The flogger lay on the mantelpiece of Rex and Helen's home, over the electric fire place that was dormant for now because October had, so far, been quite mild. It was a thing of art, the leather on the handle woven to make blue, silver, and black squares, with a turk's head knot at the end and another just before the falls. Twenty-four navy blue tails, just a little under eighteen inches long, lay mostly flaccid on the white of the mantelpiece, but a couple of tails hung limply downward.
Made of elk leather, purchasing it had made Helen feel like a bad vegetarian. And it just lay there, unused, day after day. Was it her imagination, or had its position moved a little, as if it had a life of its own and was squirming, with glacial slowness, for attention? That was definitely her imagination. She was projecting her own feelings onto an inanimate object, for she yearned to feel the tails lashing across her back, the handle held by her husband, Rex.
It had served one purpose, at least.
When he had come home a few weeks ago, she had knelt in the middle of the living room, with the flogger, newly arrived, in her lap. She had worn teal lingerie, a matching set of demi-bra, thong, garter belt, and stockings. As the door opened, she lifted the flogger, holding it in both hands, offering up the handle as if a worshiper of some dark god, the tails cascading to a point just above her left thigh.
Her heart beat faster, when he took it from her hand.
"Master," she'd breathed.
And he'd picked her up, too, and carried her to the bedroom, practically ripping her thong off until she told him just how much it had cost, then easing it off her legs. He didn't bother with the rest; it wasn't in the way. He stripped off his own clothes and mounted her, his cock hard as stone, entering her with one hard thrust. He fucked her hard and fast, ignoring her clit ruthlessly, and holding her wrists down so that she could not use her hands to seek her own pleasure.
"Mine," he growled.
"Yes!" she answered. She craved his domination, and while it did not arrive that night in the form of leather slashing against her skin, she had it as he held her down and fucked her hard. She had it when he spent his seed inside her, and when he rolled over and pulled her hair and forced her mouth down on his cock, covered with her juices and some of his. He made her taste her own arousal, and did not let her stop until she had cleaned every last inch of his manhood with her tongue and lips.
Then, and then only, was she allowed to finger herself while he watched. "Tell me when you're at the edge and hold it."
"Yes," she said. She managed to resist saying
Yes, Master
, because he had told her to use the "M-word" only when she thought he needed reminding he was in charge, and he didn't need reminding now, although sometimes she slipped up and said it just because she felt it, deeply. "Now," she said a moment later, obediently freezing in place, wondering why she let anyone, even him, stop her from the release she so badly needed.
He reached over, touched her clit, and she came like a rocket.
So yes, the flogger had served that purpose, that night. And while it sat there on the mantelpiece, unused, she had not wanted for sex, or for rough sex, or even for domination.
But still, each time she passed it she felt a sense of sadness. It looked forlorn, and sometimes, so did she, despite all she had.
At nine on Friday morning, just as she arrived at work, Helen received a text from her husband, who was probably just about to leave for work himself. Her workday started an hour before his, which meant that it also ended an hour earlier.
Tonight, wear your teal lingerie set, and a dress with a hem that will not quite reach your stocking tops.
She smiled.
There will be a test,
said the second text.
Her heart thudded. A request for lingerie and a sexy dress she was used to. A test? Hadn't she proven that she would submit, when he'd had her blow his best friend, and then masturbate in front of both men? He'd said she'd passed, with flying colors.
Then she remembered what she'd said: "Damn. I was looking forward to more tests."
She had, quite literally, asked for it. Once again, she wondered what sort of foolish woman asks for the sort of things she wanted. But her body gave her the answer. The anxious beating of her heart might not be entirely pleasant, but the tingling between her thighs was compensation of a sort. Of course, at that hour there was nothing to do about the tingling.
Meeting in five minutes.
She texted.
Now I'm so frustrated.
All she got in response to that was a smiley face.
Bastard.
She thought of texting him with that, too, but he'd probably just send her another damn smiley face.
At eleven, he sent her a devil smiley, just in case she'd gotten distracted by her actual job from thinking about the "test." She wasn't required to respond, so she didn't.
He did it again at one. Knowing him, he'd probably figured a way to send one automatically every two hours. This time she did text him.
Bastard.
As predicted, she got another smiley face, this one of the open-mouthed laughing variety.
Eventually she headed home. The crush of human bodies in the subway was fragrant, although not strongly so, and she wondered if anyone could make out her fear, or her arousal, in the mix of scents, especially as the car began to empty before her stop.
She had an hour to prepare - for what? She showered, and blow-dried her long, honey-blonde hair in the mirror, and brushed it repeatedly until she thought its waves were right and the frizzles mostly gone. She applied a garish shade of red lipstick she knew Rex liked - perhaps it wasn't so garish after all, but it was certainly bright and drew attention to her mouth, which would probably have his cock in it at some point. She looked forward to leaving red rings on his shaft.
Or perhaps someone else's, like last time. He might be planning to whore her out.
Pat-pat-pat-pat went her heart, and she had to take deep breaths to steady her hand as she put on eyeliner.
She painted her nails teal to match her underwear.
Despite her shower, by the time she slid the thong over the three-quarter inch wide suspenders of her garter belt she was sticky between her legs. She didn't even know what was turning her on, because she had no idea what was going to happen.
Maybe, she thought, that's what's turning me on.
She tried on various dresses, and found one that worked, with a good inch and half gap of thigh between hem and the lace at the top of her stockings. Other than that, it was fairly modest, with barely a hint of cleavage. Rex liked cleavage. But he'd given instructions, and she was going to do her best to follow them; no dress she owned was shorter.
She'd barely settled on it when the door opened and she ran to it.
"Hello, slave girl," he said, rather than the "Hi, Helen," he usually greeted her with.
"Hello, Master," she said.
"You'll need heels. The four inch ones."
"I don't know how long I'll last in them."
"As long as I tell you to."
Alright then. He didn't have to feel them, he only had to look at them. It seemed ridiculous for him to be in charge of that, but she supposed she wanted him to be.
He took her out for dinner, at a fancy Chinese place. She was conscious of people staring at her legs. Not just the gap of flesh, but the suspenders, the blatant advertisement that she was wearing insensible heels with insensible underwear. They would deduce that she was almost certainly going to be fucking the man she was with. And why not? He was her husband, after all. When they'd gotten married, hadn't everyone looked up at them fully aware of what a honeymoon night would consist of?
