My Femdom Marriage Ch 09 11

Chapter 9: My Pleasure Becomes the Priority

"I exist only where you allow me."

-- Anaïs Nin

We had been together for months. He had served me daily. Worshipped me nightly. Slept beside me often.

I had never once allowed him to orgasm.

And he had never once asked.

That silence--that reverence--was not submission. It was devotion.

Every night, he pleased me.

With his mouth first: slow, deliberate, patient. He learned the angle I liked best, how to breathe through his nose, how to flatten his tongue and pulse just so. I taught him to wait for my hand in his hair before changing rhythm. To pause when I gripped his jaw. To finish when I said now.

Sometimes I sat on his face while reading. Sometimes I used him in the morning, still half-asleep. Sometimes I called him into the bathroom as I soaked in the tub and told him, "Now. Use your tongue. And don't let me get cold."

He never failed me.

After his mouth, his hands: strong when I wanted massage, soft when I wanted silence. He learned to kneel beside the couch when I was watching a film and quietly rub my feet with scented oil, never speaking, never asking if I was pleased.

He washed my hair. He clipped my nails. He held my hips while I fucked myself on his face, one leg slung over the arm of a chair. He kissed every inch of my body like it was sacred--and it was.

And still... he never came.

Not once.

Not even when I edged him. Not even when I whispered filth in his ear, stroked his cock just enough to make his legs tremble, and then backed away--leaving him panting, aching, obedient.

He wore a cage most nights by then. Not because I demanded it--but because it kept him centered. I made him put it on in front of me, kneeling, whispering "thank you" as the lock clicked shut.

He had seen my body in every angle of pleasure. Felt my thighs tremble. Watched my fingers curl in climax. Heard me cry out--unrestrained, unashamed.

But he had never been inside me.

That was not his purpose.

And he knew it.

I remember once--just once--I stood before him naked, my thighs still wet with his effort, and I asked:

"You want to be inside me?"

He nodded. Just once. Quiet. Earnest.

And I leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered, "No."

He didn't beg. He didn't pout. He just closed his eyes... and said thank you.

And in that moment, something shifted.

Not in him.

In me.

Because while he had long since surrendered his pleasure to me, I had started to surrender something else in return--my heart.

I didn't say it then. I didn't need to. But I knew.

I was falling in love with him.

Not because he pleased me.

But because he had made my pleasure his purpose--and expected nothing in return.

Chapter 10: His Chastity

"Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming, like Joan of Arc."

-- G.K. Chesterton

He had been in chastity most nights by then. Not always locked, but always denied. Always aware that his cock was mine to manage--not his to use.

He never asked when he'd be allowed to come. He never even touched himself without permission. He didn't test my limits. He obeyed them. Quietly. Fully.

And so one day, I told him:

It was time to make it permanent.

We sat on the edge of my bed. I was clothed. He was naked, kneeling between my knees, his cage already on. I reached down, gently cupping the locked shape between his thighs, feeling the heat through the steel.

"I'm taking control of this," I said. "Long-term. You'll be caged every day unless I say otherwise."

He nodded. A small motion. His eyes never left mine.

I continued.

"You will earn release when it suits me. Not often. And only if you've been flawless. Serving me in every way. Anticipating. Performing. Surrendering."

I could see his cock already straining in the cage. That irony always made me smile--he wanted this. So badly. His body rebelled against it, and his mind embraced it. That tension? It was beautiful.

Then I opened the small velvet case beside me and showed him the new cage: more fitted, more secure, sleek stainless steel with an integrated PA lock. The final piece of this new ritual was a piercing.

"You'll be pierced here," I said, running a finger slowly down the shaft of the cage. "So there's no escaping this unless I unlock it. And I won't always want to."

I let the silence hang there.

I didn't demand he accept it. I simply offered the future--and waited.

He looked down, took a breath, and asked the only question I needed to hear:

"Mistress, will you train me to please you perfectly?"

My fingers curled in his hair and pulled his head gently to my lap. He melted into me--aroused, caged, surrendered.

We talked about logistics:

The appointment. The healing time. The insertion. The locking schedule. Hygiene. Protocols for travel. Emergency keys. Rules around inspection and cleaning.

But none of it was clinical. It was ceremonial. Sacred.

He was giving me his cock--not just physically, but symbolically. He was making it unavailable to himself, not because I told him to, but because he wanted his denial to become permanent.

He no longer measured time in days or hours.

He measured it in distance from his last orgasm.

And his proximity to my pleasure.

Chapter 11: First Public Display

"The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places."

-- Roald Dahl

It wasn't a scene.

It wasn't a play party.

It was a dinner party.

Friends. Acquaintances. Laughter. Wine. Someone brought homemade pie. It was the kind of night where dominance didn't need to be spoken--it only needed to be worn.

And I wore it well.

He came dressed exactly as I instructed: charcoal slacks, black shirt, no tie. Clean-shaven. Caged. I had chosen the scent he wore. I had even told him what word he was not allowed to say all evening: "No."

I didn't make him serve me like a waiter. I didn't make a spectacle. That wasn't my style. But I gave him small instructions in public--subtle, almost invisible to the untrained eye.

"Go top off the wine."

"Bring me that throw."

"Put your hand on my thigh under the table. Don't move it."

He obeyed all of it effortlessly, silently, and with just the faintest tremble in his wrist when I grazed my fingernails along the inside of his arm. I watched his face flush each time I looked at him just a second too long.

No one else noticed.

But he knew.

And I knew.

He'd been instructed to eat slowly, to cut everything with care, to finish second to me--and to remain hard and silent through it all.

He followed beautifully.

At one point, I dropped my napkin under the table. He immediately moved to retrieve it, and when he handed it back to me, I let my fingers trail down his palm--deliberate, claiming. He shivered.

Later, in the bathroom mirror, I reapplied my lipstick slowly, eyes meeting his in the reflection. "You're doing well," I whispered, before stepping out and leaving him there, breathless.

When we returned home, he knelt for me. Not because I commanded it.

Because that's what he needed.

That was the night he learned:

I didn't need to parade him on a leash.

I didn't need to introduce him as mine.

He already was.

And I could take him anywhere.