My Journey to Submission

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the continuation of the story, which I previously deleted. If you didn't like the first six parts of this series, you really won't like this one or the ones to follow, and I suggest that you skip them.

**********

Sixteen days. That's how long Ellen kept my cock locked up the first time. Of course, sixteen days seems trivial today, since she gradually increased the duration of my lockups until at their peak they reached several months. But back at the beginning, it seemed like an eternity.

The first night, I woke up in a panic, pawing at my cage, desperate for some kind of sexual sensation. But with my mitts, there would have been little pleasure for either my hand or my cock even without the chastity cage. With my dick cowering behind steel bars... fuggedaboutit. I rolled over and tried to put the frustration out of my mind. Sleep came with difficulty, but it was all the more welcome for that.

The next morning, I almost immediately discovered one of the ways that Ellen had found to help me become an "acceptable slave" to her. It was a Saturday, so I got up early to make her breakfast. I needed to run out for a few groceries, so after I showered, I started to get dressed. But when I opened my underwear drawer, I found that all of my boxer-briefs had been replaced with frilly, pink women's panties. I stood in front of the dresser for a moment, silent and bemused.

"Oh, I bought those for you," said Ellen sleepily, still lying in bed. "I've decided that developing your feminine side would be a good way for me to help you control your masculine urges and embrace your new status as my eunuch slave. I don't think we'll bother with a bra, at least not at first, but women's panties are definitely a must. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Mistress." I was so relieved to hear that she wasn't going to make me wear a bra that it took a couple of seconds for the phrase "eunuch slave" to register in my brain.

When did I agree to that?

"Wait, what?" I sputtered. "I'm sorry, Mistress, ummm... 'eunuch slave'?"

"Well, sure. You saw my new butcher's knife, didn't you? What'd you think it was for?" she asked. She waited a moment for horror to overcome me. "I'm just kidding," she laughed. "Geez, lighten up. I don't mean 'eunuch' literally, obviously. I just mean that with time, you'll come to enjoy chastity more, and you'll find your own sexual release less important. That's all. We'll take it slow. As you always used to tell me, 'I won't do anything to you that you don't beg me to do.' Alright?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, although I was very far from convinced that it was alright.

***********

Ellen instituted another change that same night: When I came up to the bedroom, I found her already under the duvet, wearing a negligee. It was the first time in all our years together that she hadn't been nude when she climbed into bed.

She sat up on the side of the bed, and I knelt between her knees. Once my sleeping mitts were snugly buckled, she explained, "I've decided that you're no longer allowed to look at my body. I'll sleep in a nighty, and if you happen to be in the room when I want to change or take a shower, then you must either leave, or stand in the corner until I'm decent. This will keep your brain from getting overstimulated, so you won't be so tempted to touch yourself. Won't that be helpful to you?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered, "very helpful." Which was a big, fat lie. I knew for a fact that it wouldn't help at all, since the sight of my wife in lingerie (or sexy clothes of any kind) could send my brain into overdrive just as quickly as her naked body did.

I understood later that her decision had nothing whatsoever to do with protecting me from overstimulation. The reason she did it was to deny me even a moment of relief from that small but gnawing sense of degradation, which a naked man always feels in the presence of a clothed woman.

I had to admire Ellen's attention to detail. It was what made her such an effective dominant.

"Now, even though I'm going to keep you locked up for a while, I'll still require you to service me from time to time," Ellen continued. "But I'll give you a blindfold, so that you won't be able to see my girly bits. But by now, you've pretty much figured out where everything is, so you don't really need to use your eyes anyway. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"That's a good boy," she said. She reached into her side table drawer and took out a black blindfold, which she tied around my head. "Now, show me how a good slave pleases his Mistress."

With that, she rotated her hips all the way back, hiked up her negligee, scooched to the edge of the bed, and pulled my face into her ass.

My first-ever girlfriend was a sixteen-year-old redhead named Shannon Murphy. Although Shannon would go as far with me as French kissing, she, like all good Irish Catholic girls, was diligent about keeping my hands away from her breasts and crotch, even over her clothes. But oral stimulation was better than no stimulation, and we would make out for astonishingly long stretches, enjoying the taste of each other's mouths and the feel of each other's tongues.

Ellen had taught me to think of her anus as my new girlfriend, one that I should want to make out with for as long and with as much pleasure as I used to do with Shannon Murphy's mouth. She even gave my new girlfriend a name: Rosemary, because one time I commented that she smelled like the rosemary and mint scented body wash that my wife preferred. When Ellen was in a frisky mood, she'd say something like, "Rosemary told me she wants to see you. Wouldn't it be nice to make out with her for a while?"

And by this time, I was doing so eagerly. I'd lock my lips around my wife's beautiful anal bud, swirling and probing with my tongue, lapping her, kissing her, never tiring of the sensation of touching her tender flesh so intimately, and of feeling her respond to me.

But that evening, I simply couldn't focus on the task at hand, because I found myself completely distracted by the aroma of my wife's vagina.

I know that it's a cliché to say that when a person is deprived of sight, his other senses become proportionately heightened. But that's exactly what happened. As I knelt beside the bed, unable to see, my face buried between Ellen's ass cheeks, her feminine scent penetrated my subconscious and intoxicated me, and I became desperate to taste her. Several times, I removed my tongue from her anus and moved my head toward her pussy, but each time my wife pushed me back down to continue making out with my new girlfriend.

I lapped and lapped, as she required of me, but in all honesty, all I could think about was my desire for her pussy.

By the time she finally let me up, my lust for her was completely out of control. I furiously locked my lips on her vulva, and I thrust my tongue into her as deeply as I could, as though her between her inner labia there was a pool of juices, which I could slurp up to slake my thirst. I grabbed her hips as well as I could in my sleeping mitts, and I pulled myself tightly into her.

Now, in BDSM erotica, I think that some writers overuse the word "worship." A normal rim job becomes "ass worship," every act of fellatio becomes "cock worship," and so on. Personally, I'd never demanded "cock worship" from any of my submissives. "Suck it, you fucking whore" was more my style.

But with Ellen, the act of cunnilingus had become for me just as worshipful -- just as religious -- as any Catholic ritual from my childhood. Ellen's orgasm had become my Holy Eucharist.

I always started my vaginal worship with long, slow kisses to her along inner thighs and around her pubic mound, before starting to lick the outside of her labia. Only when she responded to this -- when I heard her soft moan and felt the flesh of her pussy lips begin to swell -- did I dare enter her Holy of Holies with my tongue.

This ritual was not one that Ellen had trained me to perform. Rather, it seemed the only proper way for me to acknowledge the tremendous privilege I enjoyed in being the one chosen to service sexually this most perfect of women.

So, my actions that night -- my ravenous assault on my wife's pussy, my focus on satisfying my own lust instead of her desires -- felt to me nothing short of blasphemous. I half-worried that I'd be struck down mid-lick by heavenly fire for daring to desecrate my wife's most sacred place so violently with my base carnal desires.

But instead of a lightning bolt from above, I felt Ellen's hands take my head and draw me even closer. She moaned and pulled me up to her clitoris, which was already swollen. I swirled my tongue around her a few moments before settling into a rhythm. She moaned louder and louder, and moved her hips faster and faster against my mouth. Her breathing grew heavy, and I could feel her orgasm start to build.

Then she stopped and sat up, withdrawing her pussy from me.

"Mistress?" I asked. "What is it?" With the blindfold, I couldn't see her face, and I began to panic that I had displeased her in some way.

"Shhhh... It's OK," she said. I heard her open the drawer to her side table, and a moment later, I felt her press a piece of rubber against my lips. I opened my mouth and took in about two inches of the device until I felt a barrier of leather. The rubber turned out to be silicon gag with a facial harness, which Ellen strapped tightly over and around my head, and buckled in place.

She lay back down on the bed and drew me towards her groin, and I surmised that the gag was attached to a dildo, which I was to work inside her vagina. I probed forward awkwardly, searching for her, until she guided me into herself. She lay back and held my head, moving her hips, showing me the rhythm that would satisfy her. I began thrusting my head back against her, and soon I was rewarded with her moans of pleasure. These quickly grew louder and more frequent as she rocked back and forth against me.

"That's a good boy," she said a few minutes later, after she had climaxed. She removed the gag and the blindfold, and she smiled at me. "Alright, now you may get into bed."

"May I please get a drink first, Mistress?" I asked. My jaw was sore and my mouth dry.

"I'll get it for you," she answered kindly, gesturing to my sleeping mitts. She patted my head and stood up.

She returned after a moment with a glass. She sat back on the bed and brought the water to my lips, helping me drink and stroking my hair, as I knelt at her feet. "You know, you're doing very well for your first couple of days," she said. "I can see that you really do want to be my slave, and that makes me very happy."

I lived for these little moments of intimacy. I basked for a little while in her approval and affection before climbing under the duvet.

***********

Later on, Ellen came to call blindfolded sex with the dildo gag "mole fucking," because I reminded her of a sightless mole, rooting around as though searching for grubs, satisfied only when I'd succeeded in burrowing my snout into her pussy.

After she'd blindfolded me and buckled the gag around my head, she'd usually lay me on the floor and connect my wrists and ankles behind my back in a hog-tie position. She'd then sit several feet away and watch me squirm blindly toward her. She'd laugh at me and call me her "grubby little mole," while I struggled to reach her crotch with the dildo.

I got the distinct impression that the pleasure she derived from the dildo gag was much more about my degradation than it was about any inherent benefit in the device itself.

Sometimes, she made mole fucking into a game. She'd zip-tie my hands behind my back and hide somewhere in the house, giving me a certain amount of time to find and satisfy her. I'd stumble around blindly, her insults and mocking laughter my only clue as to her whereabouts. The game ended when I either brought her to climax, resulting in a reward, or ran out of time, resulting in punishment.

I'll be perfectly honest with you. I did not enjoy mole fucking. At all.

Even as a dominant, I'd made scant use of vibrators, dildos. butt plugs, and so on, almost always preferring the sensation of flesh against flesh. And using the dildo gag was not only uncomfortable, but physically very strenuous. I had to lie on my stomach, craning my neck up at an unnatural angle and bobbing my head back and forth as vigorously as I could. Sometimes, she'd put me on my back and straddle my face, in which case she did most of the thrusting herself. But at my age, lying on my back while hogtied was torturous, and with each downward thrust, Ellen slammed my head on the floor and jammed the rubber gag painfully into my mouth.

And the humiliation was even worse than the discomfort. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked -- naked, hogtied, blindfolded, gagged, with a piece of silicon sticking out of my mouth, writhing around desperately seeking to bury my face in my wife's crotch.

In sum, the act required me to endure a lot of pain and degradation in order to satisfy a silly, capricious desire on the part of my wife. One which gave her little pleasure other than my suffering, and which most definitely gave me no sexual sensation of any kind in return.

Which was the whole point, I suppose.

**********

I went to the office the following Monday morning several degrees less of a man than I had left it the previous Friday. I was no longer my wife's submissive, but her slave.

Of course, I played the role of the prominent government affairs attorney as well as anyone could have could have expected me to -- chairing the morning partners' briefing, prioritizing research and lobbying assignments, and so forth. But I was incredibly self-conscious, virtually certain that every single person I met was able to see my shaven body and frilly panties through my suit and tie. Every time I'd hear laughter around a corner or stumble onto a whispered conversation, I was certain that I was being made an object of ridicule.

It took about an hour for me to convince myself that this was impossible, so that I was able to focus on work.

I soon learned that one inconvenience of wearing women's panties was that I was no longer able to use the urinal in a public restroom. Even while wearing my cage, I could work my cock out through the slot in my briefs and tip it up to achieve the required angle. So, unless someone happened to be using the next urinal over, the risk of being discovered was minimal. But the panties required me actually to drop my trousers in order to free my cock, which meant the I had to use the stall and sit down like a woman.

Every. Single. Time. I needed to piss. Only later did I realize that this restriction was not an incidental bug, but rather a planned feature of my emasculation.

But I also came to experience another sensation from wearing women's panties, one that I didn't expect: the thrill of transgression. Of course, young people in these enlightened days have no concept at all of transgression, at least as far as sexuality is concerned. They celebrate and dream up names for every conceivable difference in preference or sexual orientation or gender identification or kink. But you have to remember that I put on my first pair of pink frilly panties before anyone had heard of COVID, and that I'd just turned fifty-two years old.

By breaking gender norms in the staid corridors of power in Washington, DC, I was somehow getting away with something that my colleagues would never know about. Everyone who looked at me saw the ultimate alpha male, dominating every meeting, acting as the ultimate arbitrator on countless crucial decisions of public policy. Little did they know that my wife was gradually turning me into a degraded, pathetic beta, bound to obey her every command. Despite my emasculation, possessing such a secret gave me a strange sense of power whenever I walked into a meeting.

Then, just after lunch, another thought struck me.

Would Ellen unlock my cage when I got home?

I had already spent three nights in lockdown, which was by far the longest time I had gone without an erection since the age of thirteen. Surely, Ellen would understand that a fourth night would be too torturous for me to endure. Right? OK, so maybe she wouldn't give me a handjob. But she seemed to enjoy making me masturbate in front of her, so she'd at least let me try that again. Right? The act had given me little pleasure the first time, but after three days in my cage, even the humiliating idea of jerking off under my wife's scornful glare was starting to seem very appealing to me.

I tried to put the topic out of my mind and concentrate on work. No luck. Once the seed was planted, it took root and began to grow, rapidly branching out along my neural pathways until it occupied every cubic millimeter of my brain. All conscious thought was driven from my mind, replaced by the single, persistent question:

When will Ellen release me?

I sat in meeting after meeting, barely able to focus on the discussion at hand. I checked the time on my iPhone -- every hour, every half-hour, every five minutes. I needed some space, so I went to my office and closed my door (something I ordinarily never did, since I consider a closed door a powerful symbol of poor management). I pretended to read some piece of draft legislation or other, but after ninety minutes, I found myself stuck on page four, completely clueless as to the content of the three pages that I'd already read.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time passed incredibly slowly, until at last it was seven o'clock, the first more-or-less acceptable time to be seen leaving the office. I'd already turned down several invitations to dinner, so that I would be able to get home all the earlier. I grabbed a sandwich and a protein bar from the office kitchen and headed down to the parking garage.

Forty minutes later, I knelt naked at Ellen's feet and exposed my neck for the collar, hoping against hope that the ritual would end with her unlocking my cage for the night. I knew that asking her to do so would be pointless. If anything, it would only make her more inclined to keep me locked up. But just in case, I'd prepared a short, humiliating speech requesting permission to masturbate in her presence.

Waiting for her to buckle my collar, I looked up at her expectantly, perhaps hoping that my eyes would convey to her my desperate need, and that she would take pity on me.

She didn't. And since I was so focused on my cock, I was a little caught off-guard by what she did say.

"Do you worship me?" she asked.

"Of course, Mistress," I answered in surprise. "You know that I do."

"I need you to show me," she said, and she gently but firmly pushed my head down to the floor.

Her meaning was clear. Although I would much preferred to have been ordered to masturbate, I immediately got to the task and hand and started kissing the tops of her feet. I looked up after what I considered an appropriate amount of time, but she nudged my face back down and said, "Don't stop."

So I continued. I kissed her a while longer, then I picked up one foot in my hands. I removed her slipper reverently, and I began to massage her sole with my thumbs. For a few seconds, I breathed in her aroma deeply through my nose, then I began to suck on her toes, inserting my tongue between them. I slowly licked the bottom of her foot down to her heel, and I paused there, passionately French kissing this lowest part of her body. When I'd shown proper obeisance to one flawless foot, I picked up the other and began again.

I looked up at her, wondering whether it was enough.

"Good boy," she said, reaching for my collar. "You did very well for your first time." My heart lifted at the sound of her praise. "From now on, you will earn the right to wear my collar by worshiping my feet every day when you come home," she commanded.