AUTHOR'S NOTE: I removed the first six parts of this series due to some fairly emotional negative feedback. Against my better judgment, I've decided to put them back in response to a lot of personal messages I've received. Once the first six are approved, I will continue the series until the end.
If you haven't read these yet, you should know that the story is about a highly intelligent woman who manipulates her husband into a strict and harsh (or, as has been argued by my critics, abusive) femdom relationship in order to satisfy her ever-growing sadistic urges. If this type of story isn't your cup of tea, I strongly discourage you from reading it.
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Ellen was as wonderful a dominant as she'd been a submissive, and she managed our D/s dynamic brilliantly -- gradually pushing my limits, expanding my horizons, deepening my adoration for her. For most of my first year, in fact, I never doubted that what practioners would call our Female-Led Relationship (FLR, for short) was one that I would adjust to and even come to feel very grateful for.
Sure, Ellen was strict, but she was always fair. She simply held me to the same exacting standards to which she'd always held herself.
There were occasions, of course, when she felt the need to take me to the dungeon for harsher punishment than just a sharp word and a swat or two with the crop, which was her usual method of correcting my errors. For these, she gave me a safe word (pineapple), although I was much too proud ever to use it. And she was also very good about aftercare -- comforting me, praising the way I'd endured my pain and degradation, helping me understand and correct the behavior that had led to it.
There were many things about being Ellen's submissive that I found surprisingly pleasant. For example, when she had me sit on the floor next to her instead of on the furniture, it was often not to punish me, but to allow her to pat my head or stroke my hair while she praised me for some good behavior or other.
She continued to take me into her confidence, consulting me frequently about various questions or problems that she had. (I remained, let's not forget, one of the most influential men in Washington, so I did know a few useful things, and she greatly appreciated my ability -- not just my willingness -- to help her out on important matters.)
I also greatly enjoyed our rituals, especially kneeling at her feet and polishing her boots on Sunday evenings, because it provided a welcome distraction from any worries that I might have about the upcoming week.
I was even beginning to find that chastity had its upsides. Since I could no longer fuck, or even jerk off, whenever I wanted, I became sensitized to any sexual attention I did receive. Though she unlocked me most evenings at my request, sometimes she she'd keep me lock up overnight her own amusement. She'd tell me how attractive she found me in my cage, and make jokes about keeping me locked up permanently. She'd show me photos and posts from various chastity forums, showing men who'd had their penises pierced to make their lockup more secure, men's penises squashed into progressively smaller cages, and so forth.
At the time, of course, I found these images horrific. Little did I realize... But that's a much later story.
Ellen turned into an incurable tease. When we were at cocktail parties or out shopping, she'd find excuses to brush by me and give my cage a little tug to remind me of her control over me. My knees would buckle. When we were chatting with friends, she'd make double-entendres using words like "lock" and "key" and "freedom." Later, she would mock me for my embarrassment, often while edging me to the point of insanity.
For the most part, though, and for most of the time, our lifestyle was very similar to that of most vanilla couples, just as it had been when I was dominant.
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Ellen had given me some valuable advice, which I took, to great effect. I rechannelled my energy from sex into work. Specifically, I put into action an extremely profitable scheme, one I'd had in mind for a long time. With my dick locked up and no longer a distraction, I had time and energy to pursue it.
I won't bore you with a lot of technical details, but the short story is this:
Every year a pharmaceutical company has an active patent on a drug, it can charge monopoly prices, which can result in billions of dollars in excess profits. That's why, for example, Pfizer took such a giant hit to the bottom line when its patent on Viagra expired. But under U.S. law, the 17-year protection period starts when the patent is granted, which could be many years before the drug is actually approved for sale by the FDA.
My scheme was simple: We'd get the FDA to change the rules for certain drugs so that the patent clock would start ticking only when the drug came on the market. Which drugs? Well, whichever ones that an informal working group decided. Who was on the working group? Well, me, together with a few close friends from Congress, the White House, and industry.
If I pulled it off, I would have the entire $300 billion American pharmaceutical industry by the balls.
Success required me to call in every favor owed me on Capitol Hill and in the Executive Branch, but boy oh, boy, was it worth it. Pharma execs lined up to write me retainer checks, and I had three or four Ivy league-educated associates working overtime to draft appropriate language to include their favorite drugs in the scheme. (Under U.S. law, it's not allowed for a government regulation to refer to a specific drug like "Viagra." The rule has to say something vague, like "certain blue pills that make your dick hard.")
The culmination of these efforts was a call out of the blue from Pharma Douche.
"Mister Pharma Douche," I said, in a friendly and confident tone, when I saw the name on the screen of my iPhone. "What can I do for you?"
"I'll cut to the chase," he said, trying to wrest control of the conversation. "I've heard about your scheme, and I want in."
"Scheme? Sorry, you'll have to be more specific," I replied.
"Don't fuck around. I have three products in Phase 3 testing, and I need their patents extended. They should qualify under what you're doing."
"Hmmm..." I said, feigning puzzlement. "I think you may have been misinformed. I'm not aware of anyone working on extending patents on pharmaceuticals. I have been to some industry meetings with FDA and Congressional staff to discuss patent timing, but..."
"'Been to a few meetings', my ass!" he shouted. "You're organizing them. Everyone says so. You can't freeze me out."
"Well, I'm sure the FDA wouldn't agree that I'm organizing anything," I said. "I have heard about a meeting tomorrow morning. I'll text you the details, and you'll have the same chance to comment as everyone else. I'll forward a draft of the rules under discussion."
"A draft? How many pages?"
"Six, seven hundred maybe."
"Bullshit. I can't have my lawyers go through seven hundred pages of government gobbledygook by tomorrow. I'll send you the details, and you can work them in."
"I'd love to help," I said sincerely. "But it would be highly improper, since I don't work for you. If you named us your Washington reps, that would be a different story."
