My Journey to Submission Pt. 09

I fully understand, of course, that many men have a chastity kink, and they are immensely turned on by the sexual frustration and denial of femdom. And I respect that. But it's not my kink.

So, as I sat watching the Milwaukee Brewers get pounded by the Atlanta Braves, I concluded that, in my case at least, this asymmetry was profoundly unjust. Enforcing rules more strictly than I had, beating me harder and more often, and so forth was one thing. Fundamentally changing the nature of our sexual relationship was something entirely different.

And my complaint wasn't just about sex. Since declaring me her slave, Ellen had begun denying me all kinds of affection and intimacy, things that I'd never denied her when she was my submissive -- being naked around each other, sleeping in each other's arms, kissing for no reason other than the pleasure of being close. I'd be lying if I denied that what I missed most of all was the intimacy of sex and the warm feeling of knowing that Ellen desired me. But these other forms of intimacy were undeniably important.

Such were the thoughts that were going through my head when the Braves went to bat at the bottom of the sixth inning. When I took a pull at my fourth beer and prepared to wallow even more deeply in my emotional funk.

When Ellen entered my office.

***********

Many couples in BDSM relationships schedule a regular "check in" session, perhaps once a month, or more frequently if needed. These sessions provide the submissive a safe space where they can let their dominant know how they are feeling about the relationship, raise any concerns they may have, ask questions that might otherwise be forbidden, and so on. This practice lets the submissive know that their voice is heard, and that they're not just a victim of caprice on the part of their partner.

It's also a good way to hold their partner to account. If a dominant, who has taken responsibility for the sexual and emotional well-being of their submissive, finds themselves answering too many questions with "I don't know why I did that," or "I just felt like it," or "Because I said so," then perhaps they should rethink whether they are really cut out for the role. Likewise, a sub who feels unsatisfied with the answers they receive might want to start looking for a new dom.

Even though I consider these check-ins overall to be a good idea (for vanilla, as well as BDSM, couples), Ellen and I didn't schedule them regularly, neither when I was dominant nor when she was. But both of us were pretty careful about monitoring the other's emotional state and would initiate something like a check-in on an ad hoc basis whenever it seemed necessary.

So, I guess I should have been happy when I realized that Ellen had come to interrupt my ball game and my gloomy mood not for punishment or chores, but rather to make sure that I was OK.

But I wasn't happy about it.

***********

"Hi," Ellen said. I struggled to pry myself out of the deep leather executive chair. "Don't get up," she said. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. You were pretty quiet earlier."

"I'm alright," I answered, reluctantly turning from the TV to face her. I was profoundly not alright, but I didn't want to get into the reasons for my foul mood. I figured that if she'd just leave me alone to watch the game and stew in peace for a while, then maybe I'd snap out of my funk.

She looked at me suspiciously. "Have you been feeling sorry for yourself?"

"No, Mistress, I'm fine," I answered. But I was unable to muster the required cheerfulness to make my answer convincing. She took my chin in her fingers and forced me to look her in the eye.

"You have been feeling sorry for yourself, haven't you?" she insisted. "Why? Have I done something wrong?"

"No, Mistress," I answered, "of course not."

Except everything.

"You know how much I hate it when you get like this for no reason," she said. "Maybe I should take you downstairs right now. If I put your private parts in the vise, I could probably squeeze some of the negativity out of you. And even if I couldn't, you'd at least have something to feel sorry for yourself about."

I couldn't help mumbling under my breath, "Whatever." Aloud, I said in a tired voice, "Yes, Mistress, if that's what you want." I stood up without waiting for her command and made to take a step toward the door of my office.

She jabbed her finger into the middle of my chest to stop me. "Sit down," she commanded sharply, pushing me back into the chair. "Alright," she said in a more conciliatory tone. "I guess I shouldn't have gone there right away." She picked up the remote and turned off the TV. "Now, tell me what's going on with you."

I paused, still not wanting to talk about it. But then, perhaps because my tongue was loosened by the three beers I'd already consumed, I blurted out, "Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?" she asked.

"Normal life," I said. "You know. Living like everyone else."

Ellen laughed. "When have we ever lived like everyone else? For a couple of months, maybe? Five years ago? How can you miss what you've never had? Do you miss normal life, or do you just miss the way it was before? Do you want to top me again, is that it?"

"No, I don't want to top you," I said tiredly. "I know you don't believe that, but I really don't. It's all the other stuff."

"All what other stuff?" she asked.

Her tone seemed to invite candidness, and since I was more than a bit tipsy, I let myself spill all the beans about what I'd been brooding over for the previous hour. I complained about pissing like a girl, about always worrying about someone seeing me in my panties, about always bowing my head and sitting on the floor. She nodded thoughtfully, as though in agreement, so I continued. I confessed to my general unhappiness with our relationship, especially with not seeming to count for anything. My candidness, however, did not extend as far as confessing to my desire for more sex.

That topic was simply too risky to raise with the woman who held the key to my chastity cage.

"I don't get how any of this is different from the way you treated me." she asked when I'd concluded. "Except that now the shoe's on the other foot."

"It's a lot different, and you know it," I answered. "I was never anywhere near this strict with you."

"But we've already discussed why that is," she said. "We agreed that you need me to be strict."

"And I admit that it's been good for me in a lot of ways," I said. "But it seems like the more I try to please you, the stricter you get. For the first few months, I was really starting to enjoy being your submissive. But it's getting hard."

"But you're not my submissive anymore," she said. "You're my slave now, and you need to get used to that. I agree that you've been working hard to please me. That's exactly why I keep trying to help you be better. You don't want me to stop helping you, do you?"

I shook my head. We were talking past each other, as thought we were living in two different realities. "There's just so much I miss from before," I said. "Being close to you. Being intimate with you."

At that, she rolled her eyes and said sarcastically, "Oh, so you want more sex. What a surprise."

"I didn't say sex," I said. "I said being intimate."

"Whenever a man says he wants to be intimate with woman," she said, "he really means he wants to put his penis in her vagina."

"Sure, sometimes. OK, usually. But this isn't about that," I said. "You just seem so far away all the time. Like I don't matter to you at all."

She paused and looked into my eyes, as though that one struck home. "Certainly, you matter to me," she said. "You're the most important person in my life. I'm sorry if I don't do enough to show you that."

"I'm not trying to make you sorry," I replied. "I'm just... Never mind, I shouldn't have brought it up." I was already tired of the conversation, and just wanted to get back to my ball game. But Ellen surprised me by taking a conciliatory tone.

"Alright," she said. "Tell me what you mean by 'being intimate.' How can I help us be closer and show you that you matter to me?"

"I don't know," I said. "But you used to be affectionate. We used to talk, about things that were going on with you. I have no idea what's going on with you these days. Let's start with that."

"Well, being affectionate and talking seems reasonable," she said.

"But I'm not going to lie," I said. "I think that sexual intimacy is also important. We always had it when you were my submissive."

"Meaning you fucked me whenever you wanted," she said, a note of sharpness creeping back into her voice.

"That's not what I'm talking about," I said. "Couples who are close have sex; that's just how it is. And when you made me your submissive, I still felt that we were intimate, even though you never let me fuck you."

"I told you, you're not my sub..." She interrupted herself before again reminding me that my status had changed. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I need to remind myself to see things from your point of view." She paused, as though making up her mind which way to take the conversation. "Alright," she said. "I asked you to open up to me, and you did. So, I guess I need to take what you're saying seriously, or there's no point to it."

"Thank you, Mistress," I replied.

After another pause, she continued, "I agree that we need to be closer. I'll give some thought to ways that we can become more intimate and enjoy sex together. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Mistress," I replied. "Thank you."

She gave me a pat and a smile, and she turned to walk off. When she got to the doorway, she turned around. "You know I'll be very disappointed if this is just about you having more orgasms."

"I understand, Mistress," I said. "I promise it's not."

***********

A week or so later, when I went downstairs to perform my daily foot worship ritual and receive my collar, I found my wife wearing her spike-heeled boots instead of her usual house slippers. By this time, I was beginning to recognize this as a signal that I would soon be suffering in order to slake her growing sadistic urges, but I prostrated myself before her without hesitation.

For the very first time as my dominant, Ellen was wearing what was unmistakably bondage gear (although when in the mood, my wife could look every bit the imperious dominatrix no matter what she wore). Her forearms were encased in supple black leather gloves, which buttoned above the elbow. The garters supporting her silk stockings were suspended from a mesh body suit with leather straps, and her perfect breasts and nipples pressed against the mesh. The regalia exposed more of her skin than I had seen in months, although her holy of holies remained concealed by a small triangle of thicker material.

In my opinion, many online dominatrices, whether in YouTube instructional videos or on private erotica channels, look a little silly. Usually, they're overly made-up, or they're trying to stuff too much flesh into not enough red neoprene body suit or black leather corset. And I've yet to see one convincingly pull off the popular pseudo-fascist look (the body-hugging black leather jacket and skirt, the SS-style officer's hat, the occasional sunglasses).

But Ellen being Ellen, she had managed to select an ensemble that was at once highly sexual, and demonstrative of her exquisite taste and elegance. Combined with her natural shapeliness and the fact that I had not seen so much of her body exposed in such a long time, the effect was overpowering.

As I knelt at her feet, I needed all of my willpower to keep my eyes properly averted.

After I'd spent several minutes kissing and fondling the pungent black leather of her boots, licking her soles, and sucking on her stiletto heels, Ellen decided to amuse herself with me for a while, before taking me to the dungeon for a more formal punishment. She stood up and wordlessly prodded me with her feet, until I was lying flat on my back with my limbs spread. Unsatisfied, she kicked at my thighs several times until my legs were far enough apart to expose my genitals completely.

Ellen looked down at me with the faintest hint of a malicious smile. Then she cleared her throat and let a large gob of saliva mixed with phlegm drip from her mouth. Her spit was thick and viscous, and it remained attached to her lips by a thin, sticky strand, which stretched slowly downwards, closer and closer to my face, until it finally broke. I felt the splat just below my left eye.

She lifted her foot and planted it directly onto the gob. With a slow, cruel twisting motion, she ground her spit into my cheek, and I could almost feel her contempt flowing into me through the sole of her boot. She stepped up onto the side of my face, putting all of her weight there for a moment, until she jabbed the spike heel of her other boot viciously into my right breast, nearly hard enough to break the skin. She took her foot off of my face and stood on my chest.

I gasped, as the full weight of her body forced the breath from my lungs.

Ellen trampled me mercilessly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and from her toes to her heels and back again. She was completely indifferent to my suffering. She kept her back to me, so that she couldn't even see the anguish on my face, and she took no notice at all of my wheezing and groaning. Each time she pushed down hard on one of her stilettos and kept it in place for several seconds, she left a horseshoe-shaped bruise, half an inch across, which lasted through the following week. Looking in the mirror later, I counted thirteen of these marks imprinted on my chest and stomach.

Finally, she stepped off my torso and, standing between my legs, turned around to face me. I gazed up at her, searching for some hint of tenderness or compassion in her expression, but I saw none.

Locking her pitiless eyes onto mine, she lifted her boot and slowly drove her heel into my scrotum. I cried out in pain. She lifted it and stepped down again, this time pushing the spike into my shaft, which was, thankfully, protected somewhat by its steel cage. Still without breaking eye contact, she turned her attention back to my balls, this time grinding them into the hardwood floor with the same slow, cruel twisting motion as before. She stepped on me again and again and again, each time jabbing a stiletto painfully into my thigh or pelvis or genitals.

As usual when she was in one of her more sadistic moods, she didn't deign to speak to me at all as she toyed with me. Her face was completely devoid of emotion.

Through my pain and humiliation, I felt my cock start to throb. The emotions which drove my desire at that moment are complicated and hard to explain. I reveled in her rejection of me. After all, the woman standing above me was perfect: utterly beautiful, utterly powerful, utterly unattainable. And yet, of all the men in the word, she had -- miraculously -- chosen me to spit and trample upon. My stomach churned at the realization that my wife would never again truly respect me. That she no longer needed me or wanted me sexually. Worst of all, that she was right not to do so, that my lowly status deserved no consideration from her at all. If she bothered even to show her scorn for me, I should be grateful.

I was her slave. I was no longer her husband. No longer her lover. No longer her friend. Her slave, nothing more.

But the more I convinced myself that I could never have her, could never deserve her, the more I wanted her. I felt that if I could only show her how eagerly I suffered at her hands, how completely I accepted my own insignificance, then she might notice me and take pity on me. She might allow me to touch her, to take from her perfect body some small measure of sexual pleasure, no matter how undeserved.

Paradoxically, I felt that by sincerely demonstrating my utter unworthiness, I might somehow become worthy of her, if only for a little while.

And so, as she again ground her foot into my balls, looking down at me with cold disdain, my pelvis began writhe, my pitiful cock pleading for her attention. I wanted this woman more than words could ever express, and if the price of fulfilling my desire was measured in pain and degradation, then I would have been glad to pay it in any amount. My cock started to grow erect.

Ellen noticed the stirring in my cage, and a look of profound disgust came over her face. Before my erection grew large enough to strain against the steel bars, she stepped out from between my legs. The trampling session was over.

She reached down and grabbed a fistful of my hair, then dragged me to her chair and sat down, holding my head up so that she could attach my collar. But my pathetic desire wouldn't abate, and I managed briefly to sniff and nuzzle the magnificent breasts that were just inches from my face. I knew that Ellen would punish me for such a sacrilegious act, but I couldn't help myself. I would have done anything for even the slightest touch of my wife's body.

She angrily finished buckling my collar and threw me to the floor. To emphasize the depth of her loathing for me at that moment, she shoved me away from her violently with her boot. I curled into a fetal position on the floor and began to wail, perhaps hoping that my pitiful whimpering might induce her mercy. But she ignored me and let me wallow in her contempt. After a few moments, she stood up.

The snap of her fingers ordering me to follow her downstairs to the basement was superfluous. At that moment, I would have followed her unbidden through all nine circles of Dante's Inferno.

When we entered the dungeon, she snapped her fingers again and pointed to the spot beneath the steel suspension cable. I stood there as ordered, while she cuffed my wrists, hooked them to the device, and pushed the button on the winch's remote control. The electric motor whirred to life, and in a moment, I was completely at her mercy, my hands raised above my head. She took a moment to cuff my ankles together, then pushed the button again, lifting my wrists until my arms and shoulders bore all of my weight.

Painfully.

Another push of the button lowered the cable a couple of inches, just allowing me to relieve the tension by standing on my toes. But after thirty seconds or so in that position, my calf muscles started to give out, and I was forced once again to accept the pain in my arms and shoulders. I squirmed, shifting the stress from one set of limbs to the other.

My wife left me alone to enjoy my predicament for several minutes, while she unhurriedly adjusted the dungeon's atmosphere to her satisfaction. She selected a playlist of Bach fugues on her iPhone and tuned the room's sound system to a volume that was noticeable, but not intrusive. She dimmed the track lighting on the ceiling and positioned lit scented candles around the room. She spent a long time examining the array of instruments on the large table, as though trying to make up her mind about which forms of bondage and chastisement best suited her current mood.

Oh, boy. What am I in for this time?

When she finally turned her attention back to me, it seemed that what I was in for might turn out to be surprisingly pleasurable. The electric winch whirred for a couple of seconds, lowering me enough so that I could put my heels on the floor and relieve the pain in my limbs, although I remained helpless and immobilized. Ellen stood in front of me, so close that I could smell her myriad feminine scents, and she gave my cheek a soft caress with the back of her gloved hand.

"Tell me what you're feeling," she said. These were the first words she'd spoken since I arrived home that evening.

I took a short breath. I'd learned from (literally) painful experience that this type of wide-open question, without any context, was potentially very dangerous. I might unwittingly admit to an insufficiently servile attitude, giving her displeasure and therefore cause to punish me severely. Given her present sadistic mood, severe punishment seemed inevitable, but I was anyway anxious not to displease her, if I could avoid it.