Road to Female Supremacy Ch. 01 – BDSM


I hope you are reading this because you are interested in the topic of female supremacy. Please stop and go elsewhere if you are inclined to offer such criticism as “grow a pair” or “where’s your backbone?” or “divorce that bitch.”

It took me years of cultivating my wife’s self esteem to bring about the scenario I describe in the following narrative:

It started with an innocent gesture at the kitchen sink. My wife — who in my estimate is a high level of goddess among the myriad goddesses that make up the female of the species — what we reverently call Women — was commencing to wash the previous dinner’s dishes, I just didn’t seem right. She had put together a delicious meal as she at all times did regardless of feeling well or not, and in spite of the pressures of her professional and family life.

“I’ll do the dishes,” I declared as I wrested the sponge and dishtowel from her. She relinquished without resisting the offer, and extended the sponge and dishcloth toward me as offerings. I felt a sort of mild satisfaction. Mild — because I wouldn’t want to claim any great virtue for taking over the chore. I felt particularly pleased with myself when I observed her lowering herself into a comfortable position on the couch in front of the TV. As I went about the chore, I called out to her.

“I don’t want you doing dishes anymore. I don’t want you doing anything menial. Just tell me what you want, and from now on, I’ll do it.”

I caught glimpses of her relaxing as I went about washing the dishes. The more that image imprinted itself on my perception, the more I took pleasure in seeing her in this mode: relaxed, not distracted by my labors, her attention directed elsewhere — to the TV — to the laptop — to the phone — freed of tasks for which her divine nature was not intended.

That image — of a reclining, regal Woman at complete liberty to attend to relaxations while being served by an adoring slave — became in my mind a tableau, a potential work of art, the Nirvana of my male soul. Once that idea entered my head, I planned offering to perform any and all household chores so that she could enjoy relaxation or pleasure. My wife feigned reluctance to accept my servitude, saying a husband shouldn’t be subservient to his wife. On the other hand, she smiled whenever I professed my desire to liberate her from the mundane tasks of the house and home, and she would nod and express gratitude for each chore I performed.

The only downside was, that I was sacrificing time that I would normally spend watching the news. There was for me no contest. Maintaining and expanding the depth of this compelling idea — that of a privileged, arrogant woman demanding servitude from her male worshipper — had granted me previously unknown levels of enthusiasm. It would be my own personal work of art. Art? Art in what medium? In the medium of life. Shaping the social interactions to reflect this ideal image. Sculpting my behavior to fit the mold in which that image of me is cast.

For the longest time, this satisfied both both my wife and me. We had long ago stopped having regular sex and even foreplay had been more a feature of our youth. I accepted her lack of interest in sex as an individual proclivity, and even in my mind forgave her for finding me physically, sexually impressive. She was divine and entitled to whatever went into her divine nature. This included a sharp temper that she unleashed rarely, but with great effect; and a low-key, bossy attitude that arose naturally because she at all times had the best instincts about life situations.

Since I had openly committed myself to obeying her and carrying out her every command, she found it aggravating when I sometimes fell short of completion of her orders. She eventually had gotten used to my quickly carrying out her commands. She became increasingly impatient and responded with anger whenever I failed to satisfy her wishes. It was at all times an uplifting, joyful experience when both her temper and her propensity to give orders coincided, usually in response to some omission or error of mine. On such occasions my heart would soar with love for my goddess who, liberated from any menial tasks, commanded that things should be as she wanted them to be — and that that what it was my job to provide. The gladness which that wondered provided me was twice as pleasurable as any ego boosting compliment.

So it went, and with time the wife became accustomed to the situation in which I performed any tasks which seem beneath the dignity of her supreme female status. Naturally this led to moments when she was provoked to express her displeasure with displays of anger. I had made noise washing dishes while she was trying to conduct a phone conversation. After many such displays, I finally decided to drop to all fours — hands and knees in front of her. I looked up at her magnificent, statuesque appearance in complete, sincere remorse.

“I’m sorry I made noise so that you couldn’t hear the phone.” When she said nothing, I turned completely around on hands and knees from facing her to facing away from her.

“You can kick me if you want — if it’ll help you forgive me and forget my mistake.” Her reply was intimidating.

“Darling,” she replied, glaring down at me. “I never forget a mistake.”

With that, she landed three, consecutive kicks on the backside. Two on my right buttock with the flat sole of her right high heel shoe. And one with her left foot on my left butt. The third kick delivered was powerful enough to almost push me to lurch forward, and it stung like hell.

As years and experiences like this went on, we came to see the corporal punishment once so delightful for both of us as merely routine. Eventually she had me remove my pants and underpants each time I was to receive a disincentive spanking to avoid repeating the particular offense. Then came alternative spanking devices like wooden spoons, spatulas, etc. The punishments eventually came to be directed at my genitalia in front, although not usually with kicking. Instead my three-piece set was subjected to pinching, harsh handling and nail-digging as forms of punishment.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that one day my wife would come to exploit the potential advantages she could obtain by expanding the relationship of servitude which I offered her.

“It’s all well and good that you do the dishes and vacuuming,” she said one day. “The fact is that you could be a lot more useful to me in lots of ways.”

“For example?” I queried.

“For example you could start doing my laundry. And I’ll show you just how to handle each item.” With that, she escorted me into the laundry room where a basket full of her clothes needing laundering. One by one, she pulled out numerous items, pants, shorts, etc. telling me how each was to be laundered. Then came lingerie, brassieres, panties, garter belts and stockings to be done by hand. One by one, she draped each of these intimate items over my head and shoulders as she announced exactly how I was to hand-wash each in shampoo and fabric softener. Turning to look at me as the absurd clothes rack that I had become, she burst into laughter.

“Do you know how you look?” she giggled. “Like a clown or a… clothing rack…I don’t know…not much of a man, that’s for sure.” Then she stopped laughing and got serious. “Get to work on it now! I need these washed to specifications tonight so I can wear them in the morning. When you’re finished, come over to me where I’ll be watching a special movie I’m interested in. I will have other things for you to do.”

I was a little taken aback by the harsh way she issued commands and by the fun she made of my appearance with the lingerie items draped over my head and shoulders. Why did she do that in the first place? Still, I drew a little satisfaction in observing her take a luxurious pose on the couch in front of the TV, and I was pleased to have facilitated it.

I labored for much of the evening hand-washing her panties, stockings, garter belt and brassiere, while placing other items in the prolonged “delicate” cycles in the washer and then the dryer, standing in wait patiently while the machines cycled. From the TV, I could hear feminine voices but I couldn’t see the screen. I assumed it was some sort of “girly” movie in which I would probably not be interested. When all was done, I carried the freshly laundered items over to her on the couch. The movie was just ending, and she was watching the credits. At first she ignored me, continuing to watch the credits roll by of screen.

“Okay, now go carry my things to the bedroom. Lay out the items I’m to wear for the morning on the easy chair. Then come back here. I want you to watch this movie. It’ll do you some good. I’m going to bed.”

What? I wondered. Did I hear right? She’s gonna bed after I lay out her clothes for the morning, and I’m assigned to watch the girly movie that’ll “do me good?” I was afraid to protest for fear that this whole scenario I was concocting would be saboutaged by my refusal — by any refusal I were to make. So I did what she told me to do with the laundry and returned to the TV.

“Good job,” she smirked sarcastically. “You just sit right down and watch this show. I’ll ask you in the morning what you learned from it.” With that she rose and pranced off in a sexy gait. Something in her attitude had provoked a noticeable tingle in my pants, and I felt my cock starting to swell. I watched her saunter down the hall and wished that I could follow her to make love to this gorgeous, arrogant goddess. I stepped to follow her down the hall, and she turned around.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man?” she asked sharply. “I told you to sit and watch the TV.”

My breath was coming in spurts as my excitement for her grew. My heart was beating such that I could feel it pounding in my chest. My cock, beginning to strain against the fabric of my pants, was in full erection. I didn’t know what to say. I felt embarrassed to have my desires revealed. I reached down instinctively and adjusted my erection into a more comfortable posture.

She understood. Giving a smile of smug satisfaction she watched me reposition the uncomfortable hard-on while I remained still speechless.

“Since you seem interested, maybe you can do me a favor. Come on. Follow me into the bedroom.” I walked behind at a sufficient distance to be able to admire her plump butt cheeks as her hips swayed in the most feminine manner. My desire was unstoppable, I wondered. As I followed her into the bedroom, she walked straight through the bedroom into the bathroom. As she passed through the bathroom doorway she turned and issued the following.

“Go into my night table and get out my vibrator. Wipe it down with a moist paper towel and check all the buttons and batteries. Then lay it on the bed, and go back to watch the TV show I set up for you.”

I was stunned, almost shocked by the letdown. My mind had grasped the disappointment, but my cock surged into a rigid, almost burning, boner. Where did my wife get this new, arrogant and careless attitude? I knew perfectly well. I had persuaded her to develop it by my own actions. My sexual servitude had whetted her desire to dominate me.

I went straight to the drawer of the night table and withdrew the dildo-shaped vibrator. I quickly carried out the cleansing she had ordered and stood with it in hand, waiting for her to return to the bedroom. When she did, she thanked me and took the device from my hands.

“You can go now, she smiled, barely containing a laugh of mockery. As she spoke, she made a shooing gesture with her fingers, like she might have done to shoo away a pet. I instinctively reached to my crotch and clenched my fist around the tent-pole my erection was making of my pants’ front. But I turned obediently toward the door preparing to leave the room as she had commanded.

“That’s a good boy. Good little obedient boy,” she giggled as I left the room. “Don’t fail to watch the movie I pulled up for you. And please don’t interrupt me. I have to take care of company and your presence is not required,” ending the statement with an emphatic laugh.

I retired to the TV room and lay back on the couch, my boner still raging and tenting my pants. I clicked the play button and the movie began. I soon grasped the plot and premises of the movie. Two lady-friends chatted endlessly about the abuses and stupidities of each other’s husbands. One woman sported a black eye. I gathered it was for an abusive husband. There were scenes of the two women getting changed from one outfit to another, from street clothes, through various stages of lingerie and skimpy outfits, to bikinis and then to skin-tight exercise outfits, all the while assisting each other in the most intimate and affectionate way. Scenes like this were repeated throughout the movie, and i guess it was to contrast the gentle and nurturing way women acted toward each other with the harsh, inconsiderate and brutal behavior of their husbands. These guys were portrayed as unshaven, out-of-shape dudes whose very voices were abrasive and annoying. Then there were courtroom scenes and eventually the offending husband was prosecuted by a female attorney, defended by a loathsome slob of a male attorney, and eventually sent to prison by a heartless woman judge, concluding a kind of cautionary fable about how severe and inevitable were the consequences of abusing a wife — or any woman for that matter. I got the idea.

My erection had subsided by the end of this B-cinema fable and I wondered if I could be admitted into the bedroom to get some sleep. Tip-toeing in, I found all the lights were out, so I slipped out of my clothes and slid under the blanket next to my sleeping wife. She was lying on her left side. Her backside was presented to me. I, too, laid on my left. I moved right behind her and I immediately encountered the heavenly sensation her voluptuous body, the rounded prominence of her buttocks, the smooth, firm arch of her lower back, the delectable softness of her upper thighs. Hesitating, I placed my free right hand hand as gently as possible on her upturned right hip and felt the satiny smoothness of her flesh, both above and below the elastic waistband of her panties that crossed where my hand hand landed. Slowly, oh so slowly, I began to slide my hand upward toward the hollow of her waist and and downward over her hip to the outer aspect of her right thigh. I had been humiliated by her harsh attitude and feared that my expression of affection and desire might awaken her (if she were asleep) and I would meet with sharp rejection. It did not, so I continued to explore her body with my right hand. I slid my hand downward onto the back of her right thigh. When my hand encountered the deep cleavage between her thighs, my penis reacted with a surge of intense stiffness. I felt compelled to close in on her, not just with my bare hand, but with my whole torso, my bare chest and belly against her warm back, my naked thighs against the backs of hers. When my erection bumped up against her tailbone, she started — suddenly awake.

“Stop!” she exclaimed in no uncertain terms. Her exclamation was loaded with extreme indignation, coming in two loud syllables, like “Stah-opp!” I couldn’t pull myself away. I felt glued to her back with desire. She jerked her pelvis hard against me, pushing me away. This produced a space of about 2 inches between us. She put her right hand back behind herself and between us. It arrived right on my raging erection. Using the little space between us, she began slapping and punching my three-piece set violently, grabbing once or twice at my genitals to crush and pinch with her fingernails. This excited me to near madness. At the same time, it crushed and defeated my intentions to at least embrace or possibly even spoon with her. She sat bolt upright in the semi-darkness. Her breasts, uncovered, swung heavily in the shadowy darkness of the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” she asked with righteous anger. “Keep that thing of yours to yourself!” With that, she took my right wrist in her right hand and placed my own hand limply on my throbbing erection and now-achingly painful balls. “Go off somewhere and take care of yourself. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

I struggled to understand this intensely negative attitude toward me and my sexual intentions. I realized that by my obsequious attitude of obedience, i had re-educated my wife to a new and downgraded opinion of me. I was her servant. her obedient worshiper, not a man, not a husband, but a slave without rights. This had, however, no neutralizing effects on my erection. Instead I felt intensified lust as result of the frustration. At the same time, I felt a spectacular explosion of respect and admiration for this haughty, superior being. I had always held women in highest esteem, adoring their self-regarding vanity and superior, intuitive thought process. Their control over their own sexuality — their “take-it-or-leave-it attitude toward sex made them look down with scorn at male obsessions toward them. Her new-found arrogance and willful denial of my desires seemed to call for even greater admiration and obedience on my part.

“Go into the bathroom and do your business into the toilet, where it belongs,” she commanded. “Don’t come back to bed until you’ve tamed that thing of yours.” Oh – I wondered – the disappointment, the humiliation, the defeat of my manhood!

“You’re always saying that you want to do what I tell you,” she went on. “So this is what I’m telling you. Go jerk yourself off. I’m not going to!”

Thus shamed, I climbed out of bed and sat myself on the toilet and proceeded to masturbate with the remembered feel of her luscious body still held in my thoughts.

In the days that followed, my wife, my goddess, my queen began to exert her growing self-confidence by way of demands. Each day as she left for her office she issued orders almost casually and with full confidence that she would obeyed.

“I want this house spotless when I come home. Water each of the plants. I left a note by each to tell you just what to do. There had better not be a a thing out of place.” She knew my career as a writer and artist allowed adjustments of my schedule to accommodate the duties she was imposing, even though at the expense of what free time I used to have to myself. When she arrived home she walked about the house inspecting and criticizing.

“You call this clean?” she would ask sarcastically, pointing to a smudge or stain on the dining room table. “Maybe you should spend less timed looking at porn and masturbating,” she would usually add.

It’s true that, now cut off from marital sex, I was becoming a fan of internet porn and returned to my adolescent habit of self-satisfaction on a daily basis. It didn’t, however take up much of the day. I still strove to keep up my work — my writing and designing job — as well as performing housekeeper duties at the behest of the Lady of the House.

Even after settling into her comfortable pose on the couch in front of the TV, even while was engaged in the chores she she assigned, she continued to problem orders.

In the evening as she relaxed in her favorite recliner, I at all times expected her to say “Bring me a glass of juice,” without so much as looking my way. I wiped my hands dry of whatever detergent or other contaminant was on my hands, and went to fetch her the juice she had requested.

“Not that kind of glass,” she complained. “Put it in a proper glass.” I esteemed her all the more for the careful perfection she expected and the impossibly high standards to which she held me. When there was a lull in my performing of chores, she’d call out.

“Lotion!” It was at all times understood that I was to get a bottle of skin lotion and report to the couch.

“Kneel down right there. Take my shoes off,” she ordered. I did so, but found that she was wearing pantyhose under her shoes.

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