Before I tell you how it was, you have to understand that I truly do love my wife, Eunice. Over the five years we've been married, I've come to realize—and cherish—that she does have some quirks, however. For example, she suffers from SASS. I don't mean that she is saucy, although she's that, too, but she has that most modern affliction SASS: Short Attention Span Syndrome. Because of her SASS, she doesn't always catch the entirety of what people say or what she reads. And she tends to jumble her thinking together so that, sometimes, her thoughts are kind of like one of those ransom notes you hear about where the kidnapper cuts out words from different magazines or newspapers and pastes them all up to form sentences.
So I wasn't entirely shocked when I came home one day last week and found her in the middle of the living room, wearing my old hip-wader fishing boots, her black one-piece bathing suit, with a black cloth tied over her eyes and a six-foot bullwhip in her hand. As I closed the front door, she proceeded to whirl the whip and crack it loudly in my direction while ordering me to obey her every whim or she'd know the reason why.
As I watched the briefcase fly from my hand from one of her more accurate whip cracks, I vaguely remembered one of our somewhat disconnected conversations of the previous night in which she had expounded that she wanted to explore her dominant side. We don't surf the Internet nor do we live in one of those big cities that, according to the news, have clubs and service personnel who cater to the more alternative sexual lifestyles. But apparently, somehow or other, Eunice had picked up this or that stray bit of information about "boots and whips," "blindfolds," and various other accoutrements and cultural artifacts of the BDSM community. I'll give her this, she's a make-do kind of woman.
Now, I'm no sex expert. I make no claims in that direction, but I do pick up plenty of commentary on things, down at the barbershop, at work, and at our quarterly firehouse pancake breakfasts. I was trying to figure out a non-threatening way of telling her I was kind of of the impression that the blindfold usually went on the submissive person not the dominant one when she stomped her left boot and demanded to know whether I was kneeling properly. As quietly as I could, I edged my way over to the easy chair and sat down in it.
"Course I am, honey."
"I am not your honey! You will call me Your Worship and don't you expect me to ask how your day at work was or to get you a cold beer. In fact, slave boy, you will crawl out to the kitchen and bring me a cool one right this instant!"
Well, I was shocked at that. It was the most altogether coherent stream of words I'd ever heard her assemble. Maybe there was something to all this dominant stuff after all if it could help Eunice order her thoughts so well. I didn't mind the ordering around much. It was straight-line conversation after all, if you know what I mean. I was about to head out to the kitchen, though, when suddenly Eunice just sat down on the floor.
"I don't know how those powerful women get used to wearing boots all the time. I think my feet are swelling."
"I'll just get you that beer, Your Worship."
"Wait! You can't get it until I crack my whip some more at you. There're rules, Frank! By the way, have you got a hardon yet?"
"Well, I just got home from work. I haven't thought about..."
"Don't talk back to me! The Worshipful Woman tells you when and when not you have a hardon. Don't touch it! You can't touch it until I tell you to."
"I have a lot to learn, Your Worship," I said quietly.
"Damn right you do, slave boy." She cracked her whip a few more times, knocking over a lamp and neatly shredding the new National Geographic on the coffee table behind her.
"Um, Your Worship, I'm just a lowly slave, but I think maybe the blindfold..."
At that exact moment, I got the idea that me putting the blindfold on while she was still in such a whip-cracking mood could prove decidedly painful. At least with her blindfolded, I could pretty well dodge the whip while keeping up a credible pretense of being subservient.
"Well, don't just kneel there, groveling and whimpering on the floor," Eunice said, hefting herself back up onto the precariously-worn-down heels of the saggy orange-vinyl hip-waders. "Crawl over here and service Your Worship."
As I think I mentioned before, her train of thought isn't always coupled tightly from engine to caboose. One thing, in other words, doesn't always lead to another.
"What about that beer?" I asked in as meek a voice as I could muster.
"What? A beer? Oh, sure, sweetie. Just relax and I'll get it for you." She kissed the air and stumbled towards the kitchen then immediately spun back around. "Oh! I forgot! I'm the dominant woman. You get me the beer! And make it snappy." As if to punctuate her choice of words, she snapped the whip loudly again, the tip neatly shearing off the heads of our newest set of Hummel ceramics on the knick-knack shelf.
"What should I do first, then, Your Worship? Service you or get that beer?"
"This blindfold is itchy. I need to order a real one from one of those mail-order sex catalogs. Do you think Sheriff Jackson would let me borrow a pair of handcuffs for awhile?"
"I'll just get that beer."
I pulled two cold Buds from the refrigerator and took a long pull from one. Walking back to the living room, I saw that Eunice had half pulled the blindfold from one eye and was looking down at the smiling heads of the Hummels. She looked back up at me.
"I might need a shorter whip, too. You're not crawling on your hands and knees, Frank! How do you expect me to explore my dominant side if you won't cooperate?"
I dropped to my knees respectfully and held out the other beer.
"I'm sexy, aren't I?" she asked with a big smile, curling the whip end around my neck.
"Absolutely. Never seen you so sexy."
"Good! I knew you'd like this." She dropped the whip and took a big gulp of beer. Then she grabbed my hair and yanked my head against her crotch. "Service me, you little slave boy! Service my...my...what do you call it...service my hot aching private parts! I command you!"
I nudged the small flap of black cloth away from her lovely pussy and "serviced" her for all I was worth; our wet noises merging as I licked her and she swallowed beer and smacked her lips.
"Do you want me to tie you up now?" she suddenly asked.
"Well, I...shouldn't I finish servicing you, Your Worship?"
"That can wait. I don't want to deprive us of genuine sexual pleasure. I was thinking of using those bungee cords out in the garage. You know the ones we got last summer at the garage sale. Isn't that funny, though? We bought them at a garage sale and now they're in our garage."
"Funny," I murmured, delicately polishing her love button.
"Frank? Are you feeling more spice put back in our love-life?"
She wriggled her hips and pulled my face closer as my tongue began probing inside her.
I just nodded.
"Somebody, I think it was Clarice at the beauty shop...do you remember Clarice, Frank? Anyway, it might have been Mable. Someone told me that this dominating woman thing is what men want these days. Secretly aching for it, I think she said. Have you been secretly aching for me to whip you?"
I shook my head as she curled one leg over my shoulder.
"Well, why not? What's the matter with you? You're not backward, are you, Frank?"
As she arched her back and let out a whimpering groan in her climax, I leaned back.
"I don't think so, Your Worship. I liked our sex-life just fine the way it is...it was, I mean."
"That's the trouble with you men," she said, tossing her head like a horse warning off flies. "You just don't want to be the first to try anything new."
"That's not true. I'm happy to try something new if it makes you happy."
"Well, I don't know, Frank. Maybe it's me, too. I know I should get just thrilled to pieces thinking about tying you up in the garage and leaving you out there while I sit in here eating chocolates and doing what dominating women do, but...what is it do you suppose they do do while their lovers are all tied up somewhere else?"
"I guess they...well...I'm not sure, either. Practice with their whip maybe? Or think about getting serviced?"
"Oh, you men! That's all you think about, isn't it? A woman needs more to fulfill her hidden passions. Pull off these boots, slave boy. They're really making my feet swell, I can feel it."
I helped her off with the hip-waders and began kissing up along her legs, licking at her toes and up along her kneecaps.
She sighed. "I think I'll order you to get a hardon now," she said with a laugh.
Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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