Ther**eutic Submission
My wife suffered sexual abuse during her childhood, and as much as I want to seriously hurt the one that is still alive, there is one aspect of it that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Because it happened for so many years, there is a part of her that still feels it's "normal" in some way. I can look at her a certain way, and see her shrink into that submissive mode that's been ingrained into her. I discovered that if I dominate her carefully, psychologically, she comes out relieved and content on the other side of it. I can't explain it, but when she's feeling anxious, putting her on her knees and requiring her to blow me gives her a singular focus that calms her. She can't explain it either, but we're pretty sure it's the relief of it ending, and I have to order her to do it. It does nothing for her to ask for it.
We have a small room in the basement that only has a recliner in it, and every now and then, I have to take her by the arm and force her downstairs. She gets off on it, and all I have to do is sit in the recliner and tell her to "do what she's supposed to do". It's what her father used to tell her, and she'd have to undress and take care of him, and more than once, he made her do it for some friend that he owed a favor.
A few weeks ago, she came home crying because she'd been fired from her job, and I had a friend over when she came in early. She told me what happened, and no amount of consoling was calming her. Putting her in her place wasn't cutting it this time, and telling her to "do what she was supposed to do" wasn't even enough for the anxiety she was feeling.
She felt horrible that my friend was seeing her this way, which only ramped up her anxiety, and then I tried the one thing that I had never tried before.
"You get it together, or I'll make you take him down to the room."
There was a quick inhale that she held, followed by immediate focus and fear, and she looked at the door to the basement and nodded, accepting that fate and letting go of some of the anxiety.
"Are you going to be a good girl and do what you're supposed to do?" I asked her.
"Yes, Sir." she whispered quietly, and her tone... that would fix it.
Getting my very uncomfortable friend from the living room, I asked him to trust me and "go with it", and I would explain it all later, but I needed him to know that this was not nearly what it seemed, and I wasn't the dick husband that I was going to seem like.
My wife went down the steps first, followed by my friend, with me leading closely behind. He was nervous when he saw the lone recliner in the small, dingy room, but when I grabbed my wife by the arm and she submissively walked in, he came in and sat down, if only to protect her from me as I let her hear the door close behind her and lock.
"Take off your clothes and do what you're supposed to do." I told her coldly, "Don't make me tell you twice."
She closed her eyes and centered on what was going to happen, and nervously began to undress, feeling the close walls around her and remembering all those things that happened years ago. She stood naked at his feet for a moment before stepping within his reach, and when he looked at me, I made sure that he could see the concerned look in my eyes that was anything but demanding and I nodded for him to let her do what she needed to do.
She reached down and took his hand and moved it to her butt, and then climbed into the recliner and straddled his lap, keeping her eyes tightly closed so that she could feel that familiar fear. He looked at me again and waited for permission, and giving him the nod, his hands began to grope and explore my wife.
I had always wondered about this part that we had never really discussed, but I was witnessing her ritual that she had been forced to do so many times, and I could see her cringe as my friend's hands explored and groped her and brought all those bad memories flooding back.
After a few minutes, she quietly climbed out of his lap and got between his knees, and took it upon herself to unbuckle his pants and pull out his cock, almost programming that was moving her forward. She took him in her mouth and sucked his cock, almost amateurishly as she bobbed up and down and her cheeks hollowed, and after a few minutes, she began to jerk him off.
She leaned her body against his leg and focused on the hardness in her hand, and that look in her eyes was a "task" rather than anything enjoyable.
It just took a couple of minutes for him to lose control and the cum to start pumping to her hand, and she put his cock in her mouth and sucked him dry with almost no emotion in her eyes. She simply swallowed every drop and kept sucking him until he was done.
Standing up, she looked at me fearfully, and quietly put the wet part of her hand in her mouth, cleaning up the rest of the mess, and then stared down at my feet.
"Good, now get your ass upstairs and get ready for bed." I told her.
She had tears in her eyes as she passed me and ran upstairs, but she had done what she had been trained to do, and all that anxiety seemed to be gone.
I spent a few minutes telling him the story, and asked him to keep it quiet. It was weird to him to even consider that a possibility, but he was compassionate about it, even though the nervous grin betrayed how he actually felt about it, he seemed to understand the importance of what had just happened.
As soon as he left, I went upstairs and found my wife naked in the bathroom with the water running in the tub. She smiled at me sheepishly and looked beyond me toward the bedroom door.
"It's all good, Baby." I assured her, "He understands."
Putting her in the bathtub, I gave her a bath and allowed her to relax, and we talked about where else she could apply for a job. She seemed to have hope again, and the anxiety had faded away. I have to admit that I enjoyed watching it, despite the reality behind it, and at least I know who I can call if it ever needs to happen again.
