The Trophy, Segment One

Been a while. Male/Female Dominant female submissive short story. Not sure where it will go.

Enjoy.


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The Trophy

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

“You’re sick, Arlen. Really... is this how you prefer spending your money.”

“Careful with your words, dear. If I have to have you silenced, Mrs. Grayson will oblige. I do have work to do. And how am I to be called?”

“Sir,” the rebuke bringing contrition.

The threat is pleasantly conveyed, but Mrs. Casperson knows that husband Arlen Jacobs Casperson is a man of resolve and will indeed have her silenced. Such insouciance to her plight, not even looking up from his paper, engrossed in the Wall Street Journal.

Pausing, aware that with a simple press of his finger the dreaded Mrs. Grayson will be summoned, Mrs. Casperson momentarily quiets herself. She then finds the need to resume.

“How long this morning?... sir,” her tone softening, the question pleafully broached in chancing a visit from Mrs. Grayson.

“I’ll decide that. You are never to know. It’s... you know... the awareness and control thing. Your lack of it... and my thorough possession of it. You’re not tiring already, are you dear? It’s quite early.”

The wealthy and erudite Arlen Jacobs Casperson finally looks up, surveying his wife. Eyes feasting, as always he adores, her image bringing adulation. There is a sense of love and devotion. Yet it is not that of a husband for a beautiful and ravishing wife. It is that of an admirer of fine art viewing a classic sculpture.

“I’m just a little high, sir.”

“Mrs. Grayson does like to offer a challenge dear. You’ll acclimate over time. And it makes your legs shapely... more shapely”

“You if want me to be shapely, sir, you’d let me exercise... and the diet... all that fattening stuff.”

“You’ll be fine. I just want you a little... ah... plumper.”

The eyes continue to assess, noting that the calve muscles strain, the thighs flex. Mrs. Casperson is in her morning pose, held standing on her toes. The bondage is extreme, yet safe and in fact comfortable... when not so placed in a stress position.

A Martin Rigid Stock, some four feet in length, adorns the shoulders, openings encapsulating the wrists and neck. Custom made, the smooth interior circumference of stainless steel perfectly accommodates the limbs and neck. It can be worn for days without the need for release. Graciously, Mrs. Grayson daily offers a few moments of relief for ablutions.

Cables leading to a ceiling hoist are hooked to the stock at the shoulders left and right. Such can be adjusted, and Arlen Jacobs Casperson notes that on this morning, Mrs. Grayson has displayed a degree of spite, working the hoist such that only the toes lend support. There is an entertaining search for the floor in contending with gravity.

Moving upwards, the eyes focus on the chastity device of matching polished and gleaming stainless steel. Tightly encircling the waist, a triangular cod piece covers the pubes, denying access to the nether region and narrowing between the thighs to fill the gluteal cleft then rising to where it attaches to the rear of the belt. Locked in place, Mrs. Grayson holding the key, Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles in recalling the initial protest of his wife.

‘Arlen, if I’m to be kept in constant bondage, why the chastity belt?’
      
Mrs. Casperson later found the answer. The device not only doubly assures her chastity, but also holds in place anal and vaginal inserts, pliable but firm replicas of a penis... that of the master of the house. The symbolism both intrigues and titillates... Mrs. Casperson to always feel her husband’s presence... where a woman feels the most.

Thus the reference to money, Mrs. Casperson futilely chiding in knowing that wealth and the ongoing accumulation thereof interests husband Arlen as much as assuaging his paraphilias. The hoisting apparatus, the Martin Rigid Stock, the chastity device, the molds of his impressive penis, cost thousands. And then there’s the medical chamber, a large section of the basement expensively converted to what appears to be a combination of bathroom, salon and physical therapy ward.  

Moving higher, Arlen Jacobs Casperson next rivets his eyes on the breasts. Such perfection, large but nicely rounded, the perky nipples beckon and invite, constantly crinkled while Mrs. Casperson is placed on display. Yes, the somatic reaction evidences her own penchant. Exhibitionism, submission, being forced to succumb all bring arousal... augmented by the many, many weeks of denial... and what about the house is referenced as Mrs Grayson’s special treatment... both craved and despised. 

Yes, when released of the chastity device for shaving and cleansing, Mrs. Casperson is feathered to near orgasm... then returned to her state of denial... clitoral stimulation terminating just before ultimate climax.

Eyes to the face... there is no make up. The natural handsomeness, perfectly symmetrical features, eyes of blue, a nose to be envied by those seeking rhinoplasty, requires no enhancement.

Contrasting are the missing eyebrows. Shaven regularly, Mrs. Casperson detests this insistence. Husband Arlen finds that hair detracts. Therefore she has none... anywhere.

‘Arlen, how am I to go out looking like this?’ the finger of a well bound hand ruefully gesturing to her bald head when Mrs. Grayson first defoliated her entire body. 

‘It won’t be a problem dear,’ Arlen holding up a wig... which she has yet to wear, knowing that as his captive creature of pulchritude, she is never to leave the house.

The eyes return to the Wall Street Journal, taking in as much news as possible before the opening of the stock market, the desk computer indicating five minutes to the opening bell. Then trading begins. As Mr. Casperson looks to the screen he glances to note the pose of Mrs. Casperson has shifted, the toes no longer trying to relieve the leg muscles. Instead, there comes the crossing of the legs, a little girl in need of going potty. Knowing such means much weight is uncomfortably shifted to the Rigid Stock and thus the wrists and neck, Arlen Jacobs Casperson finds amusement, but also the need to summon Mrs. Grayson.

As a finger finds the button for the buzzer, Mrs. Casperson notes the chivalrous response but also finds need to again protest.

“Can’t you take care of me, please, sir. You know I just can’t.... you know... get comfortable with...”

“It’s her job... and she does it very well.”

No knock, the door to the spacious office den of the Casperson mansion opens. In steps the imposing Mrs. Grayson dressed as always in the starched white uniform of her trade.

“Our little girl needs to go potty, Mrs. Grayson.”

The woman smiles, the pearl white teeth impressive, contrasting the dark complexion of the woman of color.

If the wife gently admonishes for spending money on the bondage paraphernalia, she would find double concern if Mrs. Grayson’s remuneration was disclosed. Free room and board plus a salary into the six figures, keeping Mrs. Casperson naked, hairless, well bound yet clean and well cared for is expensive.       

“And the nipples please Mrs. Grayson... you know how I like them,” the master of the house adds.     

The nurse nods, moving to a cabinet. There a well trained hand finds a metal basin, specially shaped to be wedged between the thighs. She then strolls to the wall switch controlling the hoist, flicking the switch for an instant to lower the strained nakedness of the lady of the house. Stepping before her helpless charge she smiles. Veiling any of admission of gratitude, Mrs. Casperson looks straight into the becoming face. She has never determined whether the smile is one of politeness or wicked enjoyment. 

“Spread for me. Be a good girl.”

Feet now fully finding the floor, Mrs. Casperson knows to comply, the basin wedged high between shapely yet growing thighs. The curved concave sides fit perfectly, the collection vessel able to stay in place without support while Mrs. Casperson must so ignominiously relieve herself.

It’s embarrassing, yet there is need, and within moments her excretions begin to flow through a narrow slit in the cod piece.

“Good girl,” enunciated mother to child as freed hands rise to the breasts.

Then thumb and index finger of right hand and left gently tweak the nipples. Mrs. Casperson sighs with the delight, ashamed to find the touch is so knowing and, in her strict chastity, so welcomed. Combined with the bladder relief, there comes a joyous reaction, that desired by sir, Master Casperson. Yes, as requested... as demanded... the tender pink buds obediently harden, further crinkling, the base of the mammary glands seeming to tighten and sit up like an obeisant dog.

Arlen Jacobs Casper smiles in delight. He enjoys seeing the glands defy gravity.

Deed completed, Mrs. Grayson curtails her efforts, the hanging play toy stifling the perverse yearning to offer humble thanks. She knows to part her thighs and Mrs. Grayson takes charge of the filled basin.

“Some massage? You’ll be able to hang longer.”

Mrs. Casperson ever so slightly shakes her head, the Rigid Stock denying much motion. Of her expert talents, therapeutic massage is just one of many, the nurse most knowledgeable. Oddly, Mrs. Casperson both covets and disdains the woman’s touch, her homophobia contrasting the bisexuality of her keeper.

Still she knows, before being caged for the evening, Mrs. Grayson will have her way, kneading and caressing everywhere before joining the master of the house in bed.

As humiliating as it is to be kept in constant bondage and denial, it is that aspect of Mr. Casperson’s deviant protocol which most distresses. As Mrs. Casperson is relegated to a low cramping cage in the bedroom, she must watch, listen... even smell... the lustful love making each and every night.  

But worse is the taste, many nights orally cleansing the moist, worn penis of husband and master Arlen Jacobs Casper of the remnants of steamy, unending copulation.

‘Does it have to be with a black woman?’ Mrs. Casperson tearfully inquired with the initial tryst.

‘Skin color never came into the equation, my dear. My need was for a woman with nutritional training, medical skills, experienced in massage, not affronted by bondage, indifferent to slow mild suffering and of course bisexual... to assure she enjoys your daily plight. Not easy to find.’

‘She’s a dominatrix!’ a frustrated wife countered.

Her outburst brought a shrug and a flippant reply.

‘Just wanted the best for you.’

Basin in hand, Mrs. Grayson returns to the wall switch. The hoist whirs, lifting. Arlen Jacobs Casperson inwardly smiles in satisfaction as his naked and bound wife is returned to her toes. As Mrs. Grayson departs, he knows that the refusal of massage, the soothing hands of a woman found to be repugnant, to be a mistake which Mrs. Casperson will regret for many hours.

“I have an appointment at 11:00 a.m. my dear, Charles Hanson. Do muster the resolve to properly greet him.”

“Why sir? Why do you always meet him here?”

“Guess I like showing off my trophy. It’s a guy thing. I’ll have Mrs. Grayson diddle those pink titties again before he arrives. You’ll want to be presentable, I’m sure.”