Been reviewing some of the comments offered on ‘Goodreads’ regarding my stories.
Once again, I do not write romance, probably not even about sex. My stories consistently involve the exchange of power offered by the dynamics of sexual attraction.
To berate my themes because of ‘non-consensual’ D/s is akin to complaining about a murder mystery because the victim gets killed.
If you find non-consensual D/s themes to be troublesome, do not read my stories.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Saturday, April 26, 2014
A Woman in Control - My good organizer V
My good organizer V
Jack calls twice per day for bathroom visits. He acclimates to my authority, never knowing how long I will command him to wait.
Slowly his courage builds, if his beseeching words for permission can be so described. Finally on Thursday morning, calling again to urinate, he again broaches the subject of the straps.
“I... I... bought a bed... a spare bed.”
“And curtains?” I inquire.
“Couldn’t find anything that dark and thick. I finally bought some canvass, stuff for sailing, cut and did some sewing.”
How enlightening! A man who can cook and sew.
“Very creative.”
“So the straps,” Jack’s voice becoming a whisper.
“Saturday. I want you to cook and serve me again. Beef Wellington. Onion soup. Baby carrots, I’m sure you can whip up an appropriate glaze.”
“And the straps?”
“Straps and locks, Jack. Be naked and wearing the cuffs. I want you to serve me naked, Jack.”
There comes silence. Did he come in his suit pants?
“I’m very shy, Miss Montrove.”
This brings a smile. Of course Jack is shy... as shy as the mouse he is.
“Wear the cuffs and old clothing. We’ll accommodate your shyness... this time.”
So on Saturday, toting another Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, I once again visit Jack’s apartment. He graciously opens the door. I extend my hand and he kisses it, Posey cuffs on both wrists, I presume ankles as well. His clothing is worn but presentable, Jack’s neatness quirk I am sure mandating the disposition of anything unsightly.
I am offered Champagne, he knows not to drink, and when he extends his hand I adroitly snap in place a luggage lock, securing the narrow strap which encircles the velcro of the right Posey cuff.
“Left.”
He wordlessly presents and I likewise lock. Then I drop two locks to the floor and Jack knows to go down to his knees, pull up his pants and replicate my efforts on the ankle cuffs right and left.
He’s mine.
“Barefoot, Jack. I want to be served barefoot. Remove your socks.”
He complies and I then visit the spare bedroom. There the newly acquired single bed rests, pushed again the right wall. There is also some other minor furniture, a straight backed chair, foot stool, a floor lamp, small dresser. The makeshift curtains are perfect. Not a hint of daylight shines.
“The room must be barren, Jack. Remove the furniture, take everything off the walls, move the bed to the center... now!”
He jumps, immediately picking up the stool and stepping out to stuff it somewhere. I find I need more Champagne and leave to pour myself another glass, savoring the fragrance of roasting beef while Jack labors.
Within minutes he reports the tasks completed.
Picking up the shopping bag I reenter the bedroom. The straps are very simple. Long, flat and about an inch wide, I slip one under the mattress at the end of the bed and work it to the opposite side. This will restrain the ankles. Another, I slip under the middle, right side to left to restrain the wrists. The ends of the strap will slip through sturdy buckles embedded in the cuffs, folded and doubled back, making Jack and the bed one. A woman of supervision can tighten and adjust. The bearer of the cuffs cannot, off course. There is more, but that will come in time. Jack will be immersed in bondage slowly. Suffering is best meted over long intervals.
“Dinner, Miss Montrove,” my servant announces.
I stroll to the dining area. Jack serves. He’s a natural... servant and chef. The soup is zesty, the beef medium rare, the encrusting pastry puffy and light.
“You’re shy but you have vivid fantasies... deviant I am sure but vivid, Jack. Such conflict,” I prompt as Jack stands nearby, ready to refill my wine glass, respond to the snap of my fingers.
“I’m... well physically slight.”
“That cannot be masked, Jack. You need to come to terms with it. So there has not been much interaction with women... during your developing years?”
He’s uncomfortable, contemplating an answer, pausing to pour more wine as he organizes his thoughts. Finally he speaks.
“Very little.”
“So you masturbate?”
Jack blushes, like a little girl, the answer apparent. No reply needed.
“That will stop. You’re very obedient in asking permission to urinate. So henceforth you’ll need to ask permission to masturbate as well,” assuming you can move so much as a finger, I think but do not say.
Jack just nods.
“I’ll have dessert later, Jack,” vanilla ice cream with a black cherry sauce I am sure Jack spent hours preparing. “Go to the spare bedroom, lie down supine.”
Do I again detect a bulge?
He slips away, tip toeing on bare feet. I go to the kitchen and locate a large and very sharp knife, Jack the gourmet having quite the selection. I slip it behind me, tucking it out of sight under my belt. Then I follow to the spare bedroom where Jack obeisantly lies. It requires not more than minute to thread the ends of the straps through ankle cuffs right and left.
Then I take my time to adjust.... tight... tighter... frustratingly taut. It’s a ritual in which Jack will subconsciously come to revel.
Wrist cuffs are next... tight... tighter... frustratingly taut.
“How do you feel?”
“Restrained.”
“You are... very well restrained. Physically restrained. But what are your thoughts? You no longer have control. You cannot move, except fingers, toes and head.”
“It’s... strange.”
“Strange good... or strange bad?”
“I... I... don’t know.”
“Normally there is offered a word or coded phrase, suggesting relief or release. You have not asked for that Jack.”
“Yes, I guess that would be good to have.”
“You won’t have it,” I smirk wickedly then reach behind for the knife.
It frightens. It should. Jack is helpless. The blade gleams ominously. Jack knows full well how sharp and well hardened is the tempered stainless steel. It can probably cut bone.
Jack panics. Has he placed himself at the mercy of a demented serial killer?
“No!” tugging deliciously at his bonds.
“Oh, yes Jack. The shyness will need to end.”
With that I slip the knife tip under the collar of his shirt, blade upwards, and slowly draw down to his stomach, instantly slicing through the fabric, exposing a scrawny chest.
“It’s best that you be naked for me, Jack. Shyness is not part of the exchange... the exchange of power,” my words come as I shred the right sleeve.
The left sleeve follows, the muscling of the arm sinewy but limited. The sound of tearing must terrify, I think to myself. But if Jack is truly as shy as he suggests, the terror will come when the tearing stops.
Pants at the waist, right leg then left. Underpants. I work with fervor, not pausing to examine. There will be plenty of time for that.
Though slight, tugging the shredded garments from beneath proves to be a chore. Jack cannot roll to assist, but with my regular workouts, I have the arm strength that Jack does not. Soon every square inch of covering is slipped from under and piled on the floor to be disposed of if and when Jack is freed to keep house.
The protestations continue and I of course ignore. Then after stepping away to stow the knife, I return. Time for a leisurely inspection.
“You object, but your penis seems to enjoy, Jack.”
Yes, the embarrassment and humiliation has that effect on men of Jack’s predilection. He’s aroused and he’s hardening. And he’s tiny. The root of his so termed shyness is an erection not larger than my pinky.
“Oh, Jack. Not much there to offer. Think it is best that you please a women otherwise... like cooking... and cleaning.”
He is crimson. There are no more words... not in protest ... not in reply.
“Yes, men like you are best serving. You’d like to be a servant wouldn’t you, Jack. Not have the pressure of trying to sexually pleasure a woman with such an inadequacy as this.”
I handle him, index finger first diddling the underside of the upturned penis tip, then the thumb joining to offer a tantalizing quick stroke. Yes it’s stiff, but useless for carnal relations.
My hand moves to the scrotum, equally limited, equally unimpressive. Curious how nature dispenses traits and talents... the sharp analytical mind fostering an engineering degree from a prestigious college... the puny reproductive organs of a church mouse abridging all hope of ever sexually pleasing a woman.
As stated, controlling hand jobs became an amusing diversion for me in college. I suppose I should again amuse, find out if he can ejaculate. But there is plenty of time. Dessert awaits.
“You’ll need to change the light bulb, Jack. Twenty five watts, less if you can find a dimmer bulb. It will be less stressful on your eyes.”
With that, I turn off the ceiling light. Thick, heavy curtains in place, not a scintilla of setting sunlight or city street lighting radiates. When I step out and shut the door, Jack is left in total darkness... and well restrained of course.
Cherries and ice cream. Luscious! At least Jack can impress in some manner.
Jack calls twice per day for bathroom visits. He acclimates to my authority, never knowing how long I will command him to wait.
Slowly his courage builds, if his beseeching words for permission can be so described. Finally on Thursday morning, calling again to urinate, he again broaches the subject of the straps.
“I... I... bought a bed... a spare bed.”
“And curtains?” I inquire.
“Couldn’t find anything that dark and thick. I finally bought some canvass, stuff for sailing, cut and did some sewing.”
How enlightening! A man who can cook and sew.
“Very creative.”
“So the straps,” Jack’s voice becoming a whisper.
“Saturday. I want you to cook and serve me again. Beef Wellington. Onion soup. Baby carrots, I’m sure you can whip up an appropriate glaze.”
“And the straps?”
“Straps and locks, Jack. Be naked and wearing the cuffs. I want you to serve me naked, Jack.”
There comes silence. Did he come in his suit pants?
“I’m very shy, Miss Montrove.”
This brings a smile. Of course Jack is shy... as shy as the mouse he is.
“Wear the cuffs and old clothing. We’ll accommodate your shyness... this time.”
So on Saturday, toting another Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, I once again visit Jack’s apartment. He graciously opens the door. I extend my hand and he kisses it, Posey cuffs on both wrists, I presume ankles as well. His clothing is worn but presentable, Jack’s neatness quirk I am sure mandating the disposition of anything unsightly.
I am offered Champagne, he knows not to drink, and when he extends his hand I adroitly snap in place a luggage lock, securing the narrow strap which encircles the velcro of the right Posey cuff.
“Left.”
He wordlessly presents and I likewise lock. Then I drop two locks to the floor and Jack knows to go down to his knees, pull up his pants and replicate my efforts on the ankle cuffs right and left.
He’s mine.
“Barefoot, Jack. I want to be served barefoot. Remove your socks.”
He complies and I then visit the spare bedroom. There the newly acquired single bed rests, pushed again the right wall. There is also some other minor furniture, a straight backed chair, foot stool, a floor lamp, small dresser. The makeshift curtains are perfect. Not a hint of daylight shines.
“The room must be barren, Jack. Remove the furniture, take everything off the walls, move the bed to the center... now!”
He jumps, immediately picking up the stool and stepping out to stuff it somewhere. I find I need more Champagne and leave to pour myself another glass, savoring the fragrance of roasting beef while Jack labors.
Within minutes he reports the tasks completed.
Picking up the shopping bag I reenter the bedroom. The straps are very simple. Long, flat and about an inch wide, I slip one under the mattress at the end of the bed and work it to the opposite side. This will restrain the ankles. Another, I slip under the middle, right side to left to restrain the wrists. The ends of the strap will slip through sturdy buckles embedded in the cuffs, folded and doubled back, making Jack and the bed one. A woman of supervision can tighten and adjust. The bearer of the cuffs cannot, off course. There is more, but that will come in time. Jack will be immersed in bondage slowly. Suffering is best meted over long intervals.
“Dinner, Miss Montrove,” my servant announces.
I stroll to the dining area. Jack serves. He’s a natural... servant and chef. The soup is zesty, the beef medium rare, the encrusting pastry puffy and light.
“You’re shy but you have vivid fantasies... deviant I am sure but vivid, Jack. Such conflict,” I prompt as Jack stands nearby, ready to refill my wine glass, respond to the snap of my fingers.
“I’m... well physically slight.”
“That cannot be masked, Jack. You need to come to terms with it. So there has not been much interaction with women... during your developing years?”
He’s uncomfortable, contemplating an answer, pausing to pour more wine as he organizes his thoughts. Finally he speaks.
“Very little.”
“So you masturbate?”
Jack blushes, like a little girl, the answer apparent. No reply needed.
“That will stop. You’re very obedient in asking permission to urinate. So henceforth you’ll need to ask permission to masturbate as well,” assuming you can move so much as a finger, I think but do not say.
Jack just nods.
“I’ll have dessert later, Jack,” vanilla ice cream with a black cherry sauce I am sure Jack spent hours preparing. “Go to the spare bedroom, lie down supine.”
Do I again detect a bulge?
He slips away, tip toeing on bare feet. I go to the kitchen and locate a large and very sharp knife, Jack the gourmet having quite the selection. I slip it behind me, tucking it out of sight under my belt. Then I follow to the spare bedroom where Jack obeisantly lies. It requires not more than minute to thread the ends of the straps through ankle cuffs right and left.
Then I take my time to adjust.... tight... tighter... frustratingly taut. It’s a ritual in which Jack will subconsciously come to revel.
Wrist cuffs are next... tight... tighter... frustratingly taut.
“How do you feel?”
“Restrained.”
“You are... very well restrained. Physically restrained. But what are your thoughts? You no longer have control. You cannot move, except fingers, toes and head.”
“It’s... strange.”
“Strange good... or strange bad?”
“I... I... don’t know.”
“Normally there is offered a word or coded phrase, suggesting relief or release. You have not asked for that Jack.”
“Yes, I guess that would be good to have.”
“You won’t have it,” I smirk wickedly then reach behind for the knife.
It frightens. It should. Jack is helpless. The blade gleams ominously. Jack knows full well how sharp and well hardened is the tempered stainless steel. It can probably cut bone.
Jack panics. Has he placed himself at the mercy of a demented serial killer?
“No!” tugging deliciously at his bonds.
“Oh, yes Jack. The shyness will need to end.”
With that I slip the knife tip under the collar of his shirt, blade upwards, and slowly draw down to his stomach, instantly slicing through the fabric, exposing a scrawny chest.
“It’s best that you be naked for me, Jack. Shyness is not part of the exchange... the exchange of power,” my words come as I shred the right sleeve.
The left sleeve follows, the muscling of the arm sinewy but limited. The sound of tearing must terrify, I think to myself. But if Jack is truly as shy as he suggests, the terror will come when the tearing stops.
Pants at the waist, right leg then left. Underpants. I work with fervor, not pausing to examine. There will be plenty of time for that.
Though slight, tugging the shredded garments from beneath proves to be a chore. Jack cannot roll to assist, but with my regular workouts, I have the arm strength that Jack does not. Soon every square inch of covering is slipped from under and piled on the floor to be disposed of if and when Jack is freed to keep house.
The protestations continue and I of course ignore. Then after stepping away to stow the knife, I return. Time for a leisurely inspection.
“You object, but your penis seems to enjoy, Jack.”
Yes, the embarrassment and humiliation has that effect on men of Jack’s predilection. He’s aroused and he’s hardening. And he’s tiny. The root of his so termed shyness is an erection not larger than my pinky.
“Oh, Jack. Not much there to offer. Think it is best that you please a women otherwise... like cooking... and cleaning.”
He is crimson. There are no more words... not in protest ... not in reply.
“Yes, men like you are best serving. You’d like to be a servant wouldn’t you, Jack. Not have the pressure of trying to sexually pleasure a woman with such an inadequacy as this.”
I handle him, index finger first diddling the underside of the upturned penis tip, then the thumb joining to offer a tantalizing quick stroke. Yes it’s stiff, but useless for carnal relations.
My hand moves to the scrotum, equally limited, equally unimpressive. Curious how nature dispenses traits and talents... the sharp analytical mind fostering an engineering degree from a prestigious college... the puny reproductive organs of a church mouse abridging all hope of ever sexually pleasing a woman.
As stated, controlling hand jobs became an amusing diversion for me in college. I suppose I should again amuse, find out if he can ejaculate. But there is plenty of time. Dessert awaits.
“You’ll need to change the light bulb, Jack. Twenty five watts, less if you can find a dimmer bulb. It will be less stressful on your eyes.”
With that, I turn off the ceiling light. Thick, heavy curtains in place, not a scintilla of setting sunlight or city street lighting radiates. When I step out and shut the door, Jack is left in total darkness... and well restrained of course.
Cherries and ice cream. Luscious! At least Jack can impress in some manner.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
A Woman in Control - My good organizer IV
My good organizer IV
Monday. No further comment or discussion on the Posey cuffs. But like a good boy, Jack calls and suggests a visit to the men’s room is required.
Special needs indeed.
“Wait twenty minutes,” I succinctly demand, then hang up.
I will not let him ‘back into’ a conversation concerning my gifts. Meanwhile, in obediently delaying nature’s call, he can give his situation some thought. A man like Jack will drool over the unknown elements the Posey cuffs present... the how... the where... the when... and particularly the how long. Such intrigues.
And I can accommodate. If he capitulates he will never know the how, the where, the when, and particularly the how long.
Good bondage, for a man of Jack’s ilk, must seem to be unending. And once I have him, it will be so.
Thirty minutes later, Jack slinks into the executive suite. I ignore him.
“I waited the twenty minutes... like you instructed.”
I merely nod.
“Thank you again for the gifts,” careful with his words in the cavernous reception area for the offices of all the company ‘big guns’.
I feign business, shuffling papers. Jack squirms. He wants to talk more. In maintaining silence I hint that action is preferred. Finally I sit back in my desk chair and authoritatively fold my arms.
“You enjoyed wearing them?”
“Yes... I... I...” he stammers looking about to see if there are listeners. “I wore them to bed.”
“And your PJs?”, sarcastical in using the term for toddlers.
“Gone. I tossed them.”
“So naked and in cuffs. Sleep well?”
“I rolled about a bit. But the cuffs... well you get used to them.”
I smirk, thinking to myself what little of that will occur when properly strapped in place. The initial tugging against tight bondage can be mentally exasperating... not to mention physically draining. But then, in time, the mind and body succumb... it’s delicious.
“Is that all, Jack?” my tone brusque.
“Ah... well... you said you had straps...”
“Straps and locks, Jack. You’ll not have one without the other.”
The moth comes closer and closer to the candle.
“Ah... can I borrow?”
“Hazardous, Jack. Self bondage can endanger.”
He searches. Finally I assist.
“I noticed you have a spare bedroom.”
Jack nods.
“Empty it. Buy extra thick curtains. If you do not have one, bring in a single mattress bed. Then you shall have the straps... and the locks... and proper supervision.”
Do I detect a bulge... a very faint bulge... in those trousers?
Yes, for Jack there is a natural trait, deeply imbedded within the mind, to surrender his will to perceived authority figures... female authority figures.
I lean and pretend to search through a drawer in my desk. Jack gets the wordless message and meekly saunters away. Enough said.
Monday. No further comment or discussion on the Posey cuffs. But like a good boy, Jack calls and suggests a visit to the men’s room is required.
Special needs indeed.
“Wait twenty minutes,” I succinctly demand, then hang up.
I will not let him ‘back into’ a conversation concerning my gifts. Meanwhile, in obediently delaying nature’s call, he can give his situation some thought. A man like Jack will drool over the unknown elements the Posey cuffs present... the how... the where... the when... and particularly the how long. Such intrigues.
And I can accommodate. If he capitulates he will never know the how, the where, the when, and particularly the how long.
Good bondage, for a man of Jack’s ilk, must seem to be unending. And once I have him, it will be so.
Thirty minutes later, Jack slinks into the executive suite. I ignore him.
“I waited the twenty minutes... like you instructed.”
I merely nod.
“Thank you again for the gifts,” careful with his words in the cavernous reception area for the offices of all the company ‘big guns’.
I feign business, shuffling papers. Jack squirms. He wants to talk more. In maintaining silence I hint that action is preferred. Finally I sit back in my desk chair and authoritatively fold my arms.
“You enjoyed wearing them?”
“Yes... I... I...” he stammers looking about to see if there are listeners. “I wore them to bed.”
“And your PJs?”, sarcastical in using the term for toddlers.
“Gone. I tossed them.”
“So naked and in cuffs. Sleep well?”
“I rolled about a bit. But the cuffs... well you get used to them.”
I smirk, thinking to myself what little of that will occur when properly strapped in place. The initial tugging against tight bondage can be mentally exasperating... not to mention physically draining. But then, in time, the mind and body succumb... it’s delicious.
“Is that all, Jack?” my tone brusque.
“Ah... well... you said you had straps...”
“Straps and locks, Jack. You’ll not have one without the other.”
The moth comes closer and closer to the candle.
“Ah... can I borrow?”
“Hazardous, Jack. Self bondage can endanger.”
He searches. Finally I assist.
“I noticed you have a spare bedroom.”
Jack nods.
“Empty it. Buy extra thick curtains. If you do not have one, bring in a single mattress bed. Then you shall have the straps... and the locks... and proper supervision.”
Do I detect a bulge... a very faint bulge... in those trousers?
Yes, for Jack there is a natural trait, deeply imbedded within the mind, to surrender his will to perceived authority figures... female authority figures.
I lean and pretend to search through a drawer in my desk. Jack gets the wordless message and meekly saunters away. Enough said.
Friday, April 18, 2014
'A Woman in Control' available at Lulu
For those who wish to read ahead (and pay for the privilege), the entire ‘A Woman in Control’ manuscript is available from Lulu. 31,000 words. $5.00.
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Enjoy
CB
http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/a-woman-in-control/ebook/product-21578977.html
A print edition will be available exclusively from QSM. (www.qualitysm.com)
Enjoy
CB
Saturday, April 12, 2014
A Woman in Control - My good organizer III
My good organizer III
Sunday I reflect on Saturday night’s interlude. I also await Jack’s call. I know it will come, he was most fawning when I finally gave him my cell phone number.
As promised, the meal was exquisite, Jack scampering back and forth serving me. A fine wine, turtle soup, pheasant, exotic vegetables including saffron rice, a souffle for desert.
And he never ate a bite.
Before dessert, perhaps emboldened by wine, I had him remove his socks. He obeyed and such sealed my analysis. For he did not ask why. And I had no answer other than the decadence of serving me barefoot had certain charm.
So in leaving behind my Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, ostensibly by mistake, I know the cell phone will soon chime. My gallant servant will leap at the opportunity to once again come under my auspices. And sure enough, imagining Jack having left over turtle soup for breakfast, the phone rings at 11:00 a.m.
“Miss Montrove, you left a bag here,” he excitedly discloses after we exchange pleasantries. “I can bring it to the office on Monday... or stop by with it if you need it sooner.”
“Did you look inside it, Jack?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, there are things inside for you, should you choose to wear them for me.”
“Things for me?”
“Yes. Little gifts. For the wine and nice meal.”
“Can I open it?”
“Of course. Anytime. I did not bother to gift wrap. And do let me know if you’d like to wear them for me.”
There comes a pause of surprise. He has not expected anything in return.
“And Jack... they’re not from Saks,” somewhat giggling as I impart the final words.
I hang up. What I have offered is really more than something to wear. I have anointed Jack with sets of Posey cuffs, wrists and ankles. The connecting straps I have in my possession, that which will comfortably and most ineluctably bind him where and when I choose. So though such are to be worn, it’s really the capitulation of doing so that I want him to think about.
The gap which he subconsciously seeks to be filled is now in the forefront of his mind... he must think carefully about how and with whom he fills it.
Though not delving into mechanics, his engineering mind will be transfixed with the design and efficiency of the cuffs. Rugged nylon, lined with foam, double strips of velcro bind in place after encircling the limbs. Safe, not to be removed by the bearer, Posey cuffs are de rigeur in hospitals and mental institutions.
'This will not be an experiment, Jack,' I was prompted to disclose. Not be entertainment... some replication of a thrilling Houdini escape. You will wear them for me when I desire... and such will be removed when I desire. It’s termed feminine caprice, Jack. Dare you submit to it?
Yet I kept my thoughts to myself, picturing Jack excitedly donning the cuffs.
I hope the dear boy isn’t masturbating.
Well my concern is addressed when my cell phone rings again.
“It’s Jack, Miss Montrove. I opened the bag,” his voice shaky.
“And...” my voice smooth and firm, drawing more reaction, not the time for awkward silence.
“They fit.”
An engineer’s response.
“Of course they do, Jack. They are Posey cuffs. One size fits all. So you’re wearing them?”
“Yes.”
“And what else?”
“Ah... still in my pajamas.”
So quaint... a grown man in PJs.
“Jack, Posey cuffs are best worn while naked. Take off the pajamas... now!” the final word barked firmly but with an appropriate level of feminine grace.
There is silence. He obeys, which no longer surprises. He returns to the phone.
“There is a certain... feeling...”
I like his reaction. For someone of Jack’s ilk, the bindings, when taut, are sensed as a grip. And with the implements coming from a woman, the grip is sensual.
“Yes. Now put on your engineer’s thinking cap, Jack. You see the narrow straps that can wrap about the velcro?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Those straps accommodate little padlocks. So if someone so chooses, those Posey cuffs can be locked in place. What do you think about that?”
Do I hear a gulp? At the very least, a clearing of the throat.
“They wouldn’t be able to be taken off.”
“It would not be the wearer’s prerogative to take them off, Jack. That’s the point of locking them in place. So the wearer would be under control.”
I pause to let the subservient psyche thrill in my emphasized enunciation of the word ‘control’. Perhaps I should specify a 'woman's control'.
“And you see the many eyelets and buckles?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Those are so the cuffs can be secured... to nice strong nylon straps... to immobilize the wearer. Someone could bind the wearer in place, Jack. No use of arms or legs, and obviously the cuffs only come off when someone else decides.”
Another pause. I do hope he’s not stroking himself. Finally comes a response.
“I see,” the words come as I listen for telltale heavy breathing.
More pause. Then an appraisal.
“The cuffs are well designed.”
“And well tested, Jack. Not even the most violent young mental patient has ever escaped when properly bound. No matter the effort, no matter the strength, when placed in Posey cuffs and strapped in place, one stays there.”
“Yes, there is a certain comfort level.”
“Yes there is. Good physical comfort. Can a man mentally acclimate to long term bondage, Jack? I believe a man with special needs can.”
There is breathing but I hear little motion. Jack is in thought. Enough parry. Time to thrust.
“I have straps, Jack. Strong... thick... not to be torn or broken. As an engineer I think you would be fascinated to evaluate the stress level, the tension such can bear. Thousands of pounds per square inch... so I am told.”
“Yes, nylon is quite resilient.”
Such an engineering mind.
“And I have locks. Tiny little luggage locks. That’s all it takes to bind a man with special needs. Posey cuffs, little locks and straps.”
“It does offer quite an image, Miss Montrove.”
“Are you a man with special needs, Jack?”
I get no reply. I do not expect a reply... not on this call.
“Jack, in the office, from now on when you need to use the men’s room, first call to the executive suite. And throw away those pajamas! We’ll begin to address your special needs.”
With that, I hang up. I must wonder whether he will sleep in his soon to be treasured cuffs.
Sunday I reflect on Saturday night’s interlude. I also await Jack’s call. I know it will come, he was most fawning when I finally gave him my cell phone number.
As promised, the meal was exquisite, Jack scampering back and forth serving me. A fine wine, turtle soup, pheasant, exotic vegetables including saffron rice, a souffle for desert.
And he never ate a bite.
Before dessert, perhaps emboldened by wine, I had him remove his socks. He obeyed and such sealed my analysis. For he did not ask why. And I had no answer other than the decadence of serving me barefoot had certain charm.
So in leaving behind my Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, ostensibly by mistake, I know the cell phone will soon chime. My gallant servant will leap at the opportunity to once again come under my auspices. And sure enough, imagining Jack having left over turtle soup for breakfast, the phone rings at 11:00 a.m.
“Miss Montrove, you left a bag here,” he excitedly discloses after we exchange pleasantries. “I can bring it to the office on Monday... or stop by with it if you need it sooner.”
“Did you look inside it, Jack?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, there are things inside for you, should you choose to wear them for me.”
“Things for me?”
“Yes. Little gifts. For the wine and nice meal.”
“Can I open it?”
“Of course. Anytime. I did not bother to gift wrap. And do let me know if you’d like to wear them for me.”
There comes a pause of surprise. He has not expected anything in return.
“And Jack... they’re not from Saks,” somewhat giggling as I impart the final words.
I hang up. What I have offered is really more than something to wear. I have anointed Jack with sets of Posey cuffs, wrists and ankles. The connecting straps I have in my possession, that which will comfortably and most ineluctably bind him where and when I choose. So though such are to be worn, it’s really the capitulation of doing so that I want him to think about.
The gap which he subconsciously seeks to be filled is now in the forefront of his mind... he must think carefully about how and with whom he fills it.
Though not delving into mechanics, his engineering mind will be transfixed with the design and efficiency of the cuffs. Rugged nylon, lined with foam, double strips of velcro bind in place after encircling the limbs. Safe, not to be removed by the bearer, Posey cuffs are de rigeur in hospitals and mental institutions.
'This will not be an experiment, Jack,' I was prompted to disclose. Not be entertainment... some replication of a thrilling Houdini escape. You will wear them for me when I desire... and such will be removed when I desire. It’s termed feminine caprice, Jack. Dare you submit to it?
Yet I kept my thoughts to myself, picturing Jack excitedly donning the cuffs.
I hope the dear boy isn’t masturbating.
Well my concern is addressed when my cell phone rings again.
“It’s Jack, Miss Montrove. I opened the bag,” his voice shaky.
“And...” my voice smooth and firm, drawing more reaction, not the time for awkward silence.
“They fit.”
An engineer’s response.
“Of course they do, Jack. They are Posey cuffs. One size fits all. So you’re wearing them?”
“Yes.”
“And what else?”
“Ah... still in my pajamas.”
So quaint... a grown man in PJs.
“Jack, Posey cuffs are best worn while naked. Take off the pajamas... now!” the final word barked firmly but with an appropriate level of feminine grace.
There is silence. He obeys, which no longer surprises. He returns to the phone.
“There is a certain... feeling...”
I like his reaction. For someone of Jack’s ilk, the bindings, when taut, are sensed as a grip. And with the implements coming from a woman, the grip is sensual.
“Yes. Now put on your engineer’s thinking cap, Jack. You see the narrow straps that can wrap about the velcro?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Those straps accommodate little padlocks. So if someone so chooses, those Posey cuffs can be locked in place. What do you think about that?”
Do I hear a gulp? At the very least, a clearing of the throat.
“They wouldn’t be able to be taken off.”
“It would not be the wearer’s prerogative to take them off, Jack. That’s the point of locking them in place. So the wearer would be under control.”
I pause to let the subservient psyche thrill in my emphasized enunciation of the word ‘control’. Perhaps I should specify a 'woman's control'.
“And you see the many eyelets and buckles?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Those are so the cuffs can be secured... to nice strong nylon straps... to immobilize the wearer. Someone could bind the wearer in place, Jack. No use of arms or legs, and obviously the cuffs only come off when someone else decides.”
Another pause. I do hope he’s not stroking himself. Finally comes a response.
“I see,” the words come as I listen for telltale heavy breathing.
More pause. Then an appraisal.
“The cuffs are well designed.”
“And well tested, Jack. Not even the most violent young mental patient has ever escaped when properly bound. No matter the effort, no matter the strength, when placed in Posey cuffs and strapped in place, one stays there.”
“Yes, there is a certain comfort level.”
“Yes there is. Good physical comfort. Can a man mentally acclimate to long term bondage, Jack? I believe a man with special needs can.”
There is breathing but I hear little motion. Jack is in thought. Enough parry. Time to thrust.
“I have straps, Jack. Strong... thick... not to be torn or broken. As an engineer I think you would be fascinated to evaluate the stress level, the tension such can bear. Thousands of pounds per square inch... so I am told.”
“Yes, nylon is quite resilient.”
Such an engineering mind.
“And I have locks. Tiny little luggage locks. That’s all it takes to bind a man with special needs. Posey cuffs, little locks and straps.”
“It does offer quite an image, Miss Montrove.”
“Are you a man with special needs, Jack?”
I get no reply. I do not expect a reply... not on this call.
“Jack, in the office, from now on when you need to use the men’s room, first call to the executive suite. And throw away those pajamas! We’ll begin to address your special needs.”
With that, I hang up. I must wonder whether he will sleep in his soon to be treasured cuffs.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
A Woman in Control - My good organizer II
My good organizer II
Jack tried again. I knew he would. And one must keep in mind his entreaties came before the hijinks began with G. Douglas and well before the development of my bull stud sales team. So though I kept my aura of superiority, that of haughty bitch, I was also in need of male companionship. But in that respect Jack proved inadequate except for certain non carnal attributes.
I learned Jack could cook!
He once again suggested coffee. And I, in the role of bitch, sent him out to retrieve... six blocks to the Starbucks, the institutional office stuff deemed below my standards.
‘Go fetch, boy,’ thoughts not words.
Returning winded (did he jog?) I made him stand while I comfortably sat at my desk, trying not to giggle when he expressed thanks in letting him be ‘of service’. Such gallant dribble.
Yes, I had him... and he wanted to be had. So easy.
There can be comfort in ownership, I learned in one of my advanced classes in aberrant behavior. So many examples, the loyalty of pets, slaves declining ultimate freedom, the Stockholm syndrome. And Jack’s soft eyes cried out for guidance.
At what level did he desire ownership?
When my intercom buzzed, G. Douglas in need of a paperclip no doubt, I shooed him away, without thanks, my attitude one of expectation.
‘Why should you not fetch and be of service?’
So it was Jack who first fell into my lair, not G. Douglas. The boss simply became the catalyst for the ultimate attainment of power.
Jack and I dated. I maintained my demeanor of bitch. Nothing more than dinner. I mean nothing. On the second date he divulged his cooking skills... a hobby but well honed. And as an engineer, precision ingrained, one could imagine a very exacting and pragmatic approach in the kitchen. He invited me to his place, on a Saturday night, spending the time to prepare something sumptuous all afternoon.
“I want to serve you a great meal.”
I agreed.
“No sex, Jack. Don’t even think about it,” I forewarned.
‘At least not how you would hope to envision it,’ I was tempted to add but did not want to scare aware the fish before even setting the hook.
I let him kiss my hand, declining to share a cab with him. Not too close too fast.
During the week he was given to visit me in the executive suite, a ‘just happen to be passing’ by type of thing. I finally put a stop to it, asserting myself, the mystical powers of the CEO’s administrative assistant... filing clerk, maker of coffee, sharpener of pencils... yet with perceived influence that really wasn’t there... at the time.
“Jack, you are to stay in your office in the analysis department unless summoned,” my tone as exacting as my 22 year old voice could assimilate.
Yet, I was effective. He later called and asked to go to the men’s room. I had to stifle quite the laugh, suggesting that he must first wait fifteen minutes.
Well, most would take it as humor, anyone but Jack sarcastically responding to my overbearing instructions. But something told me to check and after fifteen minutes I happened near the analysis department, veiling my presence, but amused to see Jack finally step from his office and head for the men’s room. Fifteen minutes on the dot!
Wow, aberrant behavior indeed. The boy is crying out in need... and I decided it shall be addressed.
Saturday. I arrive at Jack’s apartment, in my hand a... well term it a surprise bag. Engineers do well, his upper east side building somewhat swank... doorman... well accoutered lobby. Permission to ascend to Jack’s nineteenth floor abode is immediate. He greets me at the door wearing an apron. As disclosed he has spent the afternoon cooking, but is the apron functional or is Jack sending a message?
When I step into his well furnished digs, there come more clues. The livingroom, open to a cute dining area, is not only spotless it is tastefully decorated... too tastefully. It’s not guy stuff... not the taste of a young bachelor. Yet it’s not feminine either... it’s just... precise... in spacing... in coloring... in its functionality.
Than another clue as Jack excuses himself to momentarily rush to the kitchen. He wears no shoes and his apron! Now that’s feminine! Frilly, it is only lacking the color pink to make it completely inappropriate to be donned by a male.
Another message?
I stow my bag. ‘Saks Fifth Avenue’ with sturdy handles, innocuously suggesting I have shopped. Jack returns. Having checked on some portion of the meal, he carries a tray. A bottle of Champagne, two filled glasses.
“Thank you, Jack, very thoughtful. But you probably should not be drinking near all that hot food and equipment,” taking both glasses from the tray.
I have spent the morning and a good part of the afternoon reading some old texts. Jack is a submissive male. Deep within he relishes the female authority figure. There is a gap in his life which he yearns to have filled.
Did he find me or I find him?
“Yes, ma’am, I suppose it can be hazardous,” not an iota of regret as I put aside his glass and sip from mine.
Am I the woman to fill the gap?
“Very nice apartment, Jack. Nicely decorated,” small talk as he must stand before me, watching me imbibe.
Without drink, his hands are unoccupied and such fosters awkwardness... intentional on my part. For now I am the person who can bring comfort... and I don’t. I have intentionally worn heels, not high but nicely augmenting our height differential. And to think Jack has accommodated by forsaking shoes...
For some reason he dares not move and cannot find words. So we just look at each other, me gazing downward at his face, such delightful psychological advantage. Though there is silence, I believe messages are exchanged. Another sip and I take mercy.
“You’ll serve me there? In the dining area?” hinting at the evening protocol.
“Ah, yes, Miss Montrove,” responding as I stroll the few steps to the set table.
“Here you may call me Miss Desiree. Less formal don’t you think?”
He nods, knowing that it will continue to be Miss Montrove at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances.
“There are two settings. I am to expect a guest?”
I hear a gulp. Poor Jack has cooked for two. But not to go to waste. He can heat his portion later... much later.
Jack tried again. I knew he would. And one must keep in mind his entreaties came before the hijinks began with G. Douglas and well before the development of my bull stud sales team. So though I kept my aura of superiority, that of haughty bitch, I was also in need of male companionship. But in that respect Jack proved inadequate except for certain non carnal attributes.
I learned Jack could cook!
He once again suggested coffee. And I, in the role of bitch, sent him out to retrieve... six blocks to the Starbucks, the institutional office stuff deemed below my standards.
‘Go fetch, boy,’ thoughts not words.
Returning winded (did he jog?) I made him stand while I comfortably sat at my desk, trying not to giggle when he expressed thanks in letting him be ‘of service’. Such gallant dribble.
Yes, I had him... and he wanted to be had. So easy.
There can be comfort in ownership, I learned in one of my advanced classes in aberrant behavior. So many examples, the loyalty of pets, slaves declining ultimate freedom, the Stockholm syndrome. And Jack’s soft eyes cried out for guidance.
At what level did he desire ownership?
When my intercom buzzed, G. Douglas in need of a paperclip no doubt, I shooed him away, without thanks, my attitude one of expectation.
‘Why should you not fetch and be of service?’
So it was Jack who first fell into my lair, not G. Douglas. The boss simply became the catalyst for the ultimate attainment of power.
Jack and I dated. I maintained my demeanor of bitch. Nothing more than dinner. I mean nothing. On the second date he divulged his cooking skills... a hobby but well honed. And as an engineer, precision ingrained, one could imagine a very exacting and pragmatic approach in the kitchen. He invited me to his place, on a Saturday night, spending the time to prepare something sumptuous all afternoon.
“I want to serve you a great meal.”
I agreed.
“No sex, Jack. Don’t even think about it,” I forewarned.
‘At least not how you would hope to envision it,’ I was tempted to add but did not want to scare aware the fish before even setting the hook.
I let him kiss my hand, declining to share a cab with him. Not too close too fast.
During the week he was given to visit me in the executive suite, a ‘just happen to be passing’ by type of thing. I finally put a stop to it, asserting myself, the mystical powers of the CEO’s administrative assistant... filing clerk, maker of coffee, sharpener of pencils... yet with perceived influence that really wasn’t there... at the time.
“Jack, you are to stay in your office in the analysis department unless summoned,” my tone as exacting as my 22 year old voice could assimilate.
Yet, I was effective. He later called and asked to go to the men’s room. I had to stifle quite the laugh, suggesting that he must first wait fifteen minutes.
Well, most would take it as humor, anyone but Jack sarcastically responding to my overbearing instructions. But something told me to check and after fifteen minutes I happened near the analysis department, veiling my presence, but amused to see Jack finally step from his office and head for the men’s room. Fifteen minutes on the dot!
Wow, aberrant behavior indeed. The boy is crying out in need... and I decided it shall be addressed.
Saturday. I arrive at Jack’s apartment, in my hand a... well term it a surprise bag. Engineers do well, his upper east side building somewhat swank... doorman... well accoutered lobby. Permission to ascend to Jack’s nineteenth floor abode is immediate. He greets me at the door wearing an apron. As disclosed he has spent the afternoon cooking, but is the apron functional or is Jack sending a message?
When I step into his well furnished digs, there come more clues. The livingroom, open to a cute dining area, is not only spotless it is tastefully decorated... too tastefully. It’s not guy stuff... not the taste of a young bachelor. Yet it’s not feminine either... it’s just... precise... in spacing... in coloring... in its functionality.
Than another clue as Jack excuses himself to momentarily rush to the kitchen. He wears no shoes and his apron! Now that’s feminine! Frilly, it is only lacking the color pink to make it completely inappropriate to be donned by a male.
Another message?
I stow my bag. ‘Saks Fifth Avenue’ with sturdy handles, innocuously suggesting I have shopped. Jack returns. Having checked on some portion of the meal, he carries a tray. A bottle of Champagne, two filled glasses.
“Thank you, Jack, very thoughtful. But you probably should not be drinking near all that hot food and equipment,” taking both glasses from the tray.
I have spent the morning and a good part of the afternoon reading some old texts. Jack is a submissive male. Deep within he relishes the female authority figure. There is a gap in his life which he yearns to have filled.
Did he find me or I find him?
“Yes, ma’am, I suppose it can be hazardous,” not an iota of regret as I put aside his glass and sip from mine.
Am I the woman to fill the gap?
“Very nice apartment, Jack. Nicely decorated,” small talk as he must stand before me, watching me imbibe.
Without drink, his hands are unoccupied and such fosters awkwardness... intentional on my part. For now I am the person who can bring comfort... and I don’t. I have intentionally worn heels, not high but nicely augmenting our height differential. And to think Jack has accommodated by forsaking shoes...
For some reason he dares not move and cannot find words. So we just look at each other, me gazing downward at his face, such delightful psychological advantage. Though there is silence, I believe messages are exchanged. Another sip and I take mercy.
“You’ll serve me there? In the dining area?” hinting at the evening protocol.
“Ah, yes, Miss Montrove,” responding as I stroll the few steps to the set table.
“Here you may call me Miss Desiree. Less formal don’t you think?”
He nods, knowing that it will continue to be Miss Montrove at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances.
“There are two settings. I am to expect a guest?”
I hear a gulp. Poor Jack has cooked for two. But not to go to waste. He can heat his portion later... much later.
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