A Submissive Saturday

Note: My wife asked me to write this. It’s not based on real events (though it might become the basis for some!), but I tried to write it with as much realism as efficient, so there are things in it that represent how we interact IRL, even if they don’t fit the usual sex fantasy. This is told entirely from the husband’s perspective. That’s the trouble with first-person limited. You miss everything that happens offstage, like when the wife moves the Ring doorbell into the kitchen so she can see when the husband is just about done cooking food to time her arrival just so. At some point, I might write a story from her perspective, but for now, it’s very dude-centric, and I hope you won’t mind that too much.

—

We are home alone for the afternoon and evening with no expectation of interruption. You have purchased a leather collar and wrist restraints for me that I didn’t know about. You call me to the living room, where you are on the couch, dressed normally except for some sexy heels and your riding crop in your hands. There’s a package on the table.

You tell me I am not to speak until given permission and not to ask any questions. Then you instruct me to unwrap the package, in which I discover the collar and cuffs. Perhaps you tell me about making the purchase or perhaps you tell me some way you plan to use them in time, but for now you want to see how they look on me, and I am very distracted because I was not expecting this.

I want to ask if I should strip, but you told me not to talk, so I settle for gesturing as though I’m undoing my belt and giving you a questioning glance. You sternly tell me to turn around and then give me a whack on my buttocks with your crop and say, “I told you not to ask any questions! You may apologize.” I begin to turn but you hit my butt again in the same spot. “I didn’t say you could turn to look at me!”

I clear my throat and apologize for asking questions. You hit a third time. “You didn’t apologize for turning around. Don’t bother now. I’ll decide what I’m going to do about it later.” I hear you standing up and feel you move close behind me.

“Close your eyes, and keep them closed until I tell you to open them.” You grab one arm and pull it backwards, away from my body. I can feel your breath on my ear as you tell me to put the other arm in a similar position. I can hear you unhooking the straps of the cuffs, then I feel you put first one, then the other on my wrists. You move them together and clip them so my hands are locked behind my back. Then you tell me to tilt my head back far enough that I am looking straight into the corner of the room where the walls and ceiling come together. I don’t quite get it right because my eyes are closed, so you grab my head and firmly put it how you want to, while telling me everything I’m doing wrong.

Once it’s set, I feel you put the collar in front of my neck and then buckle it tight. You say, “You may speak to answer this. Is it too tight?” We discuss the answer and you make some adjustments. Then all is silent.

I can feel you behind me, but neither one of us is speaking. A minute, maybe two, or maybe five elapses. I being to wonder if you are quietly rubbing yourself when I feel your hands on the collar and then hear a click. “There,” you say. “It’s locked on. You can’t take it off until I let you, and that will be quite some time.” Then I feel your hands on my wrists and hear two more clicks, as you place the small padlocks on them. Then you unclip the cuffs.

“Did you put your cage on this morning, as instructed?” you ask. I nod. You turn me around and look me in the eye, scowling. “What? I asked you a question!” “Yes, ma’am. I put my cage on as instructed.” You shake your head as if to suggest that I am hopeless as a submissive.

“I am going out for a while,” you say. “I am taking the keys with me,” you tell me, showing me the necklace from which you’ve hung the keys to the padlocks and my cage. “You will be stuck here alone, locked in so many things. You’d better hope no one comes to the door that you have to talk to, locked up as you are,” you add, laughing. “While I’m gone, I have a list of things you need to accomplish. They had all better be done, and done right, when I get back.” You hand me a list and give me a moment to look at it. “Any questions?”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Exactly as long as I decide to be gone. You need to stop thinking you have any control. You gave it to me, and I told you you would probably regret it, but it’s too late. I’m not giving it back. Now get to work!” I risk a “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” then I turn and hustle toward the kitchen to get started.

A moment later, I hear the front door close, followed by the car starting and leaving the driveway. I get to work on a list that, done very efficiently, could take an hour and a half or two. It includes several chores, making a very specific dinner, and sitting to add at least two fantasies to your list. And–I stare at it, not quite believing what you wrote–I have to get the mail from the mailbox, without concealing the cuffs or collar.

“Think about that later,” I tell myself, as I get started on food prep that needs to be done ahead. I set a timer to remind me when it’s time to begin cooking and then turn to the chores, figuring you’ll be more upset about those than not writing any fantasies. Fortunately, I have just enough time for both, finishing number two as the timer goes off. I head to the stove and begin cooking, not sure how best to hold the meal warm if you come home later than I’d guessed. Fortunately, you walk in exactly 90 minutes after you walked out, just as I am getting plates out to serve. Well, fortunately for the food. But I never decided what to do about the mail.


“Honey, I’m home!” I hear you laugh from the front door, before you come into the kitchen and ask sweetly, “How was your day, dear?” You are holding your flogger. I wonder where you had it stashed, but you interrupt my train of wondered by saying “I asked you a question! Answer it. You may speak freely for the next five minutes.” I explain how much I enjoyed doing everything you asked and describe how exciting it was to wear the things you’d picked out for me.

“And did you get everything done? Will it be ready for inspection after dinner?” I hesitate before answering timidly, “I think so?” “You think so? Either you did or you did not! You’ve told me about the chores–I’m sure you did a poor job of them, but we can set that aside. What did you NOT accomplish?”

This time, at least, I know better than to hesitate. “I did not get the mail,” I say, faltering a little at the end.

“You did not get the mail?” you ask incredulously. “You did not get the mail? I should have known you would drop the ball on that.” You pause for a moment, looking at me disapprovingly. “Go the living room,” you instruct. “Drop your pants and underwear, and lean over the gray chair as low as you can.”

I do as instructed, and you come into the room, taking up a position a few feet behind me. “How many strokes do you think this breach of trust is worth?” you ask. This is an awful question. Too few, and you will up the number you plan. Too many, and I will suffer more than I need to. You love this question. “Five?” I say. “I asked you. You should know better than to ask me,” you say.

“Five,” i say, trying to sound convinced. “Oh, no, Bub. You chose too low. You know the rule, I have to double your guess, but this time I won’t add my own to it. Dinner is getting cold. Count.”

You start to swing the flogger, and I count each hit. They aren’t especially hard, but by number five, my bottom is stinging, and by number eight, I’m grunting the numbers out. You use the entire session to tell me how I failed you by not following your instructions. When you finish, you tell me to go get your plate of food and a glass of red wine.

“Put your food on a plate and stick it in the fridge. You don’t get to eat any tonight. Once I’m served, go stand with your nose against the front door while I eat.” I do as instructed. When you finish eating, you tell me to clean up your mess and bring you another glass of wine and your Satisfyer, then return to the door, this time with my eyes closed.

I listen in frustration as you play with yourself and bring yourself to orgasm. When you are done, you tell me to crawl over to you with my eyes closed. I bump into a few things (Did you build obstacles for me?) and you laugh. When I get to you, you tell me to stay on my knees but get upright.

“Open your eyes,” you order. You look straight into them. “The next time I tell you to do something, you do it! Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, your punishment is over.” You stroke the front of my jeans, feeling the cage and commenting on my hardness. “Go get the bag of toys. Fun time is about to start.”

I hurry up the stairs to retrieve the bag from under the laundry basket in our closet. I reach into the corner to grab a couple of oversize items hidden among the disused curtain rods in the corner and hustle back to the living room.

“Did you remember the towels?” you ask. The look on my face gives my answer. “So disappointing,” you say. “Go back and get them. But while you are there, strip. Be butt naked when you get down here.”

I begin back up the stairs when I hear you say, “Well, take off everything you are able to take off.” You laugh, and I discover myself straining a little more against the cage.

In a moment, I’m back in the living room, naked except for the cuffs and collar and the small metal device locked on my balls and shaft.

“Put one towel over the gray chair, put the other ones down, and stand in front of me,” you instruct.

You look me up and down, a sort of hunger on a face that is normally so sweet and open. It’s an intoxicating look for me–a clue to what you have unlocked in yourself that was hidden for so long.

“Spread your feet, but just a shoulder-width apart.”

You take a second pair of leather cuffs from the box you had out earlier, shifting your gaze several times among my ankles, the cuffs, and my eyes, with a wicked smile you can not quite hide. Without a word, you affix one cuff to each of my ankles. Then you take a short chain out, with latching clasps at each end. You affix one to the D-ring on my collar and one to the cock ring part of my cage. Though you haven’t told me I can not speak, I nevertheless keep quiet. This is your time–to set the mood, to give instructions, to revel in a role you have already taken far past fantasy–and I know from experience that my input is unwelcome at this point. Soon enough, the idyll will pass, and we will leave this Domme/sub dynamic behind for a while. But for now, I am your toy, and you expect your toy to be seen and played with, not heard.

“Poor Bubby,” you say. “You have gotten so much more than you asked, and the look on your face tells me how confusing you find it. You used to try to make the rules–so many, many rules. And now, you are powerless.”

You lean forward to whisper in my ear.

“Now, you have to follow my rules, no questioning allowed. Does that turn you on?” you ask, as you nibble at my ear. “Does that… excite you?” You grab the chain and tug on it, then scratch at my scrotum poking between the shaft cage and the ring–right at the edge of painful without quite getting there.

“Answer me.”

I groan loudly as you squeeze my balls, managing to breathe out “God, yes!” and you relax the pressure.

“Good boy. Good little, powerless, rule-following boy,” you whisper, as you drag the fingernails of your left hand up to my nipples and start to tease them gently. “It’s a shame you didn’t see this coming. Because there’s no going back now. You are mine to play with as long as I like, however I like. Even if–especially if–you don’t like.”

You pinch my nipple hard. I groan again, and you step back to grab my face. You look me in the eye and tell me to be quiet for now.

You wait for a while, holding my other nipple just tight enough to feel good. Finally, without increasing the pressure, you start to twist it.

“I said punishment time was over, but that’s not true.” My buttocks clench involuntarily, enough that you notice.

“No,” you say, “no more flogging.” You move enough to spank each cheek hard three times, and I grunt. My cheeks are still red and sore, and the spanks make them ache again.

“Okay, no more on the butt. Though you brought that on yourself, with your clenching and moaning,” you say, now gently rubbing the cheeks. “But you tried to turn around without permission earlier, and I told you we’d deal with the consequences later. Then you ignored my explicit instruction to go get the mail”–you tug on my collar and my wrists–“which obviously we had to deal with right away. Disobedience is a very serious infraction, after all. Initiative is terrible, too, though, and we have to get both vices out of you.”

“Ooo,” you say, momentarily distracted. “Maybe we should get a vice for these.” You tug on my balls again. I try to pull away, but your grip is very firm.

“Get me my Satisfyer, then stand back, with your hands behind your back.” You take your clothes off, then spread a towel on the couch, before you sit down with your legs spread.

“Step forward, right between my knees. Turn around.” You clip my hands together with whatever you had used earlier, and grab my hips to spin me again. You fondle me again for a minute before realizing you’d become distracted from your purpose again. I can see you almost literally shake yourself back to the present, and I regret it.

“On your knees, between my legs. Do you need help getting down with your hands clipped?”

We get me situated and I begin to lean forward as if to eat you out. I love the taste of you on my tongue, but you put your hand on my forehead to stop me.

“No. That’s a reward, not a punishment,” you tell me. “The punishment is you have to get your face just a few inches from my pussy”–the word often doesn’t come naturally to you, but there’s no hesitation this time–“and watch me pleasure myself to orgasm. I’ve cuffed your hands so you can’t try to touch my penis”–it’s one of the first times you’ve called it that, and my stomach does a backflip.

“In fact, you are not allowed to touch my penis the rest of the night unless I direct you to. You won’t be given permission, only directions. I don’t want you abusing my property anymore.” You’ve never talked like this before, and my adrenaline is at an all-time high.

You apply a little lube to yourself, then tell me to stick out my tongue. You wipe your fingers on it to get the excess lube off, then pick up your device.

“Okay, lean down. Head in position. Close your mouth! If you touch me, even by accident, I will stop everything. I will put the biggest, most uncomfortable butt plug we own in you and then send you to the corner in our room until I’m ready for bed. You will stay in your cage at least through Monday as well. Do you understand?”

I have no idea where this is coming from, and it scares me more than a little. But the thrill wins out, and I say “Yes, ma’am!” with more enthusiasm than I expected.

You give me a look that says, “I’m not kidding,” and then you start.

I have watched from up close before, but I all the time got a turn, so to speak. Now, I watch the Satisfyer get to play where I am denied, and I discover myself jealous of a 6-ounce piece of plastic and metal. Then you start to make noise, noises I haven’t made you make for a very long time, if ever, and I’m happy. While I wish I could do that to you, life and children and age have changed how it feels for you, and I’m pleased beyond words that you’ve found a way to enjoy yourself so much.

My reverie is interrupted as your sensations create and you begin to thrust your pelvis forward. I move back to avoid being touched, which frustrates me immensely. You glance and gasp “Not so far back! You… are… being… PUNISHED!” You gasp the last word as your orgasm starts to create. I move my face forward, but not very far. There’s no way I’m gonna spend the next four hours in a corner while you drink wine and watch TV.

You shudder and shake, and your free hand grabs my head and pulls my nose into your pussy where you grind on my face and holler as a enormous orgasm rolls over your whole body.

You turn your stimulator off, and you look at my face, which is almost ready to cry at the unfairness of what has happened. But, between gasps, you tell me, “That was not an accident. You were a very good sub.”

“A very good sub, yes,” you say in a very tired voice. “Stand up. Do you need help?” I love that twice you have noticed how unbalanced the cuffed hands make me.

Once I’m up, you pull me a few inches from your face. You start to play with my–your–caged cock, scratching and using your nails to tease with extremely light strokes, and licking gently between the bars and on my balls, until I’m starting to enter a weird, disembodied headspace. At just that moment, you slap your cock–not hard, exactly, but harder than you ever have, and I’m startled back to the living room. You look up with an impish grin and take the keys from around your neck to unlock the cage.

In a moment, I am unlocked and at full attention, which causes you to chuckle as you opinion on how much I must have hated everything that happened so far. You squirt some lube on your hands and start to stroke me, alternating between up and down and a polishing motion on the head.

“Do you want to cum?” you ask.

“Oh, God–yes!” I gasp.

“Okay, you made mistakes earlier, but you’ve been a good boy since. You can come, but tell me when you are getting close.”

You add a little more lube and pick up the pace. In no time, I can feel the sensation building and I grunt, “Just about there!”

You rub up and down three more times then let go.

“No. ‘A good boy.’ Hah! I don’t think so. You haven’t even been close to good enough to orgasm tonight.” You watch the head of my, I mean your, I–our penis, and decide I really am not gonna cum. I strongly suspect you were trying to ruin me, but we haven’t figured that out yet.

I pant and try to control my feelings as I realize you probably aren’t gonna let me cum at all tonight. I asked for this, and tomorrow I will be incredibly excited by it. But in the moment, my feelings are… complex. But you’ve started to find that–complex feelings and all–it’s okay for you to decide what you want to do to me and stick with it. That is so much of what I want out of this play.

You look up at me and give me another little smile, and I know I’m right about the ruin. Maintaining eye contact, you asked if I brought the spreader bar down.

“I did,” I croak, my voice ragged.

“I should punish you for that, since I only told you to bring the bag. But I suppose, this once, I will forgive your transgression, since you anticipated my need, as a good sub sometimes must,” you say. “And I’m not sure it would be safe to send you up and down the stairs right now!”

You point to the gray chair, and I walk over behind it, to where I’d left a towel earlier. You discover the spreader bar and step behind me.

“No peeking,” you tease. “Spread ’em!”

The bar was our newest purchase, in the house for less than a week. We had yet to use it for play, though we had practiced a couple times getting me into it using the faux leather cuffs that came with it. I say we didn’t play, but I’m certain you got yourself off later that night thinking about the image of me face down in the bed, my ass in the air–and I hadn’t even taken my clothes off. I felt the bed shaking from your orgasm. You wondered I was asleep, but your quiet grunts woke me, my cock–was it still mine then?–terribly frustrated by its cold metal prison.