Previously...
With their marriage on the rocks, Abby and George turn to a most unlikely source for help. Unbeknownst to George, Abby has agreed to let the incubus, Damian, and his mate, Britt, act as marriage counsellors.
Over the last sessions, Britt and Damian have led the couple far out of their comfort zone. This session promises to be their last.
***
Two weeks passed between that remarkable weekend at the farm and the next scheduled session with Britt and Damian. Damian had hinted to Abby that the next meeting might be their last and that he was satisfied with the progress she and George had made. Abby could scarcely believe it, that progress would be measured by her willingness to be bound and later traipse around the woods naked, but it was so.
Recollections of that weekend would often intrude on her thoughts at the most unexpected moments. In the coffee room, chatting with an employee, she would recollect the feeling of the collar around her neck and the lead that attached her to Damian as she walked naked though the forest. In meetings she would tingle at the memory of being bound in the barn, of being played by a master, of finally surrendering to the onslaught of sensation. On passing Steve, her former lover, she would relive that night in the guest room, after the session was done for the day, when George had taken her and she had welcomed him.
It still amazed her that the methods employed by Britt and Damian would succeed where months of counselling had failed.
Then she would remember the one Damian had called Rosier, that caricature of a man who had instilled such palpable fear in Damian, and she would feel a chill.
Neither Abby nor George had spoken of their experiences on the farm in detail, although some aspects of it, like Abby's turn as a filly, were no secret. The weekend had been profound for both of them, and the weeks thereafter were marked by an introspection that both of them accepted. Curiously, George seemed to welcome some distance between them, but they would come together occasionally reclaim each other with a new comfort and growing understanding.
For Abby, it was a period marked by a curious lightness of being and a diminution of that obsessive single-mindedness on career. She found herself looking forward to returning home at the end of the day.
Although uncomfortable with the notion of submission and docility, there was now a grudging acknowledgement that these characteristics, so abhorrent before, held a certain appeal. In the proper context. With the proper partner.
The changes were not limited to herself. George had become calmer, less needy, more self-contained. He exhibited a new confidence, a sense of expectancy, of barely restrained potential. Nevertheless, Abby wasn't sure whether George could impose his will upon her in the same way Damian had. She attempted to suggest to George that she'd be willing to follow his lead, but so far hadn't articulated her desire. For his part, George observed her, seemingly content to bide his time.
* * *
It was seven o'clock on a Friday evening and Abby and George drove silently to the offices of Britt and Damian. They held hands on the drive, uncertainty and expectation robbing them of their words.
On their arrival, Britt soon escorted Abby to the building's elevator.
"This is going to be bad, eh?" asked Britt in the elevator.
Britt shrugged and smiled. "Depends on how you define bad. But in the sense that you're thinking, probably."
Abby's gut roiled. Before the weekend on the farm, she wouldn't have thought anything could be more challenging than what she'd endured. For her, the way she had been, the weekend had crossed several lines. Her safeword had been on her lips countless times, but stubbornness and pride had prevented her from speaking it.
She was grateful now that she'd maintained her silence.
Britt and Abby took the elevator to the basement of the building. The hallway was bleak, a stretch of grey-painted cinderblock punctuated with steel doors at irregular intervals.
Britt unlocked one and pushed the door open, its hinges squealing angrily. She flicked on the overhead light. The sight took Abby's breath away.
The walls hung with heavy tapestries. Benches and pillows described the outer perimeter of the room. On a platform in the center of the room stood an object that Abby recalled from history texts. She'd never seen one in real life, having thought them relegated to the mean and distant past.
'You can't be serious?"
"Damian told you that this would be your biggest challenge."
Abby approached the construction, her steps tentative. "I suppose this is meant for me?"
Britt nodded.
Abby didn't know what she'd expected. She stepped up on the platform and placed her hand on the heavy, wooden pillory. It looked ancient and worn, as though it had been spirited away from the square of some medieval town and deposited here centuries later.
"I don't know about this."
"I know it looks scary," said Britt. "But honestly, I think this is the home stretch."
Abby shook her head. "What would you do?"
"I would trust."
There was that word again. She had trusted Damian -- or rather, she'd suspended mistrust -- and in return she'd discovered a great many things about herself.
"What do you want me to do?"
Abby took a deep breath and placed her neck in the large, leather-wrapped central well and her wrists in the smaller depressions on either side. Britt closed the pillory and threw a latch, locking the halves together. The snap punctuated the sudden feeling of vulnerability.
Britt rubbed her fingertips against Abby's cheek. "You'll be fine."
Britt moved out of sight behind Abby. She manoeuvred Abby's ankles into a steel spreader bar with hinged metal cuffs. She closed the latches.
"Are you okay?"
Abby fought back a laugh. "Sure." Her heart tripped in her chest and rather than fear, she felt the keenest anticipation. Immobilized and having control removed from her, she relaxed and gave herself over to what was to come.
Britt lit a series of candles and turned off the overhead light. The room took on an even greater medieval aspect.
Britt returned to the front of the pillory. She took Abby's face in her hands and kissed her on the lips. Britt allowed herself to be kissed -- she couldn't escape -- and found the feel of another woman's lips on hers more than a little thrilling. "I'll be with you," said Britt.
The kiss, rather than being sexual, reassured Abby, as though sealing the deal on a sisterhood in which Abby was but a novice.
They waited in this way for several minutes, with only the flickering of the candles and Britt's gentle caresses to mark the passage of time.
The door to the room opened behind Abby and a jolt of apprehension shot through her. She could see nothing but could hear footsteps.
* * *
Before they entered the room, Damian placed his fingers to his lips, indicating that George should remain silent. George nodded his understanding.
They entered a room lit by long, tapered candles arrayed around the room in sconces. It took a moment for George's eyes to adjust to the gloom and to understand what he was seeing.
Before him, bent over and locked into a medieval-looking contraption, was Abby. He took in the sight with some consternation.
Damian approached Abby and placed a hand her up-thrust rump. "Hello again, Abby."
Abby responded, her voice soft and nervous.
"This will probably be our last session," said Damian, "one way or another."
"Uh-huh."
George could detect a tremor in his wife's voice.
Was this the type of activity she'd allowed herself to be subjected to when she was with Damian? George turned the thought around in his head in wonder. His wife, proud and independent, had somehow permitted this. God only knew what she'd done with Damian before, leading up to this. Despite having seen her at the farm, he'd somehow ascribed it to an anomaly. Yes here was another example of submission that didn't quite mesh with what he knew of her.
