My Journey to Submission Pt. 11

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the last installment of this story for a while. I've written most of a first draft of another two installments, but I'm putting them on the back burner.

If you enjoy my writing, but would prefer a a depiction of a more human (and humane) relationship, I hope you'll give "The Maid" a try. I'd love to get the same amount of reader engagement on that story as I have on this.

*********

As bad as my wife's announcement that she intended to deprive me of my cock permanently (in spirit, if not in the flesh) was, it didn't have much of an impact on my day-to-day life.

In a way, this made sense. After all, according to Ellen's previous schedule, my current lockup was supposed to have lasted for nine weeks, and the one after that for ten. So out of the four-and-a-half months following my first pegging, her permanent lockup policy deprived me of precisely one scheduled release with an unruined orgasm -- at most, an hour of lost playtime out of 3,192 total hours, or 0.03%.

Not really that big a deal in the grand scheme of things.

Of course, during the same period, she also would have teased me mercilessly with her vibrating wand once or twice a week. But her teasing sessions nearly always ended with denial just as I approached climax, and on the rare occasions when she kept the wand buzzing for a couple of seconds too long, she invariably ruined my orgasm and punished me for cumming without permission. So, with all due respect to the many men who live for T&D, I'm not convinced that the thrill of the teasing was worth the frustration of the denial. Net-net, I was just as happy to forego this particular form of play.

As she'd promised (or threatened), Ellen did initiate pegging sessions two or three times per week. She made me practice taking her dildo up my ass until I was able to relax and insert its full length without pain. The pegging, in fact, turned out to be much less unpleasant than I'd expected (or feared). My wife was surprisingly gentle, treating me much the way I used to treat a first-time submissive.

As she trained me to simulate fellatio and lube her strap-on long and sensually with my hand before penetration, her attitude was very encouraging, like that of a patient pre-school school teacher. "You're doing so well," she'd say. "You're making my cock feel so nice. You're my good little sissy faggot, aren't you?" Somehow, she'd managed to turn "little sissy faggot" into a term of endearment, rather than an insult. Her praise made the humiliation of the homoerotic acts easier to take than they'd been during my initiation to anal sex.

When she took possession of my anus, she did so without insulting or mocking or beating me. I suppose that the act of pegging, in and of itself, sufficiently demonstrated her dominance over me, and anything else would have been superfluous.

She made a tremendous effort to give me anal orgasm. She watched YouTube instructional videos on massaging the prostate (or P-spot, as it's known in the literature), and she even bought a shiny steel electrical-stimulation device designed specifically for the purpose. She carefully taught me to relax my core muscles in order to allow the climax to occur. Nothing worked. Without direct stimulation of my cock, I never leaked a single drop of cum or even pre-cum. However, she never blamed or punished me for this failure, but said simply, "We'll try again next time."

She most often pegged me on the carpeted floor upstairs. Ellen, of course, would never risk getting dribbles of shit or lube on her ultra-high-thread count bamboo sheets or duvet cover, so anal sex on the bed was out of the question. But still, doing it in the bedroom instead of the dungeon made me feel that her objective was, in fact, greater intimacy, not (or at least in addition to) greater domination.

On top of giving me more sexual attention, my wife seemed committed to improving our relationship outside of the bedroom and dungeon. She resumed discussing her life with me and asking for my advice about her problems, as she had at the beginning. She no longer went out of her way to humiliate me, and she found fewer reasons to punish me for breaking her myriad rules. She even became much more affectionate, giving me nearly as many pats on the head and strokes of my hair as she had when I'd first submitted to her.

All that said, Ellen wasn't able to suppress her sadistic streak entirely. Two or three times a month, I'd find her wearing her spike-heeled boots when I went to her for my daily foot worship ritual, and when I did, I always knew that she intended to take me to the dungeon for some form of torment. But while I suffered at her hands, I was at least comforted by the knowledge that I'd done nothing wrong, and that my suffering was helping her deal with issues that she needed to work through.

Overall, though, I had to give credit where credit was due. I'd asked Ellen for more intimacy, and she'd gone way out of her way to provide it.

And the only thing she asked in return was my cock.

Ellen continued to assert that, in her phrasing, my penis was no longer a sex organ. Whenever I objected to this, she simply ignored me, and if I said anything remotely supporting her assertion, she took it as evidence of my full agreement. She appeared to believe that by showering me with affection, attention, and intimacy, including of the sexual (albeit with me on the receiving end) variety, she could bring me around to her position eventually. But, as pleased as I was with how much more invested in our marriage she seemed to be, I was simply unable to agree with her on this.

We thus found ourselves in a sort of uneasy truce. As long as I never insisted that my cock serve any function other than urination, then she would continue to treat me well in all other respects. And as long as she never required me to agree with her explicitly on this topic, then I was willing to forego any immediate hope of erection in exchange for her improved treatment. Our relationship was like that between China and Taiwan, or Israel and the Palestinians, where both sides pretend to believe the same thing, while actually believing very different things. As long as everyone plays along with the agreed fiction, the truce holds.

But I think we both knew that our truce was not sustainable. In fact, it held for exactly six months.

***********

I gave my wife's foot a final, tender kiss, and I put her slipper back on. I lifted my head and tilted it to one side, so that she could put my collar around my neck. When she'd buckled it in place, I lay my head on her lap, and she stroked my hair. I purred in contentment.

I was just getting comfortable, when she jumped up, startling me. "Oh, my," she said. "I almost forgot. I have a surprise for you." She looked down and smiled at me, as though to reassure me that "surprise" meant something pleasant. "Wait here a second," she ordered.

She went into the kitchen, and when she came back and sat back down, I saw a leather blindfold in her hand. With another smile, she put it over my eyes and snapped its strap around my head. I felt her slip her fingers through the ring of my collar, and she lifted me to my feet. A few moments later, she helped me take a seat at the kitchen table.

She removed my blindfold, and on the table, I saw a chocolate cake, on which six birthday candles burned brightly.

"I baked this for you," she said proudly. "From scratch, not even from a box! Isn't it wonderful?"

"Of course, Mistress," I replied. The sag of one corner and the unevenness of the icing left no doubt that she was telling the truth about the cake's origins. "It's really beautiful, thank you so much. But, um... Why?"

"Well," she replied, "today is the last day of your sixth month in chastity. A whole half a year! I've been very pleased with the way you've been behaving -- no whining and complaining about your penis all the time. I'm so proud of you that I wanted to do something nice for you."

"Thank you, Mistress," I said. "It is very nice."

"You know, I really took to heart all the things you said when I locked you up the last time," she said. "And I've really been trying to make our marriage a lot more intimate and pleasant for you. I hope you see that."

"Of course, I see it, Mistress," I said. "And I really appreciate it; I do. I'm sorry if I haven't shown you." Of course, I didn't bring up the impossibility of what she demanded in return, i.e., the permanent loss of my penis as a sex organ, as she put it.

"Your chastity has been hard for me too, you know," she said. "Sometimes, I really miss sex the way it used to be. Don't get me wrong, you're very good at oral, but sometimes it's just not enough. Do you remember when you used to fuck me so hard that all I could do afterwards was curl up into a little ball on the bed?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered. How could I ever forget?

"Sometimes I really want a penis inside me again," she said. "A man top of me. Do you understand?"

Wait, what? Is my wife actually telling me that she wants to start having sex with me again?

"Yes, Mistress," I said again, trying to keep my voice even. Perhaps I was an idiot, but I allowed myself a glimmer of hope. Involuntarily, my cock began to stir in its cage.

"So, you wouldn't mind if I indulged my own needs from time to time?" she asked. "To tell you the truth, I've been nervous about bringing it up." As though to emphasize her nervousness, she looked down shyly and put a bite of cake on her fork.

I paused for few seconds. If I were going to persuade Ellen to allow me to fuck her, I had to phrase my response perfectly. She'd have to see that she could have her cake (i.e., get her cunt fucked until all she could do was curl up into a little ball) and eat it too (i.e., maintain her unquestioned dominant role in our marriage). Fortunately, my clients paid me a thousand dollars an hour precisely because I was extremely good at coming up with perfect phrasing on the fly.

Ellen held her fork in front of her mouth and looked in my eyes, awaiting my response.

"I understand, Mistress, and I'd be very happy to serve you that way," I said carefully. "I'm sure if I used my cock only as a tool to please you, then it wouldn't get in the way of me being your submissive. Your slave, I mean," I hastily corrected my mistake. As I always did when trying to get someone to do something, I used her own phrasing.

It didn't work.

Her eyes went wide, as though she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "Oh, dear," she said, setting her fork with the bite of cake back onto her plate. She sounded disappointed, as though she felt bad for causing me confusion. "You didn't really think I meant... I mean, were you actually hoping that I'd... Aww, that's so sweet of you. But no. Definitely not. I could never unlock you after all the progress you've made. Things are going so well for us right now; let's not spoil it. No, I've decided to take a lover. Isn't that a good idea?"

Had Ellen given me a choice between hearing those words and taking her hardest possible kick to the groin (or five kicks, or ten), I would willingly have sacrificed my balls in a heartbeat. But she didn't give me that choice.

Now, anyone who's spent time on male chastity forums might have predicted that Ellen and I would reach this point eventually. Cuckolding is practiced in a seemingly large fraction of FLRs, with, as far as I can tell, the enthusiastic consent of the men involved (indeed, often at their instigation). But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't wrap my head around the idea. Whenever I'd read journal entries or advice threads on cuckold sites, images of Ellen fucking another man would flood my mind, and the emotional stress would be enough to nauseate me physically to the point of throwing up.

I'd never had the heart to consider what I would do if (or when) Ellen proposed to make me her cuckold. Confronted with the reality of it now, I saw no good options: If I agreed, I'd keep my wife, but lose my lover; if I didn't, I'd lose both. My heart sank.

"Isn't that a good idea?" Ellen repeated.

I couldn't meet her eyes. I stared at the cake, where the birthday candles were burning down to little nubs atop puddles of melted wax. "Mistress," I answered, miserably. "If that's what you want, I guess I have to accept it."

"Accept it?" she repeated. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

"How can I be happy about you giving yourself to some other guy?" I asked. "I don't want to lose you."

"But you wouldn't lose me" she said. "We'd be closer than ever. The only reason I can even think about this because I trust you so completely. You'll always be the most important person in my life."

"Except that you'd apparently rather fuck someone else instead of me," I said, bitterly.

"Why do you have to drag your penis into every conversation?" she asked. "Sometimes, I really wish we could just cut it off. You and I share so much in so many ways. Everything that really matters. This is just one teeny-tiny thing that I want to share with someone else. Why can't you let it go?"

"Because it's not right!" I said, letting a note of anger creep into my voice. "Look, I get that a lot of submissive guys have a cuckold fantasy. But I don't. I don't want you to do this."

"Why are you making this all about you?" she said in an exasperated voice. "Don't you care about what I want?"

"Of course, I care about what you want. But this isn't right," I repeated.

"Well, I think you're being selfish," she said. "And I can't believe I even have to bring this up, but if you remember, you didn't have any problem bringing outsiders into our marriage when the shoe was on the other foot. How many women did you fuck after we got together? Double standards much?"

"I don't care if it's selfish," I said. "And I admit that it's a double standard. But I didn't make it up. It's just biology: Women have a few eggs and a womb, and men have unlimited sperm."

"What are you talking about? How does that justify you taking lovers but getting jealous if I do?"

"It doesn't justify it, but it explains why I care. A man can't be sure who a baby's father is, so he has to be careful not to waste resources raising someone else's. A woman's the opposite. She knows the baby's hers, so she has to be careful that she keeps the man around to help raise it. That's why when a guy catches a woman cheating, his first question is, 'Did you let him fuck you?' And a woman's first question is, 'Are you in love with her?' The genes of every man who didn't get jealous died out on the plains of Africa a million years ago."

"Well, that's all very interesting," she said drily. "But were not on the plains of Africa a million years ago. We're in Washington, D.C. today."

"I don't know what you want me to say," I said.

"I was hoping you'd say that my happiness meant more to you than some biology nonsense. But I guess that was too much to expect from you. Even after everything I've done for you."

No, sorry, you're not going to guilt-trip me into supporting you on this.

"Look, you asked me how I felt, and I told you," I said. I realized that I was looking into her eyes without permission, and that I'd been doing so for some time. But I held my gaze. "If you're going to insist that I that I always tell you the truth, then you shouldn't get mad when I do."

"Don't you dare tell me how I should feel," she said sharply.

I had the distinct feeling that the newer, nicer Ellen -- the Ellen that stroked my hair, fucked me gently in the ass, overlooked minor infractions, and all the rest -- that Ellen was about to be put on the shelf. And I didn't have the heart to argue with the previous, angrier Ellen. I gave in, as I knew from the beginning that I would eventually.

"Look, you're my Mistress," I said in a flat voice. "You can do whatever you want, and you don't need my permission."

"At least you understand that much," she said.

"But you also can't stop me from feeling what I feel," I continued. "I'm not ready for this, and I don't think I ever will be. But it's up to you."

"Well, I'd say you've made your position clear. I'll take what you say into consideration," she said. "But you're exactly right. It's up to me."

With that, she stood and walked out. On her plate remained her uneaten piece of chocolate cake, one corner detached and impaled on her fork.

***********

Two hours later, I was in my office vainly attempting to look through material in preparation for a series of important meetings the next day. I had no ability to focus. No matter what was on the screen of my laptop, the image dissolved into one of Ellen fucking another man. Then the real-life Ellen appeared in the doorway and entered my office.

Wordlessly, she took me by the collar and dragged me to my feet. Then she went to one knee and put her little key into the padlock of my chastity cage. Almost angrily, she worked to free my shaft from its little cage, although she left the ring around the base of my scrotum. She stood up and looked into my eyes.

"Fuck me," she said.

"Mistress?" I asked, confused.

"You heard me," she said sharply. "You want me for yourself, so go ahead. Here I am. Fuck me." She reached down, grabbed my shaft, and started massaging me. Not slowly and sensually, but roughly and rapidly, as she did in the seconds leading to orgasm.

What the hell do I do now?

In retrospect, it's obvious what I should have done. I should have fucked her. I should have grabbed her by the hair, bent her over my desk, yanked her pantyhose down from under her skirt, and rode her until she screamed for mercy. Doing so would have changed our sexual dynamic completely. I doubt she would have ceded her dominant role completely, but it certainly would have put us on a more even footing, where she acknowledged her need for me as a man. At a minimum, it would have put to bed the idea that my cock was no longer a sexual organ and that she therefore needed to have sex with other men.

That's what I should have done. In the event, I froze. Why?

I've thought about that moment a lot in the years since, but I've never come up with a good reason. Or rather, I've come up with a few good reasons, and I suspect that the truth is a mix of all of them.

One reason was pure stubbornness. Ellen had ordered me to fuck her, so I petulantly needed to assert my independence by not fucking her. Insane, yes, but that's the way my mind works sometimes.

Another reason was that my time in submission had changed me. Or maybe it hadn't change me, but rather allowed me to be who I really was. I don't know, and I suppose it doesn't really matter. But the truth is, I didn't want to yank Ellen's pantyhose down and fuck her. I wanted to make love to her. I wanted us to lie naked on our bed together, holding and caressing and kissing each other until finally desire overcame us and I entered her.

I didn't want to turn the tables on my Mistress. Despite her growing sadism and the increasingly disturbing way she'd been treating me, I adored Ellen more deeply than I can ever express. I just wanted to feel that she still loved me and that she needed me sexually. I was happy to be her submissive, or even her slave. But I also needed to be her man. Her only man.

But the main reason I didn't fuck my wife that evening -- the most practical reason, the reason I'm loathe to admit to and shudder even to remember -- is this: I couldn't get it up.

Ellen's hand felt cold on my cock. Her vigorous massage seemed designed to irritate, rather than arouse me. But it shouldn't have mattered. Never, ever, ever had my cock not responded immediately to stimulation of any kind. Ever. In most cases, even the expectation of stimulation was enough to make my shaft hard, throbbing, and ready for action. Not this time.