Since I moved to my wife's country home in rural Poland, my life has been a dream-come-true. At night we sleep closely intertwined on a small, twin bed set up against a wall. I love to press against her soft, sensuous body throughout the night. She loves it too, but places certain limits on what I'm allowed to do under these circumstances. Pushing an erect penis against her is strictly forbidden. If she senses me doing so, she pinches, punches of kicks me in my three-piece set such that I must stop. There's no light-hearted joking regarding that rule. She means business, and threatens to throw me out of bed and have me sleep on the floor should I persist in that violation of her rules.
Actually, I find a way to enjoy at least a pitiful substitute for the forbidden pleasure. When she is fully and deeply asleep, I raise my erection up along my lower belly and press the ventral side of the shaft against whatever body part of hers is accessible. I never thrust or rub, for that would awaken her. Instead I derive what satisfaction I can by compressing the shaft of the erection against her deliciously soft hip or thigh. Usually I fall blissfully asleep in that mode. At other times, however, if I am not sufficiently tired to sleep, I lay against her, my poor, unsatisfied erection in a perpetual state of unmet desire.
I do my utmost to avoid waking her, lest she inflict her favorite form of retaliation, namely the repeated and relentless, hard pinching of my penis, often intensified by use of her nails. This is not something one wants to experience, not even a devoted worshipper like myself. So I hold back my male impulsiveness, suppressing it in compliance with the rules set by my female-supremacist wife. I sometimes revel in the power of a woman to curtail and control the male animal. It's as if she is capable of diminishing my manhood, i.e. drawing a feminine side of me, one that submits and sacrifices in order to please. In sense, she and many modern women have flipped the old conventions upside down, forcing men like like myself into hesitancy and timidity around women. She has instructed me to always behave apologetically toward women and Womankind.
After what is usually a relaxing sleep in glorious proximity to my wife, I am awakened by an alarm that it is time to make her coffee. I slide out of bed, glancing briefly at my flaccid but still slightly swollen penis, left protruding from fly of my underpants, seemingly forlorn having been ignored despite it apparent neediness.
I hustle into the kitchen and go about my duties preparing her coffee to specification. Whenever the coffee fails to meet her expectations, she hands it back to me, verbalizing her complaint. I apologize and ask if I can try again to prepare her coffee to her satisfaction. Before dispatching me back to the kitchen, she reminds me that one more strike of the switch will be applied to my butt along with all the other blows I will accumulate until the next reckoning. My wife reserves the right to schedule a reckoning whenever she fells like doing so. I agree, and ask if I may return to making the coffee. Most of the time, she is satisfied with the coffee, so I frequently escape any consequence of its preparation.
After delivering her coffee to the bedside, I crouch or kneel and wait for her to give me my orders for the day. First she will demand to know why I didn't bring her robe. Up to that point she is seated on the edge of the bed, holding a crumpled fistful of sheet in a ball in front of her chest, but hardly hiding anything of her voluptuous, plump breasts. She stands and I help her into her robe, watching her glorious breast and buttocks disappear under its clingy fabric.She will often announce her plans to make breakfast while I carry out menial chores.
My wife like the bathroom including the floors around and behind the sink cleaned on a daily basis, so I set about busying myself with the cleaning, I fetch rags and brushes and rubber gloves and do my best to fulfill her wishes. Every so often, she takes a pause from cooking breakfast to check on my work.
"Do you call this clean?" she will ask. "I told you to clean back behind there and use a clean rag and get down on the floor where you can see what I'm telling you needs attention." The specificity and vehemence of her critique makes my heart swell with pride for her attitude of command. I had tried since the earliest days of our relationship to foster a healthy feminist outlook with encouragement for her to take her place as a superior being, superior in the sense that all females are superior to all males, but also that she is a supreme example of the sex.
When my wife calls me to breakfast I drop what chores I was performing and take a seat at the kitchen table. If she has to remind me to finish setting the partially set table, she smiles and nods to indicate that it will be another whack of the switch at a later time. All I can think of is how much I admire her strictness in this regard. Competing with that feeling is a rush of intense gratitude for the kind and generous way she sees to my breakfast needs, providing a splendid, artfully arranged and delicious meal that has been carefully and lovingly thought out and presented. As a result of these competing emotions, I find myself eager -- even anxious -- to carry out her wishes and tend to her demands.
Over the years I have watched her grow into a kind of self-regarding grandeur. Her own woman. A free, independent and fearless goddess. She enjoys showering me with attention and affection, but she knows that I am completely at her mercy -- to do with me whatever she deems will serve her purposes. She sends me to perform chores and tasks; to arrange her environment around her for her convenience and comfort; she demands obedience and shapes my attitude by corporal punishment and by explicit criticism, sometimes both administered at the same time. With her highness's maturity has come a certain impatience. She will not permit delay in carrying out her commands. She knows what she wants or what she wants done, and she insists upon its immediate delivery. If I delay in accomplishing any tasks which she assigns me, I am made aware of her displeasure in no uncertain terms.
"Warm my coffee back up," she might say.
"It's quite warm enough already," was my answer.
"When I tell you to do something, you do it! Do you understand!"
"Yes dear, I'm sorry."
"I don't need you to say you're sorry. I'll see to it that you're good and sorry. Just do what you're told. That's your job: to do what I tell you. Now say it."
"Yes dear."
"What is your job?"
"To do what you tell me to do."
I scurry off, thinking how fortunate I am to receive orders from her and suffer a painful lesson that will be for my betterment. Better to serve her.
