I thought for a minute, but of course, I couldn’t. “I suppose that’s fair,” I conceded. “But is there something that I could do to give you some hope? Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. I’m serious about wanting to marry you, you know.”
She looked at me. Then, she started tapping her fingers rapidly on the table, which I recognized from my many negotiations with her as a “tell” that she was about to make her final offer. She did.
“If another woman is going to share my bed, then I want to know about it,” she said firmly. “I want to be there. To watch sometimes. To participate even. And I want to have some say over who we do it with. In fact, I’ll even procure the women for you. I’m sure I couldn’t do any worse than that Goth skank you’ve got shacked up at the Marriott right now.”
What the fuck? Is there anything she doesn’t know?
“But the dishonesty stops now,” she concluded. “If you can agree to that, and if you really think you can make it stick, then I’ll marry you. Otherwise, don’t ask me again.”
I had to admit, what she was offering was extremely attractive. So I readily agreed, and we went ring shopping that weekend. Since neither of us had much in the way of family, there was no point to a big wedding. We simply got married in a private ceremony a few months later. Mike McCleary and his wife, Jennifer, served as witnesses, and that was that.
***********
You could read nothing but BDSM erotica for the rest of your life and never find a description of a fantasy slave wife who could hold a candle to my flesh-and-blood Ellen.
True to her word, she enticed some amazing women into our life. Surprisingly, I’d never tried a threesome before, and I found the experience revelatory. Again, I won’t go into the gory details. But the sense of control mixed with intimacy, which I felt when Ellen lapped up my sperm from the pussy of another woman, or when she and the other fellated me simultaneously, then shared my cum in a long kiss, was on an entirely new level from anything I’d known before.
Some couples find bringing other women into their marriage to be an emotional minefield, but we never had any problems with it. Mainly, this was because Ellen understood that for me, the experience was a purely sexual thrill, and that there was never a threat that I would fall in love or seek to exclude her in any way. More precisely, she saw that my focus during our threesomes always remained entirely on her — how the experience affected her, what it showed about her love for me, and so forth.
Also, Ellen was much more discerning in her selection of women than I’d ever been. We never found ourselves in crazy town, as I had with some of the doozies (including the “Goth skank”) who’d responded to my profiles. Sure, with Ellen organizing my sex life, I had fewer partners than I had before I met her. But my experiences were an order of magnitude more gratifying. And as Ellen’s bisexuality blossomed, she began to bring us women to whom she felt genuine attraction, and this often led to deep affection among the three of us.
When she found a woman that excited us both, we’d not only invite her to sessions in our dungeon, but also take her on exotic vacations, or even shack up with her for a while as a throuple. One thing I hadn’t considered was that when Ellen met a potential partner on our behalf, she could establish trust much more easily than I, as a man, ever could. Best of all, I never had to worry about when to meet, where to meet, how the relationship should go, or anything else. Ellen took care of everything.
And, of course, when it was “just” the two of us, things were exactly as I described earlier. In other words, perfect.
To sum up: The first two years of our marriage were utter bliss. Ellen was the ideal BDSM submissive wife — sex-slave, lover, friend, and partner-in-crime, all in one. I loved and respected her more than I can say. She was gorgeous beyond description. She was intensely sexual, and her kinks and fetishes matched mine perfectly. She provided me with more sexual variety than any man could ever wish for. I had no fantasy that she was unwilling to fulfill, and she came up a lot of her own that I would never have dreamt of without her.
***********
So why did I do it? Why did I fuck it all up by continuing to seek out women on the side?
In the time since Ellen first tied me to the wooden post in the basement, I spent many hours down there, bound in the darkness, alone with my thoughts. So, I had plenty of time to ponder this question. Here’s what I eventually came up with:
The most obvious answer (and the one that my wife would have most readily agreed with) was that I was the stupidest piece of shit that ever lived. And that’s true, I suppose. But it doesn’t really explain anything.
A somewhat better answer was that I liked the thrill of the hunt more than the act of sex itself, and that my arrangement with Ellen deprived me of that thrill. Another possibility was that what really turned me on was the very act of cheating. The transgression, in and of itself, brought sexual gratification, in the same way that small boys get a thrill out of doing something naughty, regardless of what it is. Still another (and the one most likely to be favored by BDSM aficionados) was that Ellen had been “topping from the bottom” by putting herself in charge of arranging our threesomes and other aspects of our sex life, and that my cheating on her was a kind of visceral response to that.
Any of these answers, or some combination of them, or something completely different, could have been correct, I suppose.
But sometime, much later in submission, I had a sudden revelation, one that I was hesitant even to credit at first.
***********
It was a Saturday afternoon in March.
A random Washingtonian walking across Kalorama Park on that day might have wondered why an obviously well-to-do, middle-aged man was wandering around in the cold rain like a blithering idiot, inspecting all the low-hanging branches of the trees around the park’s perimeter. The answer was that Ellen had instructed me to make a new switch for her to use on my buttocks.
The task was harder than you’d think.
I needed to find a branch that was long and straight enough, but also strong and flexible, because there would be hell to pay if it broke in her hand during use. It had to be thick, so as to produce sufficiently intense pain, but not so thick as to become “thuddy.” Ellen much preferred to inflict the searing agony of a “stingy” instrument, marking my flesh with fiery red welts that nearly — but not quite — broke the skin.
A careful reader will recall that Ellen had once said, “Only one of us is an avowed sadist, and it’s not me.” Well, it turned out that she’d been completely wrong about that. I’m not saying she lied. People change, or at least they uncover aspects of their personality they never suspected were there. In Ellen’s case, this turned out to be a very nasty sadistic streak, which often manifested itself in acts of surprising (even to me) cruelty.
Not that I’m in a position to be judgmental.
As I walked around the park, my dread at the anguish that awaited me grew in my mind. So too did my humiliation at being ordered to create the instrument of my own suffering. I looked around every few seconds, desperately hoping that no one I knew would appear and ask me what I was doing out in the rain.
Finally, I stripped a suitable branch from a young maple tree and hurried home along the blessedly empty sidewalks. Once I’d taken off my wet clothes and put my collar back on, I got to work on the switch, whittling away the twigs and knots, peeling off the bark, sanding it smooth, rubbing olive oil along its length. The whole process took about an hour — one more hour for me to wallow in dread and humiliation.
I brought the new switch to Ellen for inspection. I noticed that she was wearing her spike-heeled boots instead of her usual slippers, which I knew to be a sign that my punishment was to be particularly severe. She didn’t bother to look up at me, but merely took the instrument from my hand for a few seconds. “This is acceptable,” was all she said. She handed it back, and I understood that I was dismissed to carry out her further instructions.
I went to the dungeon and placed my creation on the table. Then I selected several items and took them to the wooden horse, where I’d been instructed to prepare myself for punishment. The steps for this were a bit tricky and had to be done in the proper order.
On one side of the horse, there was a chain connecting the two legs, near the bottom. In the center of this chain, I hung an open padlock, the key to which I’d left on the table. I then went to the other side of the horse and put fur-lined leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles. I spread my legs and connected my ankle cuffs to rings on the horse’s legs. Then I pulled a soft, quilted black hood over my head and tightened it around my neck with a drawstring. Over the hood, I donned a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, and I flicked the “on” switch.
Then, completely blind and deaf, I bent as far as I could over the horse’s padding, straining to reach dangling padlock. I barely caught the lock with my fingertips, but with a bit of effort I managed to manipulate it through the rings on my wrist cuffs.
Click. I was immobilized and helpless, alone in blackness and silence.
The effects of a couple of hours of sensory deprivation are different for everyone. Those I experienced that day were fairly typical for me.
First, the reality of my vulnerability set in. Ellen was at home to supervise me, so she had not left me any way to free myself in case of emergency. I was completely at her mercy. Should she decide to leave me — for the rest of the day, overnight, forever — there would be nothing I could do but wait and suffer and quite literally go insane. By this time, however, she had trained me to breathe slowly and deeply, and to focus on my trust in her, until this initial wave of panic subsided.
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