The exaggerated reaction of the doorman should have been the first clue.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dalton. You’re back!”
My experience as an attorney has taught me that rather tautological greetings are hasty substitutes for what cannot be said. I just nod and smile and continue to the elevator. I have indeed returned early but have had an exhausting three days in Chicago...rushing through five scheduled days of depositions just so I could get home early.
But as the elevator doors glide shut, I see my aphoristic friend pick up the house phone, though I did not hear it ring. He’s making a hurried call. Another clue.
So when I open my apartment door, call out to my husband and the smell of cigarettes greets my nose, this third clue is not surprising, but does dispirit me. Husband Ted and I do not smoke.
I immediately head for the bedroom...obviously the most common setting for matrimonial misconduct. The door is ajar. The only light is dim, emanating from a small lamp on a dresser, usually used more as a night light than for illumination. The smell of tobacco becomes stronger. A cigarette smolders in the sole apartment ashtray, normally propped on the living room coffee table for occasional guests.
And there lies Ted. Naked…hog-tied…hooded by a pillowcase...extremely erect.
I can hear faint strains of music and see that a wire runs from under the makeshift hood to the stereo. The bulges in the pillowcase indicate that beneath he’s wearing headphones. So he cannot see me, and he cannot hear me.
The scene would shock most wives, I suppose. But Ted has spent many weekends trussed like a turkey or wearing frilly effeminate clothing at my behest. I Dominate...he submits...that’s the way it is at the Dalton household. But what is not the way is for him to indulge in such escapades without me.
It’s impossible to place oneself in such bondage, yet there is no one else present. A quick trip to the kitchen shows that the service door leading to the back stairway, normally dead bolted, is unlatched and open. The glistening fingers of a well-lubricated latex glove are draped over the brim of the garbage can, evidencing the presence of the co-conspirator and what was an unveiled hasty departure. I close and latch the door then return to the bedroom.
Turning on more lights I find that, as with the glove, Ted’s buttocks also glisten. My priapic but submissive husband has been getting fisted and with his display of tumescence, I must assume he has been denied climatic relief. With my unexpected arrival, a rather kinky form of coitus interruptus has occurred.
Then I see Ted’s wallet on the dresser. It is spread open and a cursory examination shows that it is empty. The cash can go as far as I am concerned. Serves him right. But the missing credit cards present potential long-term problems...including my own credit rating.
There’s no point in phoning the doorman to curtail the exit of the thieving co-conspirator. Though I am sure his warning call was well intended, ostensibly akin to a cheer from the guys in the bleachers in support of marital bliss, it gave the perpetrator an insurmountable head start. Instead, one simple phone call to a security service serves to quickly cancel the half dozen cards. I smile smugly in having enlisted the service 18 months ago after losing my purse. When the representative asks if I want replacement cards sent, I smile more broadly and decline.
“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, hand made 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.
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 one time up front 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 up front 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.