno theater ads, and my semen dripping down my stomach and onto the white sheet beneath me.

She let out a wordless screech of revulsion, turned, and strode out.

To sum up: The emotional landscape of my early teen years was dominated by shame, humiliation, guilt, frustration, fear, and self-loathing. And if there is one sensation in all the world that can most easily cause these emotions to come flooding back to me at once, it is the disgusting, sickly-sweet odor of my own sperm.

***********

All of this is a roundabout way of explaining why, when Ellen ordered me to lap my cum from the floor, I was devastated. I began to feel sick to my stomach. My mind raced, trying to come up with something -- anything -- I could say to persuade her not to make me go through with it. Some other task I could perform, some other punishment I could endure. Anything.

My thoughts were interrupted by the pressure of Ellen's foot against the back of my leg, buckling it and forcing me to my knees. She put the sole of her boot onto the center the back of my back and commanded me, gently but firmly, "Down." I resisted. She adjusted her foot so that her spike heel jabbed me painfully and pushed. "Down," she repeated, much less gently.

She slowly increased the pressure to my back with her heel, until I was forced to my elbows, and my face was half a foot from the floor.

"Now crawl," she ordered. I hesitated, and she struck my ass sharply with her riding crop. "Crawl," she repeated, then warned, "Don't make me use the cane." I shuffled forward on my elbows and knees, encouraged by rapid light smacks of the crop on my buttocks. I stopped when my face was directly over one of the trails of slime on the bricks. "There you go," she said. "Now clean up your mess, like a good little boy."

She replanted her stiletto into my back and pushed me down the final few inches to my sperm. I grew nauseous, and my body rebelled, despite the increasing pain in my back. I worried that I wouldn't be able to complete the task without vomiting, and I started to panic. I breathed deep to calm myself, but I still couldn't force my mouth to the floor. Ellen pushed her heel harder into my back, but I continued to resist her.

I expected another sharp blow of encouragement from the crop. But instead, Ellen took her foot off my back and got down on one knee beside me. "I'm here with you," she said, her voice soft and encouraging. She placed her hand on the back of my head and started stroking my hair. "I know that you can do this for me."

"Mistress... I'm so sorry," I said. "But I can't... I just can't..."

"Shhhh...," she interrupted gently. "Yes, you can. I know you can. You can do this for me." Her hand slowly urged my head down the final few inches until I felt my cum touch my lips. "There you go," whispered my wife. "Open your mouth, now, and lap it up. You can do it. That's a good boy."

Ellen's hand on the back of my head was gentle, but immovable. The smell of my sperm brought on a wave of unpleasant childhood memories to complement my nausea. I had to breathe hard to keep from heaving. But I clearly understood that under no circumstances would Ellen allow me to get up, until I had done as she commanded. I finally opened my mouth and put my tongue into the cum, as tears began to form in my eyes.

It tasted even more awful than I expected.

"There you go. That's a good boy. Don't stop." As Ellen continued to encourage me, she kept her hand firmly on the back of my head. I pushed my mouth to the floor and felt the slime coat my tongue. I licked, closed my mouth, and, resisting my gag reflex, forced myself to swallow. After three or four more licks, the slime trail was gone. Ellen grabbed a handful of hair and dragged me to a spot where another burst my sperm had spatted on the floor, as though showing a dog the place where it had peed on the carpet. She released the pressure from my head only when I had cleaned every trace of my semen from the polished bricks.

"That's a good boy," she said when I'd finished. "I knew you could do it."

"Thank you, Mistress," I said, raising myself to my hands and knees. I felt intense relief that the horrible deed was done, and that I had done it without throwing up. "Thank you for helping me."

"I'm always here to help you," she said, standing up. "But I'm sure you would have managed on your own. I'm very proud of you. In fact, I'm so proud that I've decided to make this mandatory from now on. Do you understand?"

"Mandatory, Mistress?" I asked. My heart sank. This seemed unnecessarily harsh, given that I'd shared with her many hurtful memories of my awkward teenage years. It also seemed unfair, since when Ellen was my submissive, I made her lick up my sperm only when it really seemed called for by the dynamics of a session -- for example, when I'd climaxed into the pussy of a woman whom we were both crazy about (although obviously she swallowed after every blowjob when I came into her mouth).

"Mandatory," Ellen said. "From now on, you will always consume your ejaculate. No exceptions."

"But Mistress, what if..." I ventured, but she interrupted again.

"No, no, no," she said. "No 'buts.' No 'what ifs.' The rule is very simple: if you squirt it, you eat it. And I don't care when it is or where it is -- out in public, on the filthy floor of a gas station men's room, on the dirt outside, it doesn't matter. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mistress, I understand," I said resignedly.

"That's a good boy. You took some big steps today," she said. "And I'm sure that if you keep trying, then you can become an acceptable slave to me." She said this in the same encouraging tone that she might have used to tell a young boy that he could grow up to be an astronaut. "Would you like that?" she asked.

"Yes, Mistress," I answered. "It's what I want more than anything." And I meant it.

"Now, I promised you a treat, and I always keep my promises." She took my chastity cage from the table and handed it to me. "So go up and get ready for dinner. And you can leave this in the bathroom until we go to bed."

"Thank you, Mistress." It would be the first time in seven months that I would put on a pair of pants without my chastity cage underneath.

But, I reminded myself, I would still be wearing my frilly, pink panties.

***********

Although Ellen and I had been together nearly every evening for the past five years, every once in a while, we shared something that felt like a perfect first date. You know, one of those rare times when two strangers find themselves in synch, finding that they have much common and much that they agree on. When they seem to be reading each other's minds and completing each other's thoughts. When all of a sudden, love seems like more than a hopeless dream, and the future seems full of possibility.

The evening after the end of my first extended lockup as Ellen's slave was one of those times. Our dinner was superb, with the quality of food and service equally excellent. My wife was at her most charming, laughing at my jokes and sharing many memories and private thoughts with me. By the time the dishes had been cleared from our table and we were halfway through our second bottle of cabernet sauvignon, we were completely at ease in each other's company.

Best of all, like one of those perfect first dates, I was buoyed by the hope that I would soon be getting properly laid for the first time in a long time.

The deep despair that I'd felt while scrubbing the floor in my shackles had faded away, replaced by an even more powerful love for my wife, and by my gratitude for the privilege of intertwining my life with hers. Sure, it remained true that I would never again stand beside Ellen as an equal. But I realized that as long as I could stand beside her at all, then my status didn't matter very much. Also, whether or not I felt worthy of Ellen's love and respect, I knew in my heart that I had them, and that was all that mattered.

And had she just left things as they were at that exact moment -- toasting each other with a goblet of superior wine that seemed to symbolize all the good things that life could offer -- then I probably would have been able to finish the story here, winding up on "And they all lived happily (or at least contentedly) ever after."

But real life turned out to be more complicated.