This is the story of my life, edited for public consumption. Read this third installment of a saga, if -- and ONLY if -- you enjoy the idea of a voluntary and mutual-consent relationship between a submissive man and his humiliating, dominatrix wife. If you dislike the premise, please do not read on. And certainly do not offer insipid cliches and bromides as advice such as "grow a pair" in the comments, nor moralistic objections. De Gustibus non est Disputandem..
I was now fully integrated back into the marital household, but not so much as husband but rather as servant and constant target for sexual teasing and torment. My wife had never been enthusiastic about sex when we was trying to establish a "vanilla" relationship, and had only grudgingly offered minimal cooperation with complete lack of interest and enthusiasm. I had considered the possibility that she might be a lesbian. But, no, that didn't really seem to be the case. Her resistance to marital sex seemed more to stem from her hard-core feminist ideology that she picked up from the political-cultural trend of the times. She frequently lectured me about the misdeeds of "the patriarchy" and such accusations often interrupted my attempts at love-making. That situation -- her apparent frigidity -- had now come to full fruition since I returned to her after my wasted attempt to find happiness by leaving marriage. What's more. I lived under the oft repeated threat that her strict, harsh, man-hating mother was soon coming to live us.
There was no opportunity for sex whatsoever. Instead, she had me locked in a plastic chastity device, incapable of achieving even an erection, although I filled that device with the most gorged, needy, available two inches of man-flesh imaginable many times per day. Let me describe the goings-on.
In the mornings, I rose around 6 a.m. to prepare her coffee while she continued her beauty sleep. At 6:30, her alarm went off, awakening her. II was expected to be kneeling by the bedside and have her coffee on a tray at the moment the alarm woke her. I had hell to pay if I did not. And if the coffee was not hot enough ---or lacked the exact amount of sugar or cream she expected, the soul-crushing stream of humiliating insults she would heap on me quickly trained me to make her coffee service a priority.
"Where is my properly coffee, you stupid, incompetent idiot?" she growled if she was displeased with the coffee. "You can't do anything right! Take this back and bring me a proper cup of coffee. What a poor excuse for a man you are! Wait till my mother gets here. She knows how to break and train a man."
Within a week, I had mastered all the household chores except cooking. That was designated a woman's realm, and I was not to intrude upon it. After she had cooked dinner, i was to adopt the manner and attitude of a solicitous waiter, serving her, hopping back and forth from the stove to her place at the table. fetching salt & pepper, refilling her water or wine without having to be told, etc. When she was finished with her meal, I cleared the table and cleaned up the dishes, glasses and silverware before she would permit me to serve myself whatever was left over. While I ate, she would direct her criticisms of whatever faults she noticed in my servitude. Then I would clean up again and stay out of her way while she read, watched TV, or chatted with her mother on the phone.
I was to remain close by in case she needed anything. In this after dinner time she would have me tend to her needs, at her beck and call while she issued brief, commands, sometimes communicating her needs with a snap of her fingers or a single word.
Placing one hand over the mouthpiece of her phone while in conversation with her mother or one of her feminist friends, and without so much as looking my way, she might utter the word "lotion!" That meant I was to quickly fetch a bottle of skin lotion and kneel before her, waiting for directions. Still engaged in her phone conversation, she might simply point in the direction of her feet, and I knew what to do. I always remove her shoes as gently and carefully as possible in order to avoid getting a sharp rebuke for distracting her from her TV watching or phone conversation. I find it particularly humiliating if Mavis calls me out in loud, unequivocal terms that are audible to the party with whom she is speaking, whether it be her mother, another feminist militant or a gentleman friend. She makes no effort to spare my reputation to the person on the other end of the phone conversation who gets to overhear my being reprimanded by my wife in the most insulting way, calling me "idiot" and "imbecile" for the mistakes I may make while tending to her feet. Often she will share with the other party some disparaging assessment of me and my efforts.
