The Punishment I Asked My Dom for Myself
Tonight I have to sleep on the floor, and the worst part is that I brought it on myself. My Dom keeps telling me in a calm voice that’s almost frightening: “Don’t go asking me to order you to do things, because if I order you, you’ll have to do them.” And still I do it. Over and over again. What kind of submissive begs to be ordered around? That’s me.
There’s a paradox in all this that I still haven’t quite worked out. If the submissive asks for the order, is it still an act of submission, or is it something else now? Lazy Doms love that arrangement: the submissive makes the suggestion and the Dom only has to sign off on it. I can admit it’s not a bad dynamic, but it kills the element of surprise. And I suspect that, in the long run, it also kills the relationship’s erotic charge. I know that, and still I can’t help myself.
I suppose it’s a leftover from our vanilla marriage years, when I decided almost everything and he let me. That habit doesn’t disappear overnight. When I’m not paying attention, I start hinting at orders with a subtlety that isn’t subtle at all, and I end up behaving more like a secret dominatrix than the submissive I claim to be.
To keep me in line, Bruno has a strategy he calls military, because he says he learned it in the army. According to him, the punishments handed out by a sergeant or a lieutenant could be revoked by them personally: they had imposed them, and as authority figures they could lift them whenever they wanted. But if the punishment was given by a corporal or a veteran left in charge, that punishment had to be carried out, no ifs, ands, or buts.
If command didn’t back up the subordinate, the soldiers stopped taking him seriously. It’s a basic hierarchical principle: when the one below issues the order, he needs the one above to back him up. Bruno brought that into our dynamic with a perverse logic that I find equally delicious and condemning.
The rule is simple. If he gives me an order on his own initiative and sees that I truly can’t carry it out, he can take pity on me. Then I shower him with submissive thanks and find a way to return the gesture, almost always with some filthy thing we both enjoy: sucking him until I’m in tears, letting him fuck my throat until he comes on my tongue, or opening my legs wherever he feels like it. But if the order was suggested by me, directly or indirectly, there’s no mercy to be had. I fail to comply and there’s punishment. No exceptions.
And that is exactly what has happened to me.
For weeks I’ve been on his case about the same thing: that I spend too much time on social media, that I’m not getting to my university work, that I have three articles pending that I have to hand in before February. I complained so much, whined so much, that one day he’d had enough — quite rightly — and told me to stop sniveling and sit my ass down and write the fucking articles.
Five days have passed. I haven’t written a single line of any of the three. The only thing that’s grown is my number of posts on X. During this afternoon’s task inspection — yes, there is an inspection, and it’s as strict as it sounds — Bruno found out everything. He opened my history, counted the articles that hadn’t been started, counted the extra posts, and looked at me without saying anything for a very long time.
“You asked for this order,” he said at last. “You knew what would happen if you didn’t obey it.”
I couldn’t defend myself. It was true. The idea of me getting down to write had been planted in his head by me, nagging like a spoiled child. The punishment, then, was not up for debate.
I tried to bargain, I’ll admit it. I murmured that I’d start tomorrow, that this time I meant it, that I just needed one more night. He didn’t even look up from the phone where he’d been tallying my digital sins. He shook his head slowly, and that silent refusal tightened my stomach — and my cunt, if I’m being honest — in a way I couldn’t explain without blushing. Because the uncomfortable truth is that part of me wanted exactly that: for him to say no, not to give in, to make me follow through. I could feel my panties getting wet while he kept shaking his head, and that warm dampness between my thighs confirmed that the punishment had already begun inside me.
And this time he gave me one of the punishments I hate most, which for me is the same as saying one of the ones I like best: sleeping at the foot of the bed.
***
There is something deeply erotic about spending the night on the floor while he sleeps peacefully, stretched out on the mattress we were sharing just moments ago. More than erotic, for me it’s outright arousal. When I’m not in chastity, I wait to hear his heavy breathing before I masturbate in silence, biting the back of my hand so I don’t wake him, two fingers buried in my cunt and my thumb rubbing my clit with the desperate hurry of a thief.
If that sounds a little humiliating, you’re right. That’s exactly what it’s about. Humiliation is the main course, not a side effect. But don’t worry, the fussiest readers, because there’s also a bit of a trick to it, and I’m going to tell you about it.
The first time he gave me this punishment we were still beginners, and I slept directly on the rug. That was proper torture, much worse than any extreme practice you might imagine when you hear the word BDSM. You wake up with every bone in your body complaining, your hips numb, your neck impossible to turn.
Maybe at twenty some submissives get up from the floor fresh as roses, ready to soothe their master’s morning erection with kisses, to swallow it all the way down their throat before coffee. Not me. I used to get up like an old woman, clutching the edge of the bed, unable to move a single muscle without swearing under my breath. And a punishment that left me useless the next day was no good to Bruno.
The solution he came up with was as practical as it was cruel in just the right measure: the inflatable beach mattress. The thin one with the faded stripes that barely lifts you a handspan off the floor. The condition is that I inflate it myself, blowing until I’m dizzy, because inflating it is part of the ritual. A pump won’t do. It has to come from my lungs, my effort, my obedience.
Once it’s inflated I put the mattress cover on it, a tightly stretched fitted sheet, a thin pillow, and there I have my punished-girl bed. It’s nowhere near the height of comfort, of course. That’s precisely the point. I wake up wrecked, body aching, but functional, which is what matters.
That way the punishment serves its double function: the next day I can perform, write, do normal life, while the effects linger like a dull echo in my back and knees. Every time I move and something tugs, I remember why I’m sore. I remember who I belong to.
While I’m inflating the mattress, kneeling on the floor with puffed cheeks and tears in my eyes from the effort, he watches me from the bed with that half-smile I know by heart. He doesn’t help me. He wouldn’t lift a finger even if he saw me getting dizzy. It’s part of the deal, and we both know it. I blow, I rest, I blow again, and between breaths I glance at him from the corner of my eye, searching his face for approval that never quite comes and that’s precisely why I chase it so hungrily. At one point he lowers his hand and strokes his cock over the pajama pants, without taking it out, showing it to me only just: a reminder of what’s up there and of what I’m not going to get tonight. My mouth floods with saliva. I swallow, squeeze my thighs together, and keep blowing.
***
What never changes, what makes this punishment melt me from the inside even while I pretend to be resigned, is the moment of the feet.
When he lies down and I’m already stretched out on my mattress, at the level of his ankles, Bruno slides his feet over the edge of the bed until they’re right above my face. I don’t have to ask permission. Lying there from the start, in my submissive place, the only thing expected of me is to receive them. And I do.
I start slowly, with my nose, tracing the instep, breathing in the warmth of his skin. Then with my mouth, lips closed at first, just a brush. I kiss the arch, kiss each knuckle, stick out my tongue and run it flat along the sole, from heel to the tip of the big toe. He lets out a low growl. I take his big toe and put it all the way into my mouth, sucking it as if it were a miniature cock, my tongue circling around it and my cheeks hollowed out. I move on to the second, the third, one by one, sucking them with the same reverence I’d use on his cock if he asked me to. By the time I get to the little toe, my chin is already shining with saliva and my nightgown has ridden up to my waist without me noticing.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, half asleep already. “See what happens when you do what I say from the start? Look how your hand goes to your cunt all on its own. You’re a dirty little slut.”
I don’t answer. An answer would break the moment. I keep going with his feet, licking, kissing, while one hand slips between my legs almost on its own. I’m soaked through. My fingers slide over my swollen lips without hardly touching them, and I have to bite my lip not to moan. He knows it. He allows it tonight. Other times he forbids it, and then the punishment is truly unbearable, a tension that coils in my belly until dawn, my cunt throbbing in the dark and my hands forced to stay still on my chest.
Tonight, though, he lets me. He hears me breathing faster against his heel, feels me moving on the mattress, and says nothing. It’s his way of reminding me that even my pleasure passes through his will. That I get to the finish only because he allows it, not because I decide to.
I sink two fingers into my cunt while I go back to sucking his big toe, and the synchronicity shocks me like an electric current. I drive my fingers in to the knuckles, pull them out slick with fluid, push them back in again, while with the thumb of my other hand I rub my clit in tight, fast circles. The mattress rustles beneath me with every movement of my hips. I lift my ass off the floor to pump myself better, my face still pressed against his foot, breathing in his smell, licking it between broken gasps. I drool all over his instep without meaning to and don’t even try to wipe it clean. Let him wake up with the mark of my mouth there if he wants to.
The orgasm comes slowly at first, then all at once, like a wave rising and bursting inside me. I clamp my teeth on his ankle so I don’t scream, and a hoarse, animal moan slips out through my nose. My cunt throbs around my fingers, gushes over my wrist, wets the insides of my thighs. I keep rubbing my clit past the climax, until it gets so sensitive I can’t even bear the touch of my own finger, and then I go still, trembling from head to toe, mouth open against his foot and my whole body turned into one pulsing thing.
When I’m done, silent, my forehead resting on his ankle and my heart still racing, I hear that his breathing is already deep. He’s fallen asleep. He didn’t even wait to see me come. He cared so little that the humiliation sinks in deeper than the orgasm. I pull my fingers out of my cunt slowly, watch them shine in the hallway light, and put them in my mouth. I suck my own taste off my fingers while I watch him sleep, and a stupid, satisfied-bitch smile escapes me. I stay awake a little longer, on the floor, hurt and satisfied in equal parts, replaying the stupidity of having asked him for the order I didn’t obey.
And as sleep comes over me, on top of the beach mattress, with my cheek pressed to his foot and my cunt still throbbing slowly between my thighs, I think that tomorrow, without fail, I’m starting the first article. I mean it. Even though the two of us know — me and the woman I become when he’s not commanding me — that in a couple of weeks I’ll be begging him for an impossible order again, and I’ll be sleeping down here again, exactly where I want to be.
Marina V.
