A Desperate Attempt to Save His Marriage

John's marriage to Sara is in terrible trouble when John stumbles onto what he prays will be the solution.


CHAPTER 1

To look at me you’d think my life was perfect. I just completed my apprenticeship and was now a journeyman plumber, earning more than $35 an hour. With overtime I expected to earn about $70,000 this year, not too shabby for a 23 year old kid. I was married to a beautiful, sexy, and intelligent woman who had a great job as a math teacher in our local high school. We had what I thought was an extremely satisfying sex life, too. The problem was that we were just a hairsbreadth from losing it all. We argued every day about virtually everything. We both wanted to be in charge and were constantly battling for supremacy. I may not have gone to college, but I knew that one of us was going to have to back off. Otherwise, our marriage was doomed. Obviously, I couldn’t demand that she do it—she’d see it as just one more attempt to run the show and control her. No…I’d have to be the one.

“Sara,” I called from the living room, “can we talk, please?”

“I don’t know, John. All we seem to do is yell at each other. What’s the point?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss. It seems to me that one of us has to back off and let the other run everything. That’s our only hope.”

“So, I guess you want me to do it. What a surprise!”

“No…I’m going to do it. I’m handing you the reins. You can run everything—make all the decisions. I’ll follow you.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one. I hate that we always argue. I love you and I think that you love me, too. I’ll make any sacrifice for us to be happy together.”

Sara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Do you really mean it, John?”

“Yes…I really do. I want us to stay married and be happy. Let’s face it--neither of us has been happy for a while now, have we?”

“That’s about the only thing we have agreed on. Okay, I’ll give it a try, but I want to check some things on the internet. Are you using the computer now?”

“No, and even if I was I’d give it up for you.” I stood and kissed Sara’s cheek. She pulled me into a long lingering kiss, whispering, “Thank you,” when she broke it. She kissed my cheek and left, going directly to the computer for her research.

Sara took things slowly at first as if testing my resolve—whether I really was stepping back or just shooting my mouth off. I really tried, but I’m not perfect. Things were better, but not ideal over the next month. There were several times when I lost track of the big picture and argued over some inconsequential thing I had disagreed with, only to apologize when Sara gave me that steely stare she had perfected in her classroom. A major sticking point for us had always been doing the housework. My mother had always done it when I was a kid living at home. I naturally assumed that Sara would do it in our household. She felt the responsibilities should be shared, thus the arguments. What I failed to consider was that Sara worked as many hours at her job as I did at mine.

I had come home late one evening—around seven-- from some overtime on what was really a rush job—providing water for a nursing home whose pipes had burst in the recent cold spell. I was wet and tired and cold, and I was looking forward to a good hot dinner. I had tried several times to call, but there was no answer; Sara was not home when I got in. She had left a note on the refrigerator:

“John, I hope you remember what I told you about the parent conferences this week. I will be home really late. My last conference is scheduled for 9:00. Help yourself to the leftovers from Sunday’s dinner. Please vacuum the living room and bedroom once you’re done. Love, Sara”

The old John would have screamed and swore for half an hour before going out for a pizza and then told Sara off once she was home. What was more important—my dinner or her stupid conferences? Instead, I took a look at the rooms; I could see they were dirty. It was the first time that I recognized that Sara worked as many hours as I did and probably just as hard. I changed out of my wet clothes and found one of those fluffy dusting things that I’d seen Sara use many times and got to work. I dusted the entire apartment and then I vacuumed the carpets and the tile floors in the kitchen and bathroom. I finished by washing those floors on my hands and knees, drying them with an old towel. Only when I was finished did I take my shower and eat my cold dinner. I had only been into my sandwich and watching TV for about five minutes when Sara walked in at about 9:30.

She looked around for a minute before asking why I was just eating. I explained about the emergency work and getting home late. I didn’t have to tell her about cleaning the entire apartment. I figured out that she would see that herself. “John,” she began, “why did you clean up if you were so late? I didn’t intend for you to eat at 9:30.”

“Honestly…I was afraid…afraid it would cause another argument so I did it.”

“Oh, John, I left the note for you assuming you’d get home around 4:30. I didn’t want you working all evening. It could have waited, but…once again…thank you.” I was hoping she’d suggest we go to bed, but she didn’t. I was really confused by the way this was going. I had thought she’d grab the reins, take control, and crack the whip, forcing me into submission immediately. She didn’t and I sometimes felt like I was adrift. I didn’t know what I could or should do so most of the time I did nothing, or I argued and fought with her about it.

It was roughly a month later that she told me she wanted to talk again. “What do you think about the past month, John? Please be honest.”

I sighed before replying, “Better, but not perfect. I forget my promise sometimes and I’m not always sure what you want from me. I’m often confused and I’m afraid I’ll make a big mistake. I’m sorry. I’m trying…honest, but sometimes my mind is elsewhere. I’ll try to do better.”

“I think you will and I agree about things being better, but we are still arguing two to three times a week. That will never do. I’ve done a lot of research, both online and in person. What we’re trying is called a D/s or Dominant/submissive relationship. Some of what I’ve read has been nonsense. I disregard anything that’s fiction as being ridiculous, but there are several blogs and some textbooks I’ve found valuable—blogs written by both dominants and submissives, the books by supposed authorities in the field. One thing they all stress is that to be successful the relationship must be in effect 100 percent of the time. That means I have to be stronger and more dominant and I need to have a way to enforce my decisions—a means to remind you constantly of the nature of our relationship. So far I’ve only found two ways to do that—physical punishment and denial.”

“Physical punishment? You mean hitting me? I don’t think I could accept that. I was always taught that hitting another person was wrong.”

“I thought you’d say that, and I agree. I wouldn’t feel comfortable hitting you even if it was just a spanking which is why I think we should use denial. If you misbehaved or argued I would deny you orgasms. Obviously, I can’t just say, ‘no orgasms for three days.’ What would stop you from going into the shower and masturbating? Nothing! No…we would need something that would prevent you from having an orgasm without my permission. Do you follow me?”

“I think so. Does that mean we wouldn’t have sex any more?”

“No, darling, unless you argued or fought me, and even then I’d have to make sure that the punishment fit the crime. On the other hand, there is no reason why I should be punished, for your misdeeds, is there? I’ll explain that in a few minutes. I bought this for you…for us. It’s called a cock cage. Your penis fits into this tube and the handcuff locks behind your scrotum. I picked this one because you’ll be able to pee standing up and it will be secure, too. From what I’ve read most such devices would require you to sit like a woman. That could be really embarrassing. Let’s drop your pants and see how it fits.”

I was mortified, but this relationship was my idea so I was committed. I dropped my jeans and boxers. “Hmmm, I think this might catch and pull your hairs and hurt you so let’s go to the bathroom and shave you there. Don’t be embarrassed, from what I’ve read a lot of guys shave and, if it will make you feel better, I’ll do it, too.” I shrugged my shoulders and followed Sara into the bathroom, my pants and boxers slung over my shoulder.

She filled the basin with hot water, soaked a small hand towel, and placed it over my groin. Scissors clipped the hair short and then she shaved all the hair from my balls and my abdomen around my cock. “I hope you were paying attention because now it’s your turn.” I followed her lead and soon her abdomen was as bare as mine was. Her labia stood out prominently and teasingly. She applied some talcum to each of us and brought out a string with a loop that she wrapped under my helmet. It was threaded into the tube and used to pull my cock through, the helmet just protruding at

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THE END