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!