Serving Wife and Her Mother Ch. 01

Since I moved to my wife's country home in rural Poland, my life has been a dream-come-true. At night we sleep closely intertwined on a small, twin bed set up against a wall. I love to press against her soft, sensuous body throughout the night. She loves it too, but places certain limits on what I'm allowed to do under these circumstances. Pushing an erect penis against her is strictly forbidden. If she senses me doing so, she pinches, punches of kicks me in my three-piece set such that I must stop. There's no light-hearted joking regarding that rule. She means business, and threatens to throw me out of bed and have me sleep on the floor should I persist in that violation of her rules.

Actually, I find a way to enjoy at least a pitiful substitute for the forbidden pleasure. When she is fully and deeply asleep, I raise my erection up along my lower belly and press the ventral side of the shaft against whatever body part of hers is accessible. I never thrust or rub, for that would awaken her. Instead I derive what satisfaction I can by compressing the shaft of the erection against her deliciously soft hip or thigh. Usually I fall blissfully asleep in that mode. At other times, however, if I am not sufficiently tired to sleep, I lay against her, my poor, unsatisfied erection in a perpetual state of unmet desire.

I do my utmost to avoid waking her, lest she inflict her favorite form of retaliation, namely the repeated and relentless, hard pinching of my penis, often intensified by use of her nails. This is not something one wants to experience, not even a devoted worshipper like myself. So I hold back my male impulsiveness, suppressing it in compliance with the rules set by my female-supremacist wife. I sometimes revel in the power of a woman to curtail and control the male animal. It's as if she is capable of diminishing my manhood, i.e. drawing a feminine side of me, one that submits and sacrifices in order to please. In sense, she and many modern women have flipped the old conventions upside down, forcing men like like myself into hesitancy and timidity around women. She has instructed me to always behave apologetically toward women and Womankind.

After what is usually a relaxing sleep in glorious proximity to my wife, I am awakened by an alarm that it is time to make her coffee. I slide out of bed, glancing briefly at my flaccid but still slightly swollen penis, left protruding from fly of my underpants, seemingly forlorn having been ignored despite it apparent neediness.

I hustle into the kitchen and go about my duties preparing her coffee to specification. Whenever the coffee fails to meet her expectations, she hands it back to me, verbalizing her complaint. I apologize and ask if I can try again to prepare her coffee to her satisfaction. Before dispatching me back to the kitchen, she reminds me that one more strike of the switch will be applied to my butt along with all the other blows I will accumulate until the next reckoning. My wife reserves the right to schedule a reckoning whenever she fells like doing so. I agree, and ask if I may return to making the coffee. Most of the time, she is satisfied with the coffee, so I frequently escape any consequence of its preparation.

After delivering her coffee to the bedside, I crouch or kneel and wait for her to give me my orders for the day. First she will demand to know why I didn't bring her robe. Up to that point she is seated on the edge of the bed, holding a crumpled fistful of sheet in a ball in front of her chest, but hardly hiding anything of her voluptuous, plump breasts. She stands and I help her into her robe, watching her glorious breast and buttocks disappear under its clingy fabric.She will often announce her plans to make breakfast while I carry out menial chores.

My wife like the bathroom including the floors around and behind the sink cleaned on a daily basis, so I set about busying myself with the cleaning, I fetch rags and brushes and rubber gloves and do my best to fulfill her wishes. Every so often, she takes a pause from cooking breakfast to check on my work.

"Do you call this clean?" she will ask. "I told you to clean back behind there and use a clean rag and get down on the floor where you can see what I'm telling you needs attention." The specificity and vehemence of her critique makes my heart swell with pride for her attitude of command. I had tried since the earliest days of our relationship to foster a healthy feminist outlook with encouragement for her to take her place as a superior being, superior in the sense that all females are superior to all males, but also that she is a supreme example of the sex.

When my wife calls me to breakfast I drop what chores I was performing and take a seat at the kitchen table. If she has to remind me to finish setting the partially set table, she smiles and nods to indicate that it will be another whack of the switch at a later time. All I can think of is how much I admire her strictness in this regard. Competing with that feeling is a rush of intense gratitude for the kind and generous way she sees to my breakfast needs, providing a splendid, artfully arranged and delicious meal that has been carefully and lovingly thought out and presented. As a result of these competing emotions, I find myself eager -- even anxious -- to carry out her wishes and tend to her demands.

Over the years I have watched her grow into a kind of self-regarding grandeur. Her own woman. A free, independent and fearless goddess. She enjoys showering me with attention and affection, but she knows that I am completely at her mercy -- to do with me whatever she deems will serve her purposes. She sends me to perform chores and tasks; to arrange her environment around her for her convenience and comfort; she demands obedience and shapes my attitude by corporal punishment and by explicit criticism, sometimes both administered at the same time. With her highness's maturity has come a certain impatience. She will not permit delay in carrying out her commands. She knows what she wants or what she wants done, and she insists upon its immediate delivery. If I delay in accomplishing any tasks which she assigns me, I am made aware of her displeasure in no uncertain terms.

"Warm my coffee back up," she might say.

"It's quite warm enough already," was my answer.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it! Do you understand!"

"Yes dear, I'm sorry."

"I don't need you to say you're sorry. I'll see to it that you're good and sorry. Just do what you're told. That's your job: to do what I tell you. Now say it."

"Yes dear."

"What is your job?"

"To do what you tell me to do."

I scurry off, thinking how fortunate I am to receive orders from her and suffer a painful lesson that will be for my betterment. Better to serve her.

As she continued sipping her coffee and nibbling at breakfast she began to speak. "I hope you know that I don't appreciate your pushing that pathetic dork of yours against me while I sleep." I couldn't think of a response. She went on. "So tonight we are going to put you into my chastity device so that you aren't tempted to do the same thing tonight." "Yes, dear." was the only response I could muster.

My wife entertains frequent visits from her mother who lives in a nearby town. She will announce the visit by first ordering me to drop to my knees and pay close attention to what she is about to say. On this occasion, she remained seated and she turned to glower down at me with a look of utter seriousness.

"You are going to pick my mother up at her home and bring her here. She is going to be spending the day here. You will do everything possible to make her feel comfortable. Change her bedsheets. Get her slippers out of the closet and set them by her freshly made bed. Prepare tea for both her and for me when she gets here. You can make enough for yourself, if you wish.

At some point I am going to have you drive her around to do some shopping. You are to keep your credit card handy in the event that she decides that you are to pay for a particular item, and you are to offer it without protest." These were her opening remarks. Then she added,"...and if you show the least sign of impatience or aggravation...if you so much as roll your eyes, or in any way make her aware of your stupid male attitude, I will punish you severely...and right in front of her! Is that clear?"

"Yes, dear," is my consistent response.

"'Yes dear' is not good enough. Show me that you not only understand, but that you agree." At this point, I never know what to do to satisfy her. So I bow down and begin to lavish kisses on her feet while voicing not only affirmations, but actual enthusiasm for the assignment.

"Yes, darling, princess, majesty, highness," I will say while placing avid kisses on her feet and slippers. Please let me show you how much I want to please you. Make me serve you by serving as your mother's chauffeur and servant."

"What else?" she asks.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, " I will mumble, still pressing my lips on one of her feet. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity to serve you."

"Now get up and get dressed. I told her that you would be there in in 15 minutes, so get a move on! Move it. Go, go, go!" she will add, using her foot that I was just kissing to shove my face away, presumably in the direction of the shower.

"Hurry up!" she repeats as I scurry away at her command. "I told mom to let me know if you keep her waiting. She doesn't like to to be kept waiting, and she'll complain if she has to. Then, watch out. You're going to get it. Before you leave, go fetch the rug beater and leave it where I can be reminded to monitor your performance."

I rushed to get it, hoping to not make myself late for the drive to pick up her mother.

When I returned and handed over the rug-beater Cast my eyes down and asked as politely and humbly as I was able," If I do avery good job and treat your mom the way you want and do everything you tell me...If I carry out everything you tell me..." I paused with embarrassment. "Do you think maybe later I could...you would let me...worst...worship you...you know...show my devotion the way I...you know?"

A mocking smile appeared on her face as she stared into my upturned eyes. You mean you want to kiss me. Down 'there?' You want to kiss my butt. And stick your face where you like to stick it? You filthy little slave. You want to...never mind. I'll think about it. I'll see if you deserve it. If you've earned it, little doggie. That's how I think of you when you're slobbering over my private areas. Maybe I'll make you beg and grovel first. Ha! We'll just have to see. Now get going like I told you or you'll get punished instead!"

During days like this, I practically fall over myself in enthusiasm to please the two women, my wife and her mother. It's both arduous and at the same time educational because both of them offer steady criticism of my efforts, sometimes simultaneously. "Look what a mess you're making," one will say. "He doesn't do anything that we tell him," the other will add. "Stop what you're doing and start over. Do it right this time," is often directed at me. I appreciate all the constructive criticism that they throw at me and experience feelings of extreme admiration for the female ability to find fault with my efforts. They have such high standards!

Exhausted after a day of running around carrying out commands of my female overlords, I am assigned to drive her mother home. On this occasion, "mom" has elected not to stay with us, but to return to her home. During the drive she gives me exuberant praise for my willingness to serve both her and her daughter. She heaps praise on me for subduing my male assertiveness and yielding to the authority of my wife. She repeatedly praises me for not being like typical Polish or Italian men who constantly struggle to deny the superiority of women. I express appreciation for the kind comparisons, and admit that I am absolutely happy in my subordinate role because of my firmly held belief in the superiority of woman.

On the drive back home, I begin to wonder what my wife has in store for me. Has she compiled a list of infractions for which I will receive a paddling of my backside with the rug beater?--or even possibly a dreaded attack directly on my cock and balls? On the other hand will she grant me my wish to kneel in worship before her and feast on her delicate private parts with kisses and expressions of adoration?

When I re-entered the house, my wife was seated at the kitchen table working at her laptop computer. She she glanced at me, then returned her attention to the computer as she spoke.

"I need you to go around the house picking up my clothes that are scattered about the apartment. Some in the bathroom, some in the bedroom, wherever you find them. Then I want you to sort through them the way I taught you. Make separate piles. Some are regular laundry, others need delicate treatment and need you to hand wash them. If you have any questions, come back and ask me."

This was not exactly the greeting I was hoping for, but my disappointment was softened by the awareness that I would be making myself useful to my gorgeous princess. Following her orders, I subjected each pile of garments to the appropriate laundry treatment. The more delicate items were laid flat to dry, the way she insists. While the dryer was finishing the job, I returned to her side and knelt awaiting announcement of her plans. Would it be the rug-beater or would I be able to provide oral pleasure to my mistress? She was finished at the computer, so she closed it and turned to me. By then, my penis was beginning to harden in the anticipation of the latter situation.

"You remember what I said about the chastity device. Go get it so I can lock you up, so you don't try rubbing against me as I sleep tonight."

Disappointed, but resigned to my fate, I rose and shuffled off to the drawer were she keeps the device, returning to her with it and a jar of vaseline in hands. She ordered me to unbuckle and lower my pants and underwear. She calls my underpants my "panties," in order to keep me aware of how little respect she has for masculinity and self-descriptions of maleness.

As she began to assemble the device around my three-piece set, she commented with scorn, "I don't know why you go and get a boner at this point. It's only going to make it more difficult and painful for me to squeeze you into the device."

Indeed, it was exceedingly difficult, but her highness spared no effort and granted no consideration for my pain as she used her fingers roughly to force my swollen and sensitive member into its "jail."

"Well at least you'll be able to concentrate on pleasuring me and preparing me for the vibrator without trying to get something you don't deserve out of the experience." I absolutely adore my wife for her placing a priority on her own pleasure and wisdom in curtailing mine.

"Take my panties down," she commanded. She was still seated on a chair at the kitchen table I knelt to carry out the order. Reaching up under her housedress, I took the panties' elastic waistband into my curled fingers and pulled it down as she lifted herself slightly off the chair to facilitate the process. After I had lowered the panties from off her ankles I looked up into the dark "V" of her crotch and the creases in her soft, smooth flesh separating her delicious thighs fro her even-more-delicious lower belly and pubic region. My mouth began to water and my heart began to race. She spread her thighs to open the crotch for me, but I hesitated to act without permission. Other men might feel the urge to violate and penetrate this font of womanhood. I, instead, wanted nothing but to adore this holy region--to throw off my manhood and revert to the lowly creature she had made me into -- her pet, her toy, her groveling, begging, infinitely grateful worshipper, her subject, her vassal, her slave.

I brought my face into the dark recess before me, leading with my mouth, my nose -- no, with my tongue, desiring nothing but to provide her with well-deserved pleasure, at the same time despising my now-abandoned desire for personal pleasure. Happy to embrace the lowly status which her desirability had imposed upon me.

For a moment, she placed a hand on my forehead, blocking my advance. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked contemptuously. "Did I give you permission?" My heart sunk. "Please...please let me...Please...I want....I..."

"You want? Please? Keep in mind that it's what I want, loser, not what you want. You do what I want. If I want you to kiss me down there, I'll let you. If I don't, you can go jerk off while I take care of myself with the vibrator. Now go get it and bring it to the bedroom."

I rose and got the vibrator. She, too, rose and followed me into the bedroom. Taking the vibrator from me, she reclined onto the bed.

"Come lick me...gently, mind you. Very gently. Put your mouth here."

I leaned forward and began to lay my affection on her pussy. She then began to lecture me in a calm, didactic voice. She was laying down the new rules by which I must abide in this, her homeland, where I would ever be a foreigner, a hapless, weak and feckless fool in need of her domination.

"You are always to do exactly what I tell. Is that clear?"I offered a mumbled affirmation.

"You are to obey my every command." I tried to reply with a yes, but my tongue was busy at its task.

"You are to say 'Yes, dear' when you receive my commands. And you are to say 'thank you' to indicate that you are grateful to serve me. Is that clear?" Again I mumbled my agreement while still busy trying to provide pleasure with my tongue.

"You are to respond immediately when I call you. If you dare to offer an excuse, you will be punished. Do you hear me?"

"Let's start with the house. While the coffee is brewing, you are to neaten up the rooms, picking up anything lying around. You should set all the furniture straight so that I don't have to look at a room in disarray. I want any dishes left from the previous night washed and placed on the rack to dry. Pieces that are dry are to be placed in the appropriate cabinet." I hummed a confirmatory sound while still lapping away at her vulva.

"If you fail in any regard, I will have you correct the situation by using my wooden spoon on your bottom. Repeated failure calls for the rug beater and the chastity device. If necessary, I will make you wear the oversize high heels we bought in Greenwich Village before we left the States."