With all the lockdowns I have so much more time to write. I hope I am not sending too much or writing in too much detail. This is my latest update. Please feel free to share this on your blog.
My husband is, I am pleased to advise, more suitably attired for his cleaning duties now. It is amusing as he squirms and tries to avoid my gaze, he looks so uncomfortable whether I tease him about how sweet he looks or mock him for looking so silly! This is very new for him and he hates it! He trembles and blushes profusely, which gives me the giggles, which makes him feel even more silly! Which makes it even more fun!
I also ‘tap him up’, like girls had to put up with in the past. This leaves him frustrated given he is locked securely away. I like to fondle his cage too, grinning as I ask, “Are we still nicely locked-down for the duration? They’re saying on the news that social distancing is going to be here for at least another 12-months, perhaps even 18-months! Can you imagine that? 18-months before we even consider using your Release spreadsheet again. And, even when we do start it up again, it might be months before you score a Release Approval.” Understandably he is already crawling up the wall in frustration. He hasn’t come since the 16th of February and I tease him daily.
For his household chores, I went for very conservative attire. I wanted to accomplish three things.
- He was to look like a male suffering petticoat discipline, and feel suitably silly;
- Dressing should be a tiresome event; and
- His attire should be practical for completing his chores.
I ordered from a company that specialises in supplying hotels. He has a knee-length, nicely shaped tunic, designed for hotel maids. He has one in a soft pink colour, one in a light peach colour and another in a pale lemon colour. They have a double-breasted front, secured with ¾ inch diameter white buttons, two rows of two. The bottom pair are concealed by a white apron with lace trim. The tunic has a notched collar with white lapels, also trimmed with lace; and puffed, short sleeves with white cuffs with lace trim. They have no pockets. They are conservative, smart, decorous and practical.
He wears them with a pair of plain white nylon panties, a white full-length elasticated girdle with white stockings, with seams to be kept razor straight. He then wears a pair of white cotton knickers, with a small pink bow at their front, followed by a pair of bloomers with frilly lace trim and pink ribbons, and a white nylon slip. The bloomers can’t be seen under the tunic. His uniform is completed with low-heel white pumps and respectively a pink, peach, or pale-yellow silk head scarf. The scarf is wrapped up from the back and tied turban-style in a bow at the front. It must be neatly secured with no hair showing. In the evening he is often muzzle-gagged too.
I think he hates wearing the silk scarf more than anything, it really makes him feel so silly. He also has to shave all his body hair twice weekly, so he has lovely smooth skin, very feminine. I caress his stocking clad legs which makes him ache for release, but they do feel so beautifully soft.
He now sets his alarm each morning for 4-20 am, earlier if he has to shave his legs and body. He must rise instantly without waking me. Then he showers, shaves, and goes to the laundry to dress in his maid’s uniform. His tunic has to be ironed before the start of each shift. He then cleans all the bathrooms and front porch as required. The cleaning takes about thirty-five minutes. He then has to iron his school blouse and tunic, and dress for his written assignment. His maid’s uniform is hung neatly in the laundry as he will be wearing it again in the evening.
Since I don’t want him rushing around before doing his written work, he is now required to be seated at his desk by twenty-minutes to six, to provide time to relax. He recently learnt, the hard way, since I woke early and checked the security monitor; that if he is ready and dressed in his uniform, he should not laze around waiting until this time. He should seat himself down early, hands on head. For that little lapse he received a dozen cuts of the cane and his detention the next morning was brought forward by an hour, allowing for 3-hours of writing.
He used to so look forward to the weekend when we were using his chastity spreadsheet, even though he rarely earned a release, and sometimes scored a Linnex. Now he dreads Sundays and feels they arrive too quickly and too often!
His hygiene program starts right after he has finished his written assignment. He is cleansed in our detention/ punishment room, I call it ‘my study’, since my desk is also in this room. There is also a metal bed with a thin mattress for him. It has two grey blankets, with white sheets turned over at the top, so it looks very institutional. I move the pillow down to the centre and a place a large beach towel over it. On my desk is a tray, covered by a white towel. This houses the razor, disinfectant soap, scrubbing brush, a large bowl, a jug of cold water, a kettle, a thermometer, a nylon stocking, a plastic ruler, dental brushes, a fresh lemon, white flannels, a pair of yellow kitchen gloves, the Linnex stick and a lighter. Lying on top of the towel is a pair of industrial rubber gloves.
On completion of his assignment, he is sent straight to the laundry to undress. He then returns to the study and stands upright, nose and toes to the wall, hands on head, and waits for me. He must wait without moving, knowing I can check the security camera. Usually I arrive within ½ an hour, but my sister called one morning, and it was well over 2-hours before I came in.
I dress casually, often in a track suit or jeans and a flannel shirt. He is left in place as I start my preparations and don the yellow kitchen gloves. I then secure his muzzle while he is still face to the wall. I love the drama of this as he is then curtly told to turn around. Nothing sexy to turn him on. I play lightly with his nipples and he his soon stirring and groaning, longing for relief, blissful but scared. He is then secured to the bed, his hips raised up and his cage removed.
I play with him for up to ½ an hour, using the silk scarf and my rubber gloved hands. I never touch him with my bare skin. His gristle his fit to burst, it gets so hard, and I tease and edge him relentlessly, … until it is time for his scrub down! The kettle is boiled, the heavy-duty gloves put on and the water added to the bowl with the temperature checked and adjusted to 48 degrees Celsius. He is then shaved and washed. He remains erect through this and actually hardens up when, with worried eyes, he sees me freshen the water bowl and rub the soap into the scrubbing brush.
This is a proper bristle brush, small in size, though bigger than a nail brush. The bristles are very stiff and prickly. It is so funny to watch as he starts to panic and whimper through his muzzle before I even start, while his erection, in stark contrast, stands up ever so proudly. I scrub harshly and pitilessly, and he is soon moaning into his muzzle. The sound is muffled, the pain obvious as he screws his eyes shut and writhes and bucks against his bonds.
I take my time, pausing only to top up the brush with more soap. I do not stop until the skin is well-reddened and lightly chafed. This will ensure the Linnex will burn more fiercely at these points. I remain focused on the task, my mouth set firm, his predicament and pain ignored. I scrub rigorously. Tears are expected, shed and ridiculed. “My, my,” I crossly intone, “what a lot of fuss you make!” Despite the distress, his erection remains surprisingly firm.
The water is then refreshed, and the temperature carefully adjusted again. The soap is removed with hot flannels which are pressed firmly around his organ and held there for up to a minute. The lemon juice is then squeezed into his urethra and the dental brush put to work, again he twists against his bonds.
He is then cleaned up again with hot flannels, roughly dried with a towel, and it is time for the Linnex. He is clearly distraught and struggling to cope, tears have already flowed, but many more will flow before we finish, no compassion will be shown. He knows this, even as he pleads with his eyes for mercy. I simply smile as I slowly remove the cap to the Linnex, push the orangey-coloured wax out a little and gently warm it with the lighter. I am amused, damp between my legs, as I watch his erection strengthen. I gently stroke it with my rubber gloved hands, it hardens further, though he winces. It is sore, but worse pain is to come.
I pause and smile, gazing dispassionately into his eyes, holding the stick between us. The Linnex is then pressed firmly down and layer after layer applied. He whimpers. I spend 2-3 minutes thoroughly coating his appendage. Our eyes lock together again, mine are calm, unwavering; his display hopefulness tinged with anxious trepidation, the burning is yet to begin. We wait. I know the pain will come, he prays that this time it won’t. It will take a few minutes, then it will flood through his gristle. It always arrives, yet each time he lives in the hope it will not. I am excited now, my eyes sparkle, a smile creases my lips, I can see that first tendrils of warmth have arrived, the heat is gently seeping through into his consciousness. The look in his eyes turns to deep concern, then fretfulness, then panic creeps in, and finally real terror as the fiery burn surges forth. He wriggles uncomfortably, then he starts to gyrate his loins as the pain arrives in waves. The full searing, blistering heat has now burst violently through, spiked even more fiercely where the skin is chafed.
I can hear his screams through the muzzle, he tugs and twists and jerks more violently against his bonds. His muscles go taut as he strains against his bonds. I use Segufix ties now. He is very secure, there is barely any ‘wriggle room’ and the bed is soon shaking from his attempted wild thrashing. By ten minutes the pain is at its crescendo. The fiery tendrils envelop and sear deep into his gristle. The pain is intolerable. He jerks and wrenches frenetically at his bonds. His muffled screams have become muffled shrieks. The bed shudders and creaks. He can’t bear the vicious pain, but there is no relief, no release. He is inescapably secured, he has no option but to endure the intense agony for as long as it burns. It will blaze ferociously for at least 50-minutes before slowly subsiding. The prior scrubbing making it more sensitive to the scalding heat and his gristle is roasted on high.
I take a special item, just for me, from out of my desk drawer and dreamily watch for a while in deep pleasure.
He is not released until it is safely back in its cage. It is clear he remains ever so tender and he winces as he stands and moves. The pain is still evident in his teary eyes, his hair is dishevelled, he is exhausted and barely coherent as he cuddles me tenderly, yet ever so carefully. He wants only to pleasure me, to collapse and sleep. He is as fatigued and drained as if he had run a marathon. He is relived it is over.
But he won’t be allowed to pleasure me yet. Nor will he will be able to lie down and recover. It is time to iron and don his uniform and get on with his household chores. Not until the evening will he be granted the reward of pleasing me.
I smile as he winces and struggles to complete his chores. He is quiet, subdued, wearied; but he must work as hard and diligently as normal. There is no consideration shown for his plight. If his work is not up to standard or if he should dare slowdown from the demanding pace required when doing chores, he will find his backside is well-striped by my cane. Not a pleasant thought at the best of times, but far worse given his fatigued state plus, only the day before, he had his panties dusted for ½ an hour with my heavy wooden hairbrush, for presenting me with some untidy ironing.
He is still teary as he scurries about. He is feeling very sorry for himself. I know he is craving some sympathy, a tender hug, a little kind-heartedness, a touch of compassion; but there will be none forthcoming. He is ignored, he has work to do; at best he will get a sharp rebuke if I think he might be slacking.
I may be going crazy like everyone else with the Covid-19 restrictions, but my husband is definitely doing it harder. More than anyone he is looking forward to the ending of these restrictions and going back to full time work!
He has never been so repressed, and I can tell he is really struggling. I have made it very clear that I will not be relenting. It is leaving him very conflicted. When he asks for some mercy and relaxation of his regime in our vanilla talks, I am resolute. I show no benevolence. It is so amusing since, despite the clear angst and misery he feels, he can’t hide his passionate craving for more of me. He clings tightly to me, sometimes on the edge of joyous tears, and professes his love. It is visceral.
I enjoy it so much, and he pleases me so zealously, so it is never going to change for him. He was born to suffer. I would like to say for a beautiful woman, but I am not one to turn men’s eyes.