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subjanus -> Private Goes Public (8/4/2011 12:51:47 AM)
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Private Goes Public
(a work of fiction)
To those who study the field of human sex and sexuality, I'd be considered to fit a pattern discernible amongst certain submissive males, that of a publicly 'strong' figure who craves submission in the private sphere. I have a senior management job, in this case in government. To those I work with I project a confident air and provide leadership, direction and support to those under me. But away from this public setting, I want nothing more than complete submission to a strong Female.
Twelve months ago I met Elizabeth, a woman who understood this deep desire in me. Elizabeth is smart (much smarter than myself) and has transformed my life completely, to the point where I now do whatever she wants of me. She isn't one for abusing her power or using it unwisely, in fact it's her sense of balancing the public life with the private that's been the key to me embracing the choice of relationship we've formed. She knows I still need my public 'face', indeed, she loves the fact that at work I'm in a position of authority and act decisively (plus I bring home a good income) but in our domestic sphere she holds absolute power, authority, control.
But the public sphere can still offer plenty of scope for any outwardly 'vanilla' D/s couple to roam in, as I've discovered. Elizabeth made it clear very early in our relationship that there was to be a subtle entwining of our private world into my public one. In her words, “it'll add to, and emphasis, my hold over you.” I knew better than to question her but couldn't help feeling nervous about what she had planned.
I didn't have long to wait. The next morning I left the bathroom after showering and shaving and entered the bedroom in preparation for dressing for work. There, on the bedroom floor lay all my underwear, cut in to pieces. Elizabeth sat on the end of the bed, holding a pair of dressmaker scissors in her hands, a smile beaming across her face.
She told me that from this point on I had no need for any male underwear. Ever. “It'll be strictly panties every day, unless of course I feel you need to wear some other feminine undergarment.” Other undergarment, huh? I couldn't help myself, I started arguing with her. I was soon over her lap and receiving 50 blows from her hairbrush, which left me in tears (she has an extremely heavy stroke, believe me). I left for work that morning wearing both a very sore bottom and incontinence pants.
Being at work in those pants was, to put it mildly, confusing and discomforting. They generated more heat than normal around my groin and their enveloping design meant I couldn't avoid thinking about them through the day. Fortunately they weren't bulky so it wasn't obvious I had something unusual on under my trousers. However, because of their size, the upper hem came above my trousers which meant that whenever I left my desk to walk through the office, I was conscious someone might notice it under my shirt.
And Elizabeth informed me that they weren't on me just for her amusement.
“I want you to drink plenty of water and coffee through the day and from 9am onwards I expect you to dribble into them regularly. Let's say every hour.” I looked at her in horror. “Oh don't be such a sook! Don't worry, the pad will absorb most of it. I don't expect you to saturate them, just tinkle enough so you feel some wetness downstairs through the day.” To make sure I didn't wiggle out of this I was ordered to send her a photo from my mobile phone showing me tinkling into the pants. I figured – mind you, reluctantly - I could handle the tinkling. But her next comment flew me into a complete flutter.
“And then, on the trip home in the car, I do expect you to saturate them. Piss into them like you would at a toilet. In fact, to make sure you do, you aren't permitted to go to the toilet after 3pm. At 4pm I want you to have a strong coffee followed by two large glasses of water.” She let her words sink in for a few seconds, my wide-eyed amazement no doubt pleasing and amusing her. “This is another punishment for arguing with me this morning. Remember, if you want to be a disobedient boy, you'll suffer the consequences.”
Of course I obeyed her, walking back into home with a sodden, swollen plastic bag around my privates and a wet, dark, wide stain down my light grey trouser legs, the inevitable consequence of the huge volume of urine that couldn't possibly be retained within the pants. Elizabeth obviously enjoyed the effect and prolonged it by making me stand in the corner of the laundry for an hour with my hands on my head, the drenched trousers around my ankles, the saturated incontinence pants still wrapped around me.
A week later, and just a month into our relationship, I was locked into a chastity cage, which Elizabeth informed me I would be wearing “24/7, 365 days of the year. Only ever removed at my pleasure.” I had to admit it was a most ingenious way to be reminded of her sway over me, in any situation. That and the panties put paid to me standing at a trough in public to do my pissing.
Luckily I haven't had to wear those dreadful pants or a nappy much, only when Elizabeth deems my behaviour particularly obnoxious. Simply the threat of having to don either is usually enough to make me comply with her orders and wishes. Which makes both of us very happy. Well, sort of: my 'happiness' is more about relief at avoiding that particular disciplinary measure or punishment.
Another little public trick of hers involves me having to paint my toe nails in bright reds and pinks during my lunch break. She isn't fussed where I do it – I've decided the safest place is my office, behind closed doors – but I must send through proof via a photo on my mobile. And on a couple of occasions I've been sent off to work in pantyhose with clear orders to slip my shoes off while at the desk when circumstances allow. And if circumstances on particular days don't allow for it, then it's back to work the next day in hose, and the day after, until I can prove I've spent at least an hour shoeless.
I have a habit of swearing, not to be shocking or rude, simply as a bit of an exclamation mark to something I've observed or experienced. You know, “What the fuck!?” or “Oh shit!” or “Fan-fucken-tastic!” That's my story anyway. But Elizabeth views any swearing as rude, bad-mannered and lazy and so she's made it clear I am to rid myself of the habit. I'm usually punished at home for any swearing with a paddling followed by a mouth-washing and she has no compunction about using mouth-washing in public either. She always carries a small cake of soap with her when we're out together and any time I swear she'll hand it to me and in it goes for anything up to half an hour at a time. Or she'll drop it in a glass of water and have me drink from it every few minutes until it's drained. The latter is always a rather awkward experience for me if we happen to be in a restaurant or similar setting.
Elizabeth has one series of torments I really do find difficult to endure. She asked me one day what foods I didn't like and why. I suspected this was leading somewhere, that it would be used against me soon enough but despite this, I knew I couldn't fib or hide anything from her. Within a few days I experienced the first of these horrors. It was a Sunday evening. “Tomorrow you're to take your lunch to work and have it in the park near your office. I've got hold of all the ingredients.” She went to the fridge and handed me the ingredients - nothing but a huge bunch of celery. I was ordered to get the juicer out and fill a two litre bottle up with celery juice. Then I chopped the remaining green horror into 10 centimetre pieces and put it into a lunch box. Might not sound dreadful to someone who likes this wretched vegetable but I don't, in fact I find myself just about dry-retching at the mere thought of consuming it. Always have. It was a horrid lunch, one standing in such stark contrast to the day and setting, a beautiful historic park bathed in gorgeous spring sunshine. But then Elizabeth loves contracts, and I'm certain she planned this first food torment for just such a day and setting. Other lunches featuring equalling appalling food, have of course followed regularly.
We appear like any 'vanilla' couple in public, at least on the surface. But if you were studying us closely and knew what to pick up on, you could discern who leads the relationship. Try these. I'm never permitted to walk in front of Elizabeth, unless she invites me to for some reason (I'm allowed to walk with her side by side, holding hands, which I adore). I must always carry the bags and goods we purchase when shopping together, I must open and close all doors for her, wait for her to be seated before I take a seat, let her order my food when we eat out. I must always ask her if I can use the lav in public – and she has been known to say 'No', and I'm not allowed to query her reasons for refusing. If we're in a shop that sells something womanly, say a dress shop, lingerie shop or the like, then it's not unusual for her to say in front of a shop assistant something to me along the lines of “go look through the racks and find something you'd like to wear.”
She likes the stylish and masculine clothes I favour away from work but that doesn't stop her playing subtle - and not so subtle - clothing games with me in public. I'm finding I'm wearing pantyhose, girdles, even corsets and bras (thankfully without padding!) under my masculine garb more and more frequently when we go out together. And for my birthday a few months back she presented me with a thick, navy blue, fishermen's-style turtleneck sweater, all very masculine and Ernest Hemingway-like. But it came with a twist, like so much she presents to me. The roll-neck is huge and high and this winter I found myself going to the pictures or a show or a restaurant with her, wearing that sweater...and wearing a leather collar under it. It's a remarkable experience to go out in public like that, conscious of what's around your neck, conscious that others might spot it if the knitted collar lifts in some way.
She finds sweaters useful in other ways too. On occasion I've worn certain ones of hers in public and they always happen to have some feminine element - colour, style, texture, etc. - attached to them. Luckily worn under a jacket but still, if you saw a man wearing a soft and fluffy white angora turtleneck or ladies purple mohair cardigan (with all the buttons done up), what would you think?
Yes, mind games and mental bondage. Elizabeth adores both. And I adore her. Such a clever woman. I'm very fortunate (if somewhat uncomfortable at times) to have her in my life, running it so perfectly.
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