I Am Hers

Open up, sweetie, it's morning.

Her whisper wakes me, and I feel the pressure of what she has chosen for me today. A large phallus against my anus, facing inwards from the leather briefs I will wear all day.

Please, does it have to be so big today? I'm sore.

Please don't question me, dear. You will need to be instantly obedient today, it's very important to me. And you know how you can forget. This will keep your mind focused. Especially since I have not used anything to make it easier for you.

A firm, remorseless thrust, and the phallus enters me. No lubricant. Serious pain. Silence from my lips. I know better. There is no talking. No complaining. No whining. Silence. She knows exactly how hard it is for me. And she knows that sometimes I will fail.

Failure means welts and bruises at our house. A deliberate, thorough session with the cane and paddle. Crying will be required, but will not be sufficient to prove remorse. She will expect creative, satisfying displays of brokenness to assure her that I am utterly defeated, and that the pain in my heart will go on for some time.

She removes yesterday's panties from my face, where they have been firmly in place since the previous evening's lights out. The vaginal and anal areas covering my nose and mouth, the elastic holding the panties in place on my head. I am bereft when they are taken away. But I hope that later I might be allowed more than a cotton reflection of her.

Slavery suits me, I feel it deeply. I crave her authority, and her physical dominance of me. She outranks me.

To be close to her breasts, to meld my open mouth with her glorious vagina, to offer myself to the primal humiliating power of her bottom. My suffering, her pleasure. It is the central concern of our household. When she hits me, when she methodically sets about to make me sad, taking me further down than I knew I could survive. These are times I deeply and darkly crave. Every time she hurts me, I wish only for her to acquire more power over me through her expression of it.

Now it is time for her morning toilet, and time for me to serve her intimately. She sits down on the toilet, and I take my place kneeling in front of her, hands in my lap, eyes down. When she has finished urinating, she edges forward, knees apart, and takes me by the hair, firmly bringing my face to where it is required. I carefully and devotedly clean her vagina, lapping thoroughly to be sure that all traces are removed.

I make way for her as she stands up, turns, and puts her hands on the back of the toilet, feet apart, bent over. I place my tongue against her anus, and freshen her after a night of sleep. She is quite clean, for I serve her well, but the musk of her anus still has its powerful humiliating effect on me, and I am flushed, aroused, reminded of my status.

As she brushes her teeth, I kneel quietly, wondering what she has planned for me today, hoping and fearing that it will be difficult for me.

It turns out that today is shopping day. I am handed a list. While she is at work, I am to obtain everything on the list, and I am instructed to make the experience as devastating as possible for myself. One item on the list I know will be unobtainable: "Condoms -- extra small." But I know that I will go to the pharmacy, seek out the female attendant behind the counter, and ask in a clear voice for extra small condoms, making sure to experience the amusement and pity on her face, not avoiding the pain it causes me.

She also requires new panties. I am to spend a minimum of one hour selecting them, asking questions of the female staff at the boutique store at the mall: about materials, comfort, laundry care. I am to make it clear that I am responsible for the care of my wife's underthings, and let my shame and awkwardness show to the young, pretty women who will doubtless answer my questions with increasing impatience and revulsion.

I must also go to the small specialty grocery nearby, and ask for difficult to obtain items for my wife's dinner, explaining how angry she will be if I fail to deliver. My fear and panic at the impossibility of fulfilling her wishes must be conveyed.

Finally, I must buy a new set of jewelry for my penis and nipples. All the jewelry I wear on my most sensitive parts must be attractive but also functional -- it must include a ring of some kind with which to attach me to the various places she may wish to keep me at home. The rings also serve as a means of amusement or punishment. When a three stranded chain is attached to all three rings, and then to a leash, she is able to control me very easily, causing serious pain and panic with a sharp tug. Or I may simply be attached to hardware in the wall for a beating.

The involuntary spasms I experience when the cane lands lead to a second, almost as intense pain as I pull away from the wall. I try so very hard to keep still when I am punished, which I know pleases her. It is analogous to her cherished game of making me keep silence while she hurts me -- the common thread is that I am not allowed any means of releasing my suffering, but must keep it all in, letting it do its pervasive damage to my heart and mind.

As she leaves for work, I find my heart rate is elevated, my breathing shallow. I am scared. I am sad and small inside. I am hers. Today will be a hard day, and I am grateful for it.