Alena's Game Ch. 01

[Author's note: if you don't like to read about female domination, please skip to the next story, or check out my other books for something that's more to your taste.

This story begins in a counselling session with Quinn's therapist, Cassidy Hayes (What We Say In The Dark), who is trying to help him come to terms with how his wife Alena was able to do what she did to him]

---

LIVE LIKE A FALLING STAR

Cassie stood at the windows looking out over the city. Her last patient had been a chore. She felt uncharitable about that: a garden-variety borderline narcissist who was realising that everything wasn't just about him after all. His wife had pointed that out on her way out the door with the kids, and now, finally, he was examining his life. The echoes of her own situation were too close to the bone. She shook her shoulders, trying to get a reset, to dispel that dark corner of her own life, but dealing with other people's problems sometimes brought her back to her own.

She looked at her watch. He would be waiting for her in reception now. Cassie knew she was delaying, but she didn't know why. A favour for her friend; a window into a whole world of hurt. As her eyes followed the endless stream of cars in the late morning sunlight in the streets below her, Cassie began to feel a steady calmness descend. Quinn would be an almighty challenge; he was also part of the hidden other world that she had stepped into, like Alice through the looking glass. It was a world that she could tell no-one about, not even her best friend Billie, who she could tell everything to, and certainly not her husband. For better or for worse, Cassie was embarking on a secret second life in a world that could either be a nightmare or a wonderland. She had been allotted a role to play, and had been given a name by the enigmatic Madame Syn, the gatekeeper into that new world. She took a deep, steadying breath: time enough.

Cassie left the rented meeting space that she used for her patient consultations, a professional, welcoming space for them to feel at home and open up to her with their problems. She straightened her posture and approached the reception area. To one side of the desk, with his back to her, stood a gangly middle-aged man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He was tall and lean, dressed in a suit with his hands in his pockets. She walked up to him, and he turned.

His face was lined, like he hadn't slept, his eyes sunken, but when he looked at her, she was captivated by the soft, brown eyes.

"Glad you could come," Cassie said, smiling encouragingly, "Shall we?"

Quinn nodded curtly and then followed her back to the meeting space without a word. She led him through the door and closed it behind him, letting him get his bearings.

"Make yourself at home, Quinn," Cassie said.

"Thank you, Miss... uh... what should I call you?"

"In here, whatever you feel comfortable with. My name is Cassidy, though people also use Cassie, or Cass."

"Not, uh, Grace?"

"No. We're not doing that here. In this space, I'm your therapist and when we have a conversation, we're speaking to each other as equals. We leave all the rest of it at the door."

"Yes," Quinn nodded, "Yes. Of course."

He clasped his hands and looked down.

"I guess I'm just nervous."

"Quinn, that's perfectly fine. Just remember that I'm here to help you. We'll go as far as you want, it's your call. Okay?"

Quinn nodded then looked up.

"Okay."

He settled into a chair, placing his hands on his legs, making eye contact.

"Okay," he repeated, "Let's do this."

Cassie smiled encouragingly. "That's already a lot of progress, and we're only a couple of minutes in."

"I guess."

Cassie crossed her legs and began to make notes. "So, where do you want to begin?"

"At the start, I guess. Let's go back to the beginning."

"Take your time. That's a good place to start."

Quinn paused.

"No. That's wrong. Oh, I don't know. Maybe we should start at the end. Maybe you should see where we ended up. Maybe that would give you perspective."

"It's up to you," Cassie replied, smiling reassuringly, "Whatever you think makes most sense."

Quinn was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was slow and considered, as if he was opening his deposition in court, using his skills as a lawyer to navigate a difficult case, as if Cassie was the most important jury he had ever addressed.

"It comes down to this," he began. "A conversation I had with my wife at the start of what we did, that maybe lets you see how we got to where it ended. We were just finished dinner and I had finally worked up the guts to have the conversation. I asked her if she was happy with our life, about the way we were just keeping on keeping on. You know?"

Cassie nodded. "I do. It's not an unusual conversation when you've been married a while."

"Yes, exactly. But that night, she seemed more indifferent than usual to it, like she was happy to just drift. I'm afraid that two glasses of red wine at dinner made me a little more effusive than usual. I waxed lyrical."

"How so?"

"I told her that it wasn't enough for me. I berated her about it, which just made matters worse, but I had been thinking about it for a long time."

"How did she react?"

"She got defensive, then started to look hurt. We argued. Then eventually it all settled down and I just sat next to her on the couch, looking into her pretty face."

Quinn stopped himself there, hands working reflexively, clenching and unclenching.

"Oh, there it is again," he gasped, struggling, "Just remembering the way she looked. She was so pretty."

Cassie didn't interrupt. Seeing the tears pricking in his eyes at the memory of his dead wife stirred emotions deep within her and she found herself also struggling to maintain composure.

"I told her that she deserved more than this, she deserved a richer, fuller life," Quinn said, head drooping. "Not counting off the years. Not living between the lines. Not to live like tomorrow was just going to be a continuation of yesterday. As I said, I waxed lyrical."

He interlaced his fingers and drew himself upright. "I told her I wanted to try and grasp it all. I wanted to live like a falling star," he said.

---

I suppose I was pretty naïve. I'd read a lot online about communication and openness and I really thought I had researched it all properly. As it turned out, in the end none of that mattered. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, as the saying goes.

I need to set this straight from the outset: the enemy here was not my wife, it was apathy, indifference. It was that feeling you get after you've been married a while and everything starts to tail off, as you settle into your rut and each new day starts to look a lot like the last. Looking back now, I can see how I was the one driving this and how my wife was just humouring me to begin with. Then something changed. Oh, maybe I'm not explaining this very well.

Have you ever heard of boiling the frog? If you ask someone the best way to boil a frog, the answer is usually to get a pot of boiling water and put the frog into it, which seems pretty simple. But, that doesn't work because the frog gets scalded and jumps out. The real way to boil a frog is to put it into a pot of cold water and then gradually turn the heat up. By the time the frog works out what's happening, it's already way too late to escape the process.

It's a good analogy. Alena was indulging me, humouring a stupid list I had drawn up that was supposed to spice up our marriage, playing along with me, then she turned up the heat little by little until all of a sudden, she was the one with all the control and I was just a puppet, dancing to her tune.

I suppose I need to show you what I mean, then you might understand. Not the frog in the cold water, but the frog fully cooked and served up on the plate. Let me tell you about one particular night in the Lost and Found.

---

We waited in line outside, myself in a thick woollen coat, and my wife in a trench coat and a pair of sexy high heels. She had spent ages on her hair, teasing it into rich auburn ringlets that framed her pretty face. She'd put on enough eye shadow to show her eyes off as the most perfect blue. Her lips were richly coloured in a dark red, and so achingly perfect. I was battling with myself not to try to kiss her right there and then. I knew I shouldn't, that I had to resist. She had promised me that tonight was going to be the night and I was preternaturally focussed on not screwing up, not giving her any excuse to extend my torment any longer.

"Quinn, how're you feeling?" she asked, "You seem a little tense."

Using my name to reassure me, she smiled sweetly.

"I'm just really looking forward to tonight," I replied.

"You can relax, you know."

"Can I? Really?"

"What do you think's going to happen?"

She smiled as she said it, looking up at me, quizzically.

"I don't know."

She frowned slightly. "You've been a good boy, haven't you?"

An icy chill gripped me. "Of course, very good," I shot back, a little too quickly.

"Then," she smiled again, warmly, "You've nothing to fear."

I studied her pretty face, trying to work out if she was being honest, or this was part of some elaborate trap that she would spring later, finding something to deny me the pleasure she had been promising me for weeks. Before I could form a response, the doorman beckoned us to enter the club.

Inside, I paid the entry fee, but we didn't check our coats into the cloakroom. Instead, I followed Alena through the double doors, into the hot, sweaty atmosphere of the club. This wasn't the club we were going to, this was where the general public danced, drank, sang and looked for love. Towards the back, cordoned off by a velvet rope and guarded by a single, huge Pacific Islander doorman, was our destination: the club within the club. Tony unhooked the rope as he saw us approach, and once again I was impressed by his memory. He must see hundreds of faces, but he knew everyone on sight. There was no membership list; it was all safely stored in Tony's head.

Tony nodded to me, smiling, as I followed behind Alena. "Welcome to the Lost and Found, good to see you back," he said to my wife.

Alena thanked him as he opened the doors to let us into the private members area, leaving me to contemplate the implication: how many times had my wife been here, visiting the club without me?

The clientele was different here, and as soon as the doors closed behind us, Alena unbuckled her trench coat, slipping it off her shoulders and handing it to me to carry. She was wearing a burgundy leather bodice that supported her breasts exquisitely, the soft flesh seemingly aching to be touched and kissed. I felt myself responding. Alena was also wearing a tight leather hobble-skirt that came down to mid-calf, a bright steel zip running the entire length down the back, from hem to waist, neatly dividing the curves of her pert bottom. I kept my gaze studiously on her face, burning with the temptation to look down and take in the glorious vision of my wife in her club gear.

She stepped close to me, taking my chin in the palm of her hand and pressing upwards gently.

"Mouth closed, there's a good boy. Do you want to look at me?"

"Yes," I hissed, "More than you could possibly imagine."

"Even if it earns you a demerit?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow sexily.

"It would almost be worth it."

In response, my wife raised herself up to kiss me on the lips, "Or I could relax the rules, just this once, and let you look all you want. Would you like that?"

I nodded, my face flushing. I felt the blood swelling my manhood.

Alena giggled. "What a pity I'm not going to," she sighed in mock disappointment, "Rules are rules. Don't blow it Quinn. You've had to work so hard to get to tonight."

She kissed me again, and my cock began to ache.

"I'd hate to see you slip up this close to the finish line," she murmured, "You want that orgasm, don't you?"

"Yes," I gasped. Held like this by my stunningly sexy wife, my mouth was almost too dry to speak. "I want that orgasm," I confirmed.

Alena entwined my fingers in hers and led me to a booth set against the wall. We slid into the black vinyl seats and Alena took both my hands in hers. I could feel how hot her skin was. I was feeling hot too, still in my own coat. I was afraid to unbutton it in the club, even more so because Alena hadn't told me I was allowed. We sat there for a moment, looking at each other over the table, her lips curving into a gorgeous, kissable smile.

"So nice to have a night out, don't you think?"

"Yes, Alena."

Alena laughed again and shook my hands.

"Loosen up Quinn, enjoy yourself."

"I am."

"You are not. Your shoulders are all bunched up. You're going to give yourself back ache."

"I'm fine."

Alena's beautiful blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "You're not. You're desperately trying not to put a foot wrong. Does that orgasm mean that much to you?"

I simply nodded.

"Keeping it short and to the point, aren't you? I've got you so worried, haven't I? Don't you think you can trust me?"

I shrugged, not trusting myself to give a verbal answer. Alena leaned closer.

"God, I love seeing you like this. Do you remember when we first started dating, Quinn? Back then, I was the one always watching my words, trying not to say something dumb in front of you. It's so gratifying to be in the other seat, having you too scared to talk for fear of what I'll do."

She paused, seeming to be waiting for me to respond. I didn't. I wasn't going to fall into that trap. She cocked her head to the side, watching me. I could tell she was thinking, and I had that familiar, uneasy feeling that Alena was working on plan B. She would come at me from another angle, until she got what she wanted.

"Tell me something Quinn, on the scale of your experience, how do you think my vagina rates? How many points out of ten?"

"Ten," I blurted, going for the obvious response but realising that I had fallen into whatever little game she had conjured up.

"Really?" she exclaimed, eyes bright, squeezing my hands, "Out of how many samples?"

"Huh?"

"How many vaginas?"

She was smiling still, but her eyes had narrowed to slits. She wanted to see what I was going to do, like a cat with a mouse, pawing at her prey, playing.

"Four," I answered, "Including you. Yours is the best one I've ever experienced."

"Are we all different?"

"Yes."

"Could you pick mine out of a line-up, do you think?"

I blinked. "What?"

Alena didn't answer, but instead she shuffled around the table until she was looking out at the club. She patted the seat next to her. Reluctantly, I slid across until I was sitting close to my wife. I had the awful premonition that I had screwed up somewhere along the line and now Alena was going to administer her own unique brand of justice.

"Four doesn't seem to be an adequate data set to judge empirically the quality of my vagina versus the general population. You sample size is too small."

I frowned at her, unable to follow the twists and turns of the conversation. Where was she headed, and what did it mean for my chances of being granted an orgasm tonight?

"Unbutton," she said, simply.

I looked at her for a moment, trying to read her intentions, but I couldn't get past those inscrutable blue eyes. My cock ached for her touch after being denied so long. I unbuttoned my coat from the bottom, up to my waist.

"That's enough. Open up."

I hesitated, but I knew she could punish me for disobedience, so I parted the edges of my coat to reveal my naked thighs.

"More. Come on, Quinn. Or do you think I'm going to bite?"

I spread the material, exposing my crotch to her. She looked down and giggled. I followed her gaze, feeling humiliated and frustrated by my wife's laughter at my predicament. Between my legs, a shiny steel cage entrapped my desperate manhood, already so engorged that the pink flesh pressed outwards between the bars of the cage, aching for her delicate fingertips to stroke.

"That never gets old," she confessed, nibbling her bottom lip, the sight obviously turning her on.

Alena's fingers traced around the little gold chain circling her neck, unclasping it and pulling a tiny key from where it had been nestled in her cleavage. I held my breath. Alena looked up at me, wide eyed, an enigmatic smile curving her lips. With a slow, deliberate motion, she took hold of the key and brought it down towards my crotch. My adrenaline surged and my cock throbbed painfully, desperate for its promised release. Her hand stopped.

"Maybe that's enough for now," she teased.

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Do you think you've earned it, really?"

I blinked, trying not to say what was on my mind: how evil she was to bring me this far, naked but for a coat all the way from our home to this booth, teased, frustrated and caged, and to stop at the last second. Her smile had faded now, replaced by a crimson flushing of her cheeks. I had rarely seen her this aroused, enjoying the power she held over me with that key. She waited for my answer.

There was only one acceptable response, and my voice grated as I said it.

"No, Mistress Alena, I'm not worthy."

Her face shone with happiness as she heard my words, knowing that she had asserted her dominance over me and I had caved in to her control. After all the promises, all the effort I had put into pleasing her to earn the right to a single moment of pleasure, I had given away that hard-earned opportunity to finally enjoy a climax from my wife. It was an opportunity that she would have granted me freely any day of the week at the beginning of our marriage, a moment so few and far between now, and only ever with her permission, that the merest promise of her delights was enough to make me shiver. I couldn't understand why I had acquiesced either. It was like she had brainwashed me into giving her the response she wanted regardless of how unfair it would be on me; I was just the puppet and she was pulling my strings.

Then Alena surprised me. Her fingers grasped my torturous steel prison and I heard a little click. The pressure on my manhood was suddenly released and I watched in disbelief as she pulled the cage off me, letting me achieve my first full erection in weeks. She watched as I swelled up until I was rigid and proud, my head swollen and engorged. It felt so good to be free, I was sure that all she would have had to do was touch me and I would have achieved the orgasm I had been waiting so long for.

"Correct answer," she said, kissing me passionately, "You aren't worthy, but I may decide you should be rewarded regardless."

Alena kissed me again, her tongue slipping between my lips. I could sense a deep urgency in her, and I felt my cock spasm in anticipation of finally being put to use by my cruel, talented wife.

"You're being rewarded for learning your lesson, honey. That it's not you who wears the pants in this family," she giggled again, "In fact you rarely get to wear anything anymore. No, it all comes down to what Alena says, goes. Correct?"

"Yes," I answered, and knew that she was right. I meant it.

My wife was in control and I was her submissive, obedient husband. She had taught me my place in our relationship. The experiment she had started with her stubborn, overbearing, patronising husband all those months ago was finally complete. She had shaped me into the thing she wanted.

Just then, Alena looked up. "Madame Syn," she said.

My attention turned quickly to the newcomer, standing in front of our booth with a sardonic smile and her hands folded over her chest. She was older, but slim, toned, formidable with a long ponytail of blonde hair. Her piercing ice-blue eyes shifted from me to my wife and then down to my towering erection.