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?”


“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.

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