“My husband won’t be needing credit cards in the near future. I’m cutting him off.”
The silence on the other end suggests that the security company representative, his Runyonesque reference to the ‘perp’ hinting at an earlier career in crime detection, has not often interacted with a woman of Dominance. I suppose in his experience it is more often the husband abridging the credit status of the wife.
With the scene under control, I return my attention to my deafened, sightless, naked and erect husband. He has no idea that his tormentress has departed and no idea that I have returned early from my business trip.
Well, he wanted sensory deprivation...and he shall have it, I think to myself, stepping to the living room bar and casually pouring a glass of wine. And that’s where the final piece of the uncomplicated puzzle falls into place. A weekly entertainment guide, offered free in various local bars and restaurants, lies open to the classified advertising section. Various salacious ads fill three columns. Circled in heavy black ink I spy...‘Role play by Mistress Samantha’. A list of her offered scenarios follows, along with a phone number.
So Ted gets lonely and horny and calls a pro, I conclude as I sip my wine.
Well, such behavior is not to be tolerated. But how do you punish a man who enjoys being punished?
It is Wednesday evening. I am not expected to return to the office until Monday so I have ample time to answer my own question. And dear reader, this is not the first transgression. There is a pattern showing a thirst for discipline...one, which I have labored to quell, but have obviously not quenched.
While finishing my wine, I make myself comfortable, removing my staid gray wool skirt and jacket. Undergarments are next and the floor to ceiling mirror on the back of the closet door reveals the reflection of a woman who, though in her mid thirties and with a flourishing legal career, has steadfastly visited the gym three times per week. At my height of nearly six feet, it is difficult to appear chic and svelte. But sans clothing, I have an intriguing combination of muscling and feminine curves that some men find alluring...particularly submissives like Ted.
Ted’s unconventional infidelity cannot be due to any physical oversight on my part. And though I must travel from time to time, he certainly is the beneficiary of my attention on weekends. Hanging on the door next to the reflecting mirror are his collar and leash, leading to a closet full of other toys for Ted...including his favorite ball and the accompanying crop I use to enliven our little game.
‘We won’t be playing fetch for a while Ted,’ I am tempted to suggest. But I remain silent...still contemplating the situation.
So what to do? First satisfy my own needs. In the Dalton household such reign supreme.
A dresser drawer yields a soft leather parachute, handmade and carefully measured to neatly encircle Ted’s scrotum. His testicles are quickly encapsulated. I release his ankle cuffs from his wrist cuffs then connect the parachute to his ankles. In shortening the strap as much as possible, Ted will slowly torment himself, the muscles of his cramping legs relentlessly tugging on his precious gonads.
He must be totally confused...wondering how ‘Mistress Samantha’ has come to replicate the slow and painful position in which his dear wife places him for so many hours on weekends.
I check the stereo. The second compact disk on a stack of ten is playing. He will continue to be deafened while I relax and devise a plan...though gazing at Ted’s helpless body and stimulated manhood raises my own level of concupiscence.
Next I take a bath. I need to relieve stress. That’s why I rushed home, engaging in the irony of the workaholic, pressuring myself to work harder and faster in order to maximize recreation time.
Turning down the lights and soaking in soothing heat with a second glass of Chardonnay, my mind opens. I ponder the awkward events of my arrival and recall a lecture from years earlier, before I acquired Ted, delivered by a noted psychologist at a meeting of the American Society for Behavior Modification.
“‘Submission’ is a narcotic. Narcotics have good effects. Narcotics have bad effects. The Dominant woman must recognize the difference and endeavor to bask in the good and deter the bad.”
I initially found the observation unworthy of deliberation. Now it gives rise to much reflection. On this evening Ted was rendered completely helpless by a woman unknown. Had I not arrived unexpectedly, I cannot help but wonder what else his Mistress for hire may have purloined...or worse...what could have been done to Ted. He could have endangered himself in suffering under the influence of the ‘bad effect of the narcotic’.
Well, Ted, henceforth the intoxicating influence of your submission will only give rise to the good.
I finish my wine. The bath water cools and I don’t bother warming it. Despite the alcohol and heat my own lust rises. There is a naked and subordinate male lying on my bed and, though abbreviated, the week has been trying.
I dry myself and proceed to the bedroom. The dresser drawer has more toys than just Ted’s parachute. I find my harness. Again custom made, comfortably designed to circle my waist without pinching, the soft, fur lined leather fits better than the finest silk panties...and is more arousing. A very carefully selected feminine insertion is attached to the sturdy flap covering my mons. As I pull the straps back between my thighs, it slips nicely between my labia. I must smile. It took many weeks and three or four revisions before I successfully engineered the proper shape...not only internally filling my vagina and pressuring my ‘G’ spot, but also crafting a little spindle to tantalize my clitoris. Sometimes I think it would be gratifying just to walk about the apartment...dismissing Ted and his needs...and soak up the pleasure afforded by the cleverly molded piece of rubber. But alas, I have responsibilities...one of which is to ensure, as the learned psychologist suggested, that the bad effect of the narcotic of submission is deterred.
The straps thread over my buttocks and I buckle them to the back of the harness. Nice…firm…snug. My penetrating vaginal insertion is held perfectly in place.
I proceed to the kitchen while feeling a girl’s best friend knead my vaginal walls. With the wine and the deviant sensation of power I feel in seeing Ted lying so vulnerable to my whims, my nipples crinkle. When I bend before the freezer to load a bowl with crushed ice, the spindle diddles my clitoris and I feel wetness.
I cannot help but wonder if Ted thinks his ‘Mistress Samantha’ is still present and that she is bestowing him with much uncompensated time. I smile with the thought that a submissive male could so compliment himself...actually thinking that a professional dominatrix would choose to idle away hours with him instead of more lucratively spending such with the next john.
Well...such is the male ego...despite the submissive psyche.
With the supply of ice procured, I add water to make a freezing slush then return and remove Ted’s parachute. It’s now time for my fun. I did not fly back early just to imbibe wine and sit in a tub. It’s my turn and there is nothing more relaxing for a woman of Dominance than to have at her complete disposal a thoroughly submissive male. And with Ted’s opprobrious behavior...my motivation greatly outweighs any possible level of compassion.
It was he who chose to give up the contents of his wallet for a few moments of erotic thrill...and with a woman of questionable integrity. Now comes the real price.
Over the years I have stretched Ted’s scrotum well beyond the norm. Term it a Dominant woman’s prerogative. I’ll shape his anatomy as I choose.
So I separate his ankle cuffs and clip one to an eye hook on the bottom left of the bed and the other to the bottom right...nicely parting his thighs and exposing that well lubricated anus. Then I slip the bowl of frigid slush under his lower belly and plunk his plums into the freezing mixture. I feel giddy as he helplessly shudders with the shock. The intense coldness causes the low hanging bag of flesh to begin to shrink and turn blue, heightening my feeling of power.
‘Did you ask Mistress Samantha for that?’ I am tempted to ask.
&n
bsp; But alas, vocalizing such a teasing rejoinder would give myself away. Thus I remain silent and watch him squirm...his proud penis shriveling. I ignore the moans under the pillowcase. Ice is uncomfortable but not harmful.
Then I recall that the American Society for Behavior Modification has a help-line; a phone number where a Dominant woman can derive assistance.
Realizing that I have Ted at my complete mercy for four more days...and during that time he may never fully know who is tormenting him...I decide it may be wise to seek input. As I search for the number I cannot help but think of the analogy given at the lecture. Therefore I know exactly how to introduce the counselor to my situation...‘I have a friend who is under the influence of a very idiosyncratic narcotic...what should I do?’
I make the call and have a pleasant and enlightening conversation. It is a long-term problem which requires a long-term solution, the counselor suggests. But what to do?
“Are you still an associate member of the society Mrs. Dalton?”
I am and so indicate...the annual dues being a surprisingly paltry sum.
“Can you hold for a moment? Let me check on something for you.”
She returns after several minutes while I watch Ted’s genitals absorb the numbing coldness.
“We have an opening at ‘Constancia Island’. Are you familiar with the facility?”
I recall the psychologist referring to it years ago at the lecture I attended. The counselor jogs my memory...yes, the island near Aruba long owned by the incredibly wealthy Esterhoven family, now operated under the guidance of the strict Lady Constance.
She quotes me numbers. The daily fee would be less than staying at an expensive resort...though unlike a vacation facility Ted would be forced to work.
“There is a onetime upfront fee to arrange for his transportation. You understand that complete discretion is expensive.”
As an attorney I am well aware of that, but even the upfront fee is palatable. So I agree. I provide credit information...one of my cards, of course. Ted no longer has any.
“Timing is important, Mrs. Dalton. And we’ve found it best to operate late in the evening. There is a daily flight from Kennedy departing at 5:00 a.m. I can have a removal team there at 1:00 a.m.”
A late night removal team...how wonderfully clandestine. Like something out of a Robert Ludlum action novel.
I look at my watch. It’s just after 10:00 p.m. I have just a few hours left with Ted and with the counselor’s description of Constancia Island and the activities there, my mischievous free hand has been toying with the flap covering my mons. The wetness has turned to a river.
Chapter Two
Mrs. Dalton
I slip my hand into the freezing slush and cruelly pinch Ted’s scrotal flesh between the sharp nails of thumb and forefinger. There is no discernible reaction. He is appropriately numbed. With my level of disgust over his conduct I certainly would not want him to experience pleasure.
The bottom draw of the dresser displays a collection of formidable dildos. Ted purchased the modest and smooth ones...hardly used. The larger more exotic ones I procured through catalogues and furtive trips to some of the more sordid shops of Greenwich Village.
Since I won’t be seeing Ted for a while I want him to have a memorable last evening. I select the largest...one with ridges, bumps, and furrows, which serve to properly pressure that curious male gland...the prostate. I don’t recall using this one before, I think to myself.
Then I realize I should take precaution against the unknown. I plan to have a child at some point. And since I do not permit prosaic copulation, I have been collecting Ted’s sperm for a while, masturbating him into a little collection bag and freezing it for later insemination. One more sperm sample can’t hurt. The described therapeutic activities on Constancia Island can be severe. The counselor suggested that the removal team will arrive with releases to be signed. As an attorney, I fully understand the underlying meaning.
So I remove the bowl of ice and retrieve one last collection bag. I secure it over the tip of Ted’s penis with a bag tie. He can’t feel much and even though it may abrade the sensitive prepuce of his manhood it will not interfere with my efforts.
My hands shake in anticipation as I attach the huge hideously shaped dildo to my harness...at the flap covering my mons. Just jostling it with my fingers causes the insertion within me to pleasantly friction my vagina.
This is why I truncated the Chicago depositions and rushed through two airports. The well-lubricated rear opening of my submissive husband beckons me. My subterfuge will soon end. Ted knows my touch, particularly when I give his backside a thorough reaming...and tonight I will be unyielding. Fortunately for him, the difficulty he will have walking in the morning will be moot. On Constancia Island there will not be many places for him to go.
I push Ted further toward the bottom of the bed. His knees touch the carpet. I lift his arms...cuffed together behind his back at the wrists. This forces him to arch his back and present his shining well greased puckered rectum, ensuring easy and thorough penetration. When I press with the tip of the firm rubber cylinder, my male whore pushes open his sphincter to accept the nasty dildo. So nicely trained, I think to myself. So submissive. So eager to please. Yet such a slut. You’re going to be quite the attraction on Constancia Island, Ted.
My sodomization begins. It is slow. Methodical. Painful to the sensitive skin around his rectum. Absolutely benumbing to the desensitized genitals. In and out my muscled thighs work. I feel my powerful buttocks clench as the dildo so nicely causes to tremble the well placed insertion within me. I squeeze off a mild vaginal orgasm. My clitoris hardens and presses against the spindle absorbing the motion as I thrust...withdraw...thrust...withdraw.
Yes...Ted...I am back.
After dozens of gratifying thrusts, I withdraw completely. I look down. I have entrapped his penis, forced to flaccidity by the numbing ice, against the bed covers pointing downward. Thus the clear plastic collection bag lies in plain sight between his thighs. I am heartened to see that amongst an impressive accumulation of clear prostatic fluid there is the beginning of a flow of whiteness. Sperm. Ted is being milked of his essence. By a woman. A Dominant woman. One, who is choosing to take...whether or not Ted chooses to offer.
And he cannot feel a thing. No ecstatic relief for my satirical subordinate. He has had his last climax. Orgasms are for me...the Dominant woman who owns his body and will soon own his soul.
I press the faux penis to his rectum and resume. When sodomizing Ted, I have never determined the limit to the number of clitoral and vaginal orgasms. The constraining factor has always been the strength in my thighs and legs...which unfortunately for Ted is considerable.
My watch reads 11:15. Such a delightful way to while away the time before Ted’s fateful trip. In, out, in, out...Ted grunts. He probably does not realize it...the headphones muffling his own voice.
Sometimes he squeezes which serves to add a luscious level of resistance and cause my insertion to brusquely friction my vaginal walls. He can be so thoughtful.
But alas all things must end.
I lift his arms high and bend to push my head and neck under them. I can feel his leather wrist cuffs on my back. My breasts press against his shoulder blades. This position serves to better pinion him and leave my hands free. For the coup de grace I reach around his torso and grasp each of his nipples. If he had any doubts as to who was forcefully sodomizing him before, all now leave. This is how I finish every strap-on session, working his nipples between my fingernails as I plunge as deeply as possible. He begins to shriek in pain...but he also nicely squeezes his cheeks, adding a wonderful degree of resistance, which my muscled thighs so easily overcome. But not before tossing off orgasm after orgasm.
Ted, you have been marvelously fucked and have not felt anything except pain. How delightfully Dominant.
Exhausted, I step back. I feel good. The dildo exits his anus with the sound of an amusing plop. The collectio
n bag is full of his ooze. I seal it and toss it into the freezer with the others. As stated, it can’t hurt to have one more sample.
I bask in the glow of complete gratification and a degree of revenge...with one final glass of Chardonnay. Ted reenters his world of deprived senses. His little rectum must be on fire yet I know with the unfelt hormonal release he also experiences a glow...though comparatively diminished to mine.
The counselor suggested visiting him on Constancia Island but only after proper regimentation. I will have to find a local boy toy during his sojourn.
Two can play this game, Ted.
The house phone rings. The turncoat doorman announces the arrival of the Society’s team.
“I hope Mr. Dalton is alright,” he utters sheepishly.
I don a robe. Minutes later when I open my apartment door, I understand why he expressed concern. Two women enter. One is pushing a stretcher draped with a white sheet. It is not often that I look eyeball to eyeball with other females. The white uniformed girls are huge and though young carry themselves with an impressive air of confidence.
“We’re from the Society, Mrs. Dalton. We move about under the guise of emergency medical workers as you can see.”
I just smile and nod.
“Your husband?”
I point to the bedroom where Ted remains in sensory deprivation. I follow the girl of some 22 or 23 years and am comforted when she expresses no shock or outrage.
“Well this should be simple enough. We’ll need to do some paper work, take some measurements and get your signature on a few forms. Do you wish to say good bye to him? If not we can take him just like that...as long as you’re willing to part with the headphones.”
The Constancia Compendium Page 30