My Femdom Marriage Ch. 24 - 26

Chapter 24: Our Contract Becomes a Life

"He lived to serve. I lived to be served. Everything else was life unfolding." — Mistress Staci

There was no formal contract. No checklist. No ceremony. No negotiation.

He moved in. He stayed. He obeyed. And I let him.

That was our contract.

It wasn't written because it didn't need to be. He lived for my needs—practical, emotional, erotic. That was the structure. That was the vow.

I never asked him not to touch himself. I told him. Once. And he never did again.

He didn't test the limits. He didn't ask when the rules would ease. He accepted that denial was constant, control was total, and his only job was to make my life better.

And he did.

He cooked. He cleaned. He handled errands, bills, logistics. He handled everything I didn't want to.

He gave me his body for pleasure, for pain, for whatever mood struck me. He stayed caged, unless I released him. And even then, his pleasure was never assumed. It was granted—rarely—and never without cost.

But most of our days were... normal.

We laughed. We worked. We traveled. We made dinner together. We hosted holidays and drank wine on the porch and debated books and politics and art.

To outsiders, we looked like a well-matched couple. And we were. Because the foundation was not rules.

It was understanding.

He understood that my pleasure came first, always. That when he failed to meet my expectations—whether through carelessness, tone, or hesitation—he would be corrected. Disciplined. Made to reflect. And then expected to try harder.

Not because I was cruel.

Because we were both happier that way.

He felt fulfilled in devotion. I felt adored in power.

We didn't discuss "scenes." We didn't need safewords. The dynamic wasn't something we turned on in the bedroom. It was the bedroom. And the kitchen. And the drive to the store. And the soft brush of my foot against his leg under the table.

He knew how to read my moods. Knew when to speak. When to kneel. When to stay quiet and make himself useful.

And I knew how to shape him—not through force, but through clarity.

He wanted nothing more than to please me.

And I, in turn, wanted nothing more than to be deeply, unapologetically worshipped.

Chapter 25: Cages, Collars, and Control—Living Owned

"He didn't need chains. But I gave him symbols, so he never forgot." — Mistress Staci

He never needed to be bound.

He was already mine.

But that didn't mean I didn't mark him—visibly, intimately, in ways no one else ever saw.

Some days, it was the collar.

He wore it when I told him to. Sleek, elegant, subtle. Just a leather band with a small tag that brushed against his skin as he worked around the house or knelt to draw my bath.

It wasn't tight. It didn't have to be. He told me once that the feeling of it there—soft but inescapable—calmed him more than any meditation ever could.

Sometimes he wore it under a buttoned shirt when we went out. No one saw it. I did. He did. That was enough.

But the real anchor of his obedience was the cage.

That was the one he wore most—night and day, sometimes for weeks at a time. I chose it carefully. Stainless steel. Secure. Fitted just for him. We had tried others before, but this one became part of him.

He would stand naked in the mirror, touch it lightly, and exhale—like a man reminded of who he truly was.

It wasn't about denial. Not anymore. It was about definition.

He served better when he was locked. He focused more. Smiled more. Stayed softer—not just physically, but emotionally.

He wasn't tempted by lust. He was centered in service.

Every time I unlocked him—rare as it was—I made it ceremonial. He would kneel. Kiss the key. Thank me for the opportunity. And when I slid the lock back into place, I always whispered the same thing:

"Mine."

Because it wasn't about security. It was about identity.

The collar. The cage. The way he lowered his eyes when I raised a brow. These weren't symbols of restriction. They were affirmations—of what we were, of what he needed, of what I had the power to give or withhold.

Ownership isn't about holding someone down.

It's about giving them a place so deep inside your control... they never want to leave.

Chapter 26: My Friends Knew—And Envied Me

"There are some women who understand exactly what I have. Because they've seen it—up close." — Mistress Staci

I never hid the truth from my closest friends. I didn't need to.

They were smart. Observant. Strong in their own ways. And they saw it for what it was—not abuse, not play-acting. Not some dark secret.

It was power. Devotion. Ownership.

And they admired it.

We had a standing tradition: the five of us, wine night once a month, rotating homes. But the best nights were at mine—because that's when they really got to see him.

He greeted each of them at the door. Took coats. Poured wine. Kissed my hand before leaving the room unless I summoned him back.

They never said "wow" anymore. They were used to it.

But they never stopped watching him, either.

This particular night, I remember clearly. I had him serve us charcuterie barefoot, collared, in a perfectly fitted black t-shirt and slacks. Silent. Elegant. Tension just under the surface.

About halfway through the second bottle, Lisa leaned back, smirking.

"So tell us," she said, swirling her glass. "When's the last time he came?"

He stiffened just slightly at the question, though he kept pouring wine without missing a beat. My friends laughed softly.

"Wedding night," I said, looking him directly in the eyes. "And not a drop since. Isn't that right, pet?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said quietly.

Another ripple of laughter.

"Oh my god," said Tara, "I think my husband would combust."

"Mine would fake a heart attack," added Jules.

Amy just raised her eyebrows. "Honestly? I think it's beautiful. You have something none of us do."

I smiled. Then snapped my fingers. "Kneel, love."

He obeyed instantly—beside my chair, eyes lowered.

"Should I let them touch you?" I asked him casually, one hand drifting into his hair. "Should I let them see what a well-trained thing you are?"

The room went very quiet. Warm. Charged.

"No, Mistress," he whispered, and the tip of his ear turned red. He was embarrassed. But not resistant.

Lisa leaned forward and said sweetly, "I'd just like to see if he blushes all over."

We all laughed. I didn't grant permission. But I let the moment stretch.

The point wasn't cruelty.

It was community.

These women weren't just friends. They were witnesses. They saw me—and him—for what we were. And they envied it. They said as much when he left the room.

"Do you know how much I'd give," Tara said, "for one day of that kind of obedience?"

I didn't answer. I just sipped my wine, ran my fingers slowly down his spine, and let them sit with the envy.