Note to reader: My last entry, "One Glass of Wine?" was not very good. That was partly because it was hastily prepared in fantasy mode. This version, "One Glass of Wine, Revisited" (without a question mark) is, I think, better and here is why. The first was fiction, with things added that I would like to see done to me. But that is not up to me, so in this second version I have told the truth. It is non-fiction.
I am David. Sandy is my wife.
David heard the TV faintly in the background of his breathing and his heartbeat. He sat awkwardly on the leather sofa, arms restrained. All his nutritional sustenance was controlled by Sandy, but even that was in doubt for tonight, as his mouth was plugged with a padded leather gag which pressed his tongue to the bottom of his mouth. She had locked it to the tight leather hood that had been laced and locked upon his head, removing most of his hearing. He knew that any whining or complaining through his gag would result in loss of his sight as well, so he remained silent. A thick leather posture collar held his head high and rigid and a padded blindfold, locked on one side only, hung with menace beside his cheek. When he moved, tiny luggage locks jangled and kept him aware of his prison. Finally, the anal plug pushed against his panty girdle in futile attempts to extricate itself, at the same time pushing backward relentlessly against his prostate, generating confusing feelings of both shame and ecstasy.
In short, he was in heaven.
He floated in sub-space, a chemical cocktail of restraint, submission, humiliation, some pain, and the incessant ache of sexual denial. His was a box of nothing and yet had a fullness of total self-awareness, a box of everything. His skin tingled with the sparking of life itself in a primordial soup. It carried him away.
He twisted himself on the anal plug and sucked his breath in quickly with want as it massaged him only enough to keep him in total arousal. It was an evil thing, but it was not the most evil. Although he was unable to touch himself because of the nature of his bondage, his hands were actually superfluous anyway, as he had been locked in a stainless steel male chastity device for 26 days since he had last been allowed to have an orgasm. It was a Lori 2b device and the pre-measurement had been perfect prior to ordering the custom device. Even when not aroused his penis filled the cage up, so when there were sexual stimuli, it tried to grow, spring upward and outward, but there was nowhere to go. First barrier, the cage itself; second the girdle.
This was total domination and defeat of the male gender by his wife Sandy. He realized that his story, if told to others in a short story format, would not only be silly and unbelievable, but would actually require a novel. And yet he lived it. It was real. And he had lived it for a very long time. And he had consented to it.
The progression tonight had been relentless. How long would she force him to remain this way? Would she require some sexual service tonight? Or would she simply be happy for the peace and quiet and release him the next morning? Would she allow him an orgasm? If so, would she force him to masturbate or would she allow penetration?
Sandy sat not two metres away from him watching "The Bridges of Madison County". Periodically she glanced at David for safety reasons, smiled at her husband, and then resumed her attachment to the movie. Sometimes he caught her gaze and met it and his eyes both smiled and pleaded for release, but without speech, there was nothing he could do to change his circumstance.
He hated this movie. Yes, it was well done, but he was a "Transformers" type of movie watcher. He wanted space travel, things blowing up, kinky sex. This was not like that, and he only watched because he was being obliged to do so.
EARLIER...
David drove home on Friday night in a continuous drizzle of rain. The windshield wipers rhythmically slapped the gore of dead insects back and forth, creating a dangerous layer of translucent haze. He gripped the wheel a little more tightly than usual, waiting for interaction with idiots.
The week had been long and stressful. Despite that and the rush hour oxymoron, he smiled at the thought of his wife and home as the cars inched forward. A nice glass of Cabernet awaited him, maybe two, probably three.
David drank too much. He knew it. His wife Sandy knew it. But he was not an alcoholic, and considered himself simply a lover of wine. There was no taste like wine. It was an unfortunate byproduct of that nectar that it made him drunk. Non-alcoholic wines did not cut it.
Sandy never had more than one glass of wine. It caused her to lose control, and Sandy did not like to lose control. The one thing she had been unable to manage in their marriage was his wine consumption, and some weeks ago she had devised a scheme that actually served multiple purposes, the curbing of his drinking, the satisfying of his bizarre sexual fantasies, and the biggest surprise of all, the awakening of mysterious desires and satisfaction within her. The reality was that the hand fitted the glove very well. Each of them won, a perfect symbiotic relationship. But weekdays were now alcohol-free by her decree, and weekends were optional, depending upon her needs.
David pulled into the darkness and familiarity of the garage, turned off the ignition, and opened his door. The garage smelled slightly of last week's garbage forgotten on garbage day. He gathered his briefcase and stepped inside the mudroom shouting the universal, "Honey, I'm home!" In this relationship, there would be no slippers at the door to greet him, nor did he want that. His life was chameleon-like now, dictated by Sandy's whims and desires, unpredictable and delicious like a prairie breeze.
Sandy poked her head around from the foyer and smiled at him with love and happiness. Her blond hair, cut unevenly, swished across her face which was fair and dotted with freckles. Her blue eyes gleamed, and the early beginnings of wrinkles arched gracefully with character away from her mouth and eyes.
"Hi sweetie," she said softly, and came around to kiss him quickly on the mouth before starting to unload the dryer.
David responded by giving her a quick hug, more of a gentle squeeze actually, one of familiarity and love. He loved to touch her. She, in turn, was less the touchy type.
In typical comfort of love and familiarity, they parted without another word while he went to the bedroom to change. As he got into shorts and a T-shirt, he stared out at the park behind the house and listened to the bubbling and gurgling of the stream he had constructed between two ponds near the giant willow tree. Dragon flies darted about.
Home; he was home.
Making his way back to the kitchen, he uncorked a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and poured himself a glass. Sandy returned from her chores in the laundry room, came to him, and patted his chastity cage in an impish way, stating her control. He couldn't help it; he always blushed slightly when she did this, both from embarrassment and arousal. She could have him any time she wanted. He could demand nothing of her.
She winked at him and grasped the wine bottle. "One glass only," she said, and the bottle was placed out of sight, out of mind.
This surprised him tonight. He hadn't really been thinking about their terms of agreement regarding this.
"Umm, what?" he asked.
Sandy was now unloading the dishwasher. Without looking up she answered, "Everything's described in the closet. One glass tonight and that's it. Go get your instructions. I have the keys."
The "keys" comment meant that he was to be in bondage tonight, severe sexual bondage, with about a 50/50 chance of having an orgasm himself. With both dread and anticipation, he smiled and said, "Whoa! Okay then, umm, yes Goddess. It's to be THAT type of evening is it?" As part of this relationship agreement, once a bondage session had been established, he had to address her as Goddess, no more Sandy or honey.
She neither looked up, nor answered.
As he walked to the bedroom, his heart started to race, and his knees trembled slightly. This never got old, as there were endless combinations and permutations of bondage, humiliation and discipline, some scenes of which were repeated without boredom numerous times. It always had newness and freshness to it, an intimacy born of trust. He literally trusted her with his life. She could do anything to him that she wanted. And she did.
Laid out on the floor in the closet was a short note describing what to do, as if it wasn't obvious. Beside the note were an anal plug, lubrication and a log-leg panty girdle. A riding crop lay on the shelf, silent with menace.
Now nude, he picked up the N-Joy stainless steel anal plug. It was very heavy, and the business end was somewhat large, but it tapered abruptly when fully inserted so that the anal muscles could grasp and hold it. The outward end flared outward to avoid body absorption and it had a type of handle with which to grip it. He was glad she had chosen this one tonight, as the other silicone one had a larger diameter at the sphincter, and caused him to be perpetually aware that he was being violated in this way.
Insertion was always the most difficult part, but it was getting easier over the last few weeks as his sphincter lost its ability to resist. Using copious amounts of lubricant he got on all fours on the floor and started the insertion, slowly, trying to relax. It hurt, and just when he thought he was going to split apart, a last push caused it to enter him with a force that made him gasp. The relief washed over him like a flash flood, and he took a moment to catch his breath and normalize his breathing. He stood up, feeling the plug shift in search of its perfect resting place, and when he pulled the girdle up his legs and over his hips, he tried to expel it. The girdle pushed back and held firm. He turned, feeling the anal plug shift inside him once more, finding its most tormenting place as it always did. The instructions said, "Once this is done, return to the kitchen for inspection just as you are."
The message thrilled him as it always did. As he cleaned up, putting the lubricant away and washing his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror and examined his mind. David, having been raised in a small redneck town, used to fear being gay, as he liked this so much, but a psychologist once asked him, "Do you like the smell of a man?"
"No. God no!"
"Do you like the feel of a man touching you...there?"
"No!"
"Do you like the feel of a man's stubble as he kisses you on the lips?"
"Jesus Christ, no!"
"And you fear you are gay? Why?"
