A Man's Chastity VII

Arriving home, it’s one of those rare evenings when my wife does not have a date... rather a tutoring session. I am thus bestowed with the privilege of making dinner for her. I greet with deference as always, knowing not to mention her extension of my chastity and certainly not uttering the words ‘brush’, ‘brushing’ or ‘unlock’ or anything which could be interpreted as a quest for freedom.

As a psychologist, the woman of strength and certitude is straightforward in her discipline... straightforward, calm and quiet. She does. She does not threaten... does not talk... does not lecture... she simply does.

So there is no further discussion, certainly no appeal concerning her succinct message and relatively moderate punishment. I must endure another four weeks. Period.

“How is your collar? Keep you thinking of me... of your subservience?”

“Yes, Ma’am. It’s... it’s... surprisingly comfortable. Yet I know it is there.”

And yes, I know why it is there and whom I am to serve... and all the other stuff drilled into my psyche by marriage counselor Dr. Zeke. Not to mention my wife’s thorough follow up through reiteration.

“Porterhouse?” I inquire, dinner plans typically postulated with few words.

My wife is not enthusiastic and never has been in hearing me speak.

“Medium rare... and just a salad. After you’ve cleaned up, remain naked. I want to see you move about serving me in your new collar.”

The commands come with my wife lounging on the living room couch, the latest edition of ‘Psychology Today’ offering enlightening reading I am sure.

Always hopeful, I remove the double ‘D’ clamp, the precursor to penile freedom, from my pocket and leave it in a convenient place in the dining room should my wife have the urge to secure my wrists and unlock me. Such would be unusual... and certainly would not lead to drooling into my masturbation cup. But there are occasions after a glass of wine or two that she finds the stiffening of my inadequate phallus to be amusing.

Yet as stated, such is rare. And she knows I don’t need to be shaved. Miss Denise offered her talents just days ago.

I strip. A quick shower. I dry. To the kitchen, remaining unclothed as commanded. A porterhouse of good size is marinated. I also take from the refrigerator a slice of calve’s liver. That is for me. My wife knows how much I disdain liver... which is why I must consume such twice per week.

‘Good sustenance... for both your body and your soul,’ my psychologist wife explained in forcing the capitulation on me... to eat what she selects as nutritious... never what I want or desire. Succumbing is deemed good for my soul.

And of course that is why the salad must be heaped with cucumbers.

I find that moving about naked enhances the sense of being collared, no other covering to be felt other than the wrist restraints and cock cage. I must wonder if my wife is aware of this. And I conclude that she is, particularly when I feel that twinge... down there... and must suppress the need to stiffen as I announce the salad’s readiness and march it to the dining room table. I serve, offering her favorite Caesar cheese dressing. As I open a bottle of fine Merlo, she tries a morsel then nods. This is the gesture for me to pour then sit and join her. As always there is bland vinegar and oil for me and a glass of water.  

“Would you feel better leashed as well, Henry?” the question posed most casually.

I munch in contemplation. If she wanted me leashed I would indeed be leashed, the power of the key supreme. Yet she wants my thoughts on the matter. Ah these psychological games...

“I don’t know,” failing to otherwise conclude as to the desired answer.

“There are beta males who feel better... under constant control. Brings comfort... a sense of ownership.”

I look to see my wife repressing a sly smile. As always she is way ahead of me on matters concerning the so termed ‘beta male’ and my paraphilia.

“I’m not sure how that would work,” I prevaricate, by masochistic psyche fomenting with images... obsequious and servile images. 

“About the house, Henry. Obviously not at work, though I am sure that would titillate that demented mind of yours as well. I’d have you on a leash. Tied off, in the kitchen while you prepare food, in the bedroom to assure you aren’t watching some sports program that would provoke your diminishing male disposition. Perhaps in the backyard where I would sun you.”

Sun me!.. like a cherished potted plant.

“Physically you’d be free to untie yourself... unless of course you want me to bind your wrists as well.”

I nod. Hopefully the incidental motion of my head is interpreted as understanding and not concurrence.  

I finish my salad in silence, concerned that any more words or gestures would some how further inflame the notion... a conflagration of degrading feminine thoughts... degrading for the hapless male.

Back to the kitchen, I begin broiling the steak, adding a Portobelo mushroom so coveted by my wife, care taken, nakedness and the splatter of hot grease bringing caution.

The moments alone offer time for thought. I sense another session with the marriage counselor may be demanded. Yes, sitting on the hardwood straight back chair while alpha male Dr. Zeke Bronski lectures on the proper marital role of the beta male husband... brainwashes on the proper marital role of the beta male husband. I will learn I am sure that being leashed is an expression of affection, pleasing my spouse in my submission... her contrasting predilections to be celebrated and nurtured.

I don’t like visiting Dr. Zeke. I have come to also gaze at that notable bulge at his zipper as did my wife... hers in lust... mine in envy. I don’t like being envious... but perhaps my psychologist wife would take issue with that... the beta male always in want.

I sear the liver and toss it on my plate. In being lightly cooked, its appears slimy and is in fact repugnant to the tongue. That is how the wife wants me to eat it.

I return to the dining room, serve and sit.

“Would you like it to be decorative or Gothically functional?”

My silent look suggests a need to better understand.

“Your leash, Henry.”

Guess I’m going to be leashed.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well I can visit the pet store, purchase something very fashionable for you as do the women who own show dogs. Or the hardware store... a nice long chain so you can move about in the kitchen... and the back yard.”

Plates are cleared. My wife declines coffee, her hand signaling for more wine. In pouring, my heart leaps when my wife spies the double ‘D’ clamp, deliberately left as a wordless clue. She reaches for it on the armoire. Freedom for my entrapped four inches?

“Go get your ball.”

More dejection. It is time for cunnilingus practice. She will present the slit ball to my mouth. With wrists secured I will orally work to extricate the marble as her love pouch slowly smolders, the act of male submission bringing her arousal. In watching and supervising, vicariously sensing the intrusion of my tongue where a woman most needs attention, her need will build. It will become a fire to later be extinguished.