"Oh, darling," Tony Sanderson said to his wife, shaking his whiskey glass and rattling the ice cubes. "Do refresh my Scotch for me, Mrs. Sanderson."
"Only too happy to, Father," she said as she happily bustled about getting things ready for his poker friends to arrive.
The Sanderson presented the perfect picture of absolute domestic bliss to all those around them, the very products of American post-war prosperity in the year 1954. Living in a quiet and perfectly maintained suburb in a lovely, sprawling home that literally had a white picket fence out side, the Sandersons seemed to be perfect in all regards. They even had two beautiful young children -- one boy and one girl, of course -- that were as beautiful and intelligent as their parents.
Tony was a high-ranking manager in one of the many factories in town that produced the goods this thriving mid-century economy needed to sustain itself. He was tall and powerfully built, his square jaw seemingly even more pronounced due to the lit pipe he always kept clenched in his mouth; he had somehow even mastered the art of sipping his expensive Scotch while keeping the pipe squarely in his mouth. His raven black hair was always slicked back and well maintained, while his face was ever perfectly shaven. The charcoal-grey suits he wore constantly -- even in the evenings after work or on weekends and holidays -- were perfectly pressed; a wrinkle or stain would never be tolerated on a suit worn by Tony Sanderson. His sartorial perfection was seen to by his devoted and loving wife, Leigh.
Leigh Sanderson was in many ways the female equivalent of her handsome husband. But while he was powerfully built and ever in a severe business suit, she was blonde, soft, smiling, buxom, and always to be seen in one gorgeous sun dress after another. She would never rise from bed in the morning without first putting on her choker pearl necklace Tony had given her some years earlier, just as she would ever be wearing her apron at home and her lip stick to the grocery store. Together, the Sandersons presented quite an imposing figure.
Like so many other husbands did at the time, Tony felt it was entirely his responsibility to manage all the household affairs as well as to make sure his wife performed her duties to his liking. In this era when men were almost always in dominant control of the home, the Sandersons took this cultural norm to a whole new level. Tony would daily make lists for his wife, dictating to her not only what to do but also the manner in which it was to be done. He kept a separate infraction list, one on which he kept track of Leigh's failings and mistakes. These would then lead later to punishments for her.
So it was that this perfect mid-century American couple enjoyed a quiet Friday evening with the children at Grandmother's. Tony sat at the dinner table smoking his pipe and reading the business section of the newspaper, while Leigh did all she could to make certain that her house was, first and foremost, pleasing to Tony, and secondly appropriate to entertain their guests.
"Hmm," Tony said as he read the paper, speaking around his pipe. "Says here by 1965 the Commies might catch up to us on productive capabilities. I should think not, Mrs. Sanderson!" Ever since the pair was married Tony had called her Mrs. Sanderson.
"Oh, my!" she said in horror. "Do you really think we can do better than they, Father? They seem so big and powerful." And likewise, ever since the day of those nuptials she had called him Father.
"Mrs. Sanderson," Tony said, looking harshly and speaking sternly to his wife. "Have you ever known me to be wrong about such things before?"
"Oh, no, Father...I just...it's..."
"Sounds like perhaps Mrs. Sanderson will need some reminding of who the Father here is."
Leigh hung her head, yet smiled coyly to herself as she did so. "Yes, Father. I think perhaps I do."
At just that moment the door bell rang and the couple knew their poker game guests had arrived. The guests always traveled together and so Tony opened the door to greet each with a powerful handshake and a swift slap on the arm, together with kind words and offers to indulge with him in his finest Scotch. These were men that looked much like he did, with well-managed hair, clean shaven faces, and wearing expensive suits. Two of the men -- Joe and Harry -- were fellow managers with Tony at the factory and played golf with him on a regular basis. Another man named Bill was a regular golf buddy of the other three, and the last man -- named Frank -- was a manager at a competing factory, but served on the Board of Deacons with Tony at their church and so had earned a place on the monthly game of Friday night poker.
The men all courteously greeted Leigh, shaking her hand gently and smiling politely as she talked about how mortified she was because her home was still such a wreck. They made small talk about their work and their wives, all the while remaining proper and perfect gentlemen. However, each man followed her movements closely and hungrily with their eyes, peering at her over the rim of their lifted Scotch glasses much the way a lion would peer through the long savannah grass at something tasty upon which it wanted to pounce.
As Leigh finished bringing the drinks and snacks down to the basement den where Tony had his poker table set up and getting other things arranged for that night's game, then men stood around the foyer smoking, drinking Scotch, and discussing the issues of the day.
"Say, Tony," Frank asked him, lighting a cigarette. "Do you think you might be able to help me get into the country club? I think it might be a good business move for me."
"Why, certainly Frank. I'm playing golf with the member committee chair on Wednesday; I'll put in a good word for you then."
"So, does anyone think the Giants have a chance against the Indians?" Bill asked the group.
"Oh, I doubt it," said Joe. "They haven't won anything since...what was it? Something like '33 or '34?"
"I'm fairly certain the Indians are unstoppable, and I'd wager ten bucks on it," said Harry.
"Really?" said Bill. "Well, I will bet you --"
This thoroughly manly conversation was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Leigh, who said, "Gentlemen, the den is ready for the game." This otherwise innocuous statement was made significant by the fact that Leigh's hair was now in a tight braided pony tail, her pearl choker necklace had been replaced with a thick leather collar that had a silver ring protruding from it, and her apron was the only stitch of clothing covering her soft skin.
Acting as the gracious hostess, the group of men was led by Leigh down into the comfortable, finished basement the Sandersons had in their house. The four guests watched her perfect, bare ass sway lusciously as she led them to the den; Leigh was perfectly well aware they did and grew wetter with every step knowing their cocks were even now getting hard in their wool suit pants.
The basement was of a standard arrangement, with a single large carpeted room in which there was a poker table waiting, cards and chips at the ready, snacks on tables to the side. The group, however, walked right past the poker table to a room at the end of the basement, one which was obviously a later addition to the house. The door to this room was made of stout, thick wood and was securely locked.
Tony removed a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the door. Then, turning to the group of men, he said, "Gentlemen, welcome once again to the den."
He opened the door to reveal what appeared to be a combination bedroom and sex dungeon in one. The walls were painted a deep red, and there was a bed with black silk sheets on the far wall. All along the walls were displayed every device and tool made to inflict delightfully pleasurable pain and every implement of control: riding crops, whips, canes of various sizes, paddles, spreader bars, and scourges. There were chains of various thicknesses and lengths securely attached to the walls, eye hooks for various bindings to be attached, and a chain and leather sling in the corner. On one wall was a black Saint Andrew's cross with restraint points at various places and on the opposite wall a space devoted entirely for the special ropes Tony used in his practice of Kinbaku he had learned while stationed in Japan. A strappado arrangement hung near the center of the room, and off the side sat a throne-like chair.
In the very center of the room was a table, similar to the type of padded examination table seen in any doctor's office, except this one was covered with black leather and had thick leather restraints attached to it at different places along the sides. It was to this table that Leigh now obediently went as the guests started to get out of their business suits, stripping off layer after layer of clothes to reveal their naked bodies.
Tony, however, sat on the throne-like chair as he smoked his pipe and took from his breast pocket a small leather notebook.
"Mrs. Sanderson," he said sternly. "According to my list you were asked on Tuesday, September 7th to polish my golf trophies. And yet when I checked I noticed the one from '52 had a very clear smudge on it. A smudge, Mrs. Sanderson? What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I have nothing to say, Father. It was an inexcusable mistake." Leigh's voice trembled and she shook slightly as she stood in front of the table, hands clasped before her, head hung low. To an outside and uninformed observer she would have appeared terrified; she was, in fact, thrilled and excited beyond description, and the shaking was from wildly delightful expectation.
