My Femdom Marriage Ch 42 44

Chapter 42: When I Used Another Man and Told Him Everything

"It wasn't the act that broke him. It was the telling. And the fact that I smiled while I told it." — Mistress Staci

I didn't owe him explanations. He never asked where I went. He never asked who had touched me.

But this time, I wanted him to know.

Not because I was angry. Not because he'd done anything wrong.

Because I wanted to watch him ache.

Because I knew that hearing it—really hearing it—would brand him deeper than any cane.

I had met someone earlier that week. Nothing serious. Just heat. A man with confidence, no baggage, and a perfect smile.

And I let him have me.

No teasing. No slow seduction. I bent over the sink in his bathroom. He held my throat. I came twice before he finished inside me.

And when I got home?

I said nothing at first. I let my husband kneel. I let him run my bath. I let him see the bite marks on my shoulders.

Then I dried off, wrapped myself in silk, and called him into the bedroom.

"You'll be listening tonight, pet. Sit. Hands on your thighs. Eyes forward."

He obeyed.

And I told him everything.

How the man kissed me. What I wore. How he spread me open and said, "You're incredible." How loud I was. How wet I got. How wrecked the sheets were.

I described the position. The pace. The sound of my heels against the tile floor. I described my own orgasm in detail—how I moaned another man's name.

And the whole time?

My husband sat still. Eyes burning. Cage swollen. Cheeks flushed.

I could see the war inside him—shame, arousal, reverence, and pain.

Then I leaned in, just a little, and said:

"You'll never have that. You'll never be inside me. But you'll clean up the pleasure he left behind."

I dismissed him to the bathroom. He returned with a warm cloth. Cleaned me slowly. Reverently. Without a word.

When he was done, I let him kiss my feet.

And nothing more.

Because this wasn't jealousy. It was clarity.

He didn't want to be my lover. He wanted to be the man who knelt after. The man who carried the silence. The man who knew, deeply, that he belonged to me—no matter who had touched me.

And when I turned off the lights that night, he whispered:

"Thank you, Mistress."

And I smiled.

Because he meant it.

Chapter 43: A Week Without Words

"I didn't need to raise my voice. I didn't need to give commands. I simply stopped speaking—and he folded into obedience like paper into fire." — Mistress Staci

It wasn't punishment.

He hadn't done anything wrong.

But I wanted stillness. Stillness in him. In the house. In us.

So one morning, after coffee and a kiss to the top of his head, I said softly:

"We won't speak for the next seven days. No words. Just service."

He looked up at me—calm, alert, a flicker of worry in his eyes—but nodded once.

"Yes, Mistress."

That was the last thing either of us said for a week.

⸻

He rose each morning before me, as always.

He brewed the coffee. Laid out my robe. Set the table in silence.

He knelt beside the bed until I stirred. I'd gesture to signal what I wanted—my hand outstretched for tea, a glance toward the bathroom, a slow curl of my finger when I wanted him closer.

He adapted instantly.

No questions. No confusion.

By the second day, we didn't need signs. He anticipated everything.

It was beautiful.

⸻

By midweek, I saw what it was doing to him.

The silence wasn't cold. It wasn't distant.

It was immersive.

He was inside my world with no handholds. No chatter to grasp, no tones to decode. Only me. My needs. My movements. My breath.

He moved more slowly. Smiled less. Softened.

By the fifth night, he was trembling just brushing my legs with lotion. Not from fear. From absence.

My voice was gone.

And with it, something in him had opened wide.

⸻

The night before we ended, I wrote one word on a slip of paper and placed it on his pillow:

"Closer."

He crawled into bed—fully clothed—and laid his head on my stomach. I didn't touch him. I just rested my hand lightly on his shoulder as I drifted to sleep.

The next morning, I whispered:

"You served well in silence."

And he cried.

Not because the week had been cruel.

Because it had been pure.

Because he had felt my control not in punishment, or pleasure, or command...

But in absence.

And now, with a single word, I returned everything.

And he was whole again.

Chapter 44: The Collapse That Changed Everything

"He didn't fall from grace. He fell in the hallway. And from that moment on, everything changed." — Mistress Staci

It was a Tuesday.

I remember the color of the tea I was steeping. The way the light hit the kitchen tile. The sound of his voice calling out—not in pain. In confusion.

And then I heard the crash.

⸻

I found him on the floor. Not bleeding. Not broken. But not right.

His pupils were strange. His speech was thick. His eyes were glassy. And for the first time in years, he didn't reach for me with deference.

He reached for me with need.

⸻

The ambulance came quickly. He was quiet during the ride. I wasn't.

I answered every question. Gave the doctors his history. Took control of every form and decision.

I sat beside him during the scans. Squeezed his hand when they wheeled him away.

But inside, I felt a stillness I hadn't known before. Not panic. Not grief.

Something colder. Sharper. The sense that my perfect machine had lost its rhythm.

⸻

It was serious. The kind of health scare that drops into your life and redraws every line.

Recovery wouldn't be days or weeks.

It would be a year. Maybe longer. And we both knew it.

⸻

For a while, I slipped into caretaker mode.

I monitored medications. I spoke to specialists. I made meals that matched his new restrictions.

But I did not stop being Mistress.

I still chose his clothing. Still denied his pleasure. Still expected quiet, and service, and respect.

Only now... there were interruptions.

Fatigue. Frustration. Gaps in memory.

He would forget something I told him. Ask me a question twice.

And I hated it.

Not because I was cruel. But because I saw what was happening.

He was slipping away from the man I had shaped.

And in his eyes, I saw the flicker of guilt:

"I'm trying, Mistress. I'm sorry."

But he didn't need to say it.

Because I had already started to mourn —not him. But us.