Chapter Three
I’ve always been an early riser, and I woke up before her the next morning.
She was still beautiful, streaked and crusty and hair a mess.
I rolled out of bed, being careful to let her sleep.
I went into the bathroom, peed, brushed my teeth, and then padded, naked, to the kitchen.
I was quiet as I made coffee and then a complete breakfast.
I don’t claim to be a cook, but I do breakfast well. I made a six egg omelet, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee, put them on a tray and went into the bedroom.
She was stirring as I went in.
“Up sleepy butt,” I said, “pee and back to bed.”
She yawned and stretched, very prettily, making a little meowing sound at the end of the stretch.
As she started to roll out of bed I said, “do NOT wash your face.”
She looked at me sort of sideways, giggled, and headed into the bathroom.
I quickly tightened the bottom sheet up and fluffed the top sheet and blanket.
When she walked in, and I was happy to see she hadn’t washed her face or, for that matter, run a brush through her hair, I smiled and said, “breakfast in bed for my beautiful bride.”
She smiled and crawled into the bed and laid back on the two pillows I had set up for her.
As I started feeding her I realized that I liked her looking like this, a little wild, a lot wanton. I suppose the corset, red and wrinkled now, had something to do with it.
“What?” she asked, swallowing the bite of omelet she had been chewing.
I chuckled and offered her a piece of bacon.
“You just look so, well, so different from your normally well turned-out self,” I said.
She chewed and looked at me contemplatively.
“You mean,” she started and swallowed, “you mean you like me looking like a cheap whore after a night as the entertainment at a fraternity party?”
I chuckled and forked another mouthful of omelet into her mouth, effectively shutting her up.
“No honey,” I said, smiling, “you look like you had a rough night, yes, but you also look happy. Is that about it?”
Those “I’m thinking” frown lines between her eyes formed as she chewed.
She swallowed and accepted a drink from the orange juice glass before responding.
“I’m not sure ‘happy’ is the right word,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, “but I’m, well, hmmmmmmmmm.”
She stopped, obviously thinking, and accepted a bite of grape-jellied toast.
“It’s hard to explain David,” she started again, swallowing the coffee I had offered.
“It’s not ‘happy,’ and it’s not, oh, I don’t know,” she went on, “not ‘content,’ or ‘fulfilled,’ or any of those silly cliches.”
She stopped while I wiped her lips with a napkin.
“Complete,” she went on, “is just SO trite, but that’s as close as I can come.”
She had wound down so I forked another mouthful of omelet and asked, “second thoughts.”
Her eyes got big and she grabbed my hand, chewed and swallowed quickly and then, kissing my fingertips between each word said, “not,” kiss, “a,” kiss, “one,” kiss, “my,” kiss, “love.”
I grinned, said, “good,” and offered another piece of the bacon.
I fed her, grabbing my own bites, until the breakfast was done then kissed her, said, “stay put,” and took the tray into the kitchen where I quickly loaded the dishwasher.
I walked through the bedroom, enjoying just looking at her as I passed through, the sheet up to her hips, her magnificent breasts on display, and went into the bathroom where I adjusted the water until it was very hot, the way she likes it, and then poured in a healthy dose of bubble bath.
Back in the bedroom, I offered my hand and she took it, standing, wincing a little as she rolled over and sat where I had been spanking her. I found that little wince erotic.
I turned her and then undid the corset, finding the red lines where it had bound her so tightly to be erotic and sexy.
I held her hand and she eased into the tub with a long, satisfied sigh.
“Part of this,” I started and hesitated a bit before going ahead, “well, this ‘life’ I suppose you’d call it, is that it is NOT all about pain and punishment. There’s also pampering and loving and just, well,” and I gestured to take in the tub, “this.”
She smiled and said, simply, “I love you, David.”
She closed her eyes and I used the big fluffy face cloth to wash her face, soaking first to soften the crusty stuff and then carefully cleaning.
I finished her face and then shampooed and worked conditioner into her hair.
I did her body then, front first and then having her get onto all fours in the tub so I could do her ass properly.
It still showed color and two circular bruises about the size of a coffee cup right where she was roundest.
She winced slightly when I touched them and then giggled as I parted her cheeks to thoroughly wash her intergluteal cleft, what you call the buttcrack ((chuckles)).
I had her sit back and soak as I thoroughly rinsed her hair.
I turned on the hot water, bringing the temperature up the way she liked it.
“You enjoyed last night, didn’t you?” I asked, smiling and looking at her as she relaxed in the tub.
She opened her eyes and there was that little thought frown.
“Enjoy,” she said at last, “is not the right word. I was frightened and in pain but, well, I did like it.”
She met my eyes and giggled very softly.
“Very much, probably too much,” she said softly.
“Soooooooo,” I said dragging out the vowel, “you’re not withdrawing your consent?”
She met my eyes and smiled a sweet smile.
“No my love,” she said softly, “I love you, I trust you, and I give myself, and my consent, freely.”
I bent and kissed her softly, stood, and said, “enjoy your soak.”
I padded into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then sat down at my laptop to do some exploring on the web.
I was surprised when I googled “bdsm clubs in Denver” and had over 2 million returns.
I narrowed down the search with “bdsm dinner clubs in Denver, colorado” which got it down to a half-million hits
I settled on a place called The Dungeon Dinner Club and called to make reservations.
As I hung up I heard Arlene calling from the bathroom, “I’m turning into a prune, are you going to dry me off or am I on my own?”
I laughed and called, “coming,” poured her a fresh cup of coffee and went into the bathroom.
I offered a hand and helped her stand and then dried her off.
Thoroughly.
Sensually.
Making her giggle from time to time.
When done, I sat her on her makeup chair and use the blow dryer and her brush, slowly working the brush through as I dried her wonderful mane of honey blonde hair.
Finally, I laid out some panties, jeans, and a T-shirt.
“We’re off to His Eyes Only honey,” I said, referring to a woman’s spa that specialized in making women look good for their men.
“Oh,” she said softly and stepped into the panties, squirmed into the jeans, tight as I like them, and then the T-shirt. Anyone wondering if she had a bra on should go have his or her eyes checked.
I was in my weekend clothes. Jeans. T-Shirt reading “The little voices in my head keep saying Get More Guitars.” White socks and tennis shoes.
“And to what do I owe this honor?” she asked, smiling, as we walked out to the car.
Always the gentleman, I opened the door and held her hand as she got into the low slung Cadillac CTS.
I got in, started it up, and headed out.
“I’m going to show you off tonight,” I said, finding the oldies station we both liked on the radio.
She giggled and said, “you really think someone wants to see an overweight broad in her 40s?”
I laughed and said, “when you put yourself down like that you earn extra spankings.”
I looked over at her quickly, grinning, and added, “just so you know.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
For His Eyes Only is in one of those places located in a strip mall. The sign over the door is small and discrete. You’d never expect what was inside if you weren’t specifically looking for it.
We didn’t go there often enough to be considered “regulars,” but I did now how it worked.
I walked up to the reception desk and told Mona, the immensely fat and absolutely beautiful woman who had been stationed there every time we had come in, “Morgan for our 1:00.”
She smiled and said, “Yes Mr. Morgan, Cinnamon will be right with you.”
I chuckled, as I always did, at the obviously made-up names the staff used.
Like all of the staff, Cinnamon was a tiny Vietnamese woman who spoke excellent English.
“Mr. Morgan,” she said in a musical voice, “right this way.”
I took Arlene’s hand and we followed into one of the client areas.
Cinnamon turned to Arlene, pointed at the basket sitting on the side table, and said, simply, “clothes.”
She watched as Arlene kicked off her tennis shoes, peeled off her shirt in that arms crossed and then one quick movement way only a woman can pull off, squirmed out of her jeans, and then her panties.
When Arlene stood naked before us Cinnamon did the forefinger pointing down and twirling motion, the universal “turn around” symbol.
Arlene did a slow turn and when her back was to us Cinnamon said, “stop.”
She touched those round bruises and looked at me, a smile on her face.
“Naughty girl?” she asked.
I chuckled and nodded.
She patted a bruise and said, “turn.”
Arlene finished her turn, facing us again.
“What do you have in mind for today,” she asked me.
I smiled and said, “Not one hair on her below her neck, mani-pedi with bright red polish, and bleach her asshole.”
Arlene’s eyes got big but she knew better than to speak in this place.
Cinnamon grinned and said to Arlene, “you, up on the table on all fours.”
Arlene did as she was told, climbed up onto the table, a massage table with the cushioned face hole at one end, and posed on all fours.
I LOVE her in that position, her back arched to show off that wonderful bubble ass, her boobs hanging free, swaying softly with her breathing, her head up, proud.
Cinnamon reached up casually and spread her cheeks, revealing where she was stained.
“Okay,” she said, turning back to me, “you want to watch or got something else to do.”
“I’ll leave her in your capable hands,” I said.
“Okay,” she said again, “come back in a couple of hours and I’ll have her right for you.”
I patted Arlene on her head, said, “be a good girl now,” and left.
At Naughty ‘n’ Nice I selected what I wanted her to wear and then headed over to The Dungeon Dinner Club. I wanted to make sure I knew where it was, hell, to make sure it was real I suppose, and to get some sense of what to expect.
It was rural, quite remote, off of a county road outside of Golden, a full 15-mile drive from the house.
I parked, for some reason surprised to see the lot seemed about half full early in the afternoon, and went in.
The first thing that struck me when I opened the doors was the RED. Red was clearly the motif and it made me think of the Red Room from 50 Shades of Grey, a movie we had watched together.
The hostess was tall, statuesque, easily over six feet in the stiletto heels she wore.
She was dressed in a leather harness arrangement that lifted and separated her breasts, nice breasts I observed with heavy rings through both nipples and a fine chrome chain connecting them. Her labia, on display as well, was pierced with two heavy rings and a heavy padlock pulling her lips down.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice whiskey and cigarette husky.
“I have a reservation for this evening,” I said, “and just wanted to see what the place was like. You know, what sort of dress was expected.”
She smiled and took my hand.
“Come with me,” she said and led me through a short hallway with red (of course) drapes at either end.
When she pulled aside the drapes we stepped into a large room, much like any other restaurant, except for the omnipresent red and the slight haze of smoke. I realized that while there was the smell of tobacco smoke it was mostly an effect with a hint of incense in it.
At first glance it looked like any other restaurant with tables, typically what my brief excursion into waiting tables in college had taught me were called four-tops, scattered around in a design to allow wait staff easy access. A raised stage at one end of the room and a floor, what I assumed to be a dance floor, and a long bar on a side wall completed the impression.
She allowed me a few seconds to take it in and then said, “this way Mr. Morgan,” surprising me a little that she knew my name.
She led me to a woman seated at a small (two-top) table at the edge of the room inside of the entryway.
She was, well, the word that sprung to mind was “elegant.”
Her hair was that beautiful silvery grey that some lucky women are blessed with naturally, and more spend a lot of money trying, and almost always failing, to achieve. I couldn’t tell if hers was natural but it would fit her demeanor if it was.
My guide waited at a respectful distance until the elegant woman looked up, one eyebrow raised.
“Madame Victoria, let me introduce Mr. Morgan. He will be coming for his first time tonight and wanted to see what we were about,” she said.
I stepped forward and said, “pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
She smiled and offered her hand, wrist slightly bent, palm down, and it just seemed natural to take it, bend over it, and kiss it softly.
She smiled and for an instant, I could see the, well, beautiful or pretty aren’t the right words, I could see the absolutely “striking” woman she had been at 25 or 30.
“And how can I help you, Mr. Morgan?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m not looking for ‘help,'” I said, “but tonight will be our first time here and I wanted to see, well, what to expect.”
She smiled again, that damn dazzling smile, and said, “does this meet your expectations?”
“We’re new to this and, well,” I hesitated, “I guess I’m looking for kindred souls.”
“And who is ‘we,'” she asked.
It was my turn to smile.
“My wife and I,” I said.
“And what is ‘this,'” she asked, and that question sort of stopped me.
“You know,” and I found myself feeling foolish saying it out loud, “domestic discipline.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she said, “a spanker.”
I chuckled and said, “I suppose so.”
“Well,” she said, not smiling but grinning now, “you’ll see plenty of that.”
“Madame Victoria,” I said, “thank you for your time. I’ll see you later.” She seemed so regal that I felt like I was wasting her time.
She smiled and said, “I look forward to it.”
I paused and took one more long look around, and left.
I headed back to For His Eyes Only to pick up my bride.
As always after a day in their hands, she looked stunning.
And I told her how beautiful she is.
We stopped at Denny’s for lunch and then headed home.
I undressed her when we got home, taking my time, kissing the skin I exposed.
I had never had the ladies at For His Eyes Only smooth her completely and I was captivated by how much difference such a subtle change would make in how she felt under my fingertips and my lips.
She’s one of those blondes with very thick hair on her head and a very light, almost downy coat over virtually all of her skin.
And it was gone.
I think she was as sensitive as my fingertips were, the way her skin would kind of twitch as I caressed and explored that delightful smoothness.
We were both a little breathless when I took her hand and led her to the bedroom.
I flipped back the top cover and sheet and as she sat I started undressing myself, taking my time, making it a little striptease for her.
Naked, I crawled in beside her and resumed my exploration of her newly smooth body.
With each little touch and caress, she would squirm and emit soft little mewing sounds.
I traced my way down past her belly button and touching the smooth softness of her plump outer lips, making her squirm some more.
Her pheromone-laden womanscent had me erect, and when I bent to kiss between her legs the slight saltiness of her natural lubricants was delicious.
I kissed my way down to her feet and then rolled her over onto her belly and started back up.
I couldn’t resist spreading her cheeks and checking on the ladies’ bleach job.
It was excellent. There was no hint of staining and I bent and kissed that delicate pink rosebud. When I traced it with my tongue and then penetrated with it she squirmed and I could feel how tense her entire body was.
I brought her to orgasm in that position, her knees under her and parted, her ass up in the air with her back arched sharply. I would start with my tongue finding her clitoris and then slowly drag it up, parting her labia and tasting her arousal, before finding and penetrating her anally with my tongue.
With each slow lick, and I was taking my time, enjoying the way she responded, I would find her slicker, my tongue gathering more of her slightly salty love nectar, loudly swallowing her pleasure so she would know what I was doing.
When she came she filled my mouth with that thick, warm, salty pleasure.
It wasn’t the hard, intense squirting she had done when I spanked her, but a gentle flowing, waves of her release filling my mouth as I nursed at her pussy like a hungry baby, drinking her natural lubricants, her mucus, greedily.
I kept up until I felt the sudden relaxation that told me she was done and then I released her with my mouth.
I crawled up to lay beside her, lightly tickling her back, telling her how beautiful she was, how much I loved her, and listening to her murmur her soft “mmhmm’s” in response.
Finally, she rolled up onto her side and looked at me, her chin propped on her hand.
“What did I do to deserve you?” she asked and I laughed.
“Got knocked up?” I said, my inflection making the question mark obvious.
She smiled and said, “well, there WAS that, but you know what I mean.”
I grinned and said, “Arlene, I’m the lucky one. I got the prettiest, brightest, funniest girl in school and all you got was a nerd.”
She grinned back and reached down to touch my cock.
“Shall I take care of you?” she asked.
I chuckled and said, “later my sweet. After our date tonight I think we’ll both be ready.”
There was that smile that always reminded me that I was telling her the absolute truth when I said I had gotten the prettiest girl in school.
“Where we goin’?” she asked, her voice slow and childish.
I grinned, my best boyish grin, well-practiced in the mirror, and said, “a surprise my dear. A new place.”
She giggled and gave a little squeeze where she held me in her hand.
“And I can’t persuade you to talk?” she said, a bit of a glint in her eye.
I reached down and took her hand, pulling it off of my cock, which she held onto, stretching it a bit before releasing.
“No you insatiable nympho, now stop it,” I said.
When she reached down again I slapped her across the face, not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to sting.
Her eyes got big and her hand went to where I had slapped her.
“No means no wench,” I said, with a grin.
She rolled back onto her belly and arched her back, putting her ass up.
“Gonna spank me then?” she asked.
“Is that what you want?” I asked, intrigued now.
She rolled back onto her side to look at me.
“Yes. No. God David, I don’t know,” she said, “what we just did was wonderful. It was beautiful, It was pure love, I get that. But it wasn’t as,” and here she stopped, thinking, searching for the right word.
“David,” she began again, “what you did for me just now was beautiful. It was fulfilling. It was pure pleasure. It was wonderful.”
“But?” I asked.
She smiled.
“But,” she paused after the word, “when you’re hurting me and I know I can stop it, it’s a whole new level of intensity for me when I don’t.”
She looked at me with wide eyes.
“God, am I making any sense at all?” she asked.
I smiled.
“More than you know honey,” I said and reached out and grabbed her nipple, deliberately pinching, hard, and twisting, knowing I was hurting her.
She cried out, but the cry was “yesssssssssssssssssssssssss,” and not a negation.
I smiled and said, “you have to know that this kind of control is a turn-on for me too, don’t you?”
And she smiled back and said, “God, I hope so.”
“It can’t be all pain though honey,” I said, “or you’ll just go crazy. So relax.”
I scooted close and snuggled up to her, taking the nipple I had just hurt into my mouth and suckling, gently, nursing, my hand light on her waist and back, gently caressing.
I nursed for a while, and she stroked my hair, humming a little lullaby.
I actually dozed off after a while.
When I woke she was laying next to me, hands behind her head, looking up at the ceiling.
I smiled and nuzzled, licking her armpit, fascinated still by how smooth she was everywhere.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I said softly, nuzzling closer.
“Honestly?” she said, not looking over at me.
“Yes,” I said, following it with another lick making her giggle a little.
“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I’m frightened.”
“About all of this,” she said, waving her arm weakly.
“David,” she went on, “you know me. Would you say I’m a strong, independent, smart, capable woman?”
I chuckled and said, “Is this a trick question?”
“No,” she said, “I’m serious.”
“Then yes,” I said, rolling up onto my side to look at her now, “you are most definitely all of those things.”
“But it turns out I’m not,” she said in a very quiet voice.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Because strong women don’t want to be spanked, to be hurt, to suffer to get their release,” she said, her voice getting stronger.
I chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” she said, “I’m serious.”
I rolled up onto my knees and reached down and gently parted her legs.
Her eyes were still open and she was looking at the ceiling but she didn’t try to stop what I was doing.
I kissed her softly and then deliberately slapped her on her full pussy lips making an audible slap.
She cried out and reached down to cover herself but I caught her hand.
“Arlene,” I said, holding her hand in mine, “it’s natural. You’re just fighting against the stupidity of this society we both grew up in.”
“No,” she said, “it’s not JUST the surrender, the submission.”
She took another of those deep breaths.
“David, I think I don’t just need the surrender, I’m afraid I LIKE the pain,” she said.
I kissed her very softly and whispered into her ear, “good, because I like giving it to you.”
“Will you spank me please then?” she asked, rolling onto her belly and arching her back.
“No,” I said simply.
She giggled and got up onto all fours, her breasts hanging free, and looked over at me.
“Please?” she said again.
I chuckled and patted her ass.
“No,” I said again, “I’m going to shower with you, wash your back, do your hair and makeup, and then take you out to show you off.”
“Oh,” she said, “and where are you taking me?”
I grinned and patted her ass again.
“Somewhere I can show off your best features,” I said.
She giggled and said, “my ass,” to which I replied “yep.”
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was a little after five.
I slapped her ass once, hard enough to draw a yelp, and said, “Up wench, time to get ready,” and rolled out of bed before she could grab me.
I helped her out of bed, managing to successfully defeat her attempt to drag me back, and led her into the bathroom.
We showered together and it was no more sensual or erotic than it usually is which is to say I washed her very thoroughly, paying particular attention to her boobs, pussy, and ass, and she returned the favor, making sure my cock was squeaky clean.
Clean and dry, I sat her at her makeup table and started getting her ready.
I have always enjoyed pampering Arlene, and saw no reason to stop because of our, well, our new situation.
I started on her hair, thick and blonde with no grey (as long as Miss Clairol is in business anyway), brushing and fluffing as I used the blow dryer. When I was done she looked like a country music performer with big hair.
Then I did her face. A light base and just a hint of rouge to highlight her cheekbones. It was her eyes that I paid the most attention to. Eyeliner with sharp points to the outsides, giving her an exotic oriental look. The bright light blue eye shadow was next, heavy, obvious. Then the outrageously long false eyelashes, black and obvious, almost like feathers on her upper lids. Finally, the lipstick, the brightest red we had, heavy, accenting her mouth, with a light smear across her upper teeth just because I liked that look too.
I stood back and admired my work.
“I DO enjoy being seen with the prettiest woman in the place,” I said.
She examined herself in the mirror and said, “hmmmmm, or the most expensive whore?”
I laughed and said, “No honey, the prettiest woman.”
“Now, let’s see what daddy brought home from the store,” I said making her giggle.
I opened the bag from Naughty and Nice and pulled out the wonderful buttless combination pantyhose/spanks/girdle I had bought, and handed it to her.
She looked at it and up at me and giggled.
“Okay Head of the Household,” she said, smiling, “if this is what you want.”
I just grinned and motioned for her to get on with it.
She sat on the bench under our bedroom window and started working the hose up. They had a lace pattern and were so tight that as she worked them on her soft skin bulged out, just a little, through the lace. Then she worked the wide belt part up, adjusting her ass where the tightness of the girdle squeezed under her cheeks, lifting and pushing them out. I stepped to her and took the built-in belt, lifting the front until it was smooth across the little pouch of her belly and then tightened it until soft skin squeezed out above.
She looked over her shoulder into the mirror and said, “Jesus David, it’s not like I don’t have enough caboose already.”
I chuckled and patted where she stuck out so delightfully and said, “as the old TV commercial used to say, if you’ve got it flaunt it.”
I handed her the top I had bought and she looked at me with one eyebrow up.
“No bra?” she said, what can only be described as an “impish” smile on her face.
I lifted and dropped her right breast and said, “again, flaunt it.”
She looked at the top, working it out, and then slipped her arms into it. At her throat, there was a collar, almost like a turtleneck, that buttoned with two buttons. At the bottom, there was another button. Between it was open. She buttoned and stood back, standing with her hands at her sides.
She looked absolutely stunning.
The black blouse set of her blonde hair and scarlet lipstick. The way the top was cut it gapped slightly, leaving no doubt whatsoever that she had no bra on, but keeping her boobs covered. The tights were opaque in front, lacy on her legs and, of course, lifted and pushed that big beautiful ass out.
“Ummmmmm,” she said, “I hope there’s more in that little bag.”
I chuckled and pulled out the long wraparound skirt that went with the outfit.
She put it on and suddenly, from the back anyway, was quite modest. The skirt was calf length with a simple tie on the side.
“Oh,” I said, grinning, “and,” and I pulled out the shoebox from the bottom of the bag.
She giggled and said, “Oh goody, shoes.”
When she opened them she looked up at me, again with the speculative, one eyebrow raised look.
The shoes were bright red stilettos, not the extreme 6″ heels, but 4″ heels quite a bit higher than the 2″ and sometimes 3″ she normally wore.
But she sat and put them on. They fit, of course. I know my wife’s sizes very well.
When she stood and did a slow turn, showing me, I was instantly erect.
She was absolutely stunning, all in black and red with plenty of very pale skin showing.
“Give me three minutes,” I said, “and do NOT mess up my handiwork.”
She giggled and said “yes dear,” and headed into the living room.
I quickly selected what I figured would be appropriate evening wear for where we were going, my black suit, white starched shirt, black shoes, bright red socks, and one of my very brightly patterned Rush Limbaugh “No Boundaries” ties.
She whistled when I called her back into the room.
I chuckled and said, “we’ll be a hit tonight.”
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked.
I laughed and said, “patience.”