My Journey to Submission Pt. 10

When Ellen walked back toward me, I saw that she'd donned a black leather crotch harness, to which she'd affixed a thick, ten-inch, flesh-colored dildo. She stood before me, positioning the end of the strap-on just an inch or two from my lips.

"Now, suck my cock," Ellen commanded coldly.

***********

Sometime during the early, hopeful days of the Obama Administration, I had a lobbying contract with a do-gooder environmental organization from California (Citizens for a Clean Future, or some bullshit) to raise awareness about the critical need to conserve fresh water. As usual in Washington, the do-gooders were a public relations facade for a less do-gooder group, a private corporation that stood to make millions by getting Congress to subsidize the sale of water recycling systems to major cities around the country. But that's a different story.

The do-gooders spent a lot of money setting up an exhibit in one of the Senate office buildings to demonstrate how it was possible to turn raw sewage into perfectly safe drinking water. In order to demonstrate the importance of changing public attitudes, they included in their exhibit a drinking fountain in the shape of a toilet. And they invited passers-by to drink from it.

Now, the do-gooders' commode-shaped device was made of sparkling white porcelain. It had never been sullied by the slightest trace of shit or piss, nor had it ever been anywhere near anyone's exposed ass or genitals. The water it provided came from the very same pipes as the water everywhere else on Capitol Hill. The only difference between the toilet drinking fountain and any other drinking fountain was its shape.

But no one could do it.

No-one -- not one exalted Member of Congress, not one lowly staff member, not one vulturous journalist, not one curious visitor -- managed to put their lips to the fountain and drink. There was a lot of gagging and heaving, and one prominent Senator actually vomited into the fountain, causing a brief shut-down of the exhibit. As the person organizing the whole affair, I couldn't beg off from participating in the spectacle, and I was surprised by how much effort it took to choke down my revulsion enough to take a token drink.

Such is the power of symbolism in the human imagination.

***********

Kneeling before my wife, I felt the same feelings of intense revulsion for the artificial penis, which she now commanded me to take into my mouth.

Since becoming Ellen's submissive (now her slave), I'd spent many contented hours with my tongue probing deep inside her anus, or licking grime from the soles of her feet. On a couple of occasions, when she'd felt that improving my attitude or behavior required a more severe lesson in degradation, she'd even chained me to the toilet by my collar until I'd licked the entire bathroom floor clean of the yellow stains remaining from the puddles of her piss she'd left there to dry. I'd even made peace with her demand that I always eat my own ejaculate, although I can't say that I ever learned to enjoy the practice.

But to suck on a perfectly sanitary piece of silicon -- one which just happened to be in the shape of the male sex organ -- seemed beyond my capabilities. I forced myself to use the same logic that had enabled me to drink from the fountain at the recycled water exhibition.

It doesn't mean anything. It's not real.

I reminded myself that the object had been manufactured at a factory somewhere in China. I imagined the assembly line, where workers wearing blue Mao suits impassively stuffed thousands of dildos into paperboard boxes with plastic windows, giving no thought at all to what the items actually represented. I thought of the myriad uses that the plastic in the dildo was used for, only one of which was to fill penis-shaped molds.

But I still couldn't do it. My mouth stubbornly maintained its distance from the tip of the strap-on, and my lips remained tightly pursed together.

Ellen, meanwhile, was being distinctly unhelpful. "What's the matter, faggot?" she taunted me. "What are you waiting for? You've always dreamed of sucking on a cock, haven't you? You know that deep inside you're a queer. Come on, faggot, do it." And on, and on, and on.

As usual, my wife's choice of words was no accident.

***********

Long before, I'd confessed to Ellen that what we today call homophobic slurs had been the go-to insults of my classmates in middle school, used so often that they had long since (at least to the uncloseted among us) lost any meaning. At the time, I would have been much more offended by "nerd" or "weirdo" than by "faggot" or "queer" since the former were aimed at my specific vulnerabilities, while the latter were used by everyone against everyone on every conceivable occasion.

In the intervening years, of course, America underwent a cultural revolution. "Gay bashing" (by which I mean vicious, physical attacks by gangs of teenagers on gay couples making out in city parks, not ill-considered posts by clueless users of social media) fell out of fashion. Legalizing gay marriage morphed from a radical idea of the leftwing fringe into a reactionary pillar of the cis-white supremacist patriarchy, making only a brief stop in the center as common-sense public policy. And anyone who at all valued their career eventually learned to tread very, very carefully around any discussion of LGBTQIA+ (the most inclusive acronym as of this writing) topics.

A couple of years previously, I Googled my best friend from middle school (his family had moved to Texas the summer before ninth grade), and I learned that he had become a pretty successful and very openly gay actor in LA. My subsequent attempts to get back in touch with him were ignored, and I suspected that our frequent use of the word "faggot" while we were growing up was a major reason. He, of course, had used the term as frequently as any of us, but that didn't stop me from lying awake at night wracked with guilt over the self-loathing he must have felt during the years that we were friends.

In addition, I'd confessed to Ellen that my relationship to the word was complicated by a few tepid, tentative, and ultimately unsuccessful experiments in bisexuality back in the sixth grade. These were nothing remotely romantic or even explicitly sexual. More of an "I'll touch yours, if you touch mine" type of thing. I hastened to reassure her (or perhaps myself) that no bodily fluids of any kind had ever been exchanged. Once I lost interest in these experiments, I became convinced of my rock-solid heterosexual orientation, and I grew as disdainful of "queers" (as we labeled gay men before they coopted the word for themselves) as everyone else.

The result of all this history was that Ellen calling me a "faggot" while commanding me to suck on a realistic (albeit oversized) plastic penis was doubly potent, a fact which she no doubt understood. On the one hand, it filled me with a burning shame over my casual (but no doubt extremely hurtful) use of the slur in childhood, which at the time had seemed perfectly natural but which now felt abhorrent. On the other, it tugged at a thread of doubt about my own sexuality, one which I'd kept carefully concealed for decades.

What had made me so homophobic during puberty? Could it have been longings that I kept secret, even from myself? Deep down, was I actually a faggot? A pervert? A queer?

As these thoughts ran through my head, I continued to resist Ellen's command.

***********

"Don't keep me waiting," my wife said. "You're five seconds away from feeling my boot in your balls." She grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my lips onto the phallus. "Now, open your mouth and suck it." I reluctantly obeyed, taking the first two or three inches of silicon into my mouth. "That's it," she said. "That's a good little faggot. Now, work your tongue on it. Go on. Make your Mistress nice and hard for you."

She kept a firm grip on my hair and began swaying her hips, moving the dildo in and out of my mouth. She moaned exaggeratedly, pretending to be aroused by the act, and between her moans she continued to mock and insult me. The dildo kept my jaw pried open and gave me no chance to swallow, and I soon felt drool dripping down over my chin. Tears of shame formed in my eyes and began to flow down my face.

In the cold light of day, of course, this all seems very silly. Obviously, an inorganic piece of silicon would have no reaction at all to the movement of my tongue. And although the other end of the strap-on fit inside Ellen's vagina, the pathetic movements of my mouth weren't nearly enough to stimulate her. But sex has a strange way of playing tricks on the brain -- it facilitates a suspension of disbelief, as they say in the movie business -- and everything seemed incredibly real at the time.

She removed the dildo from my mouth. She yanked my head back by the hair and looked down at me with a cruel smile. "Did you like sucking on my cock?" she asked.

Swallowing my shame, I lied dutifully, "Yes, Mistress, very much."

"Of course, you did. I always knew that deep down you were a pervert. You disgust me." Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she let a big gob of spit drip onto my face, and I felt it dribble down my cheek. "Now, beg for more," she commanded. "Tell me how much you want it." I choked on my tears, unable to bring myself to say the words. "Do you want my cock?" she asked. "Or would you rather have the cane?"

"I want your cock, Mistress," I finally managed to get out.

"Then beg for it," she ordered.

"Please, Mistress. Please give me your cock," I whimpered pathetically. "Please let me suck your cock. Please, Mistress."

"Here you go," she said, tightening her grip on my hair and pulling my mouth to her. "Work it hard, now." I sucked on the dildo as vigorously as I could, rubbing my tongue along its underside. "That's a good little faggot," she said. "Now, show me you can take it all." She thrust the strap-on to the back of my throat and held my head in place. She brutally fucked my face, as I choked and gagged. My only breath came in short gasps, when she took the dildo from my throat briefly, before shoving it down even further with another vicious thrust. Foamy drool flowed from the sides of my wide-open mouth.

When she finally finished amusing herself with deep throating me, she let go of my hair and took a step back. I coughed and sputtered and sniveled, trying to recover myself.

She got on one knee for a second to unhook my wrists from my ankles. Then, she stood up and gave me a new command: "Now bend over and raise up your ass. I'm going to turn you into my little sissy faggot." My stomach dropped when I realized what she intended. I'd never once fantasized about my wife taking me anally, and I had no desire for her to do so now.

None.

I looked up at her, pleading with my eyes. "Don't look at me like that," she said. "You're the one who said that you wanted us to be closer, didn't you? That you wanted to be sexually intimate with me. Isn't that what you said?"

"Yes, Mistress," I admitted. "But I thought..."

"Don't 'but' me," she interrupted. "When you begged me for more intimacy last week, you swore to me that you weren't just trying to get in my pussy. Or was that another lie?" she demanded. I tried to answer, but the most I could manage was a wordless gurgle. "Were you lying to me or not?" she demanded again.

"No, Mistress," I finally managed to whimper. There's a saying among men who adopt the chastity lifestyle: "Be careful what you wish for." I suppose that this turn of events is a good example what they mean

"Then get down and take it up your ass," she ordered. "The only way I'm letting you leave this room tonight is as my little sissy faggot. I don't care if we're here all night."

I hesitated for another second, and Ellen stepped behind me. She jabbed her stiletto heel into my back and forced me to bend over. I dropped to my hands and knees with a grunt of pain, and she increased the pressure until my face was on the floor and my ass raised high. A moment later, I felt a cold sensation, as a glob of anal lube fell onto the top of my ass crack. It slowly dribbled down between my cheeks, though little of it actually reached my anus. I felt another big glob fall onto the first.

Ellen knelt and applied her thumb to the lube, scraping it down between my cheeks and onto my anus. She pushed some inside me, and I inhaled sharply as my sphincters instinctively closed around her.

Ellen's thumb was the first foreign object that had ever penetrated me. I'd always had a deep phobia of all things anal (at least on the receiving end), and I'd never once experimented on myself in this way, never inserted into myself any of the butt plugs, anal beads, vibrators or douches that I'd collected over the years. I'd never even allowed my doctor to perform a prostate exam, despite his exasperated appeals to my age and risk categories.

Ellen moved her thumb in and out of me, pushing more and more lube into my rectum and rubbing it around inside. Her attention wasn't painful, but somehow at that moment I felt her domination just as deeply as I had when she'd spat on me or stepped on my face. When she was satisfied, she grabbed me by the hair and pulled me upright on my knees. She used the same hand with which she'd just lubed me, and I felt the sticky substance matt my hair.

"Hold out your hand," she commanded. She squeezed her tube of Coconu onto my palm. "Now lube my cock," she said. Knowing that this was for my benefit (more lube meant less pain, at least in theory), I willingly obeyed, slathering the lubricant over the phallus as thoroughly as I could. She interrupted me with a hard kick to the stomach, partially knocking the wind out of me. I doubled over and wheezed. "How would you like it if I touched you like that?" she demanded angrily. "Go nice and slow. Make it feel good."

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, when I'd recovered my breath. I held out my palm, and she gave me another large squirt. Then I gave the strap-on my best attempt at a sensual handjob, trying to imitate the movements I'd seen and felt my wife use on me countless times. I cupped my hand around it, stroking up and down, squeezing and releasing rhythmically, rubbing my thumb along the underside.

"That's a good little sissy faggot," she encouraged me. "Show me how you much you love my cock." I continued to massage the strap-on, until she stepped back. "Alright, that's enough. Now get back down and beg me to fuck you."

I lowered myself to my elbows. The last thing I wanted in the world was to feel the huge strap-on inside me, but I had no choice but to obey, "Please fuck me, Mistress." Despite my best efforts, the words fell flat as they left my mouth.

"No, no, no," she said. "Beg the way you always used to make me beg. Make me feel how much you want me."

"Please fuck me, Mistress," I said, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could. "Please make me your anal slave. Please, Mistress. Please fuck me in the ass. Please."

She got down on her knees behind me. She maneuvered the strap-on to my anus and eased just the tip inside me. The dildo was much thicker than her thumb had been, and I gasped at the shock of having my sphincters pried open so forcefully. The muscles gripped at the object frantically, pulsing as though trying to pinch off the plastic cock-head. When my body settled down, she slowly pushed another few inches into me, and with the first third of the phallus snugly in place, she began moving her hips back and forth, fucking me in the ass.

Ellen's movements weren't so much painful as discomforting. And the act, in and of itself, was extremely disturbing psychologically. To that point, I'd been able to justify all the degradations that she'd made me endure -- the spitting, the foot and anal worship, the forced chastity, the bondage, the beatings -- as somehow within the natural order of how men and women could interact.

But this was different.

Yes, I accepted my wife's dominance, and I submitted to anything she required in order to not to risk losing our marriage. But that didn't make me any less of a "real man." Right? A lot of "real men" happily give their women cunnilingus and rim jobs. Right? And only a "real man" would be able to bear up as well as I did under Ellen's canings and ball-busting. Right?

But I was completly incapable of maintaining the illusion that I might be considered a "real man" while submitting my anus for use as my wife's personal fuck hole. Ellen's silicon strap-on may have been manufactured at a factory somewhere in China, but there was no longer any question about who in our relationship possessed the "real" cock.

"Do you like it up your ass, you little sissy faggot?" Ellen asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yes, Mistress," I lied, through my degradation and discomfort.

"Then beg for more," she said, giving my ass a slap of encouragement.

"Please, Mistress, please give me more of your cock," I answered. "Please fuck my harder. Please give me...uhhhh..."

I groaned loudly when I felt her thrust the next three inches of silicon into me. The violation of my body was emotionally gut-wrenching. Ellen was penetrating not just my body, but my soul. I felt utterly vulnerable to her, in a way that I'd never felt before. I felt deep shame at all the times I'd laughed at jokes about men in prison, at my casual dismissal of women's fear of rape. To submit my body willingly, albeit reluctantly, to be violated by my wife was one thing. I now saw the depth of horror of a man forcing himself into the intimate flesh of an unwilling victim.

Involuntarily, my hips bucked against in protest against the violation, and my sphincters clenched hard, as though I could somehow expel the vile thing from my anus. But the jerking motions of my hips made the fucking physically, not just emotionally, painful. I let out a loud, wordless wail of anguish.

Ellen slowed down and then stopped for a few moments, until my body settled down. I forced myself to take several deep breaths. Then she said, gently but firmly, "I know that this isn't easy for you. But I need you to take it all. You will submit yourself completely to me; do you understand?" My chest and throat were constricted, and I found myself unable to speak. "Do you understand me?" she repeated.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," I finally managed to get out. "I want to do this for you, but it's just so awful. I can't take it." Had she seen the tears forming in my eyes, she would have known that I spoke the truth.

"Yes, you can. I'm not giving you a choice. You're going to take every inch of me, and that's final," she said. "You're just making it worse for yourself by struggling, and you're still only half-way there. I need you to relax."

"Mistress, please..." I begged through my tears. I knew that when she penetrated me fully, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from struggling, and the ordeal might become excruciating, or even dangerous. I had an idea. "Could you tie me down, Mistress? Please? If I couldn't move, I think it would be easier for me to take it."

"Very well," she said. "If that's what you need to get through this. But just this once." She pushed against my buttocks with her hands, and I felt the enormous phallus retreat from my rectum. After it was gone, I felt a gaping void where the plastic had been, and I let out a loud, long groan of relief.

Ellen stood up, grabbed me by the hair, and dragged me over to a small bench. "Wait here," she ordered. She went to the table and returned after a moment with two long lengths of rope. "Bend over and spread your arms out," she said, after she'd disconnected my wrists.

I bent sideways over the bench and spread my arms along its length. Starting at my elbow, Ellen wrapped the rope around my arm and then around the bench. She yanked it as tight as she could, pressing my arms firmly into the padded leather. She looped the rope again and again, until my entire upper arm was encased up to my shoulder and held tight to the surface. When she had similarly tied down my other arm, I found that I was completely immobile, able to move neither my torso nor my hips.