“I am your lowliest abject subject, Goddess Gretchen. Do as you choose both with and to me for all of our shared eternity. I swear I will only worship you ever more fervently.”
“So you say! Well, then, let’s begin the first ten million millennia of testing that claim.”
Maybe it’s only a few hours more. But it sure feels like ten million millennia. And I can’t really decide which representative ‘t’ I ultimately find more trying. Beginning by clamping all the clothespins that will fit onto my stubby shaft and glans (plus a couple more to each n****e) Gretchen settles into the ‘torture’ part not like a lifelong churchgoing girl but as if she’s in training for the CIA. This is the insufferably staid lady I had dubbed Mrs. Vanilla?
Before even picking up her new whip, Goddess lights up a smoke and starts pressing the glowing coal to my newly-shaved testicles. It takes me quite a lot of writhing and screaming before I realize she’s pattern-branding me: leaving an arcane configuration of blister-scars that will forever mark those baby-making bits as her personal property, however suspect or defective.
Once I’ve dutifully eaten her butt again begins the squeezing, the terrible squashing and twisting, punching and slapping about of those eminently vulnerable agony-bag-and-balls. At last that lovely, lively little hand-whip is added, scoring my entire groin with livid welts. Gushing over its effectiveness and ease of use, Gretchen flails away at me until finally all the clothespins have been dislodged from my incessantly raging, miserably stymied Mr. Measly. Then intercedes the even more sensationally sensuous teasing.
First she uses that pheasant feather, lightly brushing and tickling. Then it’s my wife bringing her fingers in, the deftest of light caresses making me thrash in my bonds worse than any beating. In contrast, when she deigns to brush that straining stub with just the tips of her n*****s, or even give it the quickest of licks with just the end of her tongue, I hold myself as motionless as possible, daring nothing that might jeopardize such impossibly exalting, way-too-rare-and-brief visitations of divinity. Then all too soon it’s on to ice cubes soothing my wounds before their rubbing all over stubby freezes it into retreat. And after she’s gigglingly shriveled my p***s practically into non-existence, Goddess Gretchen picks up Mr. Proper. Rather than use it on her own sainted genitals however, she presses that soft-over-hard rubber p***s against mine. c**k-to-c**k she rubs and fondle-buzzes until Mr. Measly is again straining heavenward.
“Naughty, naughty, you wicked sinner’s useless d**k! Being aroused by playing with another p***s! I think we’re unearthing your feminine side, sissy. That calls for a hell of a lot more punishment doesn’t it?”
And so we return to torturing me.
Alternating these t’s endlessly as she methodically demolishes her second bottle of champagne, my increasingly drunken Goddess is obviously having the time of her life. Discovering a downright evil delight in constantly worsening my derangement, I can see Gretchen really beginning to come into her own as a closet dominatrix.
No longer just catering to my fantasies, she’s developing her own ideas and approaches – or at least finding them on-line. And I have to confess to again being seriously unsettled. I’m not sure where some of these kinkier turns might be taking us. For example, once the champagne is gone and it’s clear my uncharacteristically smashed Goddess finally has to crash, she quite insidiously pays me back for the present left until last. After untying my legs but not my hands, she pulls the former together and slips those sexy pink panties over my feet! Drawing these up my legs, she giggles afresh at my obvious consternation.
“I don’t know what kind of w***e you think I am Harry. But I’d never be caught dead wearing these. I do think they’re perfect however for an admittedly shameless sissy who’s just learning to embrace his emerging femininity. Lift your hips now, you slutty bitch.”
Gretchen pulls that frilly lingerie the rest of the way up, nestling my extensively wounded yet still miserably un-emptied genitals in slippery pink silk.
“Wonderful! Now to just get you tied up on the wardrobe floor again. This will be our usual routine, my deceitful fraud of an unworthy husband, so that after punishment and s*x you can use the ensuing hours to reflect on the lessons of each of our little revenge sessions.”
Hearing this decree pulls my immediate fear from the future to the present, the general to the specific. I have no choice but to speak up. “Goddess Gretchen, may I address you?”
“Speak, sissy with a useless mini-dick.”
“Leaving me in there helpless like that is dangerous. Last time I nearly peed on your floor. And if I couldn’t free the clip at need my kidneys might’ve backed up on me. You’re going to sleep long and deeply after tonight my dearest, as well you deserve. But that makes the need for some safety precautions more imperative.”
“Good thinking!” Gretchen exclaims, freeing the sash tethering my bound hands to the bed-frame. “You ruin my stuff and I’ll never beat you enough. Come in here with me then, sissy!”
This time after ten minutes’ giggly efforts I’m all cruelly contorted up by hogtying electrical cords not on the hard closet floor but the even more mercilessly obdurate porcelain bottom of our big old claw-foot bathtub. Grinning down at me as she feeds fresh batteries into her vibrator, still surrounded by all those flowers, my gloriously naked Goddess seems to tower toward the ceiling.
“There now Harold, you can pee all you like. I won’t even clip closed your d**k-hole.”
Instead she pulls the front of my panties down to expose how importunately erect I still am. She clips little black metal document-binding clamps onto either side on the shaft. Then Gretchen switches on Mr. Proper. Slipping this through the leg holes and snuggling it under crosswise between that dually-pinched b***r and my badly bruised, welted and blistered blue-balls, she tapes her vibrator firmly in place before pulling the panties back up.
Grinning again at my delirious groaning into my gag – and that buzzing has barely begun! – my triumphant wife can’t leave me suffering for the night without one last twist of the knife.
“You like the feel of my b***r burning so hard and hot against your own, don’t you, sissy? Well, I like the way it keeps you squirming so urgently. And I have to say that I was entirely prophetic before. Seeing you looking so wildly deprived and out of your mind with intense carnal need you can’t possibly relieve makes me realize just how much more vastly satisfying than any teensy-weenie ride I found torturing and teasing you tonight.
“No matter how brutal and abusive the hate-f**k, your pitiful little thing will never really measure up. So happy Valentine’s Day, husband. And thanks for such an exquisitely enjoyable and educative holiday and night. Now, spend the next stretch of your endless sentence for tricking me into wedding you reflecting on this lesson!”
***
So I have. And I’ve certainly taken several matters seriously to heart.
The first is that not everything will be heavenly about my paradisiacal marriage to Goddess Gretchen. As our current dynamic deepens worse will certainly be in store for me than being tied up until I piss my new panties, or stuck in a cold hard (pee-wet) tub with barely room to squirm for twelve straight hours. And I’ve certainly learned there’s worse than s*x with an unresponsive mannequin or a face-punching harpy. There’s getting no s*x at all while both physical and emotional stimuli drive you absolutely wild. The central lesson in all of this though is that my gorgeous goddess has indeed truly laid claim to the title with which she’s been bestowed.
From appalled offense to reluctant indulgence Gretchen has quickly proceeded through appreciation to enjoyment to relish until she’s seized the initiative completely. Now in addition to lying around m**********g for much of each day she spends hours online browsing for implements (a brand new paddle for example) or visiting forums to learn all she can about ‘wife-led relationships’ and the dominant-submissive lifestyle.
Naturally I’ve taken over almost all of the housework without a word being said. My pampering has become automatic, my worship compulsory and my obedience to every decree immediate. Still Gretchen has been as good as her word. No longer waiting upon the occasion, she thrillingly straps my ass black at least daily, and for the least or even imagined infractions. And at night… Let’s just say that for a lady that refuses to f**k until she sees if she’s conceived, my former Mrs. Vanilla shows every indication of becoming a raving nymphomaniac.
When not glorying in her latest pastime (mounting my face to grind me into the pillow while roughly, suffocatingly f*****g my outthrust, forever-blistered tongue) Goddess will lie back and demand exhaustive pleasuring of her entrance, c**t and g-spot. Using my hands, mouth and even Mr. Proper on her for hours while my own neglected organ tortures me worse than anything else is what most compels me to perfect my servitude. Dreams of ingratiating myself enough for my wife to again allow me inside her sacred body drive my every effort. Still I’m only male. As February draws on in continuing coital denial, and torturing and teasing is all that happens to Mr. Measly, I’m finally driven so deep into derangement that I have to break down and jerk off too.
I know Goddess frowns on this (for me at least), though it’s never been specifically forbidden. Still I take care to see that she is fully occupied with her laptop at the kitchen table before I announce my intent to clean the master bathroom. Then I hurry in there and shut the door, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it throbbing in that badly maddened erection.
First I turn the faucet on full, so it sounds like I’m working, not wanking. Climbing into the tub I unbutton my shirt and pull down my trousers. Under these are those unbearably sexy pink silk panties. Gretchen requires me wear these daily, and due to this and so much sink-washing every evening (and because they’re a bit small for me) they’re already fraying. Still they feel and look incredibly arousing on me by now, whether this is due to my ongoing training, my deprived state or something truly depravedly innate.
Sitting down I merely pull their embroidered front below my beautifully branded balls. Then already panting I take that tiny but demanding tadger between my thumb and first two fingers. Fervidly I begin manipulating. Gripped just as compellingly by memories of endlessly soaping Goddess Gretchen’s shoulders here (and then suffering the relentless c**k-to-c**k buzzing of Mr. Proper all night), I know it’ll take only a minute or so to sneak Mr. Measly some desperately needed relief. Unfortunately I don’t even get that minute.
Just as I’m moaning hopelessly and wringing that little piggy for all I’m worth, the bathroom door crashes open, almost giving me a coronary. I can tell at once that Gretchen is incensed about something just by the way she shuts off the water. And it’s not only finding me secretly sinning in here either. Immediately I begin blubbering.
“I’m so sorry my holy Goddess! What do you want me to do?”
“I came in to get some tampons.” Brusquely she rummages in a cabinet. “And to order you into bed for punishment. I know it’s only mid-afternoon. But you have failed in your manly duty to impregnate me. And now I see the likely reason why. Maybe you’re often impotent because you waste too much semen shamefully playing with yourself. And on the rare occasion you do finish, your potency is probably still diminished. Either way, you’d better never let me catch you like this again, sissy. Not if you want to enjoy any erotic arousal whatsoever.”
Aksara