My Journey to Submission

As my first week in lockup dragged on, my obsession with being released continued to grow.

I'm sure my secretary figured out a way to bill my clients for fifty or sixty hours of work that week. But in truth, nothing I did could conceivably justify my $950 per hour billing rate. Unless you count sitting silently in endless meetings, obsessively checking the time on my iPhone, or rehearsing in my mind combinations of humiliating words, which might persuade Ellen to give me the chance to masturbate in front of her.

At home, things weren't much better. I did everything my wife expected of me -- worshiping her feet, maintaining my posture and demeanor, obeying her commands without question. But my heart wasn't in the right place. I should have been doing all these things for her. I was actually doing them in the hope they might convince her to reward me with release.

The days ticked by with excruciating slowness. And by Friday evening, I realized that something had to give.

"Mistress?" I asked, after I'd shown the proper obeisance to Ellen's feet and she'd attached my collar. "May I speak with you?"

"Of course," she answered, stroking my hair. "What's up?"

I hesitated. "I know that I'm not supposed to ask about this, and I'm very sorry, but..."

"It's OK," she interrupted. "You know that you're allowed ask me anything, as long as you do so respectfully."

Even with that assurance, it took me a few moments to work up the courage to speak. I was silent, until Ellen arched her eyebrows. I blurted out, "It's the cage. It's driving me crazy."

She laughed, but in a friendly, not a mocking way. "What did you expect? That's what it's supposed to do."

"But not like this," I answered. "It's too much."

"Well, I can imagine it's been quite an adjustment for you. But maybe the problem isn't the cage. Maybe it's your attitude," Ellen suggested.

"It might be," I conceded. "But in truth, I don't think the cage is working. We agreed to try chastity to help me stay focused on the important things, like work. And you. And our marriage. But it's doing the opposite. All I do is all day long is wonder about whether or not you'll let me out when I get home. I haven't had a single productive meeting, or come up with a single useful idea all week. And to be honest, I'm not even sure it's good for our marriage. I want to serve you because I adore you, not so you'll let me out of my cage to go jerk off." I was self-conscious, worried that I'd overstepped. "I'm sorry, Mistress. I didn't mean to make a speech."

"Well, I must say, it was a very eloquent speech," she answered with a smile. "Sometimes, I think if you'd stayed in Congress, you'd be running for President by now."

"Please don't be angry with me. You told me always to be honest with you."

"I'm not angry," she said. "I just need to think about what would be the best thing to do. Even taking into account everything you said, I can't allow you start deciding the rules, or else there's no point to any of this. I might as well let you start topping me again."

"I don't want to start topping you again," I said. "I enjoy being your submissive."

She wagged a finger in my face. "Not my submissive. My slave," she corrected me. "But at least your self-perception is developing in the right way." She smiled again. "Let me ask you this: Is it the fact that I've locked you up that's bothering you, or the fact that you don't know when you'll be released?"

I considered for a moment. "I think it's not knowing that bothers me more. But it's tricky. Obviously, if you said you planned to keep me locked up for a year, then I'd certainly be bothered."

"A year?" she repeated, in mock surprise. "Oh no. I was thinking more like three months..." She paused to let her words sink in, and my face fell. "I'm just kidding," she laughed. "But seriously. I can't let you forget who's in charge, but I do want to be fair. How about if I added few days to your sentence, but promise that when it's over, I'll give you real orgasm. And if you're especially good, I'll even let you feel the inside of my pussy for a while. Would that be fair?"

"Yes, Mistress." I breathed a silent sigh of relief. The discussion could have gone a lot worse. "Of course, I'll agree to whatever you decide."

"OK. You can look forward to a treat next Sunday. To be honest, I was hoping for a special evening on Thursday, but I guess I can wait."

"Thursday, Mistress?" I asked.

"Thursday," she said meaningfully. I drew a blank. "Valentine's Day. You were planning to take me out for Valentine's Day, weren't you?"

Oh, shit. Another thing that slipped my mind as I was focused on my own cock. "Of course, Mistress," I answered. I hoped that my bemusement wouldn't show on my face, but of course, Ellen's keen eye missed nothing.

"Don't lie to me," she said, with another wag of her finger. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mistress," I confessed. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she answered with an exaggerated sigh. "It just goes to show that we still have a lot to work on. But since I won't be getting any dick, it'll be up to you to make everything else extra special."

"Of course, Mistress." One part of my brain immediately started making plans.

"In the meantime, I think it would be a good idea to remind you of what you're missing. Stand up," she ordered. I stood and watched her walk upstairs. She returned after a moment with her riding crop in one hand and a sleek, aquamarine-colored vibrator in the other. I later learned that the vibrator was her "LELO Smart Wand 2," about as tony a sex toy as there is on the market.

"I'm very happy that we got this type of cage, because I can still stimulate you through the bars with my wand," Ellen said, turning on the device and applying it to my shaft. "I don't think we should bother with any of those solid steel cages, at least not for a while. Don't you agree?"

The vibrations stirred my cock to life, and I barely even took note of the phrase "solid steel cages."

"Don't you agree?" my wife repeated.

"Mistress, if you're not going to unlock me, I'm not sure I want to..." I ventured, but I was interrupted by a sharp swat on my ass with the crop.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" Ellen asked in her friendly, nonchalant voice, without stopping the vibration. The sting of the crop had only heightened my arousal, and my cock started to grow. I let out an involuntary moan.

"I said that I'm not sure I want to..." I repeated, and I was immediately rewarded with another smack.

Ellen clucked her tongue in disapproval. "You're no longer allowed to say 'I want.' What you want doesn't matter anymore. The whole point of slavery is that you are my property," Ellen explained. "Your body, including your penis, is mine. Mine, not yours. I do with it what I want, when I want, how I want. What you want is completely irrelevant. Do you understand?" She moved the wand rhythmically up and down the bottom of my confined shaft.

"Yes, Mistress," I said, letting out another moan. By now, my cock was straining against the steel bars of my cage. Humiliation, desire, pleasure and pain mixed into a powerful cocktail.

"Now, tell me why I've put you in chastity," she said. My brain grew foggy. I tried to will my cock from becoming erect, but I couldn't do it. The bars of the cage started to press uncomfortably against my shaft.

"To help me," I answered.

"To help you what?" she prodded.

"To help me be a good submissive to you." Ellen snapped the crop onto my ass, and I let out a groan. "To help me be an acceptable slave to you, Mistress," I corrected myself.

"Very good. Are you grateful I've put you in chastity?" she continued.

"Yes, Mistress. You've helped me so much." By now, my voice was reduced to a whimper, and I could barely get the words out through my moaning.

"Do you want me to keep you in chastity?"

I could only nod and moan my assent. The steel bars now pressed painfully against my glans as it tried to worm its way out of my foreskin.

Ellen shook her head. "I need you to beg me," she said.

"Please, Mistress. Please keep me in chastity." The wand continued to buzz, and I began to leak precum from my urethra.

"Keep begging," Ellen insisted.

"Please, Mistress. Please. Please keep me in chastity," I whimpered as best I could.

I felt the weird sensation of an orgasm without an erection start to build inside me. But one second before I would have exploded, Ellen switched off the vibrator, thwarting my desire, and I let out a loud groan.

"That's a good boy," Ellen said with a soft laugh. "I'm sure that we're going to have a lot of fun next Sunday." And she walked off, leaving me to wallow in frustration.

***********

As I'd hoped, my second week in lockup went easier than the first -- whether because I knew when my lockup would end, or because I was getting used to the extended (for me) time without sexual arousal, I couldn't say.

Ellen did her best during maximize my frustration and humiliation. She kept her wand handy, and she took great pleasure from insulting and mocking me, as she teased me to the brink of orgasm, only to leave me denied and frustrated. Out in public, she never missed an opportunity to tug on my cage, sometimes coming very close to letting other people see, or to embarrass me by making jokes in front of our friends.

On Friday evening, we joined three other couples for drinks after work. As we argued about where we should go for dinner, Ellen steered the conversation to the topic of infidelity. This wasn't difficult, since Capitol Hill was in the throes of yet another sex scandal. Ellen said, "You can't trust anyone these days. Just the other night, I saw my husband French kissing some girl."

Wait, what? Where on earth did that come from?

The table erupted in a flurry of questions and expressions of concern. I sputtered out my denials as best I could.

Ellen looked at me severely. "Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you weren't making out with your new girlfriend on Wednesday evening?" She turned to the others. "I've heard that some slut named 'Rosemary' has been chasing my man around the Hill. Have any of you ever heard of her?" Only then did it hit me that my wife was referring to our long session of analingus two days previous. She turned back to me. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

How can I answer that? If I answer "Yes" then I'm telling our friends that I'm cheating on Ellen. If I answer "No" then she'll punish me for accusing her of lying. Maybe by extending my lockup?

I continued to sputter, desperately trying to come up with a response, but before I could Ellen burst out laughing. "I'm just kidding, come on." She turned to our friends. "Sometimes, I find the idea of him having a girlfriend to be very hot, but he knows that if ever strays, then I'd be forced to lock him up."

"Lock him up?" one of the women asked. "What do you mean?"

"You know," answered Ellen. "Lock up his you-know-what so he can't use it without permission. They sell the most astonishing things on the internet these days."

"You mean a chastity cage? Isn't that a BDSM thing? You don't think there are people who actually do that, do you?"

"Of course, there are," Ellen replied. "Think about it: There's a factory somewhere in China turning out thousands of these things. Somebody's buying them, so that means that somebody must be using them." This, of course, started another line of conversation, and Ellen scandalized the table with her thorough (although supposedly only theoretical) knowledge of cages -- what types there are, how they're used, how many are sold each year, and so forth.

The girls all giggled excitedly about the obvious benefits of locking up their partners, while the men, including myself, reacted in horror and outrage at the very idea.

***********

Then on Saturday, with one day left of my lockup, the teasing stopped.

I got up early to make breakfast -- Ellen's favorite eggs benedict with smoked salmon -- and I was scrupulous about adding just enough lemon juice to get the hollandaise sauce to the consistency she liked. I agonized over the bowl of oranges on the counter, examining and comparing and selecting the ones that would yield my wife the sweetest possible freshly-squeezed juice. When I set her breakfast before her, she thanked me politely, but no more than that.

Same with the coffee service. I strove to keep her cup within a micro-liter of full at all times, and at a temperature precisely in the center of her preferred range of 190-195 degrees. Again, she was kind and polite, but the most enthusiasm I was able to squeeze out of her was a single, "That's a good boy."

Later on, we went to Tyson's Corner for some shopping. Of course, she had me hold her bags and purse, but in that regard, I was no more effeminized than half of the men in the mall. But then, she dragged me over to the lingerie department at Macy's, and she meaningfully held up various bras and negligees in front of me, as though deciding which suited me best.

OK, that was something that none of the other men had to go through. I glanced around, desperately hoping that no one we knew would show up out of the blue.

All day long, I was solicitous to the point of obsequiousness, desperate to avoid giving her even the slightest pretext to prolong my period of sexual confinement. If anything, I began to worry that she'd decide to punish me for overdoing it.

That evening, we drove over to Vienna to a dinner party with the McClearys, where I was much better behaved than I'd been during the barbecue with Pharma Douche. I was fully prepared for Ellen to do her best to embarrass me with double-entendres and private teasing -- perhaps tugging on my cage with Jennifer nearby.

But nothing.

The drive home was quiet, but inside I was stewing. When we crossed the Memorial Bridge and the bright glow of the Lincoln Monument came into view, I couldn't hold in my concern any longer.

"Mistress?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"You're not going to change your mind about tomorrow, are you?" I knew that I sounded pathetic and desperate, and the question was completely useless, but I just couldn't help myself.

"Tomorrow..." she answered, as though puzzled. "Change my mind about what?"

I was embarrassed to say the words, but I was the one who had brought up the topic, so I had to follow through. "You know. About my cage. About giving me an orgasm."

She paused for a moment before looking over at me. "Are you still worried about that? Didn't I make you a promise? When was the last time I broke a promise to you?"

I thought for a moment, but I came up empty. "Never, Mistress," I admitted.

"Are you sure? Not one time in all our years together?"

"No, Mistress," I repeated, now feeling miserable. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me for asking."

"I'll forgive you," she answered. "And I'll anyway keep my promise tomorrow -- as you should have known that I will. But I will also punish you for doubting me. That's another promise."

**********

Sunday -- my day of release -- went by as slowly as you might expect. Ellen had promised me an orgasm, but she hadn't specified when. I had no idea whether my release was planned for the morning, the afternoon, or at 11:59 pm. And asking her about it would have been courting catastrophe.

I did my domestic duties as well as I could. After all, why give my wife an excuse to change her mind at the last minute? But to be honest, my mind was focused entirely on getting my dick rubbed.

The morning came and went. Breakfast, coffee, the works. But no word of my release.

Around noon, Ellen ordered me to go out and pick up some sushi for lunch. I brought the meal home and laid out a nice spread, and I brewed up some green tea to go with it. She thanked me politely and invited me to join her, which I did. We had a lovely lunch, with my wife chatting pleasantly about this and that and the other.

But still no word of my release.

Having no further instructions after I cleaned up the kitchen from lunch, I decided to retire to the den. The Super Bowl had brought the football season to a bittersweet end the previous week, and America was now smack in the middle of the interminable professional basketball season. In a desperate attempt to distract myself, I sat with a beer in my leather armchair and switched on the TV to ESPN's featured NBA match-up of the week. The sportscasters excitedly informed me that the Who-the-fuck-knows would be taking on the Who-the-fuck-cares.

I sat back and took a pull of my beer. By the middle of the second quarter, the score was I-really-couldn't-give-a-shit. My bare ass was sweaty, and it stuck to the leather seat. I was itchy. I adjusted myself in a hopeless attempt to get comfortable. I contemplated my empty beer bottle, trying to decide whether or not to get another one.

"Are you ready?" interrupted Ellen's voice from the doorway.

So much for another beer. "Yes, Mistress," I replied, literally jumping up out of the chair. Apparently, I was a bit too eager for her taste.

"Whoa, Nellie," she said, laughing. "Look at you, raring to go like a weasel in heat. That won't do at all. We need to get you into the proper frame of mind before we can start." She picked up the remote from my desk and switched off the game. She must have seen my face fall, for she added, "Don't worry. I told you that I'll keep my promise. Sit down. I'll be back in a minute."

She returned after a few moments lugging an array of cuffs, heavy chains and snap hooks. She knelt down and cuffed my ankles, joining them together with a short chain. Then she hooked another, longer chain to the center of the one between my ankles.

"Stand up," she ordered. She looped the longer chain through the ring on my collar. Then she pulled down, shortening it until I could no longer stand erect. When my head was bowed and my back was bent enough to satisfy her, she fastened the chain in place with another snap hook.

She continued to restrain me, cuffing my wrists and chaining them together. As a final step, she tied a piece of twine to one wrist cuff, brought it down to my crotch and wound it several times around my scrotum, then brought it back up and tied it to my other wrist cuff. My hands' range of motion was now severely limited, as any movement would tug at my balls. The latter effect wasn't particularly painful, but it removed any doubt as to the sexual nature of the humiliation.

"Now," she said, "before I allow you any treats, I want you to spend a few hours doing chores and thinking about what it means to be my slave. Do you understand?"

"Chores, Mistress?"

"Yes. I've left a few things in the kitchen for you to put away, and the storage room could stand a bit of tidying up. But the main thing is to make sure that the basement is spic and span. You're to clean the sink and toilet, and scrub the floor everywhere. And I want you to use a sponge, not a mop, so that you get every inch. I should be able to eat off the floor when you're done. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"If you do a good job, then as a reward I'll allow you to wash my panties by hand. You can even sniff them while they're still dirty. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Mistress, very much," I answered.

"That's a good boy," Ellen said. "Come see me when you're finished."

I was shocked at how quickly the shackles had the effect Ellen intended. The chain connecting my ankles prevented me from taking proper steps, so I had to shuffle around like a decrepit old man. Worse, it was impossible to maintain any sense of dignity in the humiliating position imposed by the shackles. I was lugging around twenty pounds of chain, my back was continuously hunched over, and my eyes were pointed at my feet. If you were to stand up right now and walk around your house for five minutes in the position I've just described, you'd see what I mean. Then imagine being chained into that position for hours at a stretch.