AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the last installment of this story for a while. I've written most of a first draft of another two installments, but I'm putting them on the back burner.
If you enjoy my writing, but would prefer a a depiction of a more human (and humane) relationship, I hope you'll give "The Maid" a try. I'd love to get the same amount of reader engagement on that story as I have on this.
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As bad as my wife's announcement that she intended to deprive me of my cock permanently (in spirit, if not in the flesh) was, it didn't have much of an impact on my day-to-day life.
In a way, this made sense. After all, according to Ellen's previous schedule, my current lockup was supposed to have lasted for nine weeks, and the one after that for ten. So out of the four-and-a-half months following my first pegging, her permanent lockup policy deprived me of precisely one scheduled release with an unruined orgasm -- at most, an hour of lost playtime out of 3,192 total hours, or 0.03%.
Not really that big a deal in the grand scheme of things.
Of course, during the same period, she also would have teased me mercilessly with her vibrating wand once or twice a week. But her teasing sessions nearly always ended with denial just as I approached climax, and on the rare occasions when she kept the wand buzzing for a couple of seconds too long, she invariably ruined my orgasm and punished me for cumming without permission. So, with all due respect to the many men who live for T&D, I'm not convinced that the thrill of the teasing was worth the frustration of the denial. Net-net, I was just as happy to forego this particular form of play.
As she'd promised (or threatened), Ellen did initiate pegging sessions two or three times per week. She made me practice taking her dildo up my ass until I was able to relax and insert its full length without pain. The pegging, in fact, turned out to be much less unpleasant than I'd expected (or feared). My wife was surprisingly gentle, treating me much the way I used to treat a first-time submissive.
As she trained me to simulate fellatio and lube her strap-on long and sensually with my hand before penetration, her attitude was very encouraging, like that of a patient pre-school school teacher. "You're doing so well," she'd say. "You're making my cock feel so nice. You're my good little sissy faggot, aren't you?" Somehow, she'd managed to turn "little sissy faggot" into a term of endearment, rather than an insult. Her praise made the humiliation of the homoerotic acts easier to take than they'd been during my initiation to anal sex.
When she took possession of my anus, she did so without insulting or mocking or beating me. I suppose that the act of pegging, in and of itself, sufficiently demonstrated her dominance over me, and anything else would have been superfluous.
She made a tremendous effort to give me anal orgasm. She watched YouTube instructional videos on massaging the prostate (or P-spot, as it's known in the literature), and she even bought a shiny steel electrical-stimulation device designed specifically for the purpose. She carefully taught me to relax my core muscles in order to allow the climax to occur. Nothing worked. Without direct stimulation of my cock, I never leaked a single drop of cum or even pre-cum. However, she never blamed or punished me for this failure, but said simply, "We'll try again next time."
She most often pegged me on the carpeted floor upstairs. Ellen, of course, would never risk getting dribbles of shit or lube on her ultra-high-thread count bamboo sheets or duvet cover, so anal sex on the bed was out of the question. But still, doing it in the bedroom instead of the dungeon made me feel that her objective was, in fact, greater intimacy, not (or at least in addition to) greater domination.
On top of giving me more sexual attention, my wife seemed committed to improving our relationship outside of the bedroom and dungeon. She resumed discussing her life with me and asking for my advice about her problems, as she had at the beginning. She no longer went out of her way to humiliate me, and she found fewer reasons to punish me for breaking her myriad rules. She even became much more affectionate, giving me nearly as many pats on the head and strokes of my hair as she had when I'd first submitted to her.
All that said, Ellen wasn't able to suppress her sadistic streak entirely. Two or three times a month, I'd find her wearing her spike-heeled boots when I went to her for my daily foot worship ritual, and when I did, I always knew that she intended to take me to the dungeon for some form of torment. But while I suffered at her hands, I was at least comforted by the knowledge that I'd done nothing wrong, and that my suffering was helping her deal with issues that she needed to work through.
Overall, though, I had to give credit where credit was due. I'd asked Ellen for more intimacy, and she'd gone way out of her way to provide it.
And the only thing she asked in return was my cock.
Ellen continued to assert that, in her phrasing, my penis was no longer a sex organ. Whenever I objected to this, she simply ignored me, and if I said anything remotely supporting her assertion, she took it as evidence of my full agreement. She appeared to believe that by showering me with affection, attention, and intimacy, including of the sexual (albeit with me on the receiving end) variety, she could bring me around to her position eventually. But, as pleased as I was with how much more invested in our marriage she seemed to be, I was simply unable to agree with her on this.
We thus found ourselves in a sort of uneasy truce. As long as I never insisted that my cock serve any function other than urination, then she would continue to treat me well in all other respects. And as long as she never required me to agree with her explicitly on this topic, then I was willing to forego any immediate hope of erection in exchange for her improved treatment. Our relationship was like that between China and Taiwan, or Israel and the Palestinians, where both sides pretend to believe the same thing, while actually believing very different things. As long as everyone plays along with the agreed fiction, the truce holds.
But I think we both knew that our truce was not sustainable. In fact, it held for exactly six months.
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I gave my wife's foot a final, tender kiss, and I put her slipper back on. I lifted my head and tilted it to one side, so that she could put my collar around my neck. When she'd buckled it in place, I lay my head on her lap, and she stroked my hair. I purred in contentment.
I was just getting comfortable, when she jumped up, startling me. "Oh, my," she said. "I almost forgot. I have a surprise for you." She looked down and smiled at me, as though to reassure me that "surprise" meant something pleasant. "Wait here a second," she ordered.
She went into the kitchen, and when she came back and sat back down, I saw a leather blindfold in her hand. With another smile, she put it over my eyes and snapped its strap around my head. I felt her slip her fingers through the ring of my collar, and she lifted me to my feet. A few moments later, she helped me take a seat at the kitchen table.
She removed my blindfold, and on the table, I saw a chocolate cake, on which six birthday candles burned brightly.
"I baked this for you," she said proudly. "From scratch, not even from a box! Isn't it wonderful?"
"Of course, Mistress," I replied. The sag of one corner and the unevenness of the icing left no doubt that she was telling the truth about the cake's origins. "It's really beautiful, thank you so much. But, um... Why?"
"Well," she replied, "today is the last day of your sixth month in chastity. A whole half a year! I've been very pleased with the way you've been behaving -- no whining and complaining about your penis all the time. I'm so proud of you that I wanted to do something nice for you."
"Thank you, Mistress," I said. "It is very nice."
