Alena's Game

[Author's note: if you don't like to read about female domination, please skip to the next story, or

check out my other stories

for something that's more to your taste.

Through a series of counselling session with Cassie, his therapist, Quinn is trying to come to terms with how his wife Alena managed to transform him from her assured, overbearing husband into her willing slave.

Alena has begun to introduce subtle separations in their lives, changing how they eat together, how they sleep together, whether Quinn is used only for her sexual pleasure or is permitted to orgasm himself. She is advancing with her experiment on him, pushing him deeper and deeper into submission to her]

---

MY KINGDOM FOR A HAND

Alena informed me that she would be cooking dinner, which opened up the possibility that we were going to be exploring again tonight. The previous dinner had been a few days ago, and neither of us had commented on it since. In fact, life had gone back to normal, finding ourselves on the couch at the end of the day, then retiring to bed. Alena didn't seem to be interested in sex and I didn't push it.

But the thing I couldn't get past was the way Alena acted so normally, as if the denial games hadn't happened, or the casual, easy way she had humiliated her husband by making me stand to eat, as if it had been just what we did every day. We talked about things, but it was about work, about a conference she had booked to go to in a few months, about upcoming holidays. We talked about her parents' new house and how the car needed to be booked in for a service, anything but the experiment she was conducting to explore our deepest fantasies, or the way that I had become her captive guinea pig.

So, when I got in at six thirty and deposited my car keys and bag in the hallway as usual, my mind was already racing. There was the other issue, of course, the fact that being made to stand had made me aroused and I was yet to get any relief, days later. Now, standing in the entranceway, I could feel a familiar background yearning, as if we were still playing the denial games. It was a subtle thing that Alena had managed to do to me somehow, using that intense period of tease and denial to hardwire a connection between feeling horny and not being allowed to orgasm. Somehow, she had been able to change my behaviour so that whenever I felt horny, I felt like I was back in denial, desperately waiting for my wife to allow me to climax. As far as I knew, I was allowed to ask her for sex at any point, to kiss and cuddle her and cajole her into bed as I used to do, but I wasn't doing that. Instead, I was waiting for permission from her to initiate, restraining myself to her schedule.

That was the problem, though. Her schedule seemed to be the same as it had always been, as if sex was a secondary consideration in our lives. I recalled how the denial had ended, with the explosive orgasm while she tied me to the chair, and I was somehow left expecting that to become the new norm, but it hadn't. The last few days, Alena had acted like she'd forgotten all about just how hard she had cum, using her powerless husband's cock for her own stunning climax.

"Hi honey," Alena called, breezily, from the back of the house.

"Hi, I'm home, as instructed."

"Just be a couple of minutes. Do you want to go sit?"

Sitting sounded like a hopeful sign. I went through to the dining table, hearing my wife opening cupboard doors in the open-plan kitchen area. The dining table was set with two places, done out with cutlery and napkins as before. Once again, there was only one chair. I came to a halt. Next to the chair, on the floor, was a large cushion or perhaps a small beanbag. My mouth dropped open.

"Nearly ready. Hope you like it," I heard my wife call out from behind me, as if nothing was amiss.

I stared at the place she had prepared for me. The other chair was once again standing against the wall, leaving me with three options: to sit down in her chair, to swap the cushion for the second chair, or to accept the awful truth that my wife intended me to eat dinner while kneeling.

From the moment she had announced she was doing dinner, I had been running it over in my head, spending the entire day with thoughts of my clever wife and her confronting experiments gnawing away at me. She had been wearing down my resistance, or rather she had known that the uncertainty would lead to me wearing down my own resistance, to whatever she had planned for us at dinner.

"Thirty seconds. Are you comfortable?"

The kitchen was silent, Alena had finished cooking. I knew that she was waiting in the kitchen, counting down the seconds until I made a choice. She knew what would be going through my head and she knew all she needed to do was give me enough time to accept her requirement. It was obvious what she intended, and I admitted to myself, feeling strangely like I had lost the game before we had even begun, I knew what was expected of me.

Slowly, as if wading through treacle, I approached the cushion and sank down onto my knees, giving my wife what she wanted without her even having to ask.

"I made fish pie, hope you like it. I got fresh salmon from the market."

I jumped slightly, hearing my wife's voice behind me, feeling a pang of despair that maybe she had been standing there silently, watching me drop to my knees. I expected a little, smug grinned on her face, from getting the upper hand right from the start of the night, but she smiled sweetly at me, putting the plates on the table and bending over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. Alena sat down and unfolded her napkin.

"How was your day, Quinn?"

The innocuous question caught me off guard. I struggled to formulate a reply, staring edge-on at my plate, my eyes level with the table top. I noticed that Alena was wearing the same high heels as last time, four-inch black stilettos, giving me the cue that tonight would be part of the experiment. She was wearing stockings underneath a casual dress, showing off her gorgeous legs, putting herself on display directly in my line of sight under the table. At that exact moment, she must have been reaching forward for the salt, because the hem of her dress rode up her thigh slightly to expose a stocking top.

My mind flashed back immediately to a week ago, at the end of the denial period, the point at which I had won my way back to break-even and only needed one credit to finally be granted a release. Alena had put paid to my hopes, emerging from the bedroom in brand-new lingerie. I could still recall how she looked, the image burned indelibly into my memory after weeks of constant teasing. She had worn a black basque with sheer nylon panels that exposed the firm skin beneath. Little straps had run down to her stockings, clipping them in place. Between her legs had been a tiny g-string in the same sheer nylon as the basque panels, clearing showing the neat trim of her pubic area and her outer lips. I had ogled, I had lusted, and I had spiralled into negative territory within seconds. I could still remember her condescending smile as she revelled in her triumph over me.

"Really, how was your day?" she prompted again, looking down at me.

"A slog, if I'm honest."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"I don't know," she replied, innocently, "Maybe a tricky case?"

"No, the case load is fine."

"Then what?"

I looked up at her, conscious of the imbalance between us as she sat comfortably in her chair and I knelt on my cushion. She meant for me to say it, she wanted to extract the confession from me.

"You know," I replied stubbornly.

Alena put down her fork and turned to me. At my level, it gave me a view directly between her legs under the table. She wasn't intending to play fair.

"Do I?"

"Yes. This," I hissed, suddenly angry, but more at myself than my wife, "Wondering what you were going to do."

Alena reached out with her hand and actually patted me on the head. I flinched, but then she patted me again. I looked up at her with disgust.

"Do you like the cushion, Quinn? I hope it's comfortable. I went out at lunchtime and got it especially. Is it comfortable?"

I shifted my weight, conceding, "Yes."

Alena beamed, "Oh, that's good. I didn't know quite what to get. I spent ages in the shop, kneeling and trying them out. This one felt the nicest."

"Just not very practical," I muttered.

"In what way?"

"How am I supposed to eat?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can't reach the table."

Alena's eyes sparkled, telling me that she had already considered this, that I had just fallen into her trap.

"I'm sure we can work that out."

She leaned back, gathering up the hem of her loose dress and pulling it up, stripping herself. I watched with an open mouth as she revealed herself in the same exquisite lingerie I had seen previously.

"I know it's not usual dinner attire, but you did seem to like me wearing this last time," she murmured sexily.

Alena pouted, taking her time to cross her lovely legs, showing me the little translucent panel between her thighs. It hit me like a lightning bolt: her pubic hair was gone.

"Did you notice?"

"Uh...," I stammered, my thoughts only occupied by the feeling of the blood rushing into my manhood at the sight of my wife's shaved pussy.

"Lost for words?"

I simply nodded. She crossed her legs, hiding her crotch from view, but my eyes remained fixed on that position. She had done it to me again; the rational part of my mind was reeling with the implications of my wife choosing to do to herself what she had done to me, my animal hindbrain overwhelmed with the lingerie, the exposed crotch, the pent-up frustration, the throbbing arousal. By the time I noticed that she had taken my plate, she had already placed it on the floor beneath the table.

"Eat up," she chided, "You're going to need your energy."

With that, she turned back to her own plate and resumed her dinner. I was left, ignored, with a aching hard-on in my pants, my plate on the floor under the table, and the sight of my wife's lingerie-clad shaven pussy etched into my memory. I blinked, looking down at the fish pie and the fork. Conscious of my close proximity to my wife's gorgeous, stockinged leg and sexy high heels, I picked up the fork and began to eat.

We finished the meal in silence, with me listening to the chink of cutlery on porcelain from above as I cleared my plate below. I had only been given a fork, so I had to make do. I could have asked for a knife, or perhaps a glass of water, but somehow it seemed unlikely I would be given either. Alena was quite happy, enjoying her dinner, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort beneath.

When at last we were done, Alena leaned back in her chair.

"Pass me your plate. I'll clear the table," she said in the same casual tone she had used at the start of the night.

"Shall I help?" I asked, instantly regretting falling into the normal, everyday cadence of finishing dinner, as if kneeling down and eating off the floor were commonplace.

"No, honey, don't get up. I'll do this."

I passed my plate up to Alena and she walked through to the kitchen area, hips rolling as she took long strides in her towering heels. From behind, in her stockings and basque, with her auburn ringlets cascading down her back, my mind was only occupied with the thought of sliding my rigid manhood into her some time before the end of the night. When she returned, she strutted towards me with a sly smile on her face. Alena stopped in front of me, hands on hips, grinning.

"That all went very well, don't you think?" she asked.

"If me eating from the floor is...."

"You came straight in from work, got on your cushion and waited for dinner," she continued, as if I hadn't been speaking, "I think we can turn this into a habit."

My eyes widened in dismay.

"You don't like that idea? Then you're going to absolutely hate the next one."

Alena settled back down onto her chair and reached across the table to pick up her glass. She seemed to be studying me as she took a mouthful of white wine.

"We need to establish something between us," she announced, "This is for your benefit, really."

"How is any of this for my benefit?" I sputtered.

"Ah, Quinn, I think I know what you need. You're a creature of habit, with your lists and your diaries. I can see how I've been making you suffer, just by the simplest thing of being unpredictable. Beyond the rest of the experiment, there's something about that isn't there? It just grates on you. You can't cope."

She took another sip of wine and when she addressed me again, the mocking smile was gone, replaced by a more sympathetic expression.

"Let me help you. Let me give you some certainty. Let's call them house rules, okay?"

I didn't answer. Alena leaned down, but not to pat me on the head. This time, she stroked my cheek tenderly.

"I love you," she murmured, "I'm not going to do anything that I don't think you want. If I really do cross the line, you just need to tell me. The truth is, I've also been distracted at work, unable to concentrate. I keep coming back to how you looked on that chair."

Alena let out a long, low breath.

"You see," she murmured, "Even just thinking about it now sends shivers through me. This is what you're doing to me, honey. I had to sneak off into the women's toilets yesterday to, uh, scratch my itch. Don't think badly of me, it was either that or I would have gotten nothing done."

Alena's confession appeared to be genuine. She wasn't teasing or playing games, she was telling me that it was real for her as well. The very thought of my beautiful, demure wife bringing herself to climax, dipping her fingers frantically into herself in a toilet stall, was shockingly out of character. It was also the hottest image I could imagine.

"I would have liked to see that," I rasped, my voice suddenly dry.

Alena smiled again, wistfully, "Ah, Quinn, that's the problem. The next time I do it, I'm going to imagine you kneeling there in front of me, watching."

I struggled to comprehend what my wife was admitting, that the woman who could take or leave sex was going to be reliving her sexual tensions regularly, using me as her fantasy image.

"I just need one thing from you, though," she murmured.

"What?"

"I think you know."

Alena's hand tucked itself into her crotch. Through the sheer panel of her g-string, I could see her finger teasing her labia. Her eyes were burning with need, holding me in her unflinching gaze. I knew what she needed from me, but I hesitated, a part of me crying out that maybe I needed my itch scratched too, that there should be some give and take. She regarded me silently, her face unreadable, waiting. I was clearly not getting any satisfaction until I had played her game. I began to strip my clothes off.

Alena's eyes were fixed on my body as I unbuttoned my shirt and undid my trousers, revealing myself to my wife. I knelt before her with a prominent bulge in my underwear. She began to stroke herself, cheeks flushed, two fingers spreading her labia while her middle finger began to circle her clit.

I raised my hips and freed myself from my underwear, relishing the feeling of my cock standing free in the air. Alena suddenly withdrew her hand from her crotch and reached out to me.

"May I?"

Puzzled, I handed her my underwear. Alena rose from her seat.

"Please," she whispered, "Let me do this to you."

Alena's voice was low and hoarse, beyond anything I had ever known of her. I just nodded and she went around behind me. I felt fabric being pushed over my hand as she slipped one leg of my underpants up my arm and then a sudden tightening at my wrist as she twisted the material. After a moment, my other hand was forced through the other leg of the garment, binding my hands behind me.

She released the cloth and stepped back. I pulled, testing my bonds, feeling that they were too loose, that Alena's improvisation hadn't been successful. I felt her hands on my wrists, but I shook free from her grasp, coiling the fabric in my hands and gripping it tight to take up all the slack, securing myself.

Alena stepped around me, brushing her stocking-clad leg casually against my arm. When she resumed her seat, I could see the heat in her expression. The panel of the g-string was now completely transparent, and I realised it was saturated with her moisture.

Alena began to dip inside herself again, stroking and teasing herself, but never once breaking eye contact with me. My cock ached to be touched, pointing upwards in unrequited need, but I remained fixedly in place, arms tied behind my back, kneeling on my cushion while my wife stroked herself to climax looking down at me. It should have been humiliating, to be used by my wife as nothing more than a masturbation aid, as if I was nothing more than an interactive porn clip that she was playing to get herself off. I should have been burning with shame to be reduced to a display piece, but I wasn't.

The shame was there, the humiliation, but something more, something new. I felt pride that I had been able to affect her like this, to break through the years of indifference and light a fire in my wife that I had never even suspected had been lingering underneath. That she was using me as fantasy fodder for her own orgasm filled me with a savage joy, beyond the aching need for my own satisfaction.

Alena's fingers blurred, and I watched as her body stiffened, taking breaths in little, forced puffs of air. Her thighs quivered, little ripples of ecstasy beneath the sheer, dark stockings, and suddenly she arched backwards, thrusting her shoulders into the chair back, raising her breasts and throwing her hair in long cascading auburn streams over her shoulders. Her face contorted, grimacing as if in pain, her fingers plunged deep into herself, suddenly frozen, captured like a divine sculpture at the exact moment of orgasm.

I had never seen this side of Alena before, and the realisation dawned on me that Alena had never seen this side of herself before. My eyes drank in the tantalising curves of her hips, the soft domes of her breasts, the sheer nylon stockings shaping and defining her trim thighs and shapely calves. Alena's figure was locked, helpless in the tidal wave of an all-consuming climax, transformed before me into a lingerie fantasy, her taut, sexy body trembling with her orgasm. I finally began to see what all this meant, where we were going.

Alena's body slackened, gradually, and she seemed to come back to the real world from wherever the climax had transported her. She blinked, eyes unfocused, as she withdrew her fingers from herself. Eventually, she discovered me, still kneeling naked on my cushion in front of her. She frowned, as if puzzled by the sight of her husband on the floor, then she raised herself up on unsteady legs and knelt down next to me.

My eyes met hers and I caught the merest glimpse of the journey she had just taken. I burned to find that release for myself. Alena licked her lips to moisten them. When she spoke, it was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"Thank you, Quinn. When you bound yourself, when you surrendered to what I wanted, that was the hottest thing I have ever seen," she gasped, "You kneeling there, it... I'll never forget the way you looked at me. I love you so much."

She turned my head and kissed me deeply, sliding her tongue into my mouth as I arched my back to meet her halfway, my hands still secured behind me. At last, Alena broke off and I could see that she was smiling, radiating pure joy.

"Would you like a hand?"

"My kingdom," I grated, "My kingdom for a hand."

"I already have your kingdom," Alena replied, kissing me again, and I was gripped with the sudden uncertainty that perhaps Alena was just going to leave me like this, my body wracked with frustration.