Domestic Obedience


Chapter 1.

An ordinary detached house in a plain, unremarkable suburb, 65 miles from London. 44 Green Meadows was built, along with hundreds of others after the war. Rows and rows of neat, adequately maintained windows and neatly manicured lawns. Apple blossom trees evenly spaced outside every other house, and a post-box on the corner. You can hear the blackbirds on the telegraph wires and the odd crow on the tops of the Douglas firs down in the valley by the local newsagent.

At exactly one minute to ten an unremarkable event took place. The doorbell of No.44 rang, ding dong, pressed by the finger of a handsome 23 year old man. Slight of figure, shy and with a flop of black hair over his eyes. A minute passed, two, a robin landed on a fence, bobbed and flew away over the rooftops and the lines of washing and neat little patios and acres of decking. Three minutes.

Inside, Mrs Eleanora Martin smoothed down her plain cotton dress, checked her hair in the mirror, with a quick upward pat at the back and opened the door.

‘Come in Simon’.

Silently and with head bowed Simon entered the hall, and stood there, unable to move, holding his suitcase in front of him like a shield, staring into mid-space at the light, well vacuumed powder blue carpet that smothered the floor and stairs in a sweetly scented veil of feminine control.

This was the first time they had met. The air was full of anticipation. An electric atmosphere of expectation. Simon breathed in the warm, almost stale air of the place. The radiators were on, all the double-glazed, hermetically sealed windows were shut, locked, with their little keys hung on tiny brass hooks high above each curtain pole. The house was filled with dainty objects. Neat clean little porcelain figurines on intricately carved mahogany veneer shelving.

The house looked like a page from the back of a Sunday paper colour supplement. You half expected to see a glamorous granny wrapped in a towel emerge from a side entry bath, or be offered a set of commemorative mugs depicting some deeply depressing memory from a bygone age.

Silence screamed in the hallway.

“I will show you to our bedroom, Simon.’

The word ‘our’ tore through Simon’s brain, and a sudden rush of adrenalin and near panic made him glance almost imperceptibly behind him, as if trying to map out his escape route. He need not have bothered. Mrs Martin had already shut the door, put across the chain, locked both the bottom and top bolts and pulled across the thick curtains. The house was now sealed. Locked down, airless, oppressive and silent.

‘Yes Mrs Martin”, Simon whispered, following her up the staircase to the first floor landing.

Mrs Martin wore a neat mid-blue lined cotton skirt, a flared hem just below the knee, plain tan tights and beige court shoes, with a modest heel. On top a cotton blouse with sleeves locked tightly down with a neat row of satin buttons, and a high frilled neck. At the top of the stairs Simon noticed every room was shut. The powder blue carpet continued to create a uniform feel of feminine control and each identical door, painted white, with small brass handles gave away nothing.

Mrs Martin opened the door to her bedroom. Neat, clean and orderly. A double bed dominated the room. Plain, sturdy with a padded pink headboard. Simon noticed the bedclothes immediately. Not a duvet but an old fashioned eiderdown neatly tucked over traditional pink blankets and cotton sheets. Every sheet perfectly tucked in, ironed, wrinkle free. Each pillow perfectly aligned.

The curtains were open. Pink, ruffled and tied back with large satin ribbons. Heavy net curtains obscured the view of the rear garden. The windows tightly shut, locked. Silence. The ticking of an alarm clock by the bed. A long cotton nightdress neatly arranged on the left-hand pillow. Casting his eyes around the room, a plain oak dressing table with an assortment of stiff wooden hairbrushes and clothes brushes. A matching wardrobe. Locked. The key missing, presumably in the possession of Mrs Martin. Everything was in it’s place.

Simon had been in the house less than 5 minutes, but could already feel the control that Mrs Martin exerted on him. It felt as if everything that was happening had been carefully choreographed, arranged, it almost felt as if the house itself had rules.

‘As we discussed Simon, you will live with me for 6 weeks as my…… ‘husband’, and we will see whether you really do want to live in a household where every detail of your life is controlled by your….. ‘wife’. Indeed we will see if you suit my needs as well.”

‘Oh, I do, Mrs Martin, I do”, Simon whispered, and he meant it too. His feelings of nervousness completely overwhelmed by the erotic pleasure of this domestic scene.

For months they had corresponded on the Internet. A chance meeting on a dating chat-room where Simon had admitted to this lady, late at night, intimate admissions of his submissive feelings. mecidiyeköy escort They flirted with each other. Became more confident with each other. They revealed their fantasies to each other. Layer by layer they peeled away their inhibitions, and slowly, in thrilling whispered prose, their desires were laid bare.

Two weeks ago it became clear that both of them were really able to test their desires in reality.

Simon had 6 weeks gardening leave between jobs. A perfect time for this young, single man to go travelling. Pack a bag, and drive away from his anonymous London flat. A few e-mails to family. Vague ideas of a summer in Europe. ‘Keep in touch?’, said his mother. ‘ I will.’ It had been so easy, so thrilling. He packed with a dry mouth and a sense of extraordinary anticipation. His mind raced with all manner of ideas. He had been sent very specific orders by Mrs Martin. Bring very few things. A wash-bag and indoor clothes. You will not be going outside, so you will not need a coat. Make sure you are fit and well. You will be working very hard. You will need to concentrate hard, and you will need to understand that my standards are extremely high.

None of this worried him at all. Not at all. He knew this was what he wanted. A small thought in his head told him that his excitement was entirely sexual, and he wondered whether this would be the same for Mrs Martin. Or, was she really looking for a domesticated house husband who would simply do exactly as he was told. A servant. Even that thrilled him.

Mrs Martin had been a widow for 10 years. She had lived alone since then, moved to a new town and settled comfortably into her new home. She had few friends and even fewer visitors. She kept her own counsel. A neat, attractive woman in her late 50’s. Always smartly dressed with impeccable manners and a pleasant personality. This would be her first relationship of any kind since her husband was alive, and she had many years to understand both her own desires, and more importantly exactly what she expected from her husband. “Never compromise on absolute perfection’ she would say to herself often, whilst re-positioning a figurine, or cleaning her lavatory seat. She had many sayings, all similar. “A clean house is a happy house”.

They stood for a moment in the bedroom in silence.

“Obedience is everything Simon. I do not expect you to know anything, but I do expect you to listen to me, and to obey every command I give you. This you will do promptly, brightly and with application and enthusiasm. Is that clearly understood Simon?” she whispered.

“Yes Mrs Martin. Completely. I am really looking forward to the next few weeks. I am really excited by the opportunity.”

“This is not an opportunity Simon. This is trial. You are on trial, and you will be judged on how you behave over the next six weeks. Now place your bag on the bottom of the bed, and join me in the bathroom.”

Later that evening they sat opposite each other in the dining room. A small plate of clear soup in front of them and a neatly cut square of plain white bread, the crusts removed. . Silence. Mrs Martin sat impassively, her back straight, her chin up, shoulders back. A small napkin tucked into the top button of her blouse. Half an hour passed. Every 5 minutes or so Mrs Martin raised her spoon and sipped her soup. Then replaced it on the side of the plate and looked at Simon. An hour passed. Simon sat, not moving, looking at his soup as he had been instructed to do. Not moving.

Eventually Mrs Martin broke the silence, making Simon jump.

“Now then Simon. When I ask you to join me in the bathroom, I am giving you an order. I am giving you an order to join me in a room. Every time I ask you to join me in a room you will be expected to close the door behind you and carry out whatever order I give you within that room. Is that clearly understood?”

“Yes Mrs Martin. It is clearly understood. I……I….just panicked.”

“Simon,” Mrs Martin said softly and kindly,

‘You have no need to panic. This is an ordinary house in an ordinary street. A simple domestic scene. Everything is safe here. You are in suburbia, in England, with your….. ‘wife’. There is no need for you to panic. That is ridiculous. You simply obey my orders. That is all I require you to do. Has this not been made absolutely clear to you Simon?’

‘I am sorry Mrs Martin, I am truly sorry.”

‘Well Simon. I have finished my soup. You shall not eat your soup tonight because you have disobeyed me. You shall retire to our room now in disgrace. I require you to prepare for bed and stand by the bottom of the bed until you receive a further order. Dismissed’.

Simon stood, leaving the room and wearily crept upstairs to his miserable ablutions. He knew that he now faced a serious punishment, and he was amazed at just how humiliated and how upset he felt. Not at all erotic. Just fear and an awful feeling that he had let Mrs Martin down. vip escort istanbul He heard the clatter of plates being loaded into the dishwasher downstairs, and could tell that Mrs Martin was both cross and disappointed. He vowed that he would never ever again question anything that Mrs Martin ordered him to do. As directed, he stood at the bottom of the bed in his pajamas, hands behind his back, waiting for their first night together as a couple. The anticipation was incredible.

The next morning, at 5am, Mrs Martin got up and putting on her dressing gown told Simon to join her in the bathroom. Barely awake, Simon joined her and closed the door behind him. Kneeling in front of her as instructed he pulled her panties down to her ankles and watched her sit down and let a thin pale stream silently run onto the side of the bowl and trickle into the water below. This went on for ages. Mrs Martin then stood up and waited for Simon to lick the few drops of dew from her pubic hair, and slowly pulled her panties back up, over her bottom and back around her waist. He flushed the chain and moved back, still on his knees. Mrs Martin washed her hands as he fetched a small towel from the rack and handed it to her. Drying her hands she dropped the towel on the floor and left the room. No orders. He just carried on kneeling.

An hour passed. The door opened as Mrs Martin came in, stretching her hands over her head.

‘I must have fallen asleep again. Pick that towel up Simon and come into our bedroom. You may stand”.

”This is our first full day together Simon.’ Mrs Martin’s voice was soft and kindly. Simon’s heart melted. This beautiful middle-aged woman stood before him in a toweling robe, in the perfect domestic scene. He felt enclosed in love and understanding, and yet there was an electric atmosphere in the room, in the house, between them. He was going to be totally controlled. Every action, everything he did would be an act of obedience to Mrs Martin’s will. The feelings were almost unbearably erotic.

On the floor around the bed lay strewn Mrs Martin’s underwear. A large plain pair of cream coloured panties, a matching bra and barely black, silky tights.

“Every morning Simon, you will pick my things up and wash them by hand in the laundry room. You will then bring the clothes from the previous morning up to our bedroom and place them in the underwear drawers in the dressing table. If we have guests you will offer to do the same for them. Do you understand Simon?’

Simon nodded, and watching Mrs Martin’s hand gesture towards the floor, he carefully picked up her things and took them downstairs. He held them tightly, the feeling of humiliation was unbearable. Delicious. He was going to wash his ‘wife’s’ most intimate clothes, every day, as an act of total servitude to her. Simon thought to himself that Mrs Martin was quite right when she said there was no need to panic. On the face of it, everything was very ordinary, banal even. People do wash clothes. People do as they are told on occasions. The difference here though was the context, and it was incredibly erotic, and felt both dangerous and deeply appealing.

Mrs Martin’s knickers were large, elasticated and with a slightly pearly, almost shiny finish. They had a small neat white bow at the front, a diamond shaped panel across the tummy and a deep, white cotton gusset. They were divine. Turning them inside out Simon touched the gusset with the tips of his fingers. Lifting them to his nose he breathed in the musty scent of Mrs Martin, feeling his penis swell with excitement. After a few moments he hastily filled the sink with warm water and lovingly, carefully washed his wife’s knickers, her matching bra and her tights. Then he hung them on a small clotheshorse over the sink to drip dry and went back upstairs.

Mrs Martin sat at her dressing table, still wearing her dressing gown. She carefully brushed her hair, and applied moisturiser to her face, shoulders and arms. On the bed behind her she had laid out a rose-pink and white flowery summer dress, some light coloured tights and on the floor a pair of white, open toe court shoes, with straps at the back. Her clothes were never sexy. Just stylish, conservative and slightly middle-aged. She liked it that way. She wanted everything to look normal. For anyone seeing her to consider her to be a perfectly normal wife in a happy relationship, living comfortably in a neat suburban town. This was far more erotic than any silly ideas of Dominatrix’s or Madams in dungeons, dressed in leather, wielding exotic whips. Mrs Martin knew that she could cause pain, really terrible pain, with a simple hairbrush, or a bamboo cane from the potting shed, even a simple bedroom slipper. She also knew about humiliation and embarrassment. To her these were the two angels that sat on each shoulder. She loved them. She knew all their nuances, all their power, and she knew how combining them could cause unbearable suffering sarıyer escort in her victims. In short, Mrs Martin could completely emasculate any man irreversibly, and at this moment in her life this is precisely what she intended to do.

Poor Simon. Day one, and he had no idea how carefully his 6 weeks with Mrs Martin had been planned. Mrs Martin could see his eagerness, see his excitement, how titillating this was. She amused herself thinking about how terrifying, how complete and irreversible her intentions were.

Mrs Martin glanced at his reflection in her dresser mirror, caught this look in his eye. She carried on combing her hair, smiling to herself. ‘Poor little thing. He has absolutely no idea what is in store for him, ‘ she thought.

‘Mrs Edwards is coming over this morning for coffee Simon. You will serve us. Is that understood?’

Yes, of course Mrs Martin,’ Simon replied slightly nervously. He certainly had not expected visitors on their first day together. He was enjoying this claustrophobic adventure, and was hoping for a day together alone with his ‘wife’, to…. to, well he was not quite sure. But he felt that surely a visitor would somehow break the spell.

At 1030 Mrs Martin sat neatly on her sofa. Her legs crossed, flicking casually through the Radio Times. Simon sat on an upright chair next to the sitting room door in silence, as instructed. He had been made to wear a very tight pair of white tennis shorts provided by Mrs Martin, a tiny polo shirt that barely covered his stomach and bright green jelly shoes, the sort that you buy at a beach hut in the summer and almost immediately regret your decision. He felt a bit ridiculous. Like a small boy who had promised to be on his best behaviour in front of ‘guests’. He fidgeted and tried to tuck the shirt into his shorts, but it just kept springing out again. Then the doorbell rang.

“Go and let Mrs Edwards in Simon. Take her coat, introduce yourself as Simon and bring her into the sitting room.”

Simon stood up and as he entered the hall he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He really did look ridiculous. He felt awkward and exposed. He prayed that Mrs Edwards would not take any notice of him and he could just sneak away and leave them to gossip over coffee.

It took ages to open the front door. He had to grope behind the curtains to find the pulley string. Then he had to open both bolts, top and bottom, remove the chain and unlock the Yale lock. At last he was able to open the front door.

‘Hello Mrs Edwards, I am Simon,’ he said quietly. ‘Please,…please, do come in’.

Mrs Edwards was a slim, elegant woman in her mid-fifties. Her hair was cut short at the back and had been permed into a neat ‘do’ at the front. She was immaculately dressed in a neat tartan skirt cut below her knees, a soft pink top with a matching cardigan, both with pearl buttons that matched the string around her neck and her earrings. She had heavy make-up on and thin, cruel looking lips with deep scarlet lipstick. She could have been a librarian.

Mrs Edwards entered the house gracefully in complete silence. Turning around she raised her arms and with a turn of her wrists gestured with her hands for Simon to take the shawl from her shoulders. She then turned to face him, and looking directly into his eyes she slowly plucked her black leather gloves, finger by finger from her hands. Simon Blushed. It felt like striptease, and yet he just could not break away from her eyes.

“Close the door Simon. This is not a barn’. Her voice was soft, authoritative, clipped with a distinct upper class accent. A voice that made a statement.

Simon broke away from her gaze and closed the door clumsily. Flustered he turned to watch Mrs Edwards drop her gloves one by one on the carpet, in an act of complete derision towards this little fool. Blushing scarlet, he knelt down to pick them up, still clutching Mrs Edwards shawl. He glanced at the sheer perfection of her stockings and her expensive shoes.

He felt humiliated and useless. Like a junior under-servant who couldn’t even let someone into the house properly. Dropping her gloves in front of him was her way of saying ‘You really don’t expect me to wait for you ‘.

Simon felt flustered and embarrassed. He quickly opened the cloakroom door, tried to hang the shawl on a coat hanger, only for it fall on the ground. He then stuffed it through the centre of the coat hanger roughly, and balanced the gloves on top. Stepping back, Mrs Edwards gestured him to one side, and once again making eye contact with him, removed the coat hangar, handed him her gloves and proceeded to carefully and neatly drape the shawl around the hangar so it stayed in place, simply, elegantly and with no creases. She took the gloves from Simon, placed them on a shelf one by one and closed the closet door.

‘I believe that I have come to visit Mrs Martin. As you are not her, perhaps you would be so kind as to present me to her Simon.’

Simon still totally humiliated by his complete inability to greet a visitor to a house opened the sitting room door and entered. Mrs Edwards stood back raising her hands as if being pushed out of the way, adding to his feeling of abject misery and ineptitude.