My Journey to Submission Pt. 11

In the cold light of day, of course, this sounds a little silly. But as I've said, sex plays tricks on the mind. And for a young, inexperienced woman, the realization that she'd been under observation without her knowledge, combined with having to answer deeply personal questions from a mysterious, disembodied voice was usually quite a mind-fuck.

Ellen was clearly aiming to have the same effect on me. Whatever was going on upstairs, she definitely intended for me to hear it. She'd probably invited some random guy over for drinks, and she wanted me to stew in my jealousy for a while before she came downstairs to release me.

But that was as far as it would go. Right? We'd discussed at length the possibility of her having sex with someone else, and I'd told her very clearly how much it would hurt me. So, there was no way that she would actually cuckold me. Right?

If Ellen's intention was to fuck with my mind, she was most definitely succeeding.

I strained to listen, trying to pick up any clues that I could about what was happening above my head. There was silence, then some kind of movement. Then more silence. Then I'd catch snatches of words or phrases, occasionally punctuated by Ellen's laughter. Then the male voice again. Whoever this guy was, he was definitely still in the house.

What I assumed was Ellen's teasing continued for maybe an hour.

Then I heard a sound. And all of the beatings and torments and insults and degradations that Ellen had inflicted on me over the past two years faded into utter triviality. I would gladly have endured all of them together -- five times over! -- if by doing so I could unhear that sound.

The sound was a kind of high-pitched, whimpering moan that Ellen -- my submissive Ellen, my loving wife Ellen -- had always made when she was fully aroused and desperate to have my cock inside her. I'd never been able to induce the sound from cunnilingus, no matter how many hours I tried to do so. She almost certainly didn't know that she made the sound, which meant that there was no chance that she was faking it now for my benefit. In an instant, dozens of images of Ellen bleating out her whimpering moan -- with her legs spread, her pussy soaking wet, her eyes pleading for me to enter her -- flashed through my mind.

My wife was upstairs fucking another man.

Everything I knew -- or thought I knew -- about my life, my world, my marriage, and my future was obliterated forever. And by "forever" I mean exactly that -- forever. No matter what happened next, no matter what she said or didn't say, no matter what I did or didn't do, my life as I'd always known it was shattered beyond repair.

Once Ellen had fucked another man, she could never unfuck him. I was no longer a real man. I was a cuckold.

I jerked my arms against my restraints, and I slammed my body uselessly against the iron bars. I inadvertently kicked over the bucket, spilling my urine onto the floor of my cell. I let out a long, loud screech, giving voice to the jealousy, rage, frustration and grief that overwhelmed me.

As desperate as I was to block the sounds of sexual intercourse from my ears, I was even more desperate to hear every minute detail. I listened intently as her moans grow louder and more frequent. Yes, she had wanted me to hear this, but what I was hearing was no performance -- I'd known her too intimately for too long not to be morally certain of that. She was giving herself passionately to whoever was in (my!) bed with her at that moment.

As I focused on Ellen's moaning with growing horror, I pictured vividly what he must be seeing and feeling at that very moment. I realized that my cock was hard and throbbing, and when I looked down, I saw the reason: I was masturbating. With a shriek, I jerked my hand away. But my erection -- supported by an incredibly powerful, toxic emotional cocktail -- would not abate. I'd long known that there was such as thing as "hate fucking" or "rage fucking," but until that moment, I'd never understood it.

I couldn't keep my hand from my shaft, and soon I found myself jerking off to the rhythm of Ellen's moaning. When I finally heard her cry out in orgasm, my sperm pumped out of my cock in angry bursts and splatted on the floor. Somehow, in this demented, horrifying version of the universe, my wife and I climaxed simultaneously for the first time in over two years.

Then the sound system went quiet. Whether Ellen was lying quietly and contentedly in my unknown rival's arms, or whether she thought that I wouldn't benefit from listening to another bout of her passionate coitus, I never learned. All I knew was that I was all alone with my shame and self-loathing. I sank onto the floor and began to cry.

Later that night, I masturbated again, hoping desperately the endorphins from orgasm would send me to sleep, allowing me to escape my pain. Thankfully, they did, and I drifted off sometime in the early morning.

I woke up a few hours later, when I felt Ellen's foot prodding me through the bars.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey," she said in a mocking singsong, looking down at me. "I got up expecting you to have already made coffee, but when I came downstairs, you were nowhere to be found. I very nearly got angry with you, before I realized that it wasn't your fault at all, because you were still locked up down here. Was it terribly thoughtless of me not to let you out when I got home?"

You've got to be fucking kidding me. Is it really possible for person to be, or even pretend to be, that cold? All of my loneliness, hopelessness, frustration, anger, sadness, anguish and despair came out together in a single cry. "Why?"

"Why what?" she said, challenging me to confront her.

"You know goddamned well why what!" I shouted. Punishment be damned, I could no longer control my anger and frustration.

"Because I wanted to have sex," she said. "Real sex, with a real penis. Something that you're no longer allowed."

"Because you won't allow it!" My frustration was getting the better of me. "You didn't need to do this!"

She didn't answer me for a while. We looked at each other through the bars of the cage. I kept my eyes raised, not caring what punishment she might later mete out for my lack of respect. Finally, she broke the silence.

"I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen to me very carefully," she said. Since it's a fairly well-known fact that no pleasant conversation ever starts with the phrase, "I need to tell you something," I prepared for the worst. Had she been having an affair with the guy? Was she planning to leave me for him?

She continued, "I love you, and I respect you. Very much, in fact. I suppose I don't tell you that often enough." Well, that was a twist. In point of fact, I can't recall that she'd ever said it. "Despite your efforts to hide it sometimes, you're the best person I know. And my debt of gratitude for everything you've given me in my life is one that I can never repay. You hold my heart in a way that no one else ever could. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, as evenly as I could. I was trying desperately to keep ahold of myself, but the sound of her whimpering moan kept running through my head. Then the other shoe dropped.

"But there's something else that you must understand," she said. "You no longer have any claim whatsoever on my body. When I have sex, with whom I have sex, where, how -- none of these questions are your concern anymore."

"Of course, they're my concern!" I said, unable to control my anger. "You're my wife, for fuck's sake!"

"I know that you're upset," she said, her voice growing sharper. "But I won't tolerate you speaking to me in that tone of voice. Legally, you are my husband, of course. But that's just a story we tell people. In reality, you're my slave. That's all. We decided this long ago, and to be honest, I'm starting to become frustrated by your refusal to accept what that means."

"I'm sorry, Mistress," I said. Actually, I didn't feel apologetic in the least, but the apology came automatically. Ellen's consistent, firm training over the past two years had been effective. Then I again heard her whimpering moan sound in my mind, and I lost it. "No! Fuck that, I'm not sorry. You've gone too goddamned far. I told you I wouldn't accept you fucking someone else."

"You also told me it was my decision," she replied. "And I decided. Now you get to decide. You can either accept our relationship as it really is, or you can end it."

So, that was it.

There would be no compromise. No stepping back from the precipice. It would be "My way or the highway" and "Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead." Ellen was prepared to sacrifice me on the altar of her vision of femdom. And I wasn't prepared to sacrifice her for whatever vision I still held for myself. As a result, I had no choice but to accept her new reality. She would fuck other men. She would keep me in permanent lock-up. Intimacy would mean licking her pussy and taking her strap-on in my anus, and nothing more. Ever.

We both knew these things to be true. But while accepting them to myself, I tried to salvage a shred of dignity. "I'll think about it," I said sullenly.

"You do that," she said in a clipped voice. She wasn't buying my bullshit for an instant. "I'd hate for you to make a rash decision when you're upset. But remember, you can only end things, not change them. If you stay, you will continue to be my slave. You will have to learn self-control, and you will have to accept that your penis is no longer a sex organ." She gestured to the faint spots of dried sperm on the floor. "I see that we still have a way to go on that."

I didn't answer, and there was another uncomfortable silence.

"Alright, I see that you're not ready to talk about this rationally," she said. "So, I'm going upstairs. Now, I have a lot of chores for you to do today. And if you don't want me to put you in your shackles while you do them, then I'd suggest you put this behind you and get ready for the day."

"Is he gone?" I asked.

She looked at me, disappointed. "Yes, he's gone," she answered. "I never told him about you, so your little secret's safe for now. But in an ideal world, you wouldn't ask that. You'd be proud to be my slave, and it wouldn't matter to you who knows." I was beginning to understand that the phrase "in an ideal world" meant approximately, "what you may expect me next."

She put the key in the jail cell's padlock, clicked it open, and walked away. She stopped and turned back around after a few steps. If I'd hoped for a final, comforting word, I was disappointed. "And lick up your mess before you leave, she said," her voice dripping with disgust. "I don't care if it's already dried. Don't forget your urine. It smells filthy in here."

So, there was one final humiliation to endure before I could begin trying to put the horror of the previous night behind me. There was no way to avoid it, since Ellen had a dozen ways to check up on me.

I got on my hands and knees and put my mouth to the floor.