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.
As she continued sipping her coffee and nibbling at breakfast she began to speak. "I hope you know that I don't appreciate your pushing that pathetic dork of yours against me while I sleep." I couldn't think of a response. She went on. "So tonight we are going to put you into my chastity device so that you aren't tempted to do the same thing tonight." "Yes, dear." was the only response I could muster.
My wife entertains frequent visits from her mother who lives in a nearby town. She will announce the visit by first ordering me to drop to my knees and pay close attention to what she is about to say. On this occasion, she remained seated and she turned to glower down at me with a look of utter seriousness.
"You are going to pick my mother up at her home and bring her here. She is going to be spending the day here. You will do everything possible to make her feel comfortable. Change her bedsheets. Get her slippers out of the closet and set them by her freshly made bed. Prepare tea for both her and for me when she gets here. You can make enough for yourself, if you wish.
At some point I am going to have you drive her around to do some shopping. You are to keep your credit card handy in the event that she decides that you are to pay for a particular item, and you are to offer it without protest." These were her opening remarks. Then she added,"...and if you show the least sign of impatience or aggravation...if you so much as roll your eyes, or in any way make her aware of your stupid male attitude, I will punish you severely...and right in front of her! Is that clear?"
"Yes, dear," is my consistent response.
"'Yes dear' is not good enough. Show me that you not only understand, but that you agree." At this point, I never know what to do to satisfy her. So I bow down and begin to lavish kisses on her feet while voicing not only affirmations, but actual enthusiasm for the assignment.
"Yes, darling, princess, majesty, highness," I will say while placing avid kisses on her feet and slippers. Please let me show you how much I want to please you. Make me serve you by serving as your mother's chauffeur and servant."
"What else?" she asks.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, " I will mumble, still pressing my lips on one of her feet. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity to serve you."
