Chains in Mind

by S. May

  Christine was wearing patent-leather, camel-coloured, open-toed, court shoes. She reached upwards and forwards with her left foot, rubbing the tip of her shoe against his groin, against the plastic cage that covered his groin. The tugging back and forth transmitted itself through the cage, and stimulated him, but it also pulled on his wedding rings, increasing his torment. The top of her thighs became wet with his silent tears.

  The knowledge that he did not have a full erection, that he was not currently able to penetrate a woman, had an effect on his mind, made him more compliant, more subservient. He worked dutifully for her pleasure.

  ***

  “Here,” said Todd, “this is for you.” He handed over a weighty, gift-wrapped, package. It was Simon’s last day, and his colleagues on the floor had come together at five o’clock to give him a send-off. They crowded round, expectantly.

  “Oh, well, uh, thank you very much. I wasn’t expecting anything,” Simon said. The guys hardly had a penny to spare: the money must pretty much all have come from the ladies. He set about ripping off the paper.

  It was a book, a huge book, an encyclopaedia of cooking and household management. Simon turned red. The three female faces in the group surrounding him, Christine and Sophie and Margaret, were smirking. Everyone else was looking a little uncomfortable. They all knew what was happening to him.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  “You’ll be a little treasure, when you’ve learnt that.” Sophie laughed. She was a foot shorter than him.

  Simon had spent the last hour extending the low desk outside Christine’s office, so that Todd and Jake could work there side by side. Their old desks were stacked by the main door, waiting for the maintenance department to take them away; now there were no desks at all left in the middle of the open-plan area. They had been replaced by a low coffee table and three easy chairs. That meant that the three senior consultants could sit and have a meeting together, or just relax, while the four males, the assistant consultants, sat working at their desks with their backs to the room, facing the lowered blinds of their bosses’ offices.

  Simon put the book down on the coffee table.

  “Todd, Jake, you have work to be getting on with, don’t you?” Christine’s tone was sharp. Clearly, the leaving party was over. All the other boys hurried back to their desks. The ladies sat down round the coffee table.

  “Simon, fetch the wine and glasses from my office,” Christine said. He hurried to obey. He brought the bottle and just three glasses: he no longer expected to be included, and he was right not to. He poured for the ladies.

  “We might as well do this now,” Christine said. “Read this and sign it.”

  Simon stood and looked over the document that she gave him. It was a legal contract which did what Christine had said it would: it assigned his remaining assets and future earnings to her, in return for being kept. He squatted down to use the coffee table as a writing surface, and signed: he had made his decision long since. Sophie and Margaret signed as witnesses.

  “Good,” Christine said, whisking the paper away, and into the inner pocket of her jacket. “Now sign this one.”

  The new paper was a legal form to change his name; Christine had already filled it out. It would make his legal name ‘Simmy Hubby Christine Smith’.

  “I, what?” he looked at her, confused. “That’s your name, Christine.”

  “I know,” she said, with heavy patience. “You will bear my name to show that you belong to me. Your first name is ‘Simmy’ because that’s the name I choose for you, and then ‘Hubby’ because that’s what you are.

  “So I’ll probably usually call you ‘Simmy’, but other ladies will most likely call you ‘Hubby Christine’ or ‘Hubby Smith’, depending on how well they know me. It defines you as mine: the hubby of Christine.” She smiled. “And that’s the way I like it.”

  A name was just a few words: it meant nothing; or it was his identity: it meant everything. He couldn’t decide. He did know that this name marked him as her chattel, but he didn’t see any choices. He signed.

  “Good,” Christine said again. “Now go to the flat. In future, you don’t ever leave the flat without my permission. I’ll be home later, and I want a nice dinner for four at, well,” - she looked round at Sophie and Margaret - “shall we say, seven thirty?” The other two ladies agreed.

  “Go.” She used both arms to lift up the heavy cookery book and put it in his hands. Then she gave him a firm smack on the rump to help him on his way.

  He trudged the four miles to the flat. He was still moving with unusual care to avoid any pull on his piercings, or on the chastity cage that connected to them. He let himself in with the key that Christine had given him. It was Wednesday, and he had last been here on Sunday, so there was quite an amount of cleaning up to do. He set to work. This was habitual, by now: he had been doing Christine’s housework for eight weeks. Despite himself, he felt more relaxed than he had for a long time, doing this menial work: he didn’t have to worry anymore; he was Christine’s responsibility now.

  The place was thoroughly clean again by the time he heard the key in the door, and came to greet Christine. It was half-past six; he doubted that she had been at work all this time, but he didn’t ask where she had been: it was none of his business. She had a package with her, a box, gift-wrapped in white and gold paper; he didn’t ask about that, either. She put it on the hall table. He took her coat, and ushered her through to the living room, and fetched her slippers, and poured her a small sherry.

  “Is the dinner under control?” she asked him.

  “Yes, Christine.”

  “Good.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass, as he stood deferentially in front of her. “Fetch me the package from the hall.”

  He ran to get it.

  She smiled at him. “It’s a wedding present, from me to you, Simmy,” she said. “Open it.”

  He hadn’t been expecting anything. He felt awkward that he had nothing to give her in return, but she knew very well that he had no money. He unwrapped it. Inside the paper was a white cardboard box, which he opened. Nestled in tissue paper, there were a number of bits of fabric that took him a few moments to sort out and identify. Christine was watching his face. There was a starched white collar, that Simon would normally expect to be attached to a shirt, but there was no shirt. It went with a very sparkly gold satin bow tie, not pre-tied, but with two long ends that he had to tie in a bow himself. There were two starched white cuffs, that, again, Simon would normally expect to see on a shirt. They went with some cheap metal cufflinks that were glittery and golden and matched the bow tie. Lastly, there was a G-string: the pouch at the front came up to about his navel, and a strap about an inch wide went up between his buttocks at the back. It was in the same material as the bow tie.

  “Tell me you like it,” Christine said.

  He looked at her, his mouth open.

  “I said, tell me that you like it,” she repeated.

  “But, uh ... “

  “Tell me you like it!” she ordered, her voice sharp with authority.

  He surrendered. “I like it, Christine,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  “And you can’t wait to wear it for me.”

  “And I can’t wait to wear it for you.” He stumbled over the words.

  She sighed heavily. “Look, boy: from now on, the purpose of your life is to please me, and that includes looking good for me; so if - on birthdays and so on - I give you an outfit, and you know it pleases me because I chose it, then that really is a good present because it makes your job easier, and you will be truly grateful for it, and keen to prance around in it for me. And that will be the kind of present you like best. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Christine.”

  “So try it again, with more sincerity.”

  H
e cleared his throat. “Thank you, Christine. It’s lovely. May I go and try it on please?” His cheeks began to colour up, as he contemplated the costume. Christine smiled at him.

  “You may.”

  Simon looked unsure which room to go to: the master bedroom was Christine’s.

  “Yes, yes, my room,” she reassured him. “You’re my hubby, now.”

  He went.

  When he returned, what he was mostly clothed in, was embarrassment. He stood before her in the skimpy get-up, while she made him turn this way and that, to see him from every angle. The plastic chastity cage underneath increased the apparent size of his package a small amount, without looking ridiculous or unnatural. The wedding rings through his nipples matched the colour of the bow tie and the G-string.

  “Don’t pull at it,” she told him. “It’s supposed to ride up at the back.”

  With reluctance he pulled his hands away, letting the strap work its way deep into the crevice between his buttocks.

  “Your belly isn’t as flabby as it was,” she told him approvingly, “but there’s still more to do, on your arms, shoulders: all over, really. I’ll work out an exercise programme for you.”

  He had indeed worked conscientiously at his sit-ups. He reddened at the rare experience of receiving her approval.

  Simon had been wondering who the fourth at dinner would be: there was Christine, Sophie and Margaret - he had been there when she had invited them. The idea that the fourth would be him didn’t really pass through his mind; so he wasn’t too surprised when Susan Denton turned up. He didn’t like her. She looked so sweet, and so attractive, but she would have little huddled whispers and secret winks with Christine, and it was usually after one of these that Christine would come up with some new burden or humiliation for him. His gaze was unfocussed, his attention turned inward, trying to insulate himself from the demeaning experience, as he moved around serving the ladies nibbles before dinner, wearing the next-to-nothing of his costume.

  “So, you’re Hubby Christine Smith, now?” she asked. Ms. Denton was lounging on the sofa, perfectly at ease. She had chosen a short-sleeved evening dress in very dark blue for the occasion. It was dusted with a metallic sparkle that made it seem to shimmer in the light. The hem, scalloped into attractive curves, was mini-skirt height. As she sat back with her legs crossed, her perfect thighs seemed to drag Simon’s gaze.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He kept his eyes downcast, as he offered her another hors d'oeuvre.

  Christine was also looking stunning. She had changed for dinner, and was now wearing a figure-hugging velvet dress in red burgundy. The bodice in particular was very tight, almost like a corset; it pushed her breasts upwards, and the deeply cut sweetheart neckline emphasised her cleavage. On her feet, she was wearing the strappy sandals in the same colour that she had bought when she had gone shopping with Ms. Denton, the first time Simon had done her housework. She swung one foot, idly, as she sat relaxed, watching him serve her guests.

  Simon’s member swelled and tried to come erect, but it was trapped in its cage. It failed, and the pain from the pull on his piercings made his eyes water.

  Ms. Denton looked him up and down.

  “Your belly is flabby,” she said. Actually, both she and Christine were right: he was much more toned than he had been, but in the merciless exposure of his costume, his pale flesh still swelled over the top of the G-string a little bit, like unbaked bread. Simon was conscious of it. Before, he had always been quite pleased with the way he looked, but that was when he was in control, fully dressed, with a jacket or a sweater, so you couldn’t tell whether the clothes were concealing a six-pack or a saggy belly; when he was the one judging, and the women were the ones in thin, tight, and sometimes skimpy, outfits. Now it was him who was on display, and he could not delude himself: the women were entertained more by his humiliation, than by the figure he cut.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You owe it to your wife to look better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Christine, have you planned a workout schedule for him yet?” Ms. Denton asked.

  Christine shrugged. “I was just saying I would, earlier.”

  “Well, I can give you some ideas, if you like.”

  Oh, terrific, Simon thought. The last thing he needed was some sadistic exercise schedule thought up by Susan Denton; but Christine was nodding and looking interested. He sighed to himself.

  Simon served dinner, retreating to the kitchen while the ladies ate each course, to do interim washing up. During the meal, as he moved round the table clearing dishes, both Sophie and Margaret managed surreptitiously to pinch his bottom with their sharp fingernails. He didn’t make a fuss.

  “So,” Sophie said, “Christine, you’ve got two assistants now. I’m so jealous.” She laughed. “How are you going to organise them, for, uh, special duties?”

  Christine looked smug. “Under the desk, you mean? Oh, I think I’ll use them on alternate days. Both Todd and Jake are learning their place very well: I don’t think they’ll be any trouble. In fact, as of this afternoon,” she winked, “I can tell you already that Todd is no trouble at all, and works like an eager puppy.”

  All the ladies laughed delightedly. Sophie shot a glance at Simon, who was serving Margaret with roast potatoes.

  “But what if your hubby objects?” she said, in mock alarm.

  Christine grinned. “Simmy won’t object. Not if he knows what’s good for him. Will you, Simmy?”

  “No, Christine,” he said, miserably. He had only left the office a few hours ago, and already she had replaced him with other males to satisfy her sexual wants.

  “Well,” said Ms. Denton, a little while later, as she finished off the last of her chocolate pudding and put her spoon down, “are you ready?”

  Christine smiled. “I am.”

  “Good.” The ladies stood and moved back towards the lounge area.

  “Leave that now, and come here,” Christine told Simon. He put down the dirty dishes and came to her. They stood facing each other, surrounded by the other women. Ms. Denton handed two cards to Christine, who handed one of them on to Simon.

  “Read the card,” she told him. There was an expectant silence.

  “My name is Simmy Hubby Christine Smith.” he read. “I surrender to you, Christine Joan Smith, my body and my soul. I will love, serve, honour, and obey you, as long as we both shall live.” His voice quavered as he read, but he finished the declaration. Christine beamed at him, and read from her own card.

  “I, Christine Joan Smith, take you, Simmy Hubby Christine Smith, your body and your soul, into my keeping. I will preserve and keep you, guide and direct you, as long as we both shall live.”

  The other ladies applauded, and congratulated Christine.

  “Simmy, kiss your wife’s shoes,” Ms. Denton ordered. Simon knelt; it was clear that spoiling this moment for his wife would go down very badly. Each of Christine’s high-heeled sandals of red leather had three straps running across her foot just behind her toes; as Simon abased himself, he brought his lips into contact with the straps of her right shoe. He took care not to wet her stockinged feet.

  “Not like that,” Christine laughed. She took a step forward with her left leg, so that her foot was alongside his body. Her right foot, that he was kissing, she hooked under his chin, lifting his head up and back. As he sat up, she kept pushing, the toe of her shoe against his throat, urging him backwards, lifting her foot high to follow him as his head came up. He did not resist. Soon he was bending far back. His legs, still folded under him, were feeling the strain. She didn’t stop until his back was on the floor. The tip of her high heel was resting lightly on his chest. She moved her foot up, putting the sole of her shoe against his mouth, pressing the back of his head against the carpet. Her heel was over his throat, brushing his fancy bow-ti
e: but she was being careful: she pressed lightly against his lips.

  ‘Lightly’ is a relative term: what is light pressure as applied by the sole of a shoe can be heavy pressure as experienced by a face. Simon felt that his lips were being bruised against his teeth. He didn’t know if it was expected, but he managed to open his mouth slightly, and extend his tongue to lick the sole of Christine’s shoe. He could see her towering over him, her stocking-clad legs disappearing into the deep shadows under her red velvet dress, everything foreshortened by his extreme position. His knees were burning with the strain of his legs bent double underneath him. His hands were loose at his sides. He looked up at her with mildness, no slightest taint of rebellion in his eyes as he met her gaze.

  She looked pleased, and swapped feet, standing astride him for an instant before placing the sole of her left shoe against his lips. He repeated his act of submission.

  “Good,” she said. She looked round at the other ladies. “Shall we sit down?”

  As they arranged themselves, Simon returned to sitting on his heels. He rubbed his mouth: it felt slightly tender, but no damage done, apparently.

  “Time for your wedding presents, Christine,” said Ms. Denton. She looked expectantly at Sophie and Margaret. Margaret took the hint and started rummaging in her handbag.

  “Ah, here we are;” she said. “I knew I had it here somewhere. This is from Sophie and me.” She presented Christine with a small paper parcel.