AUTHOR'S NOTE: I removed the first six parts of this series due to some fairly emotional negative feedback. Against my better judgment, I've decided to put them back in response to a lot of personal messages I've received. Once the first six are approved, I will continue the series until the end.
If you haven't read these yet, you should know that the story is about a highly intelligent woman who manipulates her husband into a strict and harsh (or, as has been argued by my critics, abusive) femdom relationship in order to satisfy her ever-growing sadistic urges. If this type of story isn't your cup of tea, I strongly discourage you from reading it.
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I stood, naked, with my back against the 6X6 post in the center of the room. The leather cuffs around my wrists were connected by a snap hook through a steel eye-bolt, which was screwed deeply into the wood on opposite side. Struggling against the cuffs was futile, of course. And I couldn't hope to budge the 6X6, which was secured to the subfloor and ceiling joists by a half-dozen 5/8-inch carriage bolts.
I knew this detail because I'd supervised its installation, just as I'd watched over every aspect of the renovation of the space where I now found myself.
The previous owner of my Kalorama townhouse had turned the spacious basement into a luxurious recreation area. Wet bar, home theatre, the works. His pool table alone had cost more than most people's cars. After I bought the home, I replaced all this with a recreation area more suited to my own hobbies: a well-appointed dungeon, where I could fulfill virtually any sexual fantasy that might come to mind, as I enjoyed the pleasures provided to me by my numerous submissive partners.
Some people who enjoy BDSM are drawn to the squalid. They like the look and feel of filthy concrete floors, dripping drain pipes, and rusty bedsprings. Not me. My tastes run to thick fur rugs, polished wooden furnishings, and satin sheets.
The British define a gentleman as someone who is never rude, except on purpose. My attitude to kink was similar. I inflicted pain and degradation precisely as I intended. No more, no less. And when I'd prepared a woman to receive it -- bound, exposed, helpless -- then I wanted her focused on what I was about to do to her, not on some minor discomfort resulting from the way I'd tied her up.
So, even in my current predicament, I found myself admiring my surroundings. The large St. Andrew's cross of solid oak. The steel suspension cable, whose remote-controlled electric winch had allowed me easily to control the tension on my submissives, as they squirmed under my ministrations. And, of course, the king-sized canopy bed, with its top-end mattress, eiderdown duvet, and sandalwood frame. As I've always said, the ideal bed is as comfortable for sleeping in, as it is convenient for restraining a submissive in preparation for a proper fucking.
All this was visible in the firelight coming from the large gas fireplace behind me.
The fireplace itself I could not see, since my wife, Ellen, had secured my neck tightly to the post with a three-inch wide strap. Its leather was stiff, and it caused a choking sensation if I tried to swivel my head from side to side. I was, though, able to nod slightly. This was necessary, because she had stuffed a pair of her dirty panties into my mouth, which meant that nodding was the only way I could respond to her questions and commands.
Ellen's back was to me. She was dressed all in black, in a mid-length, sleeveless cocktail dress of expensive-looking crepe, with silk stockings and spike-heeled boots, which rose not quite to her knee. The dress wrapped around her neck, exposing the flawless skin of her back and shoulders, and its slim lines accentuated her perfect ass and legs. I'd never seen her in this outfit before, so I guessed that she had gone shopping in the two hours that she left me alone to wait for her.
She stood before a large table a few feet away. At her orders, I had displayed there all the instruments of bondage and chastisement that I'd collected over the years. She selected a thin rattan cane and flicked it through the air a few times, the flexible wood producing an audible whoosh with each stroke. She laid down the cane and picked up a heretic's fork, testing the sharpness of its spikes against the palm of her hand.
She was in absolutely no hurry. She ignored me, as she carefully examined each item in turn, wordlessly demonstrating her ability and willingness to use it. I recalled the times when I had tested her limits, and I imagined that she was contemplating some sort of terrible vengeance.
In the time that she was gone, I'd become aware that the corners of the post were digging into the skin between my shoulder blades. Worse, a bead of sweat had run down my spine to the small of my back, and I'd struggled in frustration, unable to rid myself of the irritating tickle.
But in Ellen's presence, these sensations faded, replaced by an incredible desire to touch my wife's body, and a fear of what she was planning to do to me. Both of these sensations were heightened when she finally turned around. Desire, when I saw that she was braless, and that the cocktail dress perfectly complemented her magnificent breasts. Fear, when I saw that in her right hand, she held an eighteen-inch baton with two prongs at one end.
It was my cattle prod.
I've always believed that the single most important characteristic of a good sexual dominant is empathy. If I remained attuned to my submissive's deepest feelings -- her pleasure, her pain, her yearnings, her fears -- then I could manipulate them to maximize the effect of our sessions on her psyche and ensure her complete satisfaction. To that end, I'd experimented on myself extensively in the privacy of my dungeon, and I understood intimately the sensation produced by every instrument on the table.
