deepest-devotion

[deepest-devotion]

Music for the Soul

It’s strange how you adapt to a new reality, become conditioned to your surroundings. On the surface, New Stepford looks like any town with its large housing estates, shops, restaurants, and numerous pubs. But this town is unique, it harbours a secret, a subculture where men have become the property of their wives. We’re marked by a simple plain bracelet around our wrist, if you know, you know. Although not everybody is in this club, but in the 12 months that we’ve been here the numbers have been steadily growing.

A year into this journey, my obedience to Donna is unquestionable. I’m now accustomed to my subordinate role, enthusiastically striving to comply with her rules, forever seeking to please her. Once that switch is flicked, the voyage into submission only ever gets deeper, there is no reverse gear, I’m now completely immersed in her dominance, her eyes and her voice control my very soul.

The old adage that absolute power corrupts absolutely, applies as much to women as it does to men. But is it really corruption, or just a demonstration of power. One thing is for sure, Donna has grown into her dominant role over the passing months, becoming more accustomed with the power exchange dynamic within our relationship. Equality and fairness are now outdated concepts.

Living in a female dominated society is certainly challenging. Although there’s benefits, plenty of opportunities to sate those submissive desires. We’re pioneers, navigating a course away from toxic masculinity and embracing a new female led society. To shake us from centuries of patriarchy programming, male obedience and absolute female power is a necessity in this New Stepford experiment.

And what’s the point of power, if you can’t abuse it now and again. The women of New Stepford have no qualms in abusing their power, especially when it’s for their own amusement. There’s always new ways to humiliate, to inflict pain, and our female owners are relentless in that pursuit.

So man’s path is clear in this town, obedience, devotion, submission, and punishments. Pain removes all confusion, bringing clarity to our respective positions. Unfortunately pain is needed, and as I sit here, eyes downcast, while Donna parks the car, I know that another pain fee is about to be paid.

I walk behind Donna, keeping my eyes downcast as we enter the venue. Some might find it strange, but I now take pride in my obedience, it’s an opportunity to demonstrate the depth of my love, my level of surrender can be measured, and observed by all. I’m sure the other husbands feel equally privileged.

The echo from Donna’s high heels reverberate around the hall as we enter what’s maybe an old church, I’m not sure. Keeping your eyes downcast really does restrict your field of vision. For the most part all I can see are Donna’s legs, high heels, and an old wooden floor, but I maintain my gaze downwards. It’s important to be dutiful to one’s owner at all times. And let’s be honest, being allowed to stare at my mistresses shoes is a pleasure in its own right, does a man really need anything more in his life.

‘Hi Donna’, a friendly voice welcomes her, ‘Hi, should be a good one tonight’, Donna quickly replies. The two ladies drop into a conversation, while I stand behind them staring at the floor. I hear some of what they have planned, as they laugh and joke about the fun they’re about to have. This is all part of their enjoyment, we’re going to do this, and you’re helpless to prevent it, is the message they take delight in delivering. They know it, I know it, everybody knows it, the power they hold is intoxicating.

‘The organ is over there, get your note installed, and get back over here, got some top quality gear in my bag, proper coke, none of that council shite, will get this party started’. I follow behind Donna as she walks off, laughing as she goes, and feel my fear gradually growing. The organ, what have our owners dreamt up now?

‘Strip’, I quickly comply with Donna’s instruction, while sneaking a glance at what’s in front of me. I see a circle of standing poles, each one securely bolted to the floor, with numerous buckles and straps hanging from them. Donna backs me up against one of the poles, before fastening the straps and buckles around my body. 

My neck, chest, waist, thighs and ankles are secured firmly against the pole, before a hood is placed over my head. I feel something being secured to my chastity belt, before I hear Donna’s walking off. The sound of her high heels on the wooden floor conveys absolute power, striking deep into my very being. I love that sound, I belong beneath those heels.

I hear others come and go, undoubtedly more men being strapped to poles, while I wait in the darkness, with only my own thoughts for company. Instinctively I know what’s been connected to my genitals, it must be an electrical shocker, Donna’s been experimenting with one recently, it’s a terrifying device, instilling an ever present fear, and delivering a sharp painful bolt of pain at the press of a button, its truly frightening.

When my hood is eventually removed, I glance down at my crotch, and that little bit of hope is quickly extinguished, as a fearsome electric shocker quickly comes into focus. I scan all around me, and see men secured to poles in all directions, everyone has wires secured to their genitals. All those wires lead to an electronic keyboard, located in the centre of the room.

‘Right ladies, first we need to tune the organ, to change the pitch and tone of any note, adjust the knobs above each key, every note is tuneable, so no excuses for not get a little ditty out of this lot’, the announcement is met with howls of laughter. New Stepford a town where pain and pleasure is solely dictated by what’s between your legs.

As the shocks course through my body, my involuntary yelps soon join the cacophony of sounds filling the room, all of which are being nonchalantly conducted by Donna. Her ten fingertips now hold immense power, every one delivering a pain jolt to a defenceless man. I’m sure she immediately turned each and every keyboard knob to its maximum setting, before starting. She’s staring at us as she plays, there’s fear etched on the faces all around me, mine included, followed by contorted expressions and squeals. Her dark brown eyes are glowing, illuminating power and an evil smirk breaks across her face, as she casually plays. She can taste our fear, as it hangs in the air, our screams aren’t enough, she wants to feast on the fear in our eyes.

Power is like a drug, its effects release endorphins within the brain, raising excitement and pleasure levels. And Donna and her friends have now become accustomed to the purest form of this powerful narcotic. Wielding undiluted power, free from judgement and restraint, their drug of choice is taken uncut. She may have had a few lines of cocaine before sitting down at the organ, but I’m sure the rush she’s now experiencing is surpassing that, as she exercises absolute and unadulterated power for as long as she wants over a mass of helpless men. We’re merely instruments to be played with, woman’s pleasure and amusement is all that matters.

From the outside, these women must appear nasty, as they constantly deliver electrical shocks to the balls of numerous tied-up men, while laughing at the accompanying screams and yells that their torture is producing. But this couldn’t be further from the truth. These men have chosen this life, myself included. Our very being craves devotion to our female owners, that is our drug of choice, it’s a compulsion that cannot be sated, we were born to serve, made for cruel mistresses, destined to live under their sadistic heels.

We’re all addicts, it’s only our choice of drug that differs. Man’s need for submission and obedience feeding woman’s desire for adoration, worship and power. Here in New Stepford these addictions are encouraged, women have created a dominion where male submission can flourish, enslaving men in a symbiotic relationship with their female superiors. Our addictions will grow more intense, the cravings become more extreme. With no chance of rehab man’s fate is sealed, to be trained as perfect servile subjects, demonstrating unquestionable obedience to our female owners, in this alternative society.

[deepest-devotion]

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[deepest-devotion]

The Things That Hurt, Instruct

Be careful what you wish for, it’s a warning on the dangers of entering into a power exchange relationship, one where the woman has the upper hand, holds the disciplinary and decision-making authority, and dispenses punishments and beating as she pleases. Why would any husband agree to such a relationship, beyond the slap and tickle of bedroom fantasies.

It’s madness, yet I’m morbidly attracted to her imposing this lifestyle on me. Why? I don’t think any man can truly articulate this dark desire, surf the web and you’ll find warnings, be careful what you wish for, as the reality will be very different from the fantasy. It’s one thing being caned in the bedroom, in a sexually charged encounter, it’s quite another to be beaten you when you’ve done something that displeases her, when sex is the last thing on her mind.

Resentment may build up, did I really deserve that, surely not. The unfairness of the whole situation could linger and fester at the back of my mind. Agreeing to live by her rules or suffer the consequences, rules that she could change as and when she wishes, with or without warning, of course it feels unfair, patently so. But that’s the point, it’s emphasizing that this isn’t a play-acting game, isn’t a temporary thing, I’m giving up real power on a permanent basis within our relationship. 

Do we even need rules, isn’t that just another male fantasy, I better behave, or she might beat me. Yes, rules can be fun, our own little secret psychological game, but shouldn’t she just beat me, when the urge takes her, regardless of my behaviour. My obedience being inconsequential, it could solely be at her whim, no need for justification, now that is a total mind fuck.

There’s a web site, the disciplinary wives club, and their tag line is simple, ‘the things that hurt, instruct”. What a one liner for a site that preaches a disciplinary lifestyle where the woman is in control, and dispatches beatings as she sees fit. It’s really for your benefit that I’m beating you honey. That’s a great piece of propaganda, how clever is the female of the species, so much more devious than the male. Establishing lifelong control over their spouses, with rights to administer punishment as and when they want, all under the pretext of being for the man’s wellbeing.

They’ve set themselves up as judge, jury and executer, while maintaining the moral high ground. It’s a commitment to their relationships, not a sadistic urge, that compels them to reign down blow after blow onto their husbands bare arses, as and when they please. For these ladies, It’s about power, taking it, using it, and abusing it. They’ve moved the goalposts, and dressed it up as a male growth and behaviour program. That cunning has to be admired, they fully deserve to wield that cane, men really are the dumber sex, myself included.

Even with this understanding, I still remain drawn to this lifestyle. Like a moth attracted to the light, my need for her cane is irrational, illogical. However, it’s now time for logic and reason to be ignored. I should embrace the web’s propaganda, this really is for my benefit, she is doing me a favour, I should be thankful for her cane, it’s time to grow and welcome her guidance, she doesn’t really want to beat me, she only wants to help me grow. I’m happy to go with the propaganda and join this growing lifestyle, life is too short not too, my body is her canvas, to mark as she pleases.

https://disciplinarywivesclub.wordpress.com

[deepest-devotion]

Donna

I’ve been standing naked in the corner for an eternity, as Donna decides what cane she’ll use. A pillow perched against the chair has been providing target practice. Swishing sounds, followed by heavy impact thuds, have repetitively filled the room while I stand in silence, eyes downcast. My ears have become accustomed to the acoustic variations, as the flexibility and thickness of each cane delivers its own unique pitch. This part of my punishment is psychological, and it has the desired effect, as my fear builds. I know what will follow, and that I’m helpless to prevent it, I want it over as soon as possible, beat me and be done with it, my inner voice screams.

But she takes her time, her gifts will be delivered when she desires, and afterwards I will thank her for it, those are our relationship rules. Be careful what you wish for, it’s an old saying, and one that’s resonating with me now. I suggested this power exchange, ceding my right to refuse punishments. A sexually dominant woman needs real submission from her husband, not play time servitude, and that’s what we’re both exploring now. Renouncing my right of appeal, and accepting all punishments reinforces our marriage’s hierarchy.

Becoming the property of your wife isn’t an easy path to walk, as my arse will soon testify. It requires real sacrifice and a genuine desire to surrender. But, we’re reaching for nirvana, a place were all doubt can be removed, and power can course through her veins. She needs to know that I live in her realm, within the boundaries that she sets, while consumed by my lust for her. Punishments may seem like harsh unloving acts, but nothing could be further from the truth. Yielding to her cane demonstrates my commitment to our love.

This is not an act of atonement on my part, it’s simply her right as my owner, born from a deeper love. Flowers, chocolates, material trinkets, they’re shallow gifts in comparison. Soon the marks on my arse will bare testimony to my level of devotion. The right to punish is the prerogative of owners, an entitlement that sets them apart, and my wife is now empowered with that right. The exhilaration and comfort that her ownership bestows upon me is all I need. I find the power that radiates from her beautiful brown eyes intoxicating, I’m unable to resist, I was born for this role, fated to worship at her feet.

My life’s mantra is now devotion, obedience, never no always, Donna, Donna, Donna, an obsession that never dims. ‘Never no always’ being the bedrock, a vow that removes my right of appeal. As we both embrace our true natures, the bond between us has grown even stronger. Although, its a difficult road for a man to walk, there can be no compromise, true love demands it. Devotion, obedience, never no always, I’m internally repeating my vows, trying to meditate on them, and drown out the sounds of her cane. Devotion, obedience, never no always, I find my myself accepting my fate, my soul has found its female owner, she is my everything, my very reason for being, there will be no rebellion today.

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Ambition

Undoubtedly the vow of obedience was designed to subjugate women, a marital construct within the patriarchal world. Today it’s seems like a hangover from a distant time, one that few couples would incorporate into their relationship. In her youth, Donna would rant against it, even though it wasn’t relevant within her own marriage. I can see how an unjust oath from bygone times could illicit such rage in a younger generation of women. Although now that we live in woke times, where personal freedoms and choices reign supreme, can it be resurrected for the willing?

I’d love to take an oath of obedience, the thought of being under her thumb gets me sexually excited. It’s a kink, what can I do, but when the cold hard reality and my fantasy world collided could I handle the fallout. Outside of the bedroom, or on those days when you can’t be arsed, could I really submit to her authority and accept punishments for disobedience, perceived or otherwise. It’s a scary thought. And why the urge to take this vow now, is this my mid-life crisis? No fancy cars, or dodgy hairstyles for me, only submission beyond the bedroom.

And what about Donna? She once raged against the vow of obedience. Is she now to become a hypocrite, and embrace it, just because the gender roles are reversed. Is that fair, abandoning her principles for my mid-life crisis? Asking her to accept something that her younger self found so abhorrent. In my defence a man is usually stronger than a women, there is no social coercion, it’s a voluntary decision freely made, so the context is completely different, so maybe she wouldn’t be a hypocrite. With the shoe being on the other foot her view may have changed, I think she would both embrace and enjoy it.

If this is my mid-life crisis, it’s certainly different from the stereotypical ones, that’s for sure. There can’t be many wives, who’s husband propose taking a vow of obedience, or maybe there are, who knows. We’re undoubtedly sexual beings, and possibly there’s a point when role playing games are not enough, and a more permanent state of understanding is needed. I’m a normal guy, lazy, cheeky, arrogant, all those traits that most of us are imbued with. I don’t intend to become a meek brow beaten husband, far from it, I’ll argue, fight my corner, my personality won’t change.

At the end of the day, it’s a simple pact between two consenting adults, one that should deepen our relationship further. My goal is for her to know that her ownership of me is beyond all doubt. The vow of obedience is a necessary building block on that journey. A declaration that cements our acceptance of the hierarchy within our marriage, consigning petty arguments and uncertainty to the history books. Hopefully leading to a deeper bond between us, one where her dominance can flourish, unhindered by the gender norms or social expectations.

And in reality, we’ll interact as we always have, laugh, joke, debate, enjoy each other’s company. I’ll challenge her, push the limits of obedience, hopefully securing small victories along the way. Maybe I’m being naive, but I believe little would change, other than her wielding the cane when my attitude warrants it. That could be hard to adjust too, possibly frustrating. But I could accept it, learn to thank her after every punishment. Surely I should show some real ambition, embrace this mid-life crisis in its entirety. The authority my vow of obedience would bestow upon her, is my precious gift to give, I offer it to her, and her alone.

[deepest-devotion]

Purpose

Frilly cushions and fluffy teddy bears sit peacefully on the cabinet tops, see through negligees hang from the wardrobe rails, the scent of perfume hangs in the air. Make-up and jewellery lays across the small pink narrow vanity dresser in the corner. Racks of high heeled shoes and elegant bags, adorn the walls. The pink shades, the smells, the room’s very being oozed a delicate femininity, bereft of any visible masculine encroachments.

I sit hidden from view, inside the wall, a male appendage within a feminine domain. The concealed recess is small, both in height and width, housing a solitary wooden chair, and nothing more. It’s is impossible to stand. The door to this secret void has it’s edges hidden by patterned pink beading. It’s locked via a remote controlled dead bolt on my side of the door. From the outside it appears as a small vanity dresser and mirror, framed within carved pink beading.

Earlier today, I had painted her nails and helped her dress, as she readied herself for a night on the town. Now I’m locked safely behind the daintily adorned vanity dresser. Strapped into a wooden chair, another of her possessions securely stored until required. The hours have passed slowly, as the hessian clothing enveloping my body has continuously itched my body.

It may be difficult to believe, but it was me who originally suggested this confinement scenario. I wanted my worship to be unrivalled, something few women could ever experience. She needed to know that her ownership of me was absolute, beyond all doubt. All relationship gender norms had to be expunged, and total submission and surrender pursued, as we sought the highest level of male devotion, and female dominance, without comprise.

When I was first confined within this recess, I would be naked and could wriggle, to ease the aches in my limbs, even if only slightly. Over time, Mistress added studded leather neck, hand, and ankle buckled  straps to the wooden chair, restricting my movements further. Recently I’ve been dressed In hessian punishment clothing before being strapped into the chair. My boundaries are constantly pushed, as Mistress satisfies herself that my level of devotion never wanes.

It pleases her to know that I’m suffering while she enjoys drinks with her friends. The greater my suffering, the greater my devotion, is now life’s mantra. I’ve discovered that this journey demands ever greater acts of subservience and that her complete authority over me will now never be relinquished. There can be no return to the gender norms, and that knowledge bestows a calmness to our relationship. We both understand our roles, there is no need for arguments or jealousy.

Muffled sounds of music and laughter had accompanied her return, as the nights festivities moved from the pub to the house. Soon the sound of a credit card against the vanity dresser’s top soon fills my void, as Donna lays out a line of coke, ‘Do you want some’, ‘Of course’, came the instant rely. Her evening’s partying was only just getting started.

As I listen my body tenses and breathing slows, as I try to avoid detection. It’s difficult with this urine filled adult nappie, aching limbs, painful itching and the rising temperature within this recess, all adding to my discomfort. I hear her snort cocaine, before a couple of her friends partake in lines also before they all depart downstairs to the main party.

Then without warning the mirror opens in front of me and the room sharply comes into focus. My eyes instantly feast on my Mistress’s face, her dark brown eyes, long red hair, those dimples in her cheeks, her ample breasts, it’s a vision of complete and utter beauty, causing an instant stirring in my loins. ‘Who’s been a good boy, keeping nice and quiet, while we girls enjoy our party’. She leans in and unbuckles the strap around my neck. ‘Good boys’ deserve treats, you know’.

She quickly pulled down her skirt, then her nickers, before turning and placing her arse into the opening. ‘You must be starving, so I only lightly wiped my arse in the toilet just a minute ago, plenty of tasty morsels left for you. Now eat my shite, like a good little bitch, lick it all up, there’s a good boy. And be quick about it, I’ve got a party to get back too’.

As my hands are still strapped into the chair, I use my nose to force open her arse cheeks, before frantically setting about the task. A pungent smell fills my nostrils, it’s difficult to breath, as my face disappears into her arse. I close my eyes to avoid her dirt getting into them, and lick and lick as quickly as possible. The fear of her friends returning and discovering my pathetic predicament spurs me onwards.

Eventually Mistress pulls away, and picks up a nearby tissue before wiping her arse with it. She inspects the tissue, ‘Not bad, its a little brown though, anyway, open that mouth wide, you know the script’. She dispenses the used tissue into my mouth, as I instantly comply with her command. As I chew, then swallow, she uses a second tissue to finish up, again I eat that one without complaint.

‘Time to head back to the party, but before I go, I’ve got another treat. It doesn’t seem fair that as we’re enjoying beer and cocaine, your having no fun. So I’ve got some powder for you too’. She took a small sachet from her nearby handbag, pulled the neck of my punishment clothing open, before emptying its contents onto my chest. I feel the heat instantly, as the itching powder burns at my skin.

As Mistress smiles, the glint in her eyes conveys absolute power. She pushes my head back before securing the strap around my neck, pulling it a notch tighter than it was previously, She is my world, my sole purpose is to serve and suffer for her amusement, there is no confusion. As the mirror closes, I soon find myself back locked and enshrouded in darkness, with pain burning at my chest.

[deepest-devotion]

The Humiliation Games

The humiliation games took place on the last Saturday of every month, and was the most eagerly anticipated event in the social calendar for the female community of ‘New Stepford’. It provided an opportunity to celebrate their dominance over men by humiliating us through a series of games designed solely for female entertainment and amusement.

Being naked on all fours, while dunking for dildos, was a firm favourite. Once a dildo was securely grasped within my mouth, I had to crawl across the garden at pace, then drop the dildo into a basket, before returning for another, only using my mouth to handle the dildos as I moved. All the while, Donna offered encouragement, by smacking my arse with her cane, as I raced across the grass. The other competitors were also whipped by their owners, resulting in a strenuous pace being maintained throughout the entire race. By the end both my hands and knees ached, while my arse throbbed from the numerous blows that had rained down onto my exposed behind. Although much worse was to quickly follow for my arse.

I soon found myself facing a six foot bench with a line of dildos spaced evenly across its surface. Each dildo increased in both size and girth the further along the line. At the base of each dildo lay two wires, menacingly awaiting their victim. I lowered myself onto the first dildo, and instantly felt nauseous. I slowly forced the dildo into me as far as I could, before rising ready for the next larger challenge ahead. Donna quickly pulled me back, ‘your not finished, all the way to the bottom, until your hear the bell ring bitch’. I tried again, letting the dildo slide deeper into me, as the pain increased, my guts began churning, and I felt queasy. But I pushed on, forcing myself to lower my arse ever further down, before suddenly being jolted by an electric shock, and the sound of a bell ringing. ‘That’s it bitch, all the way, let’s get that arse nice and wide. Only another five to go. Although that one at the end isn’t nearly as big as the one I have waiting for you at home later tonight’. As Donna laughed, I struggled onto the second dildo, and began trying to lower my arse again. Adding to the pain and gut wrenching was now the fear of an electric shock. Donna put her hands on my shoulders and started pushing down, as I froze half way down the dildo’s shaft. ‘I’ve got some nice silky pink underwear and stockings waiting for you at home, so let’s get that arse ready for some fun later, now be a good little sissy and take it all the way in, right to the bottom bitch’, Donna spoke with a calmness and certainty, that her authority bestowed, we both knew I would comply. I struggled along the bench for what seemed like an eternity before finally competing this peg race.

Afterwards I got time to recover as Donna allowed me the privilege of kneeling at her feet, while she consumed alcohol, snorted lines of cocaine, and chatted with the other mistresses. All the while I waited, anxiously hoping to serve, and hoping to catch a glimpse of her divine beauty. Although my arse still ached from the last couple of events, that pain paled into insignificance when compared with this honour. Moments at her feet are wonderful, truly humbling experiences, providing oxygen to my lungs. As I tried to catch a glimpse, the words ‘eyes down’, were quickly dispatched from her lips. So I knelt, with my eyes focused downwards, waiting to serve, whilst she enjoyed the ongoing entertainment on view. I didn’t dare look elsewhere, and focused my gaze solely on her feet. I take pride in my obedience. I’m absolute in my devotion to her, devoid of any social compromises, steadfast and obedient, there is no greater joy for a submissive husband, than kneeling at his owner’s feet, to even contemplate glancing elsewhere would be disrespectful to mistress. This is the genuine definition of the words husband and mistress, not the perverted connotation used in the so called ‘normal’ society.

Soon I find myself back competing within the ongoing games, as a rope is tied around my ball sac and that of my opponent, and we both start pulling it in opposite directions, trying to entice the ribbon hanging from the middle of the rope over our own winning lines marked upon the grass below. As usual Donna offered encouragement, both verbal and physical, as I try and pull my opponent in my direction. At first I don’t pull with all my might, for fear of causing damage to my genitals, or those my opponent, but eventually we both put all our efforts into the contest, as blows of encouragement rain down from our owners. The women of ‘New Stepford’ don’t tolerate half hearted efforts, they demand total commitment, regardless of the pain or humiliation suffered. Their regime is centred on excellence, delivering the perpetual courtship, where a man’s efforts to please his mistress are never quite enough, and his need to serve grows deeper every day, until it consumes his every thought.

Throwing rings over poles, an old carnival favourite, was up next. Although in this version I found myself, along with the other men, lying naked on the grass, with dildos secured around our chastity belts. We all were given viagra pills, and laid at varying distances from the throwing line, with numbers painted onto our torsos, reflecting our points worth. Before the game started, Donna stood over me, before lowering herself down onto my face. As her knickers rubbed against my nose, her pheromones filled my nostrils, and quickly went to work. In an instant, I found my penis enveloping every inch of its cage, quickly followed by the familiar pain of blue balls. I was defences against her feminine smells and found my groin involuntary gyrating in painful contortions, swaying the attached dildo from side to side, only one of a sea of waving dildos. The game could now begin in earnest, as the women began throwing their rings towards their targets. To add to their enjoyment, some women had customised their rings, adding small sharp pins, and other painful adornments. Donna occasionally wandered past, while collecting her rings, sometimes pouring beer over my face, kicking me, or rattling her cane across the soles of my feet. Whenever, my attempted erection subsided due to the intense pain from my blue balls, Donna would either let me catch a glimpse of her breasts, or dispatch her pheromones back into my nostrils, to kick start another painful erection, and keep that dildo swaying. Sexual frustration, pain and humiliation, all encapsulated within a simple game, the women of ‘New Stepford’ certainly knew how to exploit men for amusement.

By the end, I was completely exhausted, and utterly humiliated. Thankfully Donna hadn’t finished last when the final score was announced. Her incentivised thrashings and painful encouragement throughout the day had been successful. For the husband of Mistress that had come last, a forfeit would be paid. He knelt naked on the grass, surrounded by the ‘New Stepford’ female elite. Before one of the husbands was escorted into the centre of the circle by his wife, and forced to masturbate into the loser’s face. The ladies clapped, cheered, and laughed, as come exploded across his face. Each man, in turn, was then forced to masturbate into his face, as his humiliation was repeated over and over again. By my turn, his face was drenched, but I performed as directed by Donna’s cane, which rattled across my arse in rhythm with my masturbating strokes, pushing me onwards towards ejaculation. Our humiliation was complete, as the games finally ended.

The games may have finished, but the night wasn’t over. On arriving home, I was immediately dispatched to the bedroom to ready myself for her pleasure. I quickly cleaned, pulled on my stockings, and slipped into my silk pink nightie, and waited, hoping that mistress had exaggerated about the size of her strap-on. ‘I don’t think so, get you arse over this bench, bitch’, Donna snarled, before securely strapping me into her whipping bench. I soon discovered that she hadn’t been joking, when her strap-on entered me. It’s size and girth far exceeded those used earlier, as she took full advantage of my expanded back passage. Her hot breath and the smell of alcohol surrounded me, as she pounded furiously away on my arse. Soon I felt her come trickle down my arse, as she orgasmed. Afterwards, I crawled into bed and laid contemplating life. That mythical mid-life crisis, that besets so many, never arrived. As the years have passed, my need to please her has become all consuming, growing more intense every day, my body, my mind, they belong to her, and her alone. This need to please her is overpowering, she is the love of my life, my everything, and at her feet is were I truly belong, I was always destined to become a ‘New Stepford’ husband.

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The New Stepford Norm

A simple bracelet defined my social standing within the ‘New Stepford’ community, as it did for all the men forced into this female led subculture. But unlike the patriarchy society outside were women have freedom to chose, here in ‘New Stepford’, men had limited rights. We were the property of our wives, and they showed no disposition to sexual equality. I’ve always been sexually submissive to my wife. Although in the early days it was very much a bedroom activity, which fulfilled both our desires. In some ways it was on my masculine terms, sating my fantasies.

However, at some point, my need to submit, and hers to dominate seeped from the bedroom and into our daily lives. We wanted to push boundaries, stretch our limits, remove the safety net of bedroom only sex, to explore if a relationship could thrive within a real female led lifestyle. Once freed from the patriarchal social expectations, our minds sought deeper connections, based solely on man’s complete surrender to women.

A major pillar of this new lifestyle was a women’s absolute right to punish her husband whenever she desires. My acceptance that I had no right of appeal can be a challenge. It feels unfair, unjust, and I sometimes find myself fighting my own internal urges to resist, defying my rebellious impulses as best I can. However, I now always comply and surrender my naked body to her blows. Afterwards, I must knee before her, paying homage for the clarity and guidance her canes and whips have provided me.

With the female community all being able to add entries into our little black books, our wives now have numerous and justifiable reasons to beat us, whenever they wanted. Man’s physical strength has been completely neutered within the ‘New Stepford’ subculture. This community may seem harsh, given man’s lowly status within it, but contentment can found. The constant awareness that I must be respectful and deferential to all women, for fear of entries into my little black book, the indignities suffered during social gatherings, they all contribute to my state of mind, in what has become the accepted natural order.

And unlike the patriarchy world outside, there is no blurring of the lines, no sharing of power, either real or perceived. My sex’s social standing is clear, complete obedience to our female owners is non-negotiable. Failure to act in accordance with her wishes or commands does result in punishment, although there’s a contentment to be found in that certainly, as harsh as it may seem. We’re on a journey that binds us ever closer together, so there can be no compromise on her right to punish, my total surrender is necessary, and we both must sacrifice, true devotion demands it.

The societal ethos here manifests itself in many ways, one of which is entertainment. The availability of numerous submissive men provides the opportunity for new forms of amusement to be pursued by the elite female community of ‘New Stepford’. One of the most anticipated events on the calendar is the ‘Humiliation Games’, a far cry from the Melbourne Cup parties that ladies in normal society might attend. This event exploited men, solely for the pleasure and delight of their female owners, and the competition was only a few weeks away.

And that’s the craziness of this place, you could live a normal life, eat out, watch tv, debate issues with your wife. All standard relationship norms, with one exception, she had the absolute right to punish, at her sole discretion. That one rule changed so many things within our marriage. Surprisingly, it brought us closer together as the opportunities for disputes and mood swings receded into the background.

[deepest-devotion]

New Stepford

Donna was set on New Stepford, an up and coming affluent estate, on the outskirts of the city, and her primary motivation for our relocation soon became apparent, as I found her little black book exercising a frightening level of control over me, shortly after our arrival.

For those of you who don’t have a little black book, it’s a simple but very effective male improvement system. If my behaviour or attitude doesn’t meet with her expectations then she records it within a book that I keep on me at all times.

She decides what constitutes a misdemeanour, and also what punishment it merits. I’m usually stripped naked and secured to her whipping bench, when the time comes to pay for my misdemeanours. Sometimes I’m beaten, other times I feel the wrath of her strap on, and on some occasions it’s both.

It may seem harsh, unjust, or even abusive from an outsider’s perspective, but as I’m her underling, it’s actually an equitable system. I’ve learned not to fight against one’s nature. Acceptance is the key to happiness, regardless of the power imbalance that may follow.

But even that training didn’t prepare me for this place that I now call home, New Stepford. On the surface it looks like any other town, but it’s far from normal suburbia, there’s a community know only to some, including Donna. A hidden subculture that she fully embraced from the start.

On our first night in our new home she presented me with a dark coloured bracelet with ‘New Stepford No. 243’ stamped onto it. As she clicked it onto my wrist, a mischievous smile broke out across her face. I had just been inducted into a new subculture, although I didn’t know it at the time.

‘Could you run down to the shops, get bread and milk’, it seemed like an innocuous request, but it would soon open my eyes to our new home town. After picking up the groceries, I was just heading out the shop door, when a woman from behind called out, ‘you there, wait’.

‘Yes, can I help you’, I enquired. ‘Don’t you know that you should hold a door for a lady, have you no manners?’, she seemed angry as she began to give me a stern verbal reprimand. I was a little taken aback and quickly apologised. ‘You will be sorry, believe me, lessons must be learned. Pass me you book, your wife will hear of this’.

I was aghast at her request, but found myself meekly handing over my book. She scribbled in it, before handing it straight back to me. ‘Hopefully your wife can teach you some manners’, and with that she dismissed me, like some errant school boy.

The penny quickly dropped that the wrist bracelet had identified me as my wife’s property, a submissive and obedient husband. I was number 243, there were over 200 men living here in New Stepford, all with little black books, all subservient to their wives, a hidden underclass.

Needless to say that when Donna reviewed the entries within my book, I did pay a painful price for not holding that door open. She quickly adapted to life in New Stepford, and never missed an opportunity to write an entry into the many books available around town.

We attended our first barbecue, fairly soon after moving in, and it was far removed from anything I’d previously experienced. The ladies sat drinking and chatting, while the men spent most of the day cleaning the paving stones, adjacent to their dinning table, with smallest of wire brushes.

Occasionally, one of the ladies would stand up, walk over, then indicate with the toe of her shoe were additional cleaning was required. ‘Missed a bit here’, usually laughing as she spoke. Whoever was closet would move to that spot, and began scrubbing it again.

A jet wash would have cleaned the patio in under an hour. Five hours, four of us worked away with the tiniest of brushes, making very little progress. Eventually the host’s husband was excused, so he could prepare the food, but I continued cleaning, along with the other husbands until the food was ready.

The host’s husband set the table, and served the food, before kneeling at his wife’s feet. I and the other husbands did likewise. The women tossed half eaten food in our direction, as they ate. Whatever was left on a bone was expected to be gnawed clean. Failure to do so, would result in an entry into your book.

No food was to be wasted, we would feast on our owners’ left overs, or whatever they deemed appropriate. One of the wives took great pleasure in spitting on what she was about to fed her husband, ridiculing him as she did.

After the food, the party games started, and we found ourselves being humiliated for our wives amusement. I was afforded a seat for the first time, although as the chairs had dildos protruding from them, this game of musical chairs was no fun at all.

Next it was pegs clipped to our bodies, seeing who could endure having the most attached. Needless to say the the prizes for winning were not enjoyable at all, although they were far more appealing than the finishing last, so we were truly motivated to perform.

Power is an intoxicating drug, as the women of New Stepford had discovered. They already had absolute power over their husbands, but now they also had power over a whole underclass of men. I guess that would be a thrill, if your dominant, and on the right side of that divide.

Now when Donna stops to talk to another woman, I stand behind her, with my eyes downcast. There’s a genuine fear of offending any women around town, so standing silent with my eyes down seems like the best option.

Although that’s no guarantee of being considered suitably deferential, as accusations of ignorance have been recorded within my book, and beatings duly followed. The women of New Stepford make and change the rules as they please.

When I started down this path of obedience, I didn’t envisage this. I never thought there would be others living similar lives, or that like-minded women similar to Donna would form networks, and ultimately their own communities.

I’m now a ‘‘New Stepford’ husband, inferior, subservient, an underling to my dominant wife. But with that status comes a new found freedom. For many years I’ve wished to take my place at her feet. Now I can do so, without fear of social embarrassment.

In many ways I’ve been liberated, as I’m free to submit to a dominant woman, without any masculine judgement. Life is simple, there are no complications, man’s role is clearly defined here, obedience to one’s wife is everything, nothing else matters.

I hope that I can meet with Donna’s expectations and that my devotion and obedience brings her great happiness, and pleasure. For the women of ‘‘New Stepford’ the sexual equality debate is now in the rear view mirror, and the on road ahead there is only one destination, complete female domination.

[deepest-devotion]

My Little Black Book

The interpretation of a simple phrase can vary greatly, and depends on numerous factors. From personal circumstances to cultural mind-sets, different people can form completely contrasting views of a simple phrase. A perfect example is my ‘little black book’, when you hear those words what do you think?

Is it a man’s book, detailing his numerous sexual conquests, with the contact details of those lucky women included for future reference. There might even be a scorecard, grading their sexual ability or attractiveness. Growing up, I would have interpreted it that way also, certainly that’s how movies and culture norms portrayed it.

Although, it’s strange how meanings and perspective can sometimes change, be it from generation to generation, or as your own personal circumstances develop. Now for me the term ‘little black book’ has a very different meaning, and yes I do own one. It a small leather covered notepad, with a small pen permanently stored along its spine, both fit perfectly into my pocket.

I carry it at all times, and like those ‘little black books’ of bygone days, mine is also full of words and numbers. Although I don’t have the privilege of populating it’s pages with my scribblings, that honour belongs solely to my wife. You see, I’m an old fashioned kind of bloke, one who believes in the sanctity of marriage, and who wants to fulfil his marital vows wholeheartedly.

And for me, the historical vows of love, honour, and obey, are the only ones to live by, three simple words that demand total dedication to one’s partner and unwavering self discipline to achieve. An uncompromising marital pact were love can flourish without conflict.

When I first suggested it, she was dubious, even though I had submissive tendencies, I was a fantasist, happy to skirt around the edges, but not really serious about a real lifestyle change. I was lazy, arrogant, settled in my ways, the chances of me fully accepting the consequences of a vow of obedience were unlikely.

I had the raw materials, and possibly with some firm guidance could be moulded into a more dutiful male, but truly surrendering to her will, without constant rebellions, seemed an impossible dream. Regardless, she embraced the opportunity, as the challenge just proved too tempting.

She set about cementing the vow into our marriage with a steely determination that was both unexpected and initially exciting, exploiting my sexual tendencies and perversions to the maximum, to achieve her aims. Which bring me back to the ‘little black book’, that present from my beautiful and caring wife.

She laid out the rules calmly, I would keep the book on me at all times, if I was disrespectful or rude in any way, the misdemeanour would be recorded within its pages. Apparently she had devised a system to encourage my development and improve my self discipline issues.

The system consisted of the book, a whipping bench, several canes, and a list of potential misdemeanour’s punishments. At regular intervals, she would review the book’s latest entries, while I was naked and securely strapped into the whipping bench, and then deliver the appropriate punishment.

Knowing that I wasn’t a pain slut, the system should over time improve my behaviour, and as I became more respectful, the book entries would undoubtedly decrease. I found my sexual excitement increasing as we talked, and readily agreed to her demerit system, disregarding any rational thoughts.

Now six months on, my thoughts are when will this role playing sex game end. She has definitely exploited my kinks and sexual urges over the past few months, and doesn’t seem bored as yet. Maybe this Is this our new reality, and I will I never regain equality within our marriage.

As I sit flicking through the book’s pages, the memories come flooding back, it’s strange to see my behaviour improvements written down in black and white, there’s no doubt this book served and still serves its purpose. Although the number of cane strokes has never decreased over the months.

Now my misdemeanours seem more trivial, and the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crime. Only yesterday, she stopped to look into a shop window, and I happened to take two more steps. I should never step ahead, it’s disrespectful to her, this is a lesson I’ve recently learned.

However, as we sat in the car, she wrote in the book, ‘walked 10 or more steps ahead’, knowing that each step would result in one stroke of her cane. I wanted so much to protest, as it was two steps at most, but I couldn’t. Any verbal denial would have resulted in another misdemeanour entry into the book.

It seems she enjoys this power over me and is continually finding more and more reasons to record new entries into the book, while pushing my limits. It feels like I’m now beaten for her amusement and pleasure, rather than to improve my behaviour.

A vow she once viewed as an odious oath designed to subjugate women. Now the inherent inequality and unfairness that the vow delivers doesn’t concern her at all. From her viewpoint, my obedience is now expected, and is non-negotiable. This no longer feels like sex game, and I’m falling deeper every day.

[deepest-devotion]

The Red Express

I’ve always wanted to spend time on the red express, but dare I pay the fee? A week with an electric shocker secured to my balls, with me being unable to remove it. This vacation’s cost isn’t measured in pounds and pence, it’s currency is fear.

Only real fear can deliver a genuine unassailable position of authority, with no threat of revolt. This would be no sexual role playing game, it would be seven days of complete helplessness, unable to stop the shocks, with all relationship norms gone in a flash.

A journey with numerous stops along its route, her pleasure, my pain, her amusement, my humiliation, her strap-on, my anus, with fear propelling me deeper and deeper into submission, as we become one, with our distinct roles completely harmonised in a new symbiotic relationship.

I’m hesitant, can I pay this fee? Once it’s locked on, I’d be completely powerless, my heart beats faster, as I begin to panic. Trepidation, anxiety, I’m feeling the full gambit of human emotions, even before buying a ticket.

I know she will abuse her power, there’s no doubt about it, and I’ll be unable to resist, defenceless against her desires, as she’s free to indulge her every whim, with absolute and unrestrained power at her fingertips. This fear is real.

But I desire this collar and it’s electric leash, so I can be securely tethered to her side. An invisible collar of bondage, concealed from view and delivering freedom from confusion, binding our souls ever tighter together.

Her dominance would invade my every thought, and her brown eyes subjugate my soul, as my male ego is leisurely crushed by her little finger. Pushing me onwards to an unadulterated level of devotion, unencumbered by thoughts of sexual equality.

Love has many depths, and this could be the deepest of all. Discarding my masculine defences, while transferring absolute power into her feminine hands. Isn’t that the very definition of devotion, to sacrifice for another?

The days would be uncomplicated on the red express. Where fulfilment flows from her pleasure, her amusement, her satisfaction, and my assured obedience.  I was born for her collar, and she was destined to hold my leash.

How many men have the opportunity for genuine submission to a red headed goddess? Conquering this fear, and purchasing this ticket is my holy grail. I must be bold, and step aboard, the red express awaits.