Sally Gooden receives her mid-morning coffee from her secretary and settles down for a ten-minute break. The morning has been hectic so far and will be again. She relishes the buzz and thrives when she is at the centre of it, but she equally relishes the short breaks she gets. She needs them too, in order to recharge. And today it gives her a chance to check upon her other passion: her husband Simon.
Simon is at home. He is an executive too at a large bank elsewhere in town, somewhat older and indeed somewhat more senior than she.
She recalls when they met at a reception. She had just started her career, but was ambitious and forward. She looked the part too, dressed in a dashing salmon pink business suit. Her underwear was invisible, but greatly supported her confidence: a pine green, lacy set, with, yes, rather daring, a thong. Suspended tan stockings completed the ensemble. Not shy, she talked to whoever presented himself to her in this male dominated world and who exerted a degree authority. She did not care to mix with losers. The men she talked to will have been amused, puzzled and impressed by this opinionated young woman. It is there that she met Simon, her future husband. He was seven years older and authoritative. Immaculate grey suit, bright blue tie. Aloof, in the final analysis, and a hard, if not unscrupulous businessman. She liked that. Business is business. No, they did not hit it off at this meeting. It was only after a meeting a few weeks later, for business, that he proposed that they take a drink immediately afterwards.
Hence they dated, he a recent divorcee from a brief, dispirited marriage. Was their attraction pure, the connection between like or complementary souls? Was there not also opportunitism, she sensing that she could use him? Probably so. She thought she could learn from him and draw on his strength. Once and only once did she discern an opening to some hidden core: a moment of weakness when he professed to be so tired and stressed and sighed that he really yearned for a different existence, a solitary, calm one. She never forgot and still remembers.
She activates the interface on her laptop to their home's live web cams. Instantly, there he is. The same man, a good few years older of course, but aged well - that is not the issue. What makes him unbelievably different is not that he is nude, stark naked, save a pair of boots, not his ravaged bottom, but his demeanour. His back faces the camera. The two intersecting walls imprison his front. Simon does not radiate vigour. His head leans forward and his shoulders droop. His arms hang powerlessly on his sides and the arch of his back... - sad is the word. Sally notices from the minor flexing of his buttocks that he rocks back and forth slightly. She loves his thighs, especially in juxtaposition to the calves, which are clad in the black leather of his tall Dr. Martens'. Lord knows what he is thinking, the dear. She notices his short, well-kept hair is slightly ruffled. He must have had moments of desperation, but his strength shows. By all accounts he still stands at the very spot she left him at 4 hours ago. She can and will check this of course from the snaps that are recorded every 10 seconds. His feet are still well apart, as she had told him, and by adjusting the camera position she can just make out his restrained penis between his thighs. Mmmm... She lusts after his cock. Just then he turns his head and looks towards the camera, eyes with tears, a broken-down man.
Sally loves Simon. Let there be no doubt, even if she looks down upon him too. The sentiments of a domina are complex. She looks down upon him, but that should be taken literally - she does respect him. His role, however, is radically different: he is bottom, she is top.
This is the first time he has been suffering this punishment and the first time he has worn the boots. These provide the necessary support, as well as render the rest of his shape more exposed than otherwise, if he were fully bare. He will stand there for another 6 hours. Sally was wondering whether he would accept this momentous task but he did. Good man. He had sighed and moaned, thought hard, but had accepted. Too right.
She thinks back to when they purchased the boots. The store was one frequented by teenagers, one that had possibly never seen an adult, except in the role of reluctant parent and payer. Sally had looked at her most provocative and she had had Simon dress like a teenager. She had not told him where they were going or what they were going to do. His embarrassment to be out on the street in teenager gear was compounded by the evident amusement of the other customers and to have to try on the most outlandish models of shoes in the story made him almost nauseous with disgust. Sally was at her most charming and she took her time selecting and having him try on a number of models and sizes. She conferred loudly with the shop attendant and addressed Simon like the embarrassed teenager he was supposed to be. 'Yes, can he really wear these for a long time and stand guard in them without getting tired?' Simon was so overcome that no word she said sunk in. He was merely able to sheepishly do as he was told. Until she was finally satisfied and they left with a pair of 20 hole Dr. Martens boots. A memorable event, unforgettable in the most literal and painful sense. The subsequent visit to a hardware store to purchase what turned out to be a 30 inch length of sturdy garden hose saw him present in body, but absent in mind. She had not told him the purpose, but let him decide what colour it should be. Regardless, he could not have been less interested. He chose green, Sally's favourite colour.
Musing over this and how he now stands in the corner, she considers how all this had started six years ago. They had enjoyed less than a handful of years of marriage then. It had been good. Both worked hard, socialised and entertained famously and played hard in the bedroom too. From what she gathered from conversations with her friends, all from the same social strata, at least half used bondage as part of their play. They too had grown into it, from using it occasionally to virtually using every opportunity when they had had the time to spare. She had enjoyed being tied up and used too, but was amazed by how deeply he appeared to immerse himself when he was bottom. No irony, no suggestions. He WAS submissive. It had been hard for her to believe at first, given his stature at the bank and his authority in general. Then, these six years ago, after dinner, she had taken a breath and said,
'Simon, my love, I am going to say something that might shock you.'
He looked at her relaxed, with a kind smile. When she did not immediately continue, the smile disappeared, but he remained silent. Had he guessed what would come next?
After an endless minute, she resumed. 'Shock you, but not surprise you. I believe we both want the same thing: to stop playing and to be serious about our sex life. I shall be your Mistress from now on, whenever we are alone.'
Another silence. Why did he not speak, he that was so good with words and so in control of situations? She looked into the depths of his eyes and read the very reason: he wanted no say in this matter, which made him the true submissive she had expected.
'Done then, Simon. I am pleased. I now both love and own you. I will be Mistress of your life, inasmuch it does not conflict with what you are being paid to do. You are not to be a nobody. I want a man of power as my submissive. It requires strength to submit.
'You will suffer pain and humiliation. Your cock remains attached to you, but its pleasures will be wholly mine. I will see to that soon.
