Cruel Aisha's Submissive Side

As was recounted in the story 'Cruel Aisha's perfect partner', when I explained to Philip what being my partner or husband would involve I told him that it included the fact that it would be particularly hard for him to bear because the only man who would even begin to consider such a relationship would do so because he understood and shared its feminist principles yet, at the same time, sometimes I need to be taken by a man who is the opposite of that.

These are different, and much rarer, than the times I simply have sex with big-cocked men who can pleasure me in a way my husband can't. As I explained in another story ('How I became a Cruel Wife'), when I was in my twenties I came to realise that, not as a contradiction to my feminism, but as part of a feminist acceptance of women's polymorphous sexuality, sometimes I need to take the role of a traditional, submissive woman.

On those occasions, I need a man who will slap my arse. Tell me I'm a stuck-up little bitch (which I am, by the way). Rip my knickers off, or instruct me never to wear knickers when we meet. Tell me that my silly little feminist ideas are a joke. Fuck me roughly. Spurt his cum all over my face and tits. (Oddly enough, the same kinds of things that some of the haters on this site say they want to do to me, not realizing that I'd welcome it, were they the kind of men able to, which they aren't, since such men really don't spend their time making tedious, illiterate comments on the internet.)

What did it mean in practice? Here are two examples, one provided by Philip and one by me. It's probably obvious that, in both cases, they refer to the same man (the man who is usually called 'the bull' in cuckold stories, though it's a term I dislike, and don't use). The reason for that is because, although I've sometimes been submissive to other men since I started to live with Philip, this is the one who I have met up with most often, and who most fully satisfies my submissive needs.

Part I: Philip's example

My wife Aisha got up from her computer, her eyes shining.

"He's sent me his instructions," she said, excitedly.

"Who? What instructions?" I asked.

"Oh, silly, you know who I mean. My special boyfriend, my master. He's going to put me in my place! And he's telling me how it's going to be done. Listen, I'll read it to you. You need to know, because it involves you."

Aisha turned back to her computer and began to read the email she'd received.

"Slut, these are your instructions.

"Today, you will go to a uniform shop and you will buy a short, pleated, dark blue skirt, a white blouse, a tie, and a dark blue sweater. Then you will buy a dark blue half-cup bra, dark blue stockings and suspenders, and dark blue knickers. They must all be brand new, immaculate. If you depart in any way from this outfit, you will be very severely punished.

"Tomorrow, the day of your humiliation, you will first put on the underwear, and then call your husband to your bedroom to watch you put on the rest of the clothes. Then, you will tell him to go and sit on a chair in the corner of the room, pointing to the wall, so that at no stage will he see any intimate parts of yourself, or anything that happens between us. You will not speak to him after that.

"At 7pm, you will take off your blue panties and fold them very neatly on the bed. If they are not neat enough, you will receive an extra punishment. You will also put a recently published book of feminist theory on your bed. You will then go on all fours on the bed with your skirt hitched above your waist, so that your bare bottom and vulva can be seen. Your legs will be very slightly apart. If they are too far apart, I will punish you for being a slut. If they are too close together, I will punish you for being frigid.

"At 8pm, I will let myself into your house and, in due course, come to your bedroom. You must be exactly in the position I have described. I will be carrying a belt. You will start reading from your feminist book, and I will then shove your blue panties into your mouth. We won't be hearing any of your feminist nonsense today.

"I will then take my belt to your arse. You will receive several hard strokes. I will push my hands under your jumper and squeeze your boobs, hard. Then I will take out my penis and enter you. It will be entirely for my pleasure, not yours. Just a few rough thrusts, splitting you open, and then I will pull it out. Then I will walk round and ejaculate on to your face. Then I will leave.

"You will then take the panties out of your mouth and put them back on. Then you will call your husband over to dry your eyes and comfort you. He will cuddle you and hold you in his arms, but of course will not kiss you or touch you intimately.

"You will then tell him that you are grateful that I am a real man who has put you in your place, unlike your wimpy, understanding husband. You will then both write me emails. Yours will thank me for putting you in your place. His will thank me for doing what he is incapable of."

Aisha looked over at me, grinning.

"Right, I'd better go and buy the clothes he wants," she said.

Part II: Aisha's example

I check in at 4pm to the hotel room he had told me to book, exactly as instructed. I place the riding crop on the bed, exactly as instructed. I stand in front of the mirror, exactly as instructed. I am dressed exactly as instructed. Today, he wants me in a flowery summer dress, sleeveless, with buttons running up the front. Underneath, I have an ivory silk camisole with matching panties. No bra. Over my shoulder is a tote bag. On my feet, white trainers and ankle socks.

It is a strange combination, not my usual kind of thing, nor his for that matter. I look -- is this his intention? -- like one of those provincial girls who have come to the city. Nice, well-mannered, a little old-fashioned, slightly naïve, softly feminine, but sensible enough to wear comfortable shoes for the commute.

He has curated me.

I don't know what is going to happen, or when. I haven't been told. Just that I must stand, in those clothes, in that position, in that room, from 4pm onwards. And wait.

And wait.

I hear can see the clock on the wall. It is 5pm, and he still isn't here. I realise that I am trembling.

More time passes.

The door opens and he comes in. I can see him in the mirror, behind me, looking at me, taking in my clothes, my body. He comes and stands close behind me. I can feel the heat of his body, and smell his aftershave. I can sense his coldness, his disdain.

"You need to be put in your place," he says quietly.

It isn't a question, but I answer it anyway.

"Yes, put me in my place." It comes out almost as a gasp, my breathing is so unsteady.

I can feel the wetness flooding between my legs.

Suddenly, his hand is there. It isn't gentle. He has shoved his hand hard up me, under my dress, not touching me but groping me, feeling me up.

He has pulled away the flimsy gusset of my panties and his fingers are in me, jabbing, but it doesn't hurt. I am too wet for that. Greasy. Oiled. Available.

"Not so arrogant now, are you?" he sneers. "Not such a little madam when you're in the hands of a real man? Answer me!"

"You're right. Yes, of course you're right. I need to be taught a lesson. I need to learn some humility. I need to be humbled."

He is still standing close behind me, but now his hands come round. He's squeezing my breasts, hard, kneading them, pinching them, and that does hurt. No lubrication there to save me from his strength.

He drops his hands.

"Undo the buttons of your dress. Slowly, starting at the top," he orders.

I start to comply, and find my hands shaking slightly. I can hardly work the buttons. But eventually I get them open and the dress flaps open, exposing my underwear, my stomach, my long brown legs.

"Proud of your body, aren't you, Aisha? Always using it to cock tease. Not now, though. Now, it belongs to me, to do what I want with, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Yes. It's yours. Use me. Ruin me. Break my spirit," I beg.

"Where's your husband, tonight?"

"I don't know. I don't care. Wanking himself, probably. I don't care. I'm not thinking about him."

"Oh, but you should be, Aisha. You're my little married slut. Take a photo of yourself and send it to him."

I go to my bag and fumble for my phone to take a photo of myself, my dress unbuttoned to show my underwear, and I send it."

"What's your husband's name?" he asks.

"I don't know. I've forgotten. I don't care. He doesn't count. I'm yours now."

"Correct. Now remove the camisole. Slowly. Keeping the dress on."

I perform the difficult contortion of taking the camisole off whilst the dress is on. I have to work the thin shoulder straps down and over my arms first, and then slide the silky fabric down my body. Fortunately, I am supple, but it still takes a while.

"Fondle your boobs, you nasty little slut."

I start to handle them, rolling the flesh and fingering my hard, large, dark nipples. He watches, silently, and I feel abased.

"Now take the panties off. Show me your triangle. Quickly."

I rush to obey, removing the sodden knickers and dropping them on the floor, joining the camisole.

Still he watches, taking in the neatly trimmed black hair of what he calls my triangle. It's his appraising silence which humiliates me, the idea that I am being curated for his contemptuous gaze.

"Assume the position," he says casually.

It is a relief to move, having been standing so long in one spot, even though I know what is coming. I walk to the bed and kneel on it on all fours, my summer dress hanging downwards; my bare boobs are hanging, too. I can feel an extraordinary heat in my dripping sex.

"So you want to be ruined?" he queries, again casually, as if he were just asking me if I wanted a gin and tonic.

"Yes, yes," I plead. "Ruin me."

He picks up the crop and slowly uses it to lift my dress up above my naked backside. I can feel his eyes on me, sense his intent.

He brings the crop down, hard, on my arse, five, six, eight times. I lose count. I feel the sting, first, and then the burn.

He swishes the crop again, and I flinch, but it was a feint. He hasn't hit me again. But then, suddenly, he does. Three more times, in very quick succession. For the first time, I scream.

He doesn't like that. He takes my discarded panties and shoves them in my mouth. Then he starts again. Just three more strokes of the crop, but this time with all the force he can muster. I am sobbing.

I am abject.

I am broken.

With no warning, he enters me. His whole length, the twelve inches I worship, all at once. It feels as if he has literally broken me, split me, spatchcocked me, ruined me forever, though I know he hasn't, as I've taken his length before. Now he's out, completely. Now his tip toys with the lips of my inflamed sex before another hard, full thrust fills me.

He repeats it, five times. The pause, the tease, then the thrust. I feel myself getting close to climaxing.

And he stops. The rotten bastard stops. I want his cock. I want it more than anything I have ever wanted. I want him to go on thrusting into me. Why has he stopped? Aren't I giving him what men want from me?

I beg him. I beg him not to stop. I beg him to finish me off. And, for a moment, I think I have persuaded him. He orders me to take off my dress and to lie on my back.

I scramble off my knees, discard the dress, and lie down on my back, naked apart from those ridiculous trainers and ankle socks. I open my legs, pleading with him to enter me, spreading my fuck hole in front of him. I am gazing into his eyes, the first time that afternoon I have seen his face, except in the mirror. But his eyes are cold.

He stands by the side of the bed, his erection looming over me.

"Wank me," he orders.

I beg again. I beg him not to do that, not to make me use my own hand to deny me my deepest need, but it is no good. I slide my hand over his shaft, over the bulging crown. I feel the sperm rising in him, from deep in his balls. I think of all the times when, feeling that in a man, I have ruined his orgasm, but I would not dare do that to a real man. So I continue, until the inevitable moment that he spurts great white gloops over my breasts, my stomach, my face. It seems as if it will never stop, until it does.

I am ruined.

"Get dressed."

Slowly, my body aching with pain, and with the pain of frustrated desire, I reassemble a messier version of the pristine outfit I had worn when I entered the room.

He watches, waiting until I have finished and stand before him again.

"Look at the state of you, Aisha," he says, contemptuously.

And then he goes.

I'm left, consumed with need. I pick up my phone, and open the instant dating app. It doesn't matter who he is, so long as he has a big cock and can get here quickly.

It doesn't take long. He's nothing to me except a rubbing post, something to fill my fuck slit with human flesh. Even so, once I've ground us both to orgasm, I feel shame, the shame of my wanton need, the shame of even this nobody seeing the red stripes on my arse.

I get rid of him quickly, which suits him fine. I mean as little to him as he does to me. Just a hole to poke. That's part of my abasement.

But I am sated.

I dress again, and stand in front of the mirror for several minutes. My clothes are a mess and my hair is disheveled. I smile.

Then I text my husband to tell him I am on my way home.