A, long but very fascinating and engrossing account of a two day detention for Samantha’s husband. Samantha has been dominating for a year and I think is amazing, (especially one year in). I find it interesting to compare and contrast her account with the previous post regarding Christine M who has been dominating for a long time. Christine and Samantha have similar tastes but to different levels of pitilessness – so far! We Dommes all evolve; and in what ways and how far, we have no idea in advance.
I hope you enjoy the following account as much as I have.
Samantha’s Account of the 2 day detention
My name is Samantha and I first contributed to Mistress Scarlet’s blog a few weeks ago . I am a mid-fifties Englishwoman. In my post, I mentioned the ‘Scenarios’ my submissive 62yr old husband, pipsqueak, and I indulge in 2-4 times a month. In the blog’s comments section a couple of people said they’d like to know more. On 7th and 8th of January 2020, we role-played our first ever 2-day ‘School Term’, as a step-up from the shorter periods we began with last year.
Here is a (very long, 6000 words) account of those two days. They were part of our mutual New Year’s Resolution to step-up our activities and explore new levels of challenge for him. This is an edited and tweaked version of my own ‘diary’ that I’d made for my own private purposes. I recently asked Mistress Scarlet if she’d like to post it.
As usual, I didn’t pre-plan that much. I prefer to let things play out naturally. However, I had an idea regarding the number of lines I wanted him to write and I’d also invited two friends over for coffee on Tuesday morning (7th). Those two things were in place. I’d pre-prepared his school food menus and indeed my own meals for both days. What I also did was start an extensive note on my phone for reflection upon later. That turned out to be the spine of this account.
We woke Tuesday as usual, had tea in bed, and then separated to get into our outfits; white shirt, striped tie and grey shorts for him, a tweed skirt, jacket and sensible shoes for me. We both like a bit of time apart to ‘get into character’. At 08.30 precisely, he reported to me, standing to attention in the ‘school room’ (our dining room) and we began. I laid my canes out on my desk.
We’ve both got used to role playing. It was a bit embarrassing in the early days. Dressing up, playing a character, putting on a voice. I speak in a slightly clipped version of my normal speech. I change my vocabulary too. Short sentences, abrupt manner and no-nonsense instructions.
After roll call, he ate his breakfast. I had prepared the ingredients the night before and simply pulverised them in our Nutrabullet. My goal was an unpleasant ‘porridge’ with the slimy texture of baby food. I never reveal what’s in his smoothies. For the first time ever, in the spirit of our New Year’s resolution, I used some of my urine as the base. We’ve never tried so-called water sports before. I have to admit it was amusing watching him gulp the drink down unwittingly, its acrid taste masked and enhanced by spinach greens, curly kale, raisins, unsweetened oats and angostura bitters. I noted on my phone, he didn’t seem to have any clue what he’d actually drunk (sad face emoji). After breakfast, he did 5 minutes stretching to pump his blood circulating into his brain.
At 09.00 we had Assembly, and I gave him the day’s hymn sheet; ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, which he sang unaccompanied in front of me. Then it was time for Lesson 1, his favorite, ‘Line-Writing’. I brusquely announced that he would be doing a 1,000 Lines Project over the two day term. If he failed, I threatened 2,000 Lines over the 4-day week (Tues-Fri). He sat on his backless stool and nodded anxiously, reddening in shock.
“Writing one thousand lines without mistakes is a tall challenge”. I gave him the line. The day before, it had taken me 155 seconds to write it neatly and number the line 5 times. An average of 31 seconds per line. I’d done the arithmetic. His challenge should be doable in the time I’d allocated but his fingers, wrist, forearm and brain would seriously ache by the end of it. I watched him set to work at exactly five past nine.
While he wrote and the hall clock ticked, I made myself breakfast of coffee and a cinnamon bagel. I ate it at my desk, eyeing him in silence, and reading the Daily Telegraph on my ipad. The first hour passed by pleasantly enough.
At 10.05, I allowed him a toilet break. He pulled down his shorts in front of me and revealed his steel cock-tube. It’s a new one we got him for Christmas, made by Lock the Cock. I like its simple, hygienic design, the compact size (3.1 inches length) and the easy-to-use padlock. He’s worn it since Boxing Day (26th) and had one orgasm in the 12 days since. I quickly unlocked him with my key.
I’ve never had any desire to watch him urinate outside of our role-play. But there’s something about monitoring his every move that appeals to me when we play. Privacy for me, absolutely none for him. I make him hold himself left-handed and peel back his foreskin so I can check him for cleanliness. Then he pees very accurately into the pan and dabs his penis dry, ready for my inspection of his genitals.
At first, I didn’t want him to shave his groin. I preferred him manly as he was. So he only trimmed his pubic hair with scissors. But 6 months ago we went the full monty. We use a twice-weekly, mixed regime of clippers, razor, Nads cream and wax strips, and tweezers to keep him utterly depilated from his navel to his anus. I’ve grown to like the new, smooth hairless ‘Action Man’ look and it makes hygiene easier to maintain, and cage-chafing to avoid. Rather amusingly and incongruously it makes his decent-sized penis appear even larger too!
I take a good, matronly look at him. Bristles appear within a few days so there’s always a chance to criticize and pluck. I made him bend over and pull his buttock cheeks super-wide apart so I could inspect him with my iphone torch. The torch never lies. He’s nice and clean so far. But there were a few hairs on his scrotum and anal rim I’d been allowing to grow. I tut-tutted and plucked them out viciously one by one. He hissed at each sharp twist.
When he straightened, I was pleased to see a semi-erection. It only took a few casual strokes from me to get him fully hard. ‘What’s this?’ I demanded. He apologized. I told him how inappropriate it is for a naughty schoolboy to become aroused by his elder and better, a member of staff no less. I thwacked his penis a few times, only making him harder. I asked him if he knew what masturbation was yet, and had he done it? He replied, embarrassed, that he had. I told him to demonstrate.
I have an app ‘Metronome Beats’ on my phone. I can set endless rhythms. I put it to a steady tempo and made sure he stroked his penis in sync, nice and slow. After a couple of minutes I made him switch over to left-handed. After 5 minutes and 300 strokes, he was very nicely edged. I told him ‘enough’. I didn’t relock him. He simply pulled up his grey shorts. After he’d had a drink of water, it was 11 o’clock and time for essay writing.
“The new Labour leader should be [name] for these reasons.” I chose a current topic and something to test him. He knows much more about the Conservative Party than the opposition. I thought it would be interesting to see how he did with 3 whole hours to write about something he’d done no preparation for. I was pleased to see by his nonplussed expression that he was going to struggle.
At 11.15, I set the camera recording. It’s on a tripod alongside him. It’s usually just monitoring but sometimes I want to film him too, just in case. Fifteen minutes later, two local, married female friends of mine arrived together. I phoned them on Monday. It always feels deliciously wicked and risky when people come round during a role play. We sat and chatted while my mind was in fact two rooms away where my own husband was in grey shorts puzzling over the Labour leadership contest. I wasn’t going to bother playing back the boring film of him writing but he wasn’t to know that.
Both ladies left just before lunch and I set to work preparing his next school meal. I’d bought a salmon fillet and two separate salmon heads & tails at our nearby traditional fishmonger. Guess which one of us had which? I removed much of the nicer flesh from the heads and tails so they were mostly just cartilage, scraps, eyeballs and lots of dark skin (actually the most nutritious part). I lightly sauted them with onion and margarine, until slimy, and served them in a plain white bowl with peas and cabbage. At 2.00 p.m. precisely, I collected his essay and presented him with his unappetizing lunch.
I hovered over him while he ate with just a spoon. I expect a totally clean plate. I watched him push the eyeballs round and round. They were another first. I’d read they’re actually not only edible but delicious and supposedly stimulate brain cells and reduce memory loss in older age. Useful if true. Eventually he spooned all four of them into his mouth one after the other. But he didn’t agree they’re tasty!
After a quick pee and a drink of water, it was time for more line writing. The long afternoons are always harder for him than the mornings and evenings. So I’d decided to switch his major line session to 2.15 p.m. – 6.15 p.m. After all, writing a thousand lines without mistakes should be made into as tough a challenge as possible. He was on schedule so far, after only one hour in the morning, but he still had a long, loooong way to go. I smiled as he picked up his biro and began to write.
I then grilled my own salmon fillet and had it with potatoes, peas and tartare sauce at my desk facing him. I also enjoyed two glasses of sauvignon blanc. He always used to make us both do ‘dry January’ every year. In 2020, he’s doing two months ‘dry Jan and Feb’ on behalf of both of us. Just one of the little ways he now ‘offsets’ my indulgences.
He’s not a heavy drinker. He’s a gin & tonic at 7, a few glasses of wine with food, an occasionally whisky afterwards man, and a beer with a rugby or football match on TV. His dry January fetish for about the last 15 years says way more about his personality than his drinking. He insisted on roping me into it. I am now enjoying making him see things from my point of view. I shall see how two teetotal months of tap water, and slim line tonic as a treat, go for him. Perhaps it should be a permanent arrangement? We used to share the driving ‘about 50-50’ when going out to dinner with friends or to restaurants. That’s all changed anyway, but part of me likes the idea and supposed health benefits for him of going permanent. Or at least extending February to March, or April, and testing his reaction?
After lunch, I left him to it and used my ipad at the kitchen table, occasionally glancing at the camera feed. Four hours are a long time to fill when your husband’s out of action, so to speak. A 24/7 role-play dynamic couldn’t work for me. I need and enjoy my husband’s vanilla company too much. This is a fun game, but an occasional one. I can always fill time with a book in the garden in summer, or a box-set in the winter, but I’m a pretty social person who likes and needs company. I’d dearly love to have a single, eligible male neighbour-friend I could invite round for tea. My lady friends are fine but a man in the house would really press my husband’s buttons I suspect, although nothing would actually happen. Sadly we have no suitable acquaintance at present who I can invite round. And if I did it would cause a stir socially. A decade ago I’d have enjoyed flirting with random men but I fear that ship has now sailed.
I filled some of the time reading and marking my husband’s essay on the new Labour leader. He plumped for Keir Starmer. As usual his knowledge surprised me. He absorbs all that Radio 4 stuff that passes me by. What I enjoy is being savage on his presentation. I red-circle anywhere his writing’s not neat or his punctuation’s unclear. I enjoy literature and writing. He’s more of a numbers and science man. His final 3 pages were sloppy, repetitive and poorly argued. I graded him a C-minus which merits a caning.
At ten past four the doorbell suddenly rang. We have very few visitors we’re not expecting. I was about to send my husband upstairs, just in case, when I saw it was only an Amazon delivery man! I also had phone calls from my hairdresser and a friend in London with an ill relative. I haven’t deleted these from this account to demonstrate, in some ways, it was still a typical Tuesday afternoon, except for what was going on in our dining room. I think it was Alfred Hitchcock who once said that a film should be like life, but with the boring bits deleted.
At 6.15 p.m. it was time for supper, his usual bean and lentil soup, made with cannellini beans, brown lentils, tinned tomatoes, onion and water. I leave out the stock, seasoning and spices included in ‘normal’ recipes, so his own version is heavy and bland, and I served it to him lukewarm so he could spoon it down super-fast. A quick glass of water afterwards, a toilet break pee, and it was 6.30, time for yet another 2 hours of line writing.
I calculated yesterday [Monday 6th] that if he averaged 1.4 lines per minute, or 1 line every 43 seconds, he could complete 1,000 lines in 12 hours of writing. The thousand lines target had a wonderfully simple and cruel ring to it. It was double the previous maximum he’d achieved at any time during 2019. I wanted it to be a true test of his obedience and his right hand. And I didn’t want to see any sign of resentment in his body language.
My parents were foodies and I grew up loving good food. I enjoy cooking, especially once our children at last wanted something other than chicken nuggets. I have a hundred cookbooks. I love nice meals out with my husband. In vanilla mode. But I can’t deny I’d now get a wicked thrill from managing his diet and mine differently. I made myself a delicious chicken stir-fry and ate it at my desk, accompanied by more sauvignon blanc, while he churned out lines.
At 7.49 p.m. he put his hand up and asked to use the toilet. I was amused. I can usually notice him starting to shift awkwardly on his stool but this time he’d managed to hide it. I told him to wait until the end of the lesson. I could soon tell he’d left it very late to ask. Within ten minutes his expression and pose betrayed real stress. At 8.03 he asked again, this time saying otherwise he’d have an ‘accident, Mistress Kane’, which is our code-amber. I snapped for him to stand up and escorted him to the cloakroom.
The first time, the first few times, he’d performed for me were excruciatingly embarrassing for him. 33 years together and, like most couples I imagine, we’d shared a bathroom but allowed each other our privacy. Make no mistake, it was a humiliation HE asked for. I was shocked but not put off. Hell, I’ve changed enough diapers in my time. I found to my surprise I rather enjoyed it. Sadly it’s no longer really embarrassing for him in front of just me. But instead I invent what I can to make it truly uncomfortable for him.
I insist on absolute decorum. As usual he removed his shorts completely so he could straddle the toilet pan without touching the rim. I stared down at him dispassionately and told him he could urinate first. His penis had been unlocked all afternoon. He’s not allowed to handle it. He had to angle his body to pee directly into the pan without touching it and without making any mess. Then it was time for the main event. After a day of liquidized spinach and oats, salmon skin, beans and lentils, I knew his guts would be churning nicely.
I smirked and told him I only wanted nice, neat, firm logs. No flatulence or grunts. I told him to start with one small piece first and then to pause, and await further instruction. I simply adore the look in his eyes when I’ve set him an impossible task. He’s always hated failure. He’s a perfectionist. It’s one of the traits I most loved discovering about him after we met.
Squatting, fingers laced behind his head, eyes front, he concentrated hard. He let out a little fart. One black mark. I told him to spread his knees wider so I could see better. He screwed his eyes shut. ‘Look at me’, I snapped. I like to see into his soul at times like this. He sighed and noisily let out something that could neither be described as small nor firm. I won’t go into any more detail.
I make wiping his bottom as shaming as possible. He bends over, back to me, and presents his dirty backside, then awkwardly wipes it himself with one piece of tissue at a time. I consider anything more than 3 sheets an ‘ecological waste’. As usual, he wasn’t yet clean when he tugged his buttocks open for me to check. I allowed him two more sheets but at a cost of two more black marks. We haven’t yet tried an enema for him as we didn’t think either of us will be into that. But I may give it a try in 2020. We returned to his desk and he completed an extra 15 minutes of lines.
At a quarter to nine, it was time for his daily exercise. He stripped naked and began with a brisk 5 minutes’ jog on the spot. His bits flopped around amusingly. I held my cane horizontally chest-high and made sure he touched it with his knees as he ran. Getting his ‘knees up’ got his heartbeat up too. Then he did 60 push-ups for me, again raising his bottom nice and high. Every ten push-ups I thwacked his buttocks to give him ‘six of the best’ in all.
He took a shower. I vary the temperature (at his suggestion). He went to grammar school back in the day when cold showers were a punishment. But he’d had a long day and I let him wash in a warmish shower. He dried and presented himself for inspection. I checked his body, bottom and face for cleanliness then gave his genitals a good check up. I peeled back his foreskin and left it retracted while I felt his balls for lumps. His penis hardened.
I made him stroke himself for me. Exactly 300 strokes in 5 minutes, at 1 per second. His breath quickened and his eyes pleaded. I smiled. It’s been 8 long days since he had his New Year’s Eve orgasm. I made him give me the same again, another 300 strokes at the same leisurely pace. I then told him to lose his erection in one minute or there’d be hell to pay. He wedged it between his thighs to crush out the blood. Eventually I was able to lock him back up. He dressed in his striped cotton, school-type pyjamas.
It was still only 9.30 p.m. Our normal school role play would have finished by now. On this occasion I’d scheduled Homework study to complete his education for the day. “Why I refuse to give my husband blowjobs.” As I mentioned in my first contribution to this blog, the truth is that I’ve never liked performing oral sex even when I was in my sexual heyday, whereas I’m now a very happy recipient of cunnilingus. I’d googled an article on Your Tango.com and in it a lady made four points I felt my husband needed to reflect on; (1) Sex acts, any sex acts at all, should only ever be entered into by people who aren’t only willing, but are enthusiastic (2) Sucking dick is as much a sexual preference as doing it doggy style or whatever (3) That means the lady writer would lay back and happily enjoy unreciprocated oral sex for however long he wants to go down, because he’s enjoying it and [she’s] enjoying that he’s enjoying it (4) She’s not a defective partner simply because she doesn’t reciprocate oral sex. She’s not a selfish partner either. She just doesn’t suck dick. Full stop. I told him to learn the 566 word article verbatim.
When it came to his bedtime at 11 o’clock, I could barely wait to turn out the light I was so ready. I undressed and put on my gown and returned as ‘Matron Cougar’. He was waiting for me but I could tell even he was taken aback by the wetness and heat in my vagina. I rode his face gently but firmly. I had two momentous orgasms. Then I swiveled 180 degrees and gave him my bottom. I always ignore his locked cock when in the role of Matron Cougar. It somehow feels wrong for my character, ridiculous as that sounds, given that I’m sat on his face. If the lights are on I like to look down at his cage and balls but I never touch them. I humped his tongue hard. It was my husband who introduced the topic of analingus early in our D/s discussions. It was something we’d never tried once in all our years together. He was shy and tentative. He needn’t have worried. I adore it now. After a final, self-induced orgasm I retired to ‘my’ bedroom and slept extremely well.
8 a.m. on Wednesday (8th) felt a bit strange. It was the first morning we’d woken up ‘still in character’ so to speak. But I soon got into it again; I supervised his exercise (star jumps and push-ups), a pee, a fully-cold shower, drying and dressing. I inspected his locked cock for chafing which I often do. His first chastity device could cause an occasional rash or even abrasions. Overnight is the hardest time for him but obviously it’s essential he stays locked. Neither of us wants to rely on him coping merely on ‘trust’. In our case that would be a mug’s game.
I unlocked him and rubbed cream on his genitals. Needless to say, he soon erected again. I made him give me the same routine; 600 mechanical strokes in two 5 minute bouts. I’ve learned to savour making him edge himself. At the very beginning it seemed cruel. But I realized how much my being in charge of his cock and orgasms means to him. It’s not so much chastity he wants, as me being in control. In fact, he 90% hates chastity. Most of him would love to still cum at least once daily, but another small – but crucial – part of him needs to be denied. So I’m not being cruel. I’m being cruel to be kind. Once I got over that big mental hurdle, everything fell into place. I could enjoy denying him, teasing him, being mean to him and, above all, what chastity does to him in terms of mindset. 2020 will be the year of chastity exploration. The year I build on what we’ve done so far and see how longer and longer periods of orgasmic abstinence affect his behavior, for good and bad. Meanwhile I intend to relish my own increased libido and hedonism without one jot of guilt.
His breakfast was another fresh Nutrabullet. This time made with my morning pee and a LOT more of it. I added diced cucumber and nothing else. The tang wasn’t quite unmistakable but I could smell it. He sniffed and recognised it too. He looked at me. ‘Drink’. I watched him taste and swallow the pale green liquid. I was disappointed he hadn’t noticed yesterday. This time I wanted him to. He’d mentioned pee in our early lists of dos and don’ts but only in passing. and hence my sole decision. Our eyes locked. It was a moment. He knew. He knew that I knew. A tacit acceptance of another game added to our repertoire. ‘Faster’, I said. I can’t describe the buzz of power I felt inside. My husband had consciously drunk the contents of my bladder. A part of me was now coursing through his body’s system. How beautifully intimate is that?
At 9 o’clock we had Assembly. He sang ‘If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands’ for me. Then I casually introduced his morning lesson. He’d completed 571 lines the previous day. He now needed to do the remaining 439 lines in one single sitting. I smiled and set him out on his five hours journey. If you’re happy and you know it, indeed!
I made myself a pot of coffee and settled back to pass the 5 hours as enjoyably as I could. There was news about Iran and Trump, and Prince Harry and Meghan to digest. Mid-morning I went to the toilet and couldn’t help looking down at my pee. I thought about Miss Scarlet’s urine ice chunks. I did something most unusual for me. I decided I needed to masturbate.
I very rarely masturbate. I’m not prudish or without needs, anything like that. I did it when I was young and have done since. But I much, much prefer to orgasm from sex. By which I mean with another person. I used to love the occasional deeply satisfying climaxes I had during intercourse with my husband. My next preference was when he would satisfy me afterwards with his fingers. Sometimes he couldn’t hit the right spot and I’d have to do it while he held me. However, there was never (almost never) a time when I needed to do it alone. I don’t know why but I just feel, or felt, that was a part of a marriage. You enjoy pleasure with your partner. NOT on your own. Doing it alone is for singles. Even since I began dominating him, I still much prefer ‘him doing it to me’, mostly with his mouth, sometimes his hands, occasionally his penis.
I lay on our unmade bed and watched him on the screen, writing away furiously downstairs. My fingertip brushed my clitoris. I pictured his wrinkled cock locked in its steel bars. I know in my heart of hearts that this journey we’re on together is picking up pace. And I want it. I don’t want to go any further than he wants to go. But I’m feeling a little bit ‘high’ on the past 12 months. I’m on for this ride. Oh yeah.
I had to squash my slight feelings of guilt as I made myself climax. I felt unfaithful, upstairs alone, rather than teasing him by somehow doing it in his presence or waiting until this evening. I smiled at the screen. He was oblivious. He’d done this alone who knows how many times over the years? Masturbating himself while I was unaware, while I helped our kids with homework, or cooked his supper. Now the boot’s on the other foot.
Five hours is a wonderfully long time to fill. I dug out a bedroom DVD from the bedside drawer. We’d bought it a few years ago and I’d never made time to watch it. We have a TV and player in our bedroom. So I spent 1 hr and 45 minutes watching ‘The Duke of Burgundy’. I knew it was supposedly an interesting film about who’s in charge; the dominant or the submissive. And so it proved, although the sex in it was actually somewhat inhibited. By my new standards, LOL.
At five past two I collected his sheaves of paper; 1,103 lines. ‘Good boy’. He’d done extra with the time available and in the knowledge there’d be some mistakes. He massaged his forearm and wrist after he handed them over.
His lunch was a nice meal of proper beef stew I micro-waved. I was pretty sure he needed some decent sustenance to make it through Day Two. Then it was time for his toilet break (pee) and a little more edging. I left his cock unlocked afterwards but allowed him to put his grey shorts back on.
At 2.30 p.m. I returned his essay on the Labour leadership. C-minus. His face fell. In truth it probably merited a B. But his words were covered in my red pen and my word was law. He bent over his desk for an immediate 6 cane strokes on his bottom. I let him keep his shorts on so I hit him a little harder than usual. He thanked me and apologized for his poor work when I’d finished.
Then it was time for him to recite his homework, the 566 words on unreciprocated oral sex. He made a complete hash of it. I had to prompt and correct him numerous times and the more I did the more flustered he became. Afterwards, I interrogated him. Had he made such a bad job because he disagreed with the excellent article? No Mistress, he agreed with it. Was he a male chauvinist who thought all women should give oral sex? No Mistress, absolutely not. Was he a progressive-thinking male who realized it was a huge privilege to kiss a woman down there while she completely ignored his penis? Yes, Mistress, late in life he’d been enlightened.
I smiled and assured him that Matron Cougar would be requiring him to demonstrate his enlightenment very frequently this year. But he should now bend over the desk for another 6 strokes. This time on his bare bottom. He lowered his shorts and almost immediately he became erect. I asked him why. He apologized for his insolence. I told him I’d beat him until it went away.
In the end, I couldn’t. He was even more turned on than the sting could extinguish. Caning his bottom is a game for me. It’s not even my favorite game. I do it because it’s part of our role play and it adds to the fun. But there’s no way I’m going to keep beating his bottom beyond a certain threshold. I told him to stand up and ignored that his cock was still jutting out. Our eyes met and we had a silent giggle. I don’t like breaking character but it’s actually kind of sweet when it unavoidably happens.
After another toilet break (pee) and glass of water, it was time for a final 3 hours session. I could see in both his face and body language he was flagging badly. But his eyes were determined. I had a couple of options prepared and opted for a Maths Exam. Or, to be precise, two maths exams of 90 minutes’ each. I’d downloaded papers from the Maths Made Easy website. Now, my husband’s much more numerate and articulate than he is literary. He’s always been better at maths and science than creative subjects or languages. But he went to school a loooong time ago so some of his academic maths is a little, shall we say, rusty.
At 6 p.m. it was time for his supper, a second Nutrabullet, this time with beetroot, cold black coffee added to help him keep sharp, and plenty of prunes to keep him regular. The violent colour of the smoothie was almost purple-black. At six thirty it was time for Biology, which coincidentally had Male Anatomy as the topic of the day ! He removed all of his clothes for this lesson.
I inspected the inside of his shorts and criticized the dried stain from his leaking cock earlier. I pulled back his foreskin again and left it like that, dry and uncomfortable for him. I examined his pubic area and balls for any emerging bristles. Then I produced a tub of Slik lubricant. Masturbating him with lube is much more intense than without, as it allows for a much lighter, tormenting touch.
I stroked his cock a little, talking about its function, as if he was a little schoolboy; I said it was first and foremost for peeing out excess fluid, etc. But it also had a role to play in procreation. I made no mention of sex for pleasure, masturbation, orgasmic release, etc. I was careful to stroke as a biology teacher would handle a worm or a test tube, without any eroticism.
He was hard as rock. I let go of his erection in distaste. We both watched it bob in front of him. I told him an erection had been necessary for procreation in the past but with modern technology it no longer is. I asked him why he had one. He apologized and said my touch had aroused him. I sat back frowning.
I let him stroke himself while I watched. Instead of my metronome app, I directed his pace myself; faster, slower, one-finger, two-fingers, stop, start, etc. I was generous with the lube. I made him rub himself ever so lightly. I wonder how many people reading this are thinking about whether I should have let him cum or not? To be totally honest even I didn’t know for sure what I’d decide. There are definitely now two different ‘me’s in competition with each other at times like this; the softie, wife of 33 yrs who can’t quite bring herself not to be munificent, and the emerging, dominant of 1 year who wants her husband to experience her newfound inner-sadist.
After over an hour, I made a decision. I told him it was time for his toilet break. We went upstairs to the bathroom and he defecated for me in his usual humbled manner, but this time with his penis bouncing in front of him. I made him take another breathtakingly cold shower until his erection had disappeared. Then he put on his pyjamas. It was nearly the end of term.
I produced my ‘lucky dice’. I’ve had it since I was a child; oversized, wooden, faded red. I handed it to him. My decision was to allow the dice to decide. A ‘6’ would permit him a full orgasm with his own hand. A ‘5’ would lead to a ruined orgasm with my (gloved) fair hand. But 1-4 would mean bedtime without any orgasm at all. So he had a 33% chance of some kind of release. Generous odds, I told him.
They were an enjoyable two days. There are tweaks I want to make for the next one. I don’t think we’ll do more than one, maximum two, such ‘scenarios’ per month. The one day sessions are less intense and can be more frequent. We enjoy a few other short term scenarios too; Countess and butler, Roman lady and slave, Nurse and patient, but Mistress Kane and her pupil are definitely our favorite.
We chatted in bed together afterwards. As usual we left most things unsaid. No need for a blow by blow, so to speak. I expected him to mention my urine but he didn’t, so neither did I. Perhaps the topic will come up on Sunday? [It didn’t]. He said the worst bit had actually been forcing himself to eat the fish eyeballs. I rubbed arnica cream on his sore bottom. He thanked me for the whole experience. I admitted to him I’d masturbated in this very spot that morning. I wanted him to know how much the whole thing had aroused me.
I reached down and fondled the hardness between his thighs. His Lock the Cock snuggled in situ. I kissed him on the lips. His balls were still full. You have to be strong and let the dice decide. I play fair. But you can’t change the result.
He’d thrown a ‘4’.
PS: as of today (24th Jan), two and a half weeks later, he still hasn’t had an orgasm, but that’s for another time.
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