My Journey To Submission Pt 04 2

So, that's how I found myself bound to the 6X6 wooden post in the center of my basement for the first, but by no means the last, time.

Ellen returned to fetch me after about half an hour. Without speaking, she unbuckled the strap around my neck and freed my hands. My relief at being released after nearly four hours in bondage was indescribable. I lifted up each leg at the knee a few times, then bent at the waist and stretched down to touch my toes. When I stood back up, I rotated my stiff neck and shoulders, and I felt the blood slowly return to my muscles. My groans were audible through the cotton panties in my mouth.

Hmmm... What's the protocol for that? Should I take the gag out myself, or wait for her to do it?

"You may remove my panties from your mouth," said my wife in answer to my unspoken question. The clipped tone of her voice left no doubt that she would be taking her new role very seriously. "Take them upstairs and put them in the laundry. And while you're up there, you should probably take a shower and get dressed, or we'll be late."

Oh, crap. I'd completely forgotten about Mike McCleary's dinner party.

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, after I took out the gag. My mouth was so dry and my jaw so sore, that I had a hard time getting the words out.

"But take a minute to tidy up my ropes and toys before you go," she continued, pausing to let the phrase "my ropes and toys" sink in. "I'm sure that I'll be needing them again soon." She turned to go upstairs, leaving me to obey her command.

Showering turned out to be an awkward experience. I always started my routine by working up a healthy lather in my pubic hair and using the foam to give my crotch a good scrub, including a few pleasurable, soapy pulls along my shaft. It was automatic, something that I did without thinking. So, I was stopped short when I reached down for my cock and grasped instead the steel of the chastity cage.

Oh, boy. How do I deal with this?

I looked down and tried to figure out the best way to proceed, finally deciding to drip some shower gel through the bars along the length of my cock and spray it around with the shower head. Good enough for now; a better solution could wait. I also needed desperately to take a piss, after being unable to do so for so long. Fortunately, the cage turned out to be fairly convenient for that, and my stream spattered only slightly against the bars that curved over the front of my cock.

An important -- indeed, a critical -- fact dawned on me. The cage prevented me from touching myself or getting an erection, and only Ellen could unlock the cage. This meant that I now, in effect, had to ask my wife for permission any time I wanted to jerk off.

Now, on YouTube and TikTok, kids today talk about masturbation all the time. But among men my age, it's just not something to be discussed, especially with women. Ellen must have known, or at least suspected, that I did the deed frequently, but it was more of a "don't ask, don't tell" situation. The idea of begging my wife to unlock me so that I could rub one out was mortifying in the extreme. Remember, this was a woman who just a few days earlier would gladly have gotten on her knees to suck me off at the snap of my fingers.

What on earth had I agreed to?

I needed time to process all this, but I was in a hurry. For the moment, I just put the thought out of my head and turned off the shower. As I was in the bedroom towelling off, Ellen entered. She was still wearing the black crepe cocktail dress and silk stockings, but she'd removed her stiletto-heeled boots.

She sashayed in front of me, as though nothing unusual had taken place in the previous four hours. As though I didn't have an alien robotic parasite clinging to my dick. "You never commented on my outfit," she said. "Do you like it?"

Does she really expect me to act like nothing's wrong?

But, as she'd reminded me, I was in this predicament entirely by choice, so I could do nothing but put on a brave face and try to act as insouciant as she. "Sorry, I was distracted," I answered. "But you do look incredible. Is it from Neiman Marcus?"

"Nordstrom's downtown," she answered. "I've had my eye on it for a while, and I thought it would be perfect for tonight. But now I'm thinking it might be too much. What do you think?"

Oh, this is just great. She's just going to keep pretending that everything's normal. Or maybe she's not pretending. Maybe for her this is normal now.

In any case, I had no choice but to soldier on. "Well, if were just us and the McCleary's," I answered, "that'd be one thing... But, you know, with Pharma Douche coming, it might be..."

"A bit much," she agreed. She took a moment to think about it, then decided, "How about this: I'll keep the dress, but lose the stilettos and put on a bra. What do you think?"

"Perfect," I replied, smiling. And the very act of smiling made me feel a little better.

***********

Senator and Mrs. McCleary lived in an old farm house across the river in Vienna, a tony suburb about 30 minutes away from my Kalorama neighborhood. I say, "old farm house" and it is, built just after the Civil War. But one shouldn't get the wrong impression. Sure, when Mike bought it, it was creaky, drafty and ramshackle, but it's astonishing how many home improvement projects one can accomplish with a couple of million bucks.

I didn't feel like spending half an hour in an Uber, so I walked a couple of blocks up the street to where I'd left my black BMW 5-series. Some asshole had parked three inches from my front bumper, so it took me a few machinations to pull out of the spot, but then I circled back, double-parked in front of our townhouse, and got out to wait for Ellen. After a few minutes, she walked down the stairs from our front door, looking nothing short of spectacular.

When she joined me beside the car, I had a moment of uncertainty. "So, ummm, what's the protocol for this?" I asked. "Do you drive now? Do I still drive? What?"

"You drive, of course," she answered. "Among your other roles, you're now my chauffeur. Besides, why should I have to bother with car keys? The only key I need is right here. She turned over her wrist to show me the brass padlock key, which she'd attached to the underside of her tennis bracelet. "I'll keep it with me, just in case I need you for something," she said.

"Got it," I said, and opened the car door for her, a practice I'd long since abandoned.

"Good boy," she said, and she kissed me lightly on the cheek as she got in. When she was seated, she looked up and smiled. "I think this arrangement might work out for us after all, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Mistress." I closed her door and got in the other side. I looked over to Ellen. "Aren't you worried that someone might ask about the key?" I asked.

"Me? Of course not. I have nothing to hide. You're the one who should be worried." She looked at me, and she saw the horror in my face. She added, "Alright, alright. I'll try to be discreet."

I shook my head slightly and started the car.

As you might imagine, it would have been a gross understatement to say that I wasn't in the mood for a dinner party that evening. But I could think of two very good reasons why it was in my best interest to suck it up and go.

The first reason was that Mike had arranged the event specifically as a favor to me.

When, upstairs in the bathroom, I'd reminded Ellen that "Pharma Douche" would be at the dinner, I didn't actually say "Pharma Douche." I used the name of the new CEO of PharmaCo, a major, family-owned pharmaceutical manufacturer based in the northeast. Like "Pharma Douche," "PharmaCo" is a pseudonym, of course, since using the company's real name would invite a very serious lawsuit. Ellen and I came up with "Pharma Douche" only later, and for reasons that I'll make clear presently.

Pharma Douche had come to Washington to scout out law firms, which could provide his company with top-notch legal and political representation. His family's company had long scorned the grubby business of lobbying, but they came to see the its value when they ran afoul of the FDA and the Justice Department, and they found themselves facing billions of dollars in fines, not to mention actual prison time for Pharma Douche and members of his family.

Firms such as mine started circling PharmaCo like sharks around a life raft adrift on the Pacific Ocean. Everyone expected the company's annual legal bills to total millions of dollars, and the firm that signed on as their lead representative in Washington would take home the lion's share of the loot. For PharmaCo, of course, this would still be the deal of the century, if by paying one of us off they could reduce their fines even by a billion or two.

So Mike's idea was to give me some time to chat with Pharma Douche in a relaxed setting (not to mention at the private residence of a powerful U.S. Senator, who might prove exceedingly helpful later on) so that my firm would have a leg up when PharmaCo made its final choice.

The second reason to go to the dinner party was simply that Ellen wanted to. And from the moment that she'd locked me up and taken possession of my key, her desires trumped mine. Always.

***********

"Damned glad you could make it, Son." Mike greeted me warmly, upon opening his massive front door. He was from west Texas, and he talked like a parody of that old cartoon rooster, Foghorn Leghorn (who, in turn, was a parody of Beauregard Claghorn, an even older politician from west Texas). He'd always called me "Son" even back in grad school, although he was only two years older than I. "Ellen, you are positively glowing," he said, giving my wife an avuncular peck on the cheek. "Is that a new dress?"

"Why thank you, Senator," she replied. "It is new. I picked it up today, and I'm glad that at least one of the men in my life noticed." I ignored this dig, knowing it was just her way of making conversation.

"Dammit woman, when are you going to start calling me 'Mike'?" asked Mike. "Hell, it's been over a year since you left the Committee. And, I might add, the staff's gone to hell in a handbasket since you abandoned ship. You hardly ever come around even to say 'Hi'," he complained.

"Oh, just ignore him," interrupted Mike's wife Jennifer, popping into the doorframe. "Come on in, you two, and get yourselves a drink." Jennifer, who was a couple of years younger than me, was what you might charitably describe as "a handsome woman," with short hair, a kindly face just beginning to show lines, and an infectious smile.

When Ellen first showed up on Capitol Hill, Jennifer was naturally concerned that the stunning young woman represented a threat to the McCleary marriage. But unusually for a U.S. Senator, Mike was completely devoted to his wife, and when this became clear to everyone concerned, she and Ellen became thick as thieves. There were absolutely no secrets between them, although I'd had to insist that my wife's and my sexual proclivities remain the exception that proved this rule. Up to this point, I'd been pretty confident that Ellen had, in fact, kept our private life private.

A few minutes later, Mike and I were standing on his deck overlooking the woods out back, each of us holding a bottle of Shiner Bock. Mike was tending to an enormous rack of sausages, short ribs and chicken thighs grilling on his barbecue. Smoke leaked from a closed door next to the ribs, and I surmised that he'd had a brisket in the smoker since before dawn.

"The secret's in the wet brush, Son," he informed me, not for the first time. (He pronounced it "wait brush.") "The barbarians around here add the sauce when the meat's still on the grill, but that just detracts from its natural flavor."

"Right," I agreed. "So who's coming tonight, other than Pharma Douche?" I gestured to the copious meat on the grill.

"Well, his wife, obviously. Plus a few folks from back home. I reckon that after dinner, we Texans can sit around and talk football, while you take the Yankee off and put the arm on him. But I tell you what, that sumbitch is a real piece of work." Before I could ask him what he meant, the bell rang. "Hell, that must be them now," he said, handing me the wet brush and the jar of his special-recipe marinade. "You take good care my birds, now."

As Mike had warned, Pharma Douche turned out to be a real piece of work. He was the eldest son of the founder of PharmaCo, and he'd been given the company's top job when his father retired, on the basis of no discernible ability or experience. He'd promptly steered the enterprise directly onto the rocks, which now necessitated them shelling out big bucks for top political talent.

Nevertheless, he somehow managed to maintain that special arrogance that is the hallmark of men who possess large fortunes, which they've done nothing to create.

After a couple of minutes, Mike, who was anxious to get back to his wet brush, brought Pharma Douche out to the deck and introduced us. The executive shook my hand with the warmth and enthusiasm of a dead fish. He looked pretty much like his publicity photos -- handsome in a stuffy, New England prep-school kind of way, and he wore his fifty-three years pretty well.

Mike noticed that his guest still had no drink. "Need a beer there, Son? Go grab one out of the fridge. And bring me one while you're at it." Mike took the brush from me and got back to work.

Pharma Douche seemed nonplussed by Mike's informality. He looked around, presumably for a butler or a footman or a who-the-fuck-knows what. Finding none, he looked to me as the next best alternative, perhaps thinking that since I'd been basting the chicken thighs, I worked for Mike in some capacity. He gestured back towards the house meaningfully with his eyes.

It's going to be a long evening.

I took a second to drain my bottle and said, "I'll take care of it. I need a refresh anyway." When I offered him a bottle a minute later, he gave me the same look that I'd imagine he'd give a waiter at a Michelin-starred restaurant who offered him a glass of Thunderbird. "Shiner Bock is the best accompaniment to authentic Texas barbecue," I said firmly. "All the experts agree on that."

My appeal to expertise and authenticity had the desired effect, and he accepted the bottle with a wan smile. He took a tentative sip.

But unfortunately, that was about as close as I got to establishing a rapport with the new CEO of PharmaCo. He rebuffed all further attempts to make small talk or share political gossip. In his mind, the only person on the deck worthy of his attention was Mike, and he kept trying to engage the Senator in conversation, despite the latter's obvious irritation at being distracted from his grill.

This idiot has absolutely no clue about who's who or what's what in Washington.

Since in D.C., knowledge equals power equals money, I began to increase my estimate of how much lucre I'd be able to extract from PharmaCo over the coming years.

When we finally sat for dinner, Pharma Douche stuck out uncomfortably. Whereas the rest of Mike's guests (eight couples from various parts of Texas, who'd drifted in and made themselves comfortable, while I was on the deck trying to make a good first impression on my prospective client) were wearing smart casual, the PharmaCo CEO had shown up in a light gray bespoke suit with all the trimmings. His wafer-thin Hermes tie had probably set him back at least three hundred bucks.

But the item of clothing that he really needed was a bib, because from the moment he laid eyes on Ellen, he seemed in dire peril of drooling all over the front of this clothes. He was sitting to my wife's immediate left, and from my position across the table from her, I could see him take every possible opportunity to sneak peeks at her cleavage. (In fairness to Pharma Douche, I should note that Ellen's cleavage, always magnificent, was even more so in her new cocktail dress.)

Pharma Douche alternated between initiating intimate small talk with my wife and relating loud, boastful stories on topics that no one cared about, ostensibly to entertain the entire table, but clearly intended to impress only Ellen. I saw the other guests start to roll their eyes at his leering and sniggering and boasting, and I almost began to feel embarrassed for the guy.

Unfortunately, the guest who took the most notice of his oafish behavior was Mrs. Pharma Douche, who was sitting to my right directly across from her husband.

She seemed a perfectly acceptable corporate wife -- pretty but not beautiful, intelligent but not sparkling. According to rumors, the primary asset she'd brought to their marriage was money -- enough to fend off Wall Street vultures while allowing Pharma Douche to pursue a number of dubious acquisition projects. She was a couple of years on the wrong side of forty, and I imagined that this was not the first time that her husband had embarrassed her in public.

But it may have been the first time he'd done so with a woman so clearly out of her league as Ellen.

The tension between the two seemed to confirm other rumors, namely that the Pharma Douche marriage was on the rocks, for all the usual reasons -- his philandering, her shrewishness, both of their who-the-fuck-cares. As I understood it, the key issue for the couple at that moment was how to prevent their mutual loathing from becoming so much of a scandal that her family would turn off the tap and force PharmaCo to go hat in hand to Wall Street.

I sensed a catastrophe brewing.

While there was little that Mrs. Pharma Douche could do to help me get the PharmaCo contract, there was plenty she could do to stop me from getting it. So, I was as solicitous with her as I could be, asking polite questions about her life, making suggestions for things to see and do in Washington, offering to arrange special events for her and her friends (as a former Member of Congress, I have access to some pretty impressive perks), and so on. My efforts seemed to distract her from her husband's behavior, but I nevertheless got the distinct impression that she somehow blamed me for bringing this tantalizing temptress to the party.

My wife, meanwhile, was not helping the situation. At all.

As a beautiful woman working among Washington's power elite, Ellen very frequently had to deal with a variety of arrogant pricks -- over-the-hill Senators, fat-cat donors, steely-eyed Pentagon brass, etc. -- all trying to use their positions of influence to worm their way into her panties. This being the days before #MeToo, her only reliable defense against these scumbags was her wit. And over the years, she'd honed this until it was as keen as the sharpest katana of the greatest Samurai warrior.

I can't count the number of times when I saw some half-drunk asshole corner Ellen at a cocktail party and try to impress her with clumsy boasting, in the lead-up to inevitable even clumsier advance. Ellen would smile and play along, and at precisely the right instant she'd shut him down with the perfect riposte. Then she'd coolly walk away, leaving her victim to realize only a minute later that he'd been sliced in half and that his intestines were now dripping out from his belly onto the floor.

Astonishingly, Ellen had made no enemies among the haughty Washington players whom she'd humbled in this manner. If anything, once they'd stuffed picked their guts up off the floor, they were even more eager to use their positions to help her get whatever she needed. The contact list on my wife's iPhone was impressive, even by Washington standards, and anyone on it would return her text within ten minutes.

But during Mike's dinner party, my wife was engaged in what can only be described as shameless, almost girlish flirting with the CEO of PharmaCo. Had you observed her body language that evening, you would have had no doubt that there was no more charming fellow on the planet than Pharma Douche. She listened, enraptured, as he regaled the table with his ridiculous stories, and when she laughed at one of his jokes, she gave him a meaningful smile, as though to say that she was the only one who truly understood him.