Diana Claiborne was born very wealthy. This does not mean she was spoiled. When she was little she adored her father, who adored her more and wanted to give her anything her whims dictated. What she wanted at the time was dolls, lots of them, all living together in an elaborate doll house three stories tall and filling most of her playroom, with ten bedrooms, each bedroom with a sitting room attached, some of them with a kitchen off the sitting room, all built according to her specifications. Then she would pair and re-pair the boy dolls and the girl dolls, so that different doll couples could spend their nights in different bedrooms, as she had noticed her daddy and mommy sometimes did. Sometimes she would pair up two dolls of the same gender for the evening, especially if they had recently spent a night with the same doll of the other gender, because she liked to imagine what they would then say and do with each other. She was much more precocious than spoiled. She was just beginning to elaborate this game when her father died in a hunting accident in Africa. Her mother had always preferred being wealthy to being a mother, and decided to devote the rest of her life to being courted for her body, her money, or both, by handsome younger men who adored the life style she could confer on them until they grew tiresome. So Diana's intellectual and moral education was left to her doll house and her imagination, neither of which anyone ever investigated, and to her governesses, tutors, and teachers, the housemistress of her private school, visiting church ministers, and a lesbian housemaid who taught her to lick and be licked insatiably even before she reached adolescence and her first period. Her mother instructed all of these worthy people to provide Diana whatever material things she needed when she needed them, but to withhold all other desireable things until special gift-giving occasions came around, or else to grant them as special rewards for exceptional performance. So Diana very early learned several truths about herself and the world. One was that she was extremely clever. She could easily convince many people, including herself, that whatever she desired was something material she needed, and therefore something she should have. This was true of ponies, dresses, or sharing doll coupling games with the gardener's young son, who saw no point to them but could at least verify for her which boy dolls were anatomically correct and which were not. Another truth was that holidays like Christmas and her birthday came but once a year, not often enough to matter. But she quickly learned that with persistence, wit, and careful planning, she could perform something exceptional almost any time. This truth soon became self-evident, whether she was show-jumping horses, learning to sail, solving problems in Euclidean Geometry, writing essays on Julius Caesar, or at age fourteen, seducing the near-seventeen year old Captain of a nearby school's football team into relieving her of the burden of her virginity. She accomplished this only one week after she successfully blackmailed the housemistress of her private boarding school into nightly oral service of her cunt for the remainded of the school year. These last two exceptional performances carried their own rewards with them, of course. The football captain fucked her to her first solid orgasms, and the housemistress kissed and licked her to more fluid orgasms. But Diana knew she had earned those rewards and deserved them. Getting the housemistress to cooperate was easy. Her early experience with the family housemaid had taught Diana how to recognize a female eye that looked too attentive when young girls undressed themselves. Such, though repressed and perhaps even unnoticed, was the housemistress's eye. So in the middle of the night Diana sent a new younger student to sleep in the housemistress's bed after a bad dream, and waited fifteen minutes to be sure the young girl was in place. Then she broke into the housemistress's room to catch them in flagrante. That is, she switched on the light and revealed each of them asleep in the bed, each pretty much unaware of the other's presence, and clicked her empty snapshot camera at them a few times as they woke up. She then sent the younger girl back to her own bed, closed the door, climbed into the bed herself, and informed the dumbfounded housemistress of the price of her silence about this lamentable attempted seduction of a young child. To emphasize that she was serious, Diana insisted that the housemistress get out of bed and kneel on the floor between her legs, while Diana herself lolled back on the pillows with her legs spread apart over the bed's edge, her toes just touching the floor. The housemistress's face looked up over Diana's crotch, outraged but unable to think of a remedy. So Diana had her spend the night in that position, and dozed between tongue lickings. By morning the housemistress was well trained to begin by licking the length of Diana's slit, then to nibble Diana's clit gently with her lips and front teeth, while occasionally flicking it or trying to penetrate Diana's still virginal vagina with her tongue. She was instructed to keep doing these things until Diana had orgasmed. Then she was permitted to sleep briefly, her face pillowed on Diana's crotch, until Diana awoke and asked her to resume. After a few nights of this, the housemistress was grateful when Diana allowed her to kneel all night on a pillow. By then she had learned how to bring Diana off quickly and expertly, because her adolescent mistress required that high standard, and also because it increased the lag time for sleeping between the three or four servicings Diana required nightly. She learned to awaken and begin again each time Diana flexed her toes and thrust her mound up into the housemistresses sleeping face. By the end of the week the housemistress was resuming on signal, Diana was amused to notice, in her sleep, and was scarcely disturbed by her new nightly posture and duties. The young football Captain needed different incentives, of course, and Diana provided them. Diana wanted him to take her virginity as a service to her, not for himself, and to feel properly privileged and humble about it. It was not a trophy he could be allowed to dare to boast about even to himself. Diana was by now a slim and beautiful maiden, with budded breasts just noticeable, and delicate lips she usually touched with pink lipstick. One afternoon, while watching a scrimmage at the nearby boys' private school, she seemed to slip on the grass. Immediately the team was deserted while the Captain raced to her assistance. They spoke together on the sidelines just long enough to arrange an illicit meeting that night, each sneaking out of a dormitory and across the common playing field to a nearby grove of trees. That night they were together just long enough for Diana to get laid three times, the first one painful and the second problematic, but the third the justly fabled delight of a girlhood fantasy that for once lived up to its promise, with shrieking multiple orgasms that no way resembled moaning and shuddering her housemistress could coax from her. Boys were better than girls for some things. Then as she came down from heaven to face her partner and saw a foolishly self-satisfied adolescent expression on his face, she thanked him, then began to discuss charges of actual and statutory rape she might bring against him. This brought the Captain to his knees in front of her, and as she directed him he was soon leaning way back on his elbows, his head tilted back so she could straddle his face, eagerly sucking up from her pussy her hymeneal blood, her generous juices, and his own abundant semen. This gave her an interesting idea. So for the rest of the year, like it or not her Captain had a steady date with her, for an hour or so each night of five consecutive nights each month, to use his prick and his cum as a douche to loosen her day's accumulation of clotted menstrual blood and mucous, then to use his mouth to cleanse her thoroughly and return her vagina to its customary sweetness. The much-used housemistress was happy to take those nights off and sleep in her own bed. In this way the Captain learned that no one ever owned Diana, and that his highest function was to please her. By the time he graduated from Prep School she had trained him to feel helpless before any woman who knew her own mind, able to conceive of sex only as a service he should provide without recompense or reward. When Diana passed him on to a girl she knew at the College he attended that Fall, the girl reported back that he was too grovelling to be worth her trouble, and that she had donated him to her sorority for general purpose uses. Once she herself reached College age, Diana found that it was much more amusing to control her sexual partners by manipulating their desires than by direct entrapment or blackmail. By the time her formal higher education ended she had refined her techniques in many ways. Her initial discovery that men were easy to self-entrap was accidental. Early one summer she went to a Tennis Camp to improve her game. She arranged the first day to meet the handsomest of the young instructors, a slim and pale blonde Adonis, for lunch and a mid-day swim on his next day off. On that day off they went to a secluded pond he knew of, by a clearing deep in the woods. He then committed the folly of trying to talk her into swimming with him topless as they changed into their swimsuits. This, he hoped secretly, might lead them in turn to bottomless pleasures. Diana reappeared from behind a tree where she had been changing, wearing a pretty flowered bikini, expecting to be complimented. Instead the young Adonis eyed her with a calculating smile and swung into action. "Take that top off, little girl," he urged in an overripe voice. "You'll love feeling free and natural with the wind on your skin. Trust me!" Diana felt insulted by this crude gambit. Annoyed, she challenged him instead to spend the afternoon with her swimming and sun bathing topped, as she was, to learn for himself how girls sacrifice comfort to maintain respectability. He agreed to placate her, and reached for his shirt to put it back on. No, she told him, fair's fair, they should each have the same kind of top. So she went back behind the tree and emerged holding her black lace brassiere, and offered it to him. Of course he balked. But Diana then turned icy with contempt and made a few references to his apparently fragile manhood, taunting him whether she had uncovered in him some shameful secret desire to wear women's clothing. He denied he had ever felt any such thing, a bra being a bra, nothing more, and relented. She helped him slip the straps over his shoulders and fastened the flimsy lace thing herself tightly behind his back, where he couldn't reach the hooks. He looked a little shamefaced, but she stood back and took his measure with her eyes, noted his pectoral muscles delicately swathed in her lace cups, smiled, and reached to touch one of his nipples through the material. "Just like mine," she said. They both laughed, and he relaxed. Things seemed promising, he thought, if a little kinky. Then for the next six hours they played delightedly, in the water and out under the clear blue sky and hot sun, nibbling on their sandwiches and occasionally on each other, and dozing under the sky. Diana's skin was well tanned from a Spring vacation in Bermuda, so she didn't bother with sun block. He had brought a bottle, but somehow felt it would be wimpy to spread it on himself when she wasn't using any, so he set it aside. He altogether forgot about his pale skin as he explored and stroked and kissed the selected areas of Diana's body she permitted him access, her neck and shoulders, and the front parts of her thighs, and one breast. But Diana didn't forget. She saw to it he remained in the sun the whole time, and turned him toward it like a basting chicken on a spit. His skin turned pink, then a deeper pink. By mid-afternoon the air turned cooler, and Diana suggested they think about returning. She went back behind her tree to change back into her t shirt and shorts, and reappeared bra-less, pretending to be surprised and amused that he was still wearing his damp bathing trunks and was still struggling to reach the triple bra hooks in the center of his back. She unhooked it for him and stood back to admire her handiwork. Her Adonis was now deep pink except where the bra had been. The outlines of thin white straps rose over each shoulder and a bra band was branded in white across his back. On his chest appeared the white scalloped outline of two bra cups, one for each pectoral muscle bulge, his nipples in the center of each surrounded by a filigree of pink and white skin in near-perfect reproduction of the bra's delicate lace rosettes. He was appalled when he saw this tattoo, but Diana was delighted. She told him it would last the summer, and would turn eventually from pink to tan, but would never blend with the rest of his chest no matter how much he tried to tan the bra-whitened areas. She told him it served him right. She then suggested that the next time they dated she would provide him with matching lace panties to swim and sun bathe in, so he could have a matched set. He quickly learned what Diana already knew, that for the next six weeks he was hers. She knew no normal American male would ever want it known he had worn a brassiere even for the noble and manly purpose of seducing a girl who had challenged him to wear one. He took to swimming in a T-shirt even on the hottest of days, for fear of being seen in his suntan bra. Sometimes when they were perspiring freely on the Tennis Court and there were others listening Diana would call to him to take his shirt off so he could feel natural and free, and feel the wind on his skin. She added different items to his daytime underwear wardrobe. A week later they went swimming together again, and this time she insisted he wear the promised matched pair of black panties with lace rosettes instead of his swimming trunks, worn all day in the sun along with the same black bra worn to deepen its tan lines and her grip on him -- this was the price she exacted from him for letting him kiss her between the legs that day. Then, to finally let him fuck her, she bought him a panty-for-each-day-of-the-week set and took possession herself of all his shorts and briefs, so he'd have no choice but to wear them. Then she spot checked, that on Tuesdays for example he was wearing the cute powder blue flowered bikini emproidered "It's Tuesday, so Kiss Me!" and on Sunday, the pink tap pants embroidered "Every Sunday Tell Me how Pretty I Am!" A few weeks later, since she already held his reputation in her hand, she had no problem dressing him up in a padded bra, a T shirt reading "Secretly I'm a Princess," cute shorts, strappy sandals, lipstick, and mascara, to go shopping with her in a nearby mall. She showed up for their date dressed in an oversized pair of men's jeans and a workshirt, with her hair brushed boy style to one side. Then she challenged him whether he was man enough to wear a complete cross-gendered outfit the way she was, and he agreed before he realized she didn't mean him to wear another pair of jeans and another workshirt. He never did work out that their mutual daring was radically unequal, women in pants being a common sight, and men in skirts somewhat more rare. But he knew by then never to question her sense of fair play. So he let her feminize his appearance, and he tripped and strolled his way through the mall as requested, taking short steps, periodically turning to her and clasping his hands together in excitement, as ordered, a stiff erection bulging the front of his flaring girlie shorts the whole time. She took due note that a summer with his manhood being teased by a girl had in fact brought out an effeminate streak in him, and that his effeminacy turned him on. It amused her that this was so. That night she allowed him a sixty-nine position in their lovemaking, telling him this was what women do, gently, kissing and nibbling his penis for the first time, but as if it were a clit, mouthing and licking only the head. He went wild. His lovemaking that night had a desperate, even frenzied element in it, as if he were trying to relocate some lost male center of himself. She helped him to find it again by mounting him and then, before she let him pump her from below her in throes of helpless eroticism, she refreshed his lipstick and mascara, fondled his breasts, and called him her darling girl. She returned home from Tennis Camp with an essential truth of far great value than never to waste your second service by lobbing the ball, namely that men will endure any amount of humiliation in order to avoid being humiliated, that some even crave humiliation because they feel guilty about their own desires. Find what men are ashamed of, she took due note, and get them habituated to it, and they are yours. For the remainder of her College years she exchanged confessions of secret shame with each new date, her own confession usually of some trivial occasion in her childhood, theirs whatever embarrassing desire or event she could then talk them into enacting or re-enacting, and they were hers. A few years out of college she came into her inheritance, and found that for the rest of her life she could afford nearly any amusement she fancied. She kept herself busy running several scientific, charitable, and environmental foundations, attempting to spend her share of her father's money on good causes faster than it earned even more of itself, and for the most part failing. While the militant feminist movement argued confrontationally for greater access to male power and privilege, she acquired and redistributed much more male power and privilege much more seductively. To do her bit for the feminist movement she seduced other women's husbands, then honed to a knife edge the agonies of guilt those husbands felt for betraying their wives, then informed their wives that she was handing over to them a powerful weapon for destroying their husbands, the news of their husband's infidelities. She then helped the wives do whatever they wished with these hapless males. The least imaginative wanted and got a divorce, and others equally unimaginative wanted and got reconciliation based on the old status quo. But some others looked to convert their formerly macho males into various kinds of wimps under their thumbs. Some wanted to enslave them to do their least bidding, to lick their shoes, or their spittle, or their lovers' pricks while these were still sticky with mixed cum, or to lick their own assholes while still ripe from doing a dump. Some in revenge wanted to fuck five other men while their unfaithful husbands watched helplessly, and some wanted five other men to fuck their husbands into an effeminacy to be endured as an act of contrition, while their wives watched and gloated. These things could all be arranged, and Diana arranged them. But after a while she began to run out of husbands. It was time, she thought, to find one of her own. ***************** Then Gene appeared as if from nowhere. It was at a summer lawn party in the Hamptons, and the hostess, her college roomate from years back, grinned broadly at Diana as she brought them together. "Diana, this is Gene. Gene, Diana. You two have a great deal in common. You both like power. You're both movers and shakers, and you both know how to make men do whatever you want!" And she turned away, laughing uproariously at her little joke Diana's first impression of Gene was of overwhelming maleness. A vigorous self-confidence poured out of him. Gene reached out and took slow possession of Diana's hand as if it were a continent, as if he were already having his way with her. He squeezed it gently, irresistibly, and then he partly opened his own hand so she could withdraw it if she wanted. She didn't. She couldn't. Amazed, she looked at what was formerly her hand, thin and long and pale in his large relaxed grip, her red fingernails touching his wrist. He closed his other hand over it, so it was now a kind of bird in a cage. Then she looked up at him, and saw heavy black brows hanging over his ironically amused eyes, a dark, handsome jaw already in need of another shave, full lips carved into a smile like those found on Greek statues of athletes, a large head capped by dense waves of black hair, and wide shoulders spreading his cashmere sports jacket like a thin sweater. She saw he was also studying her intently for longer than was necessary, and decided that this was his standard ploy with girls who interested him. Nevertheless, it worked. Instinctively, she covered his two hands with her own other hand, caressed his briefly with her fingertips, then surrounded and gripped it. She forced herself to look into his eyes with the devastating force and assurance she reserved usually only for only very important potential donors to her various charities. They said nothing for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes and minds. He flinched first. He looked down at his hand encased in both of hers and said, "I'd better hand these back to you." But he couldn't. She now held him as he had held her. She waited a split second longer, until he knew this, then released his hand and finally pulled her other hand free. His own suddenly felt empty. Then as if without thinking, she reached up and touched the dense blue shadow on his chin with her fingertips, testing for herself how rough an hour or so's growth of beard could feel. A faint uncertainty crossed his face. Then satisfaction. Good, she thought. I bet that self-confident handshake gets lots of girls. But now I've got him, and he'll have to hang it out to dry. Diana took his arm and wrapped both of hers around it, twined her fingers into his, and gently turned him back toward their hostess. "Now that we've met, we're leaving," she told her not-altogether-astonished old friend. The genuinely astonished man on her arm was too busy replaying in his head what he had just heard to object to it, or to question her. So they left together. Two months later they were married, on the same lawn, with most of the same people attending. Gene was exactly what Diana had wanted. He too had independent means, but he was also an architect whose partner kept busy designing town houses and country estates for friends. This got him out of the house on those mornings when an early golf game didn't. He was comfortable with himself, uncomplicated, forceful when he wanted to be, easily taking charge when no real thought was required, and inclined to do whatever she wanted whenever a situation really needed thinking through. He had an elaborate office in town where his partner, a workoholic named Michael, and various draftsmen and engineers drew up plans for things and modified other things, a whole floor in a downtown building, and he went there every morning. He'd supplied the initial capital outlay, and there was little more for him to do there. While Michael often worked late into the evening, Gene as often spent afternoons playing a few sets or rounds with friends who also had more money than ambition. She loved showing off such a hunk of man when they went to parties, concerts, or dinners, his dark good looks and manly proportions a worshipful and attentive backdrop for her own slim elegance. Wherever they went and no matter what circle she joined, whatever the animated talk in any of the fashionable living rooms and country clubs they frequented, he was always in attendance upon her, bringing her drinks, looking thoughtful when she seemed to defer to him for an opinion, and then looking pleased when she articulated it and called it his. She was the envy of all the women in her set. Within a few years, of course, Diana was bored down to her bones. Her work consisted of doling out large sums of money, then seeing they were well-spent, and this required many of her skills and all of her knowledge. But after years of being courted by worthy causes she found no thrills, flattery, or challenges in the prospect of more of the same old same old. It wasn't dull work. In fact it was rather challenging, even intricate in the way it required that she bring people of many different temperaments and interests together, to try to locate their mutual interest in conceiving and completing one or another project. But it was no longer absorbing. When some glitch or crisis arrived by telephone, she knew how to deal with it almost mindlessly almost before she had set down the receiver. Her husband became part of this pattern of repetitive days. He was supposedly a hard-driving, energetic man of achievement, but she knew she had married him for his manageability, and because at her age one married, and because he came on so very much male, with his heavy beard, golf, and tennis, with his eye gleaming as his calculations trounced the oppositiuon. At first she was excited to think of him as a trophy, handsome, successful at whatever he attempted, wealthy enough in his own right to be uninterested in her money, the most eligible bachelor to cross into her social set in many years. But he had little wit, and no conversation. He had a direct approach to people that worked or didn't work, while her approaches were always devious and self-amusing, and always worked. He was admirable, she concluded reluctantly, but like all men sooner or later boring. Even sex with him, with his muscular shoulders and arms -- he lifted weights several times each week -- was soon boring. She had to acknowledge he was well hung, with one of the prettier pricks she had seen, not too long but fat as a sapling tree trunk, and with tennis balls hanging beneath where others had golf balls at most. A few hours after she led him away from the garden party where they had just met, and often after they were married, she was impaled and stuffed by his direct linear approach: kiss, embrace, enter her, pump vigorously, come, see that she comes too, and pull out. Then turn and go to sleep. Nothing more. Nothing else. Fun at first, but in all respects too easy. Dull. She returned to the one word that repeated itself in her head after each sexual bout with him, despite his heavy meat. Boring. She found herself daydreaming about old lovers, the ones she had cajoled or intimidated into doing whatever she wanted, especially those she had actually re-made into odd or compulsive sexual creatures, by twisting the shapes of their desires to accommodate her more bizarre fantasies. But beginning an affair with someone else, sex of any kind with anyone else, was impossible now. He was her husband, her partner. He had been faithful to her, thus far, she was sure of it. She owed him her fidelity. Moreover, he was due respect. She knew she could manipulate him. She'd never failed to work her will with any man. But then she would lose all respect for him as a partner in marriage. Then what was merely a boring marriage would really become a prison. She would find herself married to her own puppet, and would need to end it. And she didn't want to end it. He was everything she had married him for, and she was the envy of everyone else because she had married him. She liked things that way. She intended to stay married to him, and to grow old with him. She never wanted to marry any other man. But she needed more than he could provide, and other kinds of things than he could provide. Gradually, one way to deal with her predicament revealed itself to her. She remembered that when she was a little girl, and bored, she had taken refuge in her own imagination, absorbed herself altogether into the life of her dollhouse. She had created a complete, fully equipped household, with a daddy and a mommy and brothers and sisters and relatives and lovers, none of which she herself had in fact, and servants of various kinds, which she had abundantly. Each was a doll ready to do her bidding, and to change and become someone else when her whims changed, or when she ran out of ideas for whatever they were. She remembered that as time wore on and she grew older and saw the possibilities, she would test out new ideas on them, putting daddy into bed with a servant girl, for example, or the handyman, or putting an uncle into intimate embrace with one of the pre-pubescent sons or daughters of the house, or putting mommy into a menage a quatre. Everyone there did what she wanted. That had been fun. So Diana decided to play house with her husband. As her husband he was fully qualified. In fact, when she decided to play dollhouse with him, she decided to bring in other people to play various other dolls along with her and her husband, different dolls for different purposes, or dolls who would willingly play the different roles she required of them. The game would be more fun if Gene didn't know that's what was going on. He himself would be, in a way, a doll. But not a doll to be manipulated. One who was treated with respect. One who freely chose, of his own desires, what roles he wished to play. So, she concluded, if spice were to return to her life, she had to accomplish several things. One was to return to her own uses her main instrument in the manipulation of other people, her pussy, with its various implied promises to people who desired access to it. But she could not give other men access to it, or even the promise of access, unless her husband first gave some other woman access to his prick. She would not be the first to breach their marriage contract, though she knew she would certainly be the second. It was inescapable -- she had to see to it that her husband, of his own free will, fucked some other woman. But a woman of her own choosing, and under conditions of her own choosing, with consquences of her own choosing. She would never risk his running off with someone not of her choosing. Or running off with anyone. Moreover, what she hoped for from her husband's liaison, apart from a necessary justification for fucking other men if she wished or found it expedient, was that some other woman would teach him how to make robust, passionate, and imaginative love to her, so he'd be available to his own wife as a lover she could indeed live with for the rest of her life, perhaps even monogamously. He was not that now. Not at all. Not yet. And she certainly wasn't going to condescend to teach him. One evening, drifting asleep after direct, linear lovemaking with her husband, Diana suddenly snapped wide awake. For the first time in her life, she realized suddenly that someone within her own orbit was living a life she knew nothing about, out of her control! And that someone was her husband! The clue was unmistakable, and she was dumbfounded that she had missed it. Not fifteen minutes earlier, instead of coming in her, then maintaining his ardor and erection until she came (even if his prick started to soften, it was still more than ample for her purposes), he had waited until her orgasm approached, climbed its peak, and then leaped off in full flight. Then, when her gasping had become breathing again, he had asked her "May I come now, please?" And only after she had clutched him tightly to prolong her afterglow, her arms around his neck and her legs around his thighs, and only after she had called out to him in a tense whisper, "Oh, yes, oh, yes!", only then did he explode into her with his own orgasm. Not his usual silent lovemaking at all, with his own satisfaction preceding hers. He attended to hers first. He had been exceptionally considerate this time. More than considerate. He hadn't even asked her "Close?", checking to see if he could play out his own end game and not leave her too far behind, as if for some obscure reason there were doubts whether she'd play out hers at all, as if those doubts ever mattered to him at such a moment anyhow. He knew that she'd just gone over the top. His words were "*May* I come now?" He had asked her permission, and added, as if he were not in charge of his own body, "please." The bastard was fucking some other woman! Not just any other woman, but one who was playing domination/submission games with him, who was training him not to come without her permission! Apparently, at the peak of his own desire for sexual release he had gotten his two women confused -- for the moment, he had actually forgotten which bed he was in. Diana knew the signs, and this one was unmistakeable. In college and occasionally afterward she had trained men to play bondage games that interested or amused her, many such men. An early stage was to control their orgasms -- desperate to cum, they could be conditioned to do anything, to agree to anything, in exchange for a long-sought release. Especially if they had been wrought up to extremes of erotic tension. Then their cumming could be made conditional on many other amusing things. That was how she had conditioned all of her men to kinkiness of some sort. It interested her, seeing how far she could move men from wherever she found them. Impeccably neat gentlemen always ended up her toilets, grateful she allowed them to cum at all, but never until they had opened their mouths wide to her drink her piss or eat her shit direct from its source. Prudes ended up male whores, doing basic training in an actual whorehouse for several weeks before being sent into the streets to find and satisfy customers with specified peculiarities, as if they were participating in some bizarre scavenger hunt, all to please her. For the rest of their lives, some of her former partners would need to be stretched or whipped or humiliated to the extremities of physical or mental discomfort before they could climax. Almost by whim she had brought one man, over only a few months, from a satyr's readiness to ejaculate anywhere on no notice, to numb inability to feel anything unless it was associated with pain, and to require near-blinding agony in order to ejaculate. She then obliged him when he begged her by squeezing his scrotum with all her strength. But then he went out of control and became something of a torture junkie on his own. He mutilated himself while masturbating, as she could see afterward. Then one evening he spent hours pleading with her to crush his testicles with a hammer. Respectfully, on his knees, his forehead pressed to the floor and the hammer offered with both outstretched hands, not daring to look at her, tears streaming from his eyes. And he hadn't been able to hear her when she ordered him to stop it. It was kind of sweet, his dedication to her. But she had realized they were no longer compatible. He had become someone else's problem, not hers, and she stopped seeing him. Gene on the other hand was her problem, till death did them part. A few nights later, Diana confirmed her suspicion. Just as he was rising to a feverish explosion and his loins were pumping ferociously, utterly out of control, straining into her while his dick swelled into a massive discharge, she said in a low, carefully modulated voice, "Not this time" and then waited to see what would happen. There was no waiting at all. Gene immediately withdrew from her, fell to licking her to bring her off, and then despite what had to be a hideous case of blueballs, all that overheated cum still bottled up inside him, he hugged her and went to sleep without complaint. Diana lay there furious, but even more, filled with wild surmise. Then she found that all in all, she was delighted. She felt her life suddenly again grow rich, purposive. She knew she had to identify this woman, whoever she was, and confront her, perhaps defeat her in a direct contest of wills with her husband as the prize, and then secure her husband against any such onslaughts ever again. Here was a project worthy of her attention! She closed her eyes and smiled. Within a minute she was sound asleep. The next day she went to her office and Gene went to his. By the time Gene reappeared on the streets for lunch he was equipped, without knowing it, with two faithful observers who never lost sight of him and followed him everywhere, one an unimpressive young man with thinning hair and an abstracted manner, a computer geek for some local broker, it seemed, and the other a middle-aged woman too plain to tempt strangers, a little plump, but well-enough dressed to be able to shop or take tea anywhere. He never noticed that he was being followed. Meanwhile, Gene's firm advertised for a secretary and for a landscape draftsman, and a reputable employment agency sent over two candidates that same afternoon. Each chatted with the staff for hours about what kind of place this was to work in, what the bosses were like, and each made a luncheon appointment for the next day with an especially compatible new acquaintance, and each arranged to take in a movie with another new acquaintance, so they could share the real poop about things. The secretary was eventually hired and the draftsman wasn't. It didn't matter. By the end of the following week it seemed that they both had to leave town to tend sick relatives, and neither was seen again. Their real work was finished, successfully accomplished. They reported in, and by the end of the following week Diana had the complete story, with photographs and a videotape, everything she had wanted to know and some things she didn't. It seems that before his marriage Gene had routinely skimmed the secretarial staff and filing clerks for sexual favors, that a number had been hired with that understanding, and that some of these were still there. These sometimes still met with him privately in exchange for the gifts Gene gave them (all agreed he was a gentleman). But the gifts were not for additional sexual favors. They were for their silence about his earlier sexual harrassment of them. One had especially missed having his meat in her mouth, or cunt, or ass a few times each week. In her way she loved him. So a few months earlier, just about when Diana was realizing how bored she was with her husband, this especially affectionate filing clerk had flashed a naked ass at Gene from under her mini, and five minutes later was again enjoying the feel of his huge cock stuffing her quim, seated on his lap with her back to him, her hands braced on his desk against his thrusting into her ass. Not in her pussy, because Gene did want to remain a faithful husband it seemed, but up her cute rear end, and then into her mouth to be cleaned off by her prehensile tongue, and then down her throat to be rinsed off. This had become a regular thing between them, until only a month ago. A month ago, it seems, Gene's partner's wife had walked into Gene's office unannounced to ask him about an investment and had nearly fallen over Gene and the filing clerk humping their way around the room doggy style. The filing clerk had leaped up and immediately fled, flashing the bottoms of her cheeks below her miniskirt all the way back to her cubicle, to the amusement of various office staff and one structural engineer, who dated her that very night and had been seen steadily with her ever since. The partner's wife (the investigators' report had her name as "Nicola" though Diana knew it was "Nicole -- close enough she mused, if everything else is accurate), had then shut Gene's office door and they had been alone for a half hour. Then both had emerged, Gene looking chastened and following her through the office, down the hall, into the elevator, and into her car, where he had sat with his head hunched down a little, looking straight ahead while she drove off. That was probably the day he began spending an afternoon or two a week at her house, according to Nicole's neighbors, though they saw nothing improper about this because Nicole's husband Michael usually arrived with him, and the two of them went in together. A newsboy claimed that he once saw the two of them on their knees together in the doorway working their way awkwardly into the front hall while some shadowy person in thigh boots reached behind them to close the door, He had decided that that was not a good moment for him to collect the household's two months of arrears for newspaper delivery. There was, the report went on, a room in Nicole and Michael's house known among some respectable couples, the investigators were careful to point out, as a "dungeon." In fact it was the former game room on the ground floor, where various pipes, electrical lines, hooks, links, chains, and mechanical platforms had been installed, of a kind common where couples practice what the investigators called "Domination, Submission, Bondage, and Sadie's Masochism." Among consenting adults, the report assured Diana, these things happened. It was not unlawful. It was fairly clear what had happened, and Diana only scanned the remaining pages. She was amused to read one secretary's comment that Gene's partner had returned from two weeks in Florida with his neck "clean" while all the rest of him was sun-tanned -- to Diana it was obvious that Michael had spent the vacation in a slave collar and probably naked, and she recalled affectionately her games with that young tennis instructor so many summers ago. Nicole's husband was her sex-slave, probably had been for years -- let's see, they last renovated their house at least five years ago, she thought. Gene had tried to remain true to his wife in his fashion, but not too successfully. He was being blackmailed by some of his former harem girls. And now Nicole also had him, let's say, intimidated into becoming her second sex slave. Diana knew that however commanding his appearance at the Country Club or various Architects Forums, Gene was a natural submissive. That was why she had married him -- he was safe, and could always be brought back into line if he strayed. She had wanted an equal partner in marriage, a man she could respect yet control in all crucial ways. Maybe she had been a little schoolgirlish about her expectations, she thought. She hadn't wanted to come on dominant to him and order him about. Yet, maybe she had been unfair to him in this. Maybe she had deprived him of something he needed. Nicole now had his body whether he wanted to go with her or not, but Diana knew that eventually she'd have his soul as well as his body. His wife had to rescue him. It wasn't too late. Probably he hadn't gone very far with her yet -- enough to get to like some of the discipline, but not yet into the heavy stuff, Diana thought, certainly not yet into total obedience to Nicole's least whim. Obviously, she used his cock whenever she chose, in whatever ways she chose, the way less-capable women use their dildoes. That was already a clear violation of his obligations to her, the unequivocal justification her own liberty needed. Nicole could easily lead him that way, Diana realized, quickly re-assessing what she knew of her husband's partner's wife's personality. As a domme she'd be formidable. But it wasn't too late. And it certainly was interesting. Not at all boring. Diana skimmed the photos quickly and stowed them with the report and the unscreened video in her private safe in her study. She knew what the video contained, maybe some murky long shots of two naked slaves seen through a dining room or kitchen window, and Gene's comings and goings with dates and times duly noted. Maybe it would be useful later. But she had to think without distraction. By the next morning Diana had all her ducks in a row. Above all her husband had to be extricated from this double blackmail by the secretaries and by Nicole, and for the rest of their lives together -- and Diana still meant to grow old with him -- safeguarded against anything similar ever happening again. His architectural partnership had to be preserved, so Gene could retain his dignity and his self-respect, and have something to do days while Diana looked after her own affairs a little more freely than in the past. All four of them had reputations among their friends that had to remain impeccable, beyond any shadow of gossip or tawdry suspicion. She picked up the phone and called Nicole, suggesting a lunch where they could chat about charitable works, and membership on the country club's governing board, and "other things." "It's been so long since we've seen each other, " Diana told Nicole. "And we share so many concerns. We have to talk." "Of course," said Nicole, who knew never to underestimate Diana, and who instantly concluded that Diana somehow had come to know everything. It wasn't from Gene, she felt sure, because Gene had lately been showing up at her doorstep with a certain...er...eagerness, a spring in his step she had been planning to begin converting into far darker desires. But no matter now. "Our husbands are partners. What concerns them concerns us, I'm sure." "Wonderful, Nicole," Diana said. "Longfellow's for lunch then? Tomorrow? Around one? If you have anything else on for afterward, maybe we can be free by two-thirty. Or maybe the two of us can do together whatever you're planning to do. We'll talk about that too. Bye now." "Bye, Diana. Together. Looking forward to it." What a pleasure to talk to a really intelligent woman. Diana liked Nicole. She had understood immediately what was happening, Diana thought, and she had made me an offer, and I told her my terms, and she agreed to them. No need to spell out anything. This should be fun! But just in case, Diana then called her office manager, a carefully chosen unobtrusive title for the woman who looked after Diana's huge holdings and multitudinous projects. She was really the Executive Director of "Diana Incorporated," and she earned big money appropriate to her huge responsibility. Diana gave her a few instructions about reshuffling some major holdings and stock options, freeing up cash she needed that couldn't be traced. They briefly discussed certain ways some of the architectural firm's less-productive but better-paid bimbo employees could be transferred to other cities or downsized altogether, and Diana provided their names, those employees who had extorted promotions and bonuses in exchange for their silence about Gene's premarital exploits. Then she hung up. She began thinking about what she would wear tomorrow to her lunch at Longfellow's. Her mauve silk jacquard? No, she decided. Black leather would be more suitable. That's what Nicole would be wearing. Then that night, even though the details remained to be worked out with Nicole, she set her plan in motion. She needed a patsy. She dressed herself simply in a loose, cream-colored silk blouse and black mid-calf skirt, went to one of the better singles bars in town, looked around, then waited in a shadowy corner for the right person to walk in. It might take a day or two to find someone who might do, she realized, perhaps much longer. She'd be wasting a lot of time looking for him, but this wasn't anything she could delegate. She had only a few months to get him ready. And suddenly, there he was, thin, shy, probably new in town and knew no one, still relatively young, with a full head of hair down past his collar neatly clipped into a ponytail. Refined gestures, well-enough educated no doubt. He was eyeing different couples sideways, as if looking directly at them might intrude. Doesn't he know people come to places like this to meet other people, she thought? Well, she said to herself, if he were bolder he would never do. She watched him for a while, to be sure that he was alone, and the more she saw of his uncertain gestures, his never quite breaking into conversations, the more perfect he seemed. She walked over to the bar and fitted herself onto a stool just to his left. He didn't notice. He seemed to be staring wistfully at a dark girl to his right, who was wearing a green sequinned dress and was obviously unhappy with her date. Time to make her move. "I notice you always order the same wine," Diana said, though she had only seen him order the glass of Chardonnay that was still mostly in front of him. "Don't you ever feel venturesome?" The young man took a moment to register that he was being addressed. He turned, and his shocked expression was obvious and promising. He couldn't believe that a beautiful woman was looking straight at him from no more than a foot away! His eyes drifted down across her blouse, and then some impulse toward propriety pulled then up again to her face. "I try different things until I find what I like, then I stick with it," he replied. Diana couldn't resist smiling, even though it might scare him away. It was such an awkward reply, but in this singles bar world of racy double entendres it did try to follow her lead. He was perfect! 1
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