Every couple has their little rituals, small things they do together that reinforce the bond between them. Consciously they might not even recognise them as being rituals. Maybe it’s how they prepare and eat food, or the steps they go through at bedtime; small details of their familiarity with each other, repeated over and over until they become essential to who they are as a couple.
It’s only when one of them isn’t there that the absence of the comfort those synchronised moments offer is noticed. One of them visits family and stays overnight, and bedtime suddenly feels lonely, cold even. They stick to their half of the routine as normal, but the edges feel ragged, because there’s no matching cog for them to fit into, no reassuring echo in the darkness that the presence of their partner usually offers.
Ritual isn’t just a part of love – it is the key to it.
My wife and I are aware of this truth. Over the eight years we’ve been together we have worked at being aware of the rituals borne of familiarity. We’ve nurtured them, sustained and developed them until their strength has become the heartbeat of our singularity. They are the dances we slip into that turn the mundane into the powerful, the steps and rhythm invisible to all but us.
It’s there in how we say goodbye in the morning before leaving for work, how we greet each other in the evening when we return home, how we wash the dishes after dinner, how we sit when we watch TV; hundreds of secret, hidden acts of love known only to us. And as well as those small (but so essential) everyday instances of simpatico, there are also bigger, more deliberate rituals that we have added to and perfected over our years together.
My favourite of those is when, twice every week (Wednesday and Saturday evenings), we shower together.
Before I tell you about our couple showers, I should explain that my wife is my submissive, and I am her dominant. Perhaps that is why we are so aware of the strength small details can hold. We met through a website that matched people looking for relationships based on a BDSM dynamic. We have belonged to each other since we first met, and together we have explored what it is that makes us truly content and complete, away from the judgements and expectations of traditional society. There is no one in this world who understands my needs close to the level she does, and I know she would say the same of me.
Wednesday and Saturday evenings (as I’m sure you will understand by now) follow a very specific routine. My wife’s mind, if left to its own devices, can become messy and cluttered with loud, unwanted thoughts. If we don’t cleanse those thoughts at least twice weekly (it can be more if she is experiencing higher than normal stress levels) her mental health suffers. For her, nothing purges the bad thoughts better than a healing dose of painful pleasure. It is one of the reasons we are so truly perfect for each other; what she loves to receive, I love to give.
Our spare room is kept locked at all times, except when we are using it. We tell family it’s the junk room, that behind the locked door is a jumble of random stuff piled so high that we’re too embarrassed to show them. The truth is, beyond the door is a room that is almost completely empty of things. The walls, ceiling, blinds and floor are all white. A single light hangs down from the centre of the room, and beneath it there is a wooden chair, also painted white, bolted to the floor. On one wall there is a closet, within which there are various implements designed to give a range of sensory responses. Although you cannot see it, behind the walls has been lined with soundproofing material, the work carried out by contractors who were told we would be using the room as a recording studio.
The room is the way it is to remove all and any distraction. There are no pictures on the walls, no shelves containing books, no ornaments or decoration or any kind – in short there is nothing for her mind to find an escape in. Likewise, the soundproofing removes any chance of outside noise breaking her concentration. The room represents exactly what she needs to achieve when we are inside it – purity, clarity and emptiness of mind.
After removing all her clothing and jewellery, she enters first and takes her place on the chair. She knows to sit with her knees together, her back straight, and her eyes closed. I give her fifteen minutes alone, then I remove my clothes (even the sensation of fabric against her skin might be enough to distract her) and enter, closing the door behind me.
I walk to the closet, open it, and select what items I will be using that day. This is one of the few points in the ritual where variety is welcome. If I always used the same implements then her mind would become dulled to the sensation of them. As well as whatever I’ll be using on her body that day, I also remove a white pillow. Walking over to where she sits silent and focused, I place the pillow on the floor, and then sit what I have chosen upon it. I could just put them on the floor, but again, eventually she would be able to recognise what was coming from the sound they made on the wooden floor. She needs to be oblivious to whatever particulars I have in store for her.
In order to explain what happens next in the correct amount of detail, I will now describe the session we had on the Saturday just gone.
On that day, there were three items I took from the closet and placed on the pillow; a heavy paddle made of stainless steel, the surface covered in raised dimples; a willow switch, cut by myself, fine, light and when used correctly capable of drawing blood; a small roller, covered in sharp points, intended to be used in the kitchen to pinprick dough, but equally as effective on skin. I wanted to deliver pain that changed in intensity and pitch, and those three things would allow me to do so.
I stood in front of my wife for a second and then delivered a backhanded slap to her right cheek that knocked her from the chair and hard onto the floor. Before she had hit the ground I was on her, grabbing a handful of hair and tilting her neck back, looking at her face to make sure her eyes remained fully closed despite the shock of the blow. When I saw that they had (she is a good girl) I tightened my grip on her hair and dragged her to her feet, the red swelling on her cheek causing my cock to begin to harden in response. I moved her until she was standing in front of the chair then roughly bent her in half, placing her hands flat on the seat. Her left knee was not quite fully locked straight, and I slapped the back of that thigh. She instantly corrected her posture.
Leaving her there, I walked back to the closet and removed a leather collar, and a rubber pussy and anus expander. In case you are unaware, it is effectively two dildos, joined together in such way that they can be inserted in both holes simultaneously. From each individual dildo hangs a small plastic tube ending in a squeezable bulb. Pumping either one of the bulbs causes the corresponding dildo to fill with air, and expand in girth.
I put the collar between my teeth and, placing my hand on her back, I pushed both dildos inside her. Although her pussy was already wet, I was pleased to note that her anus had no lubrication at all, and felt dry and resistant. I heard her grimace as I inserted it, and knew that she be very aware of its presence inside her, like a little grit a sand inside an oyster around which a pearl would grow.
I took a bulb in each hand and quickly pumped both at the same time, not giving her holes time to adjust to the increase in size. I pumped until I could tug on the plastic tubes and feel that there was no way either dildo was in any danger of accidentally falling out. They weren’t anywhere near to their maximum size though – this was merely the beginning of our session.
When I was satisfied, I stood her up straight. I noticed that her legs weren’t completely closed, and knew it was because doing so would make the dildos feel even bigger inside her. I slapped the outside of both thighs and she brought her feet together properly. A downward slap on each breast causing her pale skin to redden and her nipples to harden.
I knew that her mind was now entirely concentrating on what might, or what might not, happen next. Gone were any thoughts from her workday, any worries about bills or other everyday anxieties. There simply wasn’t enough space in anyone’s head for those thoughts when faced with the level of anticipation she was experiencing.
After she was filled (physically and mentally) we moved onto the meat of the session. I sat in the chair, and pulled her across my lap. That is the classic position for spanking because it is perfect in so many ways. Obviously her ass and pussy are readily available for punishment, but so too are her thighs, her back, and her neck. I took the red leather collar from my mouth and looped it around said neck, fastening it tightly, the restriction to her airflow causing her breathing to become more audible. This particular collar had a line of strong twine running around the inside of it, invisible beneath the material. The ends of the twine hooked onto a small wooden handle at the back. By twisting this handle I could tighten the twine, allowing me to reduce her airflow further if I wanted to. In fact, I knew from past experience that it took just four or five full turns to render her completely incapable of drawing any breath at all. I ask you – is there a more erotic sound in the entire world than a female throat gasping for air? I certainly don’t think so.
When I was sitting comfortably (and my wife very much wasn’t) I administered the first open-handed slap to her buttocks, feeling her frame stiffen under my strike. I didn’t follow through with the first few spanks, instead letting my hand stop as it came into contact with her flesh, ensuring a full but dull pain. One of the joys of having a submissive with the palest of skin is how quickly you get to see the physical manifestation of your work. After just a few slaps her ass cheeks were positively glowing.
I left them to build in heat, and picked up the roller from the floor.
With my free hand, I gently drifted my fingertips down the length of her back, an action which I knew she found exquisitely pleasurable. Turning my hand over, I dragged the backs of my nails slowly back up her skin, the very edges of them barely touching her skin. She shuddered against my legs. Up and down, slowly and smoothly, fingertips then nails, lifting my hand briefly at the end of each pass, I stroked her until she purred. Then, at the end of one stroke, I switched my fingers for the roller, pressing it hard into her, and ran it up her back. The switch in sensation from pleasure to pain was unexpected, and therefore the level of the pain when compared to the gentleness of my hand was greatly intensified. A hundred tiny spots of blood blossomed on her skin, like a time-lapse video of a meadow bursting into flower, and she grunted in surprise. A grunt which I swiftly punished by turning the handle on her collar one full revolution.
I reached between her legs and gave each of the bulbs five quick pumps, expanding her holes, while all the time I drew that wicked roller back and forth over her, extending my strokes so that it ran down over her buttocks and onto the back of each thigh too, knowing that the sensation would be particularly powerful as it passed over her freshly spanked ass, taking care to press extra hard into that area.
Before she could get used to the sensation, I dropped the roller, picked up the paddle, and in rapid succession hit her nine, ten, eleven, twelve times across her buttocks. I dropped the paddle on her back and softly stroked her stinging backside with a full palm, slipping my hand between her legs and circling her swollen clit too.
Soft, gentle circles, then gripping it between thumb and forefinger and pinching hard, pulling it out from her body, pinching even harder, then releasing my grip.
Another three pumps on each dildo, hearing breathing deepen as she reached her maximum dilation. Another twist on her collar. Raising the heels of my feet so that me knees pressed hard into her abdomen at the same time. Watching the redness spread from her face round to her shoulders, feeling the effort she was having to put into inhaling enough air.
I was now the only thing that existed in the world.
Nothing else mattered, nor registered. I was the entirety of her thoughts, the sole focus of her needs and desires.
Another dozen smacks with the paddle and she was squirming on my legs. A hard downward slap right in the centre of her back, pulling away as soon as I made contact to increase the sharpness of the pain, the sound of the impact high in pitch.
I pressed against the dildos and shook them inside her, wobbled them from side to side. I watched as a thin strand of drool fell from her mouth to the floor. I pumped the bulbs twice more. The lack of oxygen and the sensations on and in her body would by now be making her lightheaded, acting almost as anaesthetic to her pain. I twisted the collar one more time, reached between her legs and roughly rubbed her clit.
Her face was now bright red. As I worked her clit, I pushed her head down, forcing more blood to rush there. She would feel it like an incredible pressure inside her, a rising, swelling tsunami of force, that coupled with my manipulation of her clit was driving towards carrying a powerful orgasm. I flicked, I stroked, I pressed, and just as that wave of pleasure was about to wash over her, to deliver her into her own personal nirvana… I removed by hand, pulled the valves from the dildos and released the tightness in her collar, completely all three acts so quickly that to her they would have felt like they happened simultaneously.
The relief of feeling her lungs flood with oxygen again would have been pure joy, and yet the denial of her orgasm would have been torture.
Her mind grateful and outraged at the same time, sated just as she was left unsatisfied. A mix of emotions so all encompassing that she began to cry in frustration.
Exactly as the first teardrop fell from eyes, I picked up the switch and lashed her three times across her already swollen buttocks. The thin branch cutting into her skin, which burst into raised, bleeding welts.
She screamed as the pure white pain slammed into her mind.
I pushed my thumb into her pussy and rubbed her g-spot. She came instantly, the orgasm mixing with the pain and the confusion and the frustration to create a state of ecstatic delirium. Many times before she had told me that feeling was the closest she got to pure relaxation, when the sensations she felt pushed all and any other thoughts from her mind, there simply being no space for anything other than her climax.
She came again and again and again. Wild, vivid, full-colour orgasms that I knew she felt from her toes right to the top of her head.
After her sixth consecutive time, I pulled my thumb out and stroked her hair as the aftershocks rippled through her.
We stayed like that for a full fifteen minutes, her slumped over me while I petted and soothed her.
When I heard, and felt, her breathing return to normal I took her by the shoulders and slowly guided her onto her knees beside me. I stood, walked behind her, gripped her under the arms and pulled her to her feet, before placing my hand behind her knees and picking her up. She was limp in my arms, her head rolling sluggishly, like an infant waking from a deep sleep. I left the instruments on the floor; it was one of her tasks to clean and put them away, which she would do the next morning before breakfast.
I carried her down the hallway to the bathroom, where I gently placed her on the floor of our shower. It’s a big cubicle, runs the full length of one wall, twin rainfall showerheads protruding from the ceiling that deliver water so soft you would swear it was caressing you. She sat on the floor, knees slightly bent, feet flat, her head bowed, as I selected the correct temperature and turned the water on. I knew she wasn’t able to sit with her legs straight out yet, because the switch cuts would be too sensitive against the tiled floor.
The warm water cascaded down, spraying over both of us. I wrapped her hair around my fist and pulled her slowly but insistently to her feet, then turned her to face the wall. She did as I wanted, and bent over, placing the palms of her hands flat on the wall. I knelt behind her and pulled her ass cheeks wide apart, exposing her pussy and asshole. Both were still gaping as a result of the expanding punishment they had received, but as I watched I saw them both begin to close, moving so slowly it was almost imperceptible.
I stood straight again, gripped my still hard cock by the base, and slid it into her pussy. She was still so wide that I didn’t feel the usual tight resistance, but I knew that would be coming soon.
You may think that I then fucked her, the cliché of husband and wife banging away in the shower, but you would be wrong.
I took her bottle of shower gel from the little shelf, squeezed some into hand, then replaced the bottle. With my cock still inside her, but me not moving at all, not sliding it in and out, I worked the gel into a lather and began to gently wash her back. I worked my fingers into her muscles as I did, careful not to press too deeply on skin that was tender and raw. I washed her back, let the water rinse the soap off, then continued the process with her front, soaping her breasts and her chest, her stomach and sides, and her armpits. I was careful and thorough, cleaning every inch that I could reach from my position. As I washed I felt her pussy begin to tighten on my shaft as her hole closed back up around it.
I shampooed her hair, working it into her scalp. I let the water rinse it away, then applied a conditioner that smelled of coconut. By the time I was finished doing that, her pussy had fully gripped my cock once more. But still I didn’t fuck her. I would get my release soon enough, but this ritual wasn’t about that; it was about taking care of my wife.
As I washed her she gradually started to come round from her stupor. She tiled her neck back, took one hand from the wall and reached between my legs to cup my balls, stroking them before finding my asshole and pressing the tip of her index finger into it. Not only was her pussy now back to its normal width, she was tensing and relaxing it, sending little shivers of pleasure along my cock.
I soaped my hands again and washed her asshole, working my fingers inside it as softly as I could. The marks from the switch were still angry looking, so I took my time washing them, trying my very best not to cause her too much discomfort, but at the same time reminding her they were there.
For the very first time since we entered our white room, my wife spoke.
“Please,” she whispered. “Wash my insides now.”
So, I did.
I know that for a story based around BDSM you might expect what followed to be rough, but it was the exact opposite. Twenty minutes after getting into the shower I started to make love to my wife, pulling almost all of my length out of her before pressing it slowly back in. This wasn’t about sex – it was about me cumming inside her, about my cum washing her clean on the inside. I took her at that speed until my balls tightened, and I emptied my full load inside her.
She sighed happily as I came.
After that, the shower was over. It’s part of our ritual that we end it with that final act.
We dried each other with big, fluffy white towels, my cum oozing out of her as we did. I applied soothing balm to her cuts and welts, and then helped her get dressed for bed. She always goes to bed early on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I tuck her in, kiss her on the forehead, then sit with her until she’s deep asleep.
It never takes very long.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/rfpf27/the_power_of_ritual