An Unexpected Journey – BDSM


An Unexpected Journey

Note:

There is no exact sequence to my stories so far, and they shouldn’t be subject to continuity concerns in any case. My wife asked me to write some stories as we explore, and that is what I am doing. As with “A Submissive Saturday,” this is written from the husband’s perspective, so it’s very dude-centric. This can be problematic; because we never see the wife’s inner life, we don’t get a chance to see her as a fully functioning person. She therefore fails the Bechdel test. At some point, I might write one from her perspective, but at the moment, I am writing what my wife asked me to write in the way she asked me to do so.

There is a issue in this story with consent. We don’t see it occurring–or rather, we don’t see a negotiation up front that covers the, uh, climax of the story. Almost nothing in this story has happened between us, and in the unlikely event it were to happen, there would be plenty of discussion/negotiation beforehand. It’s safe to assume enough discussion took place off camera to make things here okay. But even if you aren’t buying that, this is just a story, and it excited both of us to distribute the story when it was done. Thanks for reading.

“We are going shopping tonight. Do not be late getting home, or you will make us late. That would not go well for you.”

I am sure it would not. You have promised me a scene tonight, and you made me put my cage on two nights ago, the longest chastity time yet, even though–for the first time–it meant I had to wear it to the office for a day. That was a thrill I wasn’t expecting, and I certainly don’t want to mess anything up tonight.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply. “I’ll be home on time. If I am able to slip out early, would you like a coffee, Ma’am? With a shopping trip first, it sounds like it might be an even later night than usual.” I manage to lower my voice just a little on the “ma’ams.” I am not allowed to mumble it, but you don’t usually put on your domme voice when I am at work, and my office door is open.

“Yes, Toy. You may bring me a latte,” you say sternly. Then you giggle, and in a more typical voice: “I think you were juuuuust loud and clear enough when you called me ‘Ma’am.’ Good job.”

The rest of the day passed in a fog. I attended two meetings that I have no recollection of, and my cursor is still blinking next to the same character it was when you called around lunch time. You were not shy about making it worse. In WhatsApp you sent me a picture of your new corset laid out on the bed, and you re-sent the video clips we filmed one of the first few times you pegged me. I didn’t watch them in the office, but even seeing the thumbnails pop up was enough to make me blush. I was actually grateful for the cage on my cock–you’ve almost gotten comfortable with the word cock; almost–because it spared me what otherwise would have been some very obvious erections.

The weather is a lovely Indian summer day, and many of my colleagues start bailing early. I join the flow and head to the Starbucks in the lobby then drive home. I’m about five minutes ahead of schedule so I stop at a florist. You are never on time for anything, but when you are in charge, I am expected to be right on time, neither early nor late. The last time I was a few minutes early I drove around the neighborhood, but you checked my location with the tracker you installed and punished me for being early anyway.

I walk in and hand you the flowers. You mostly succeed at hiding your smile as I hand you the bouquet before you slide back into character.

“Put these in water, then come right back.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I say and begin for the kitchen. You block my path and give me a sharp look, your eyebrows raised and your head tilted. “Thank you, Ma’am, for letting me do this for you,” I add. You give me a different look, as if to say, “I have so much work left to do to train you,” then you allow me to pass, though I have to squeeze between you and the wall without touching you. Some rules I break because the punishment can be fun. But if I touch you without permission, I’m not allowed to touch you again, sometimes for a full day, even if you might or might not touch me during that time. “It was an accident” is not an acceptable excuse.

When I return, you are holding out the key to the cage. I must look a little crestfallen, because you say, “Don’t worry, Toy. I just want you to go clean it and yourself. It gets a bit smelly after a couple of days. Go take a quick shower, no more than 4 minutes, and no more than lukewarm.” You know I love a hot shower, so this is a way you reinforce your control. Cold showers are reserved for punishment, and I really hate them. “Your outfit is on the bed. You have three minutes from when the water goes off to get dressed. Then I need your help.”

“Help” in this context can only mean help dressing you, and that means only a few possibilities. I do my best to conceal my surprise, because you’ve never left the house wearing any of those possibilities before.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I hurry up the stairs as fast as I can without running–another rule. No running unless directed. I set a timer on the bathroom Echo and get in. One good thing–there’s no waiting for the shower to heat up when lukewarm is all I get. The timer beeps, and I turn the water off.

In the bedroom, I discover a pair of satin boxers, a pair of dress slacks, a button-down shirt, and a three-quarter zip sweater you bought me for Christmas. You called the color peach, but it’s really pink. I also see a thick belt that you have me wear sometimes when we play. It has D-rings on the sides, where you can attach wrist cuffs. I open my mouth to call down to ask if I should wear it under or over my clothes, but I know better than to question you. I put it under my clothes and hurry downstairs.

“You are 23 seconds late,” you say as my feet hit the first floor. I don’t think this is true, but I know better than to argue. “I’m very sorry, Ma’am. I will do better, Ma’am,” I say, lowering my head to avoid eye contact as you approach from the kitchen. I notice the skintight leggings and the knee-high black boots you are wearing, but before I can react, you grab my chin roughly and tilt my head back up, looking right in my eyes.

“Yes. You will,” you say, in an exceptionally stern voice. “Now, help me put my corset on.” This really is something new. You’ve never even hinted you’d wear this outfit outside the house. The boots are work appropriate boots but sexy, though not the very tall, shiny ones you often wear at home. Other than that, this is the outfit you wear to play, when you want to focus on bossing me around and making me blissfully miserable. You have even put your hair up, with that one lock falling down. God, you’re gorgeous, and dressed like this, you make me crazy with lust and love.

You wrap the corset around you and latch the hooks on the front, then turn your back. “Don’t lace me too tight. I won’t be able to sit in the car if you do. I will have Clarissa fix it later.”

“May I ask a question, Ma’am?” You nod in the affirmative. “Who is Clarissa?” I croak the question out, nearly certain a pod person has replaced you.

“The salesperson, Toy. The one who sold me this”–you adjust it upward, rearranging the bosom I can not see from behind you–“gorgeous thing.” You pause to let my thoughts linger on that before saying, “We are going to Orchid Petals, where I bought it. I told you they have some toys I want to consider. Some of them have remote controls, so perhaps we will go out to dinner in Old Town after we shop.”

My mouth goes completely dry. In three months, you have gone from mystified and even exasperated by my interest in dominance and submission, to outpacing me by a lot. I love it, and I love you for it. But it gives me vertigo sometimes, my head spinning and my stomach doing backflips.

“Oh, poor Toy,” you say. “Can’t even speak. Just this once, I won’t hold it against you.” You pause to adjust the corset a little before deciding it’s acceptable for driving.

“Hand me my jacket, and let’s go.” On the coat rack, I see a black leather jacket that has lived in the back of your closet almost from the day we bought it a year ago, long before this new adventure began. You put it on and zip it just about high enough to conceal your breasts and the corset. Just about. With that outfit on, you look unbearably beautiful and confident in a way I’ve never seen. You break character for a moment, smiling almost demurely. “This is fun,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. Then you are back to being Ma’am. “Let’s go.”

In the SUV, I am pulling my buckle around when you tell me to stop. “Unzip.”

I am so shocked, I forget the rules. “What?”

“I said, unzip. Unzip and pull your cage out! Don’t worry, nobody will see. We are up too high.” With a wicked smile you add, “Only a trucker could see down in.”

You pull out of the driveway and put the Sirius radio the Broadway station. “Whatever Lola Wants” is playing, and you laugh, but you leave me alone until we hit the highway, at which point you reach over with your right hand and start to scratch, tickle, and pull at my confined balls.

“Too much?” you ask, with insincere innocence.

“No, Ma’am,” I croak out. My mind is already on overload when you accelerate to get even with the cab of an 18-wheeler. What in the world has gotten into you? You laugh and drop back a car length. The trucker never glanced our way, thank God.

The rest of the drive passes quickly, with you occasionally teasing until we reach the city streets near the store. You tell me I can put it away, and I thank you. Soon we are parked and walking down the sidewalk, you a step in front of me, clearly in charge. We head into Orchid Petals, the woman-owned sex toy and lingerie store I suddenly regret suggesting you visit. Actually, “nudging you fairly hard” is fairer than “suggesting.” That was when I could still get away with nudging, and I discover myself wondering what the hell I was thinking as we walk through the door.

“Hello, Elizabeth!” A smiling staff member walks over and greets you. I am confused. Your middle name is Elizabeth, but you don’t use it. In a flash, I remember some years ago, when you were playing around a little with dominance mainly by being bossy. I suggested you use your middle name for a domme persona, but you were not interested. Actually, It might have pushed you away from continuing to play at the time. Have you adopted this? Or did you just give a semi-fake name at the store?

“Hello, Clarissa. This is my sub,” you say, gesturing to me then taking off your leather jacket. I turn beat red. “Don’t worry about him. He’s got his cage on.”

I am flabbergasted. You told me you told Clarissa about us playing with D/S when you were shopping before, and I knew I’d be embarrassed that you said you pegged me. But I didn’t think you’d ever tell anyone about the cage. It is impossible to believe you just said all this to a stranger. And yet, you just did. “You probably won’t need to address him at all, so let’s not bother with a name. Toy, you should not look directly at any of the staff members, and you should not speak to them unless I tell you to.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I whisper.

“I could not hear you. Louder.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I say more clearly. Clarissa smiles.

I have surprised myself by going along with this. I know you’d respect my boundaries if I said stop, but it’s thrilling and terrifying and quite literally unbelievable that this is happening. But here we are. How does Clarissa even remember who you are? You bought a corset here two months ago. Have you been back?

“Clarissa, would you please help me tie my corset so he can watch. He’s learning, and he’s trying very hard, but he still hasn’t quite got the knack.” You walk over to a mirror, and Clarissa goes to work. I can sense you staring intently at my reflection, but I do my best to watch and learn, and I see a couple of small things I hadn’t known that make it seem easier. I try not to focus on the way you talked about me in the third person, like a little boy.

We start to shop, starting with the collars. You hold several up to my neck to see how they look–you used to do that with neckties in men’s stores! This is surreal, and it only gets more so when you ask, “Remember when we used to shop for ties like this?” How are you reading my mind?

“Ooh, I like this one,” you say, holding up a rather wide one with a big buckle and a small ring for locking it in place. “Try it on.” I discover myself taking it and fastening it around my neck. In a store. In front a salesperson. You smile brightly at me. “Oh, Toy. That’s it. That’s the one. You can take it off.

“Now we just need a leash.”

I hesitate to follow you, and you sense my discomfort. A look I can’t quite interpret crosses your face.

“Well, maybe later,” you say. You look around the store, and your eyes fall on a rack of women’s panties nearby. You give me a questioning look, and I shake my head very slightly. Thank you for understanding. I might go along with that at home, but not in a store, not even after everything else.

“Oh, I know!” you say. “Come over here.” You omit the “Toy,” which I also appreciate. I guess I have some limits, though I’m still carrying the collar and your pocketbook and leather jacket. You lead me and Clarissa to shelves covered with dildos. “He needs something to stretch him out, he tells me.”

I didn’t realize there was enough blood left in my body to redden my face further, but I was wrong. I guess you have your limits with my limits, so to speak. And even though I feel like I’m dying, it’s like the world’s most overwhelming edging session. I want it to go on forever–and I’m desperate for it to end, all at once. How do you put it? “Stop it some more!”

Clarissa looks the shelf over and picks one up. “How about this? It’s tapered, and it’s long enough that you can get good penetration without going balls deep. But as he gets used to it”–why is Clarissa also talking about me as if I’m not here?–“you can gradually go deeper, until he takes the whole thing. It’s about two-and-a-half inches across at the base, so he should be nice and stretched out at that point. It might take several sessions, though.”

You take the dildo from Clarissa and look it over, occasionally glancing up at me as if imagining yourself penetrating me right here in the store. I am terrified you are going to tell me to take your harness out of your pocketbook so you can try it on, but you just smile and tell Clarissa you’ll take it.

Next, we move to the remote-controlled toy section. You pick up several and inspect them before your eyes fall on an object that looks a bit like an oversized class ring. Clarissa explains that it’s a penis vibrator that fits on the shaft, “but it can also fit around the head of a cage.” You stick two fingers in and use the remote to turn it on. Your face lights up as you try different settings.

“Does it come with an app?” you ask. It does indeed, it turns out. “It’s a bit pricey, Sweetie. Can I spend the money?” There’s something so incongruous about you asking my permission to buy something after all that’s happened already, and I’m not completely sure the question is serious. But you neither laugh nor leer, and I suppose you must be sincere. “Of course,” I say, hastily adding “Ma’am.” You let it slide, presumably because you broke character with the question.

We start to head to the register, Clarissa gathering our purchases to ring them up. Your eye lands on a gorgeous blue basque set, and you ask Clarissa to hold the other things so you can try it on.

“Come with me, so I can get out of this corset to try it.” We enter the dressing room, and you turn on me and start to kiss me passionately.

“This was just an excuse,” you say, between kisses. “I need you to go down on me, to lick my pussy. Now!” There’s none of the usual hesitation to the word “pussy” this time. You have gone all in on this persona–“Elizabeth?”–tonight.

You lay back on the small bench, and as I reach out to lower your leggings, you swat my hands away. “I’ll get these. You drop your pants. Everything.”

I break character. “I’m–We could get arrested!”

“Just do what I say and stop worrying. You can use your safeword, but you’ve come so far, why stop now?”

I give you a long look, then slowly unbuckle and start to lower my pants. In that moment, I regret asking you to try the “bondage under clothes in public” thing. That sounded fun, but I thought maybe you would tie a little rope around me, and we’d go to the movies, not something make me wear this D-ringed belt around my waist and a drop my pants in a dressing room. I lean toward you when you hand me a fleece-lined leather blindfold.

“Put this on first.”

When did you choose a blindfold? I need to stop asking questions. My mind is broken. This is clearly the most erotic, most realistic dream I’ve ever had. Any second now I will realize I’m late for a final exam and go running down the street, pants around my ankles and chastity cage around my dick.

Surrendering to the dream-fugue, I put the mask on and then lean forward, guiding myself with my hands. The mask actually is helping. I can pretend I’m someplace else rather than in a dressing room of a store in which many of our kinks have just been broadcast. I lick two fingers and start to moisten your outer lips, not that you need much of that. You are dripping.

I move my mouth toward you as I hear a soft click behind me. Reflexively, I start to turn my head, but the mask would keep me from seeing anything. In any case, you grab my head and turn it back toward you and the business at hand of licking.

Suddenly there is a cool sensation on my butt crack, like a drop of moisturizer on inflamed skin. It’s a familiar feeling that I suddenly realize is lube being dripped from a bottle. I start to stand up and turn, but your hands on my shoulders hold me in place.

“It’s okay,” you say, even as I fight you to stand. “It’s okay. Give us a second, Clarissa.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

If I thought my mind was melting before, this time it explodes. Clarissa? “Ma’am”?? If I am ever going to have that panic attack about the final exam, I pray for it to happen right this second.

You lean forward, and you put your head to my ear.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I know I’ve been in charge all night, but you are in control now. All you have to do is say ‘No,’ and I will stop. We will buy our toys and leave, and go have a nice dinner, and go home, and we can try out the new stuff.”

I start to speak, to say “For heaven’s sake, no! We need to leave and never, ever, ever come back here!”

But you shush me before I get past “For.”

“You can say no, and if you want to, I will absolutely follow it–you really are in control. But I desperately want to be licked by you while you get pegged. Oh my Goooood,” you say, your arousal showing through for a second. “I want that so badly. But if you cannot handle it, say no. I will not hold it against you in any way.” I think I hear you whisper “But, please!” though I’m so overwhelmed I’m not sure.

“Clarissa is not allowed to touch you with her hands at all. Not even a little. That’s why I had you wear the harness. I’ll clip a short lead to it to hold onto. The only thing that will make contact with you is my new dildo and the harness, and the dildo will be touching you a lot the next few weeks. You will be completely safe, and the only woman you will touch is me.

“If you don’t want it, all you have to do is say ‘No.’ You can say it right now. ‘No.’ No?”

Everything in me is screaming to say no, but I cannot seem to form the word. You’ve planned this in such detail and you’ve gone to such lengths to reinforce my submissiveness tonight, it’s now impossible to say. And, if I’m being honest, the urge to say yes is starting to overcome the urge for no.

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