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This is a list of common submissive wife rules. The first four are based on the 4D’s and I recommend that you all follow these four rules.
Rules 5 -10 rules should be followed where applicable
1: Respect – show respect at all times
2: Honesty – always be truthful never tell lies
3: Obey – Obey your Husband/HoH without question
4: Do not put yourself in danger – speeding, not taking medication, etc
5: Be available & willing when you husband/HoH has physical needs
6: Complete household tasks, keep the home clean & tidy
7: Make sure all meals are ready on time
8: Take care of yourself, so you remain healthy
9: Follow the dress code if you have one to follow
10: Stick to the family budget
This is not a comprehensive list of rules to follow, but I believe it is a good starting place for most couples to start with. A relationship must have love, respect, and honesty to grow following some simple rules will help define your relationship. You will be more relaxed you will both know your place in the relationship, living within the boundaries set by your rules will add stability to your relationship, you will spend less time arguing and more time enjoying your partner’s company.
Read the rules and adapt them to suit your relationship. If you think I have missed an important rule, then let me know.
It does not matter what stage your marriage is; these rules apply to newly weds or couple who have been married for 25 years or more, it is never too late to make some changes to improve your marriage.
If you would like help living this lifestyle, I am available for one on one counseling and mentoring sessions. I have been happily married for over 20 years, and my experience does not come from a text book but experience living the lifestyle.
"Because I am timid in asking for help and worried what others will think that I am so happy I could message you and get your tips to help me become a better submissive wife were very helpful and I will not hesitate to ask for more help. I am so thankful for you and this site" this was from a wife I have been helping

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2 From the op: from the day we were married I'd insisted on obedience and submission. I imposed some rules. One was skirts and dresses and looking feminine. Being quiet. Responding in conversation rather than initiating. Serving. Looking to look after others. We would practice being submissive at home.
My first actual training occurred when we reached my home our first day together. Sir sat on my couch, and took one of the pillows, placing it at His feet, He instructed me to kneel and remove His shoes. He informed me at that time that His women do not kneel on the floor, only on pillows, and so I learned my first lesson.
This is a list of common submissive wife rules. The first four are based on the 4D's and I recommend that you all follow these four rules. Rules 5 -10 rules should be followed where applicable. 1: Respect - show respect at all times. 2: Honesty - always be truthful never tell lies. 3: Obey - Obey your Husband/HoH without question.
Subliminal Wife Training 101 Solution Can Jake train his bratty wife , Amber, into a loving submissive and obedient dream girl with Subliminal Wife Training ; using Subliminal MP3 programs he was able to download directly from Dream Girls online directory. Read the full story The Ideal Wife A young, nineteen-year-old girl, Amber.
by vickie tern "Andrew dear, why didn't you ever get your ears pierced?" I looked up, astonished. My wife was perched comfortably in our big easy chair, her nest most evenings when she wasn't out selling a client some building, her legs curled up under her, reading one of her magazines, all as usual.
about eight weeks ago i walked in on my wife she was nude pulling our dog off, i got three photos before she realised she turned scarlet but i said have you had him in your p**** she said no i could not do that so i said well you are going to start or plenty of people will see my photos, we started training her c*** with large butt plugs and …
Ray and Sonny are to hold her body down while Brad is getting ready to inflict the final justice to his wife of 20 years. She looks so vulnerable and her body is so muscular, with soft clean-shaven legs and the typical slight amount of cellulite on the inner thighs and buttocks.
The Reluctant Wife . Six months earlier. Charlotte was a woman in her prime. Her hair was still blonde; she even had her figure for thirty. She had a bachelor's degree in Advertising. Unfortunately, she gave up all that she had worked to gain for marriage, to Alex Cahill. He had been charming and outgoing for a rancher.
This is kind of weird, I think, so let's pull out the invoice: "Dog collar with attached nipple clamps." Dogs don't need nipple clamps, so what the shit. I throw everything back into the box as if *I'M* the one who has just committed some horrible sin against nature. I hop onto my computer and pull up messenger and message my boyfriend. "QUICK.
The world's gone so crazy, a man can't even spank his own willing wife anymore without being accused of assault. But Sean made me take off my skirt in the parking lot and shame, humble and completely owned by my husband. He ordered one and was so happy, he ordered 10 more. Spanking is easier. And he just had to leave it unsnapped and it ...
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“Andrew dear, why didn’t you ever get your ears pierced?” I looked up, astonished. My wife was perched comfortably in our big easy chair, her nest most evenings when she wasn’t out selling a client some building, her legs curled up under her, reading one of her magazines, all as usual. She was gazing at me casually with a mixture of curiosity and mild concern, as if the question had just occurred to her, and the answer didn’t much matter, but it might, and she figured she’d ask before returning to her story, or article, or whatever.
“What?!” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. She knew I’d wanted to, in fantasy, but she knew that for me fantasy and fact were separate, that I’d never have done it. And in fact she hated the pleasure I felt when decorating myself like a woman!
She never allowed reference to it. She didn’t want to know! My mind replayed what I’d just heard, and tried to re-hear it. ‘Airs,’ could that have been the word? ‘Pursed?’ No, nothing else made sense. But what I’d heard didn’t make sense either! “Your ears,” she said patiently.
“Didn’t you ever want to get them pierced?” “Well, yes,” I replied. I wondered if I could tell her when that was. It was a few years ago, during those intoxicated, golden afternoons when I couldn’t help indulging my love of dressing up, just before she came home early one afternoon to discover me dolled up curls to heels in women’s clothes, coifed and jeweled, strutting and posing in front of a mirror until I saw her in the same mirror, standing there watching me, shocked! At that time I was besotted by the fantasy that I could magically become a complete woman, and yet remain a man, no bodily alterations toward femininity being too extreme nor too permanent. Pierced ears were the least of the things I wanted but would never have except in my imagination. Above all, I gloried in imagining that my Monica was as delighted and entranced as I was when I was dressed to look like a woman, even turned on by it. Or at least mildly interested, and perhaps helpful.
But when she actually saw me cross dressed, reality replaced fantasy. Long months of resentment and grief followed while our marriage foundered. She made impossible demands I was too honest to accept, that it was a filthy addiction like smoking I should give up cold turkey, or taper off gradually, that a shrink could cure me, that I should take up golf or tennis instead, that I should settle for flashy men’s clothes whenever I felt the urge. She had cross dressing confused with infidelity, as if by dating my mirror image I was being intimate with another woman. I argued in turn that it was harmless, for me a source of great joy, nothing more. Finally she understood that it was a compulsion, delightful to me if perverse to her, but a deep-rooted, powerful compulsion nevertheless, dating maybe even from a prenatal time of life. It was how I was. Finally we agreed that I could keep doing it, since I’d keep doing it anyhow, but it should always be in ways and places where she’d never know or be reminded.
Mostly I’d kept to that arrangement. It was tricky, but possible, and our happiness depended on it. We have a good marriage. We’re a little unconventionally matched, maybe, but wonderfully compatible. I do most of my work at home, cost-estimating engineering projects, because home is where I can think more clearly than anywhere else, juggle all the variables in my head and watch them land right side up. Then I pipe in the results by fax or e-mail, and get other data back the same way. I don’t much need to talk to anyone. I just do it, and do it better than anyone else. It’s not something I especially enjoy, but there are compensations.
I like the arrangement with my company because I’m a deep-dyed homebody. Always have been. The thinking is intricate and conceptual, and it’s easy to get lost in your mind. But I love working out the problems while doing simple homey tasks in the real world, like making the beds or fluffing the couch pillows, or scrubbing the kitchen floor, or sewing on shirt buttons, or cooking up intricate dishes for my beloved wife. I know, this is all women’s work, but it helps keeps me sane. Early in our marriage we agreed that I would look after our household routines, shopping and cooking and cleaning, and Monica would take charge of the exceptional elements of our marriage, like our social lives or vacations.
This freed Monica for her work, which is selling real estate. She dearly loves it, and is a whiz at it. She’s good with people — she has the right combination of charm, persuasiveness, and persistence, and she does her homework too, her endless research on her clients and their needs and the properties she thinks right for them. She can be devious setting up intricate arrangements for a client to
walk in, see advantages, and then think he’s deciding for himself that this or that building and its financing are perfect for him. It’s commonplace for Monica, about to close on an office building, to schedule the closing in another more expensive but more suitable building, lead the client in, and then let him discover that fact for himself. This especially amuses her boss, a smooth operator named Ben who has himself pulled off some very big deals in town. Sometimes he can’t believe some scheme she’s conceived will work, and they bet her commission on the outcome, double or nothing. He’s right just often enough to want to keep betting and losing, and I’ve sometimes thought Monica schemes even that arrangement. Her job is demanding — it gives her irregular hours additional to the regular work week she spends in her office. Sometimes she’s out of the house all day and many evenings, and sometimes whole weekends. But she’s hard-driving, and she enjoys it, and she enjoys the payoff.
This was convenient. I was too frightened of discovery, too embarrassed by my own desire, to dress feminine anywhere but in my own home with the shades drawn. So I did the housework dressed suitably, in a house dress, and if there were no deadlines then I could lounge through the afternoons fixing my hair to look pretty, or even pretend I was out on the town wearing my one figure-clinging evening gown. After we arrived at our truce I couldn’t keep the evidence entirely away from her. A few times panties or a bra unknown to her found their way from my separate laundry into her drawers, and then I’d find them on my bureau to be stowed in my own panty drawer, no comment ever made. It was embarrassing once when we had Ben over for dinner, and Ben commented that with all my domestic talents I’d make someone a fine wife some day. I flushed, maybe too quickly, but Monica leaped in to snap “No, he won’t, he’s already married to me,” and that was that.
Once or twice I’d forget myself, and ask her an idle question about women’s styles, what do you call a high waistline, gathered under the breast and falling to a full skirt for example. She’d just bought such a dress. On such occasions she’d only reply sharply, “I told you, I’m not going to discuss such things with you. It would only encourage your sick habit.” I didn’t dare protest that my question was disinterested and innocent. I didn’t dare say anything. It would only have seemed to her to be a deliberate extending of discussion of a forbidden topic, a flouting of our agreement. Where my transvestitism was even distantly implied, she was not interested. Period. Until now.
“Then why didn’t you get them pierced? Every girl does. Didn’t you want to be a girl?”
Why didn’t I do the nearly unthinkable, get my ears pierced and become one of the odd men who shared decorated ear lobes with most of the women on the planet? The ten thousand reasons why not flooded at me — shame, fear of exposure, of jeopardizing my manhood, of gibes from my associates, of offending and appalling my wife when she saw the holes. Even fear of my own desires. It seemed dangerous for me to alter my body to match my fantasy desires, even in trivial ways — who knew where that might end?
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied evasively. That was too evasive, obviously, so I added, “I didn’t want to offend you, I suppose, in part.” Then I risked her wrath by asking her an obvious question, and thereby actually extending the discussion, our first since those hideous months before we’d agreed never ever to mention anything about it again. “Why do you ask?” I asked, delicately.
She scarcely noticed. Her turn to be evasive.
“Different reasons,” she said with a dismissive shrug. Then she realized that sounded too unforthcoming, too secretive, so she volunteered, “I found one of your clip earrings on the kitchen counter a few days ago, so I just wondered. It must have fallen off when you were fixing dinner, and you never noticed. It told me you’re still dressing up day times. Though I didn’t need to be reminded of that, of course.” I took another chance. “No?” I asked. Then waited for the storm. None came.
“Of course not. You’re always leaving lipsticked kleenex in the bathroom. And often I can smell your perfume when we’re in bed, when you don’t shower first. Always the same perfume, *Enjoli,* which is fortunate for you, or I’d suspect you’d been with some other woman. But I found the bottle once, hidden in your toilet kit on the closet shelf, when you left it a little bit open and the smell had spread all over our bedroom. You’re lucky I like the scent — I even borrow a dab now and then. Then there are other things too, of course, like when you’re careless about keeping our bras and slips separate, or when you kick off your heels under the bed and then forget they’re there. Anyhow, when I found the earring I began wondering what kind of a woman you make. Still strange looking, I suppose, because you don’t shave your legs, or fix your eyebrows, and any girl needs to attend to things like that if she means to look pretty. Or even presentable.”
“Yes,” I said, still too afraid to say anything else. Despite my bewilderment, I was in heaven! ‘*Our* bras and slips’ she’d said, talking about them as if we were equally feminine! *Any* girl, as if I was one of them. And she’d borrowed my perfume! She seemed untroubled to be talking about it. Perfectly easy in fact. And she even seemed to be implying that I should try harder to look pretty. If only I dared!
But there was more. “When I found your earring, dear — those faux seed pearls set in silver? — it’s really lovely — you do have good taste, I’ve got to grant that — I realized it would go perfectly with my gray suit, the one with the cinched-in waist and flared peplum and short, straight skirt, you know it? You couldn’t wear that suit now, but it would be quite becoming on you if you’d lose ten or fifteen pounds, I should think. Anyhow, I can’t borrow your clip earrings, because my lobes are much too small for clip-ons. I’d only lose them. So I wondered why you don’t have pierced ears, is all. Most women do. Then we could at least borrow each others’ jewelry. We’d be like sisters.”
My heart swelled to bursting! This conversation was my fondest dream! “Oh, Monica,” I began ecstatically…. Then I interrupted myself, and came fully alert. I sat up, and looked at her. Why, after years of detesting my habit, or ignoring it and hoping it would go away, why was it she was now chatting with me like a girlfriend, or — what was it she’d just said? — like another woman, like a sister. There was something wrong here. This was my dearest fantasy come to life. I was overjoyed, and my suspicions wanted to dissolve into tears of joy. But there was still something wrong. “Why do you ask, Monica?” I asked her again.
My voice rose into falsetto, then cracked on the word “now” despite myself. I tried to swallow, and couldn’t. I saw she was looking at me intently and that she had seen and heard my excitement, and I saw the slightest of smiles play across the corners of her mouth before she stretched her arms out and yawned, then began to settle her eyes back onto the magazine in her lap. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “But I think I should help you with things like that. You have so much to learn.” And she settled back into her reading as if fascinated by whatever had just caught her eye there, closed off to further discussion. A revolution had just occurred, and she seemed no more concerned than if she had asked me why I had tossed parmesan into tonight’s salad. She had given me the most glorious gift! Not only had she calmly accepted my dressing up, and chatted about it, she’d offered to participate! No, she’d said she felt she should participate. My throat was still choked, and I tried to wipe away the tears in my eyes without being too obvious about it. Maybe it was just that love had finally brought her to acceptance of me as I am? All of me? She knew I was a loving and caring husband, and apart from my transvestitism we were well matched. Maybe it was mean and ungenerous for me to question her further.
That night we made tender, passionate love more devotedly than since the early days of our marriage, and she seemed serenely pleased as I held and caressed her, and hugged her close to me, and stroked my penis in and out of her pussy until her arms tightened on my neck and I knew she’d come. Then when we were done, and I was kissing her face gently over and over in sheer gratitude, she whispered “Yes, dear, I know how you feel.” She kissed me once in return, then rolled over and instantly fell asleep.
The next day she quit work early When I returned from an errand in the early afternoon I saw Monica’s car in the driveway, heard noises upstairs, and went to investigate. There she was, just completing a fast shuffle through the guest-room closet where I kept my skirts, blouses, and dresses
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