Am I Wrong?

I think most people would say that I'm wrong.

Wrong to choose the lifestyle that I've chosen. Wrong to be so demanding of my husband. Wrong to not 'act like a lady' and 'accept my role as a woman' – that is, a role subordinate to my man. His chattel – his 'blow-up doll' in the flesh – available for his pleasure, at his whims, at his convenience.

Fuck that!

Let's go back a ways.

My identical twin and I were born into 'old money'. Our parents lived a life of leisure, jet-setting to Schatzberg once a year, to Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Taipei, Bangkok, Saigon, Western Europe and Eastern Europe. And my sister and I accompanied them around the world.

African countries too numerous to mention and South and Central America's countries.

Throughout all of these adventures, these sights, these experiences, one thing was a constant. Mom ruled the roost. And, rule it with an iron hand – metaphorically, of course – more accurately, with a thin wooden paddle and switches when we were especially naughty.

Mom is 100% Gypsy – and proud of her heritage. She was, as she told my sister, Tammy, and I when we'd reached our 18th birthday, raised by a mother that believed in female rule. That is, rule of the home; their children, and also their husband.

People marveled, she'd told us, at how her father behaved – impeccably – when in her presence, always respectful, always eager to please.

They never argued – her word was law and no discussion was necessary.

Don't misunderstand; mom wasn't unfeminine. Quite the contrary – always perfectly coifed, her sense of fashion reflected in both her formal wear and when playing golf or tennis.

Mom had taken gourmet cooking classes and could have been a chef in a five-star restaurant. She was an accomplished seamstress, her mother having taught her to mend clothing and design her own outfits – for fun.

In reality, mom always employed a domestic staff to include a master chef with their sous chef assisting. Her hairdresser would visit daily, doubling as her masseuse.

We didn't know, growing up, the secret behind our parents' tranquility; their enviable (to their friends who I'd heard commenting about mom's good fortune in having 'caught' such a perfect husband).

Only when we'd reached our majority, did mom sit us down and explain.

She told us of how her mother had taught her to tame her man. To literally bring him to heel. She taught us to understand the difference between 'training' or 'maintenance' spanking and 'punishment' spankings. The latter imposed immediately after her man's ejaculation.

She taught us of various techniques designed to reinforce dad's subordinate role in their relationship – especially in the bedroom. She instructed in the use of a prostate massager to induce pleasure-free ejaculations (to be used prior to a punishment spanking).

She showed us how to use a strap-on dildo to 'peg' our husbands, letting them feel the subordinate position of the 'fuckee' rather than the 'fucker'.

She explained the importance of always requiring them to lick up their mess after coitus and to lick our hands clean of their spend when we hand-jobbed them.

She taught us that we should always spank them to tears. Whether for their regular (she had always practiced once weekly sessions) maintenance spankings or for their more serious punishment spankings. Always, she emphasized, they should be required to swallow their mess.

This, she taught us, was symbolic of the fact that nearly all men would prefer cumming in their wife's mouth and would profess an extra kick from her swallowing.

She explained how we should teach our husbands 'Devotional Sex'. She spoke of how dad had learned – on their wedding night and throughout their honeymoon – how to lick her pussy, suck on her lips and clit, and bring her to multiple orgasms.

She said that she'd also taught him to practice this devotional sex in his attentions to her rear. She said that there was a psychological kick from his slavish devotion to licking her butt crack, but also a sexual thrill from his tongue laving her forbidden place.

Not stopping there, she said that dad was required to lick her butt hole and tongue-fuck her butt for long periods – sometimes for purely sexual satisfaction and other times while she watched TV or read a magazine.

She taught us the difference between wooden paddles – the thin ones more sting and less bruising. She told us that switches were perhaps the most feared of the punishment instruments, their sting, when used with vigor, nearly unbearable.

Tragically, only weeks after mom provided Tammy and I with this insight into what she called 'husband training', she and dad were killed in a head-on traffic accident when some drunken idiot took a wrong turn and drove down the wrong side of the interstate highway.

It seemed forever but it had taken only a week for the family attorney to explain to Tammy and I our estate and the extent of our wealth.

Both of us had inherited around $100 million, which would allow us, he explained, to enjoy a multi-million dollar income without ever disturbing the principal.

It has often been said that 'money can't buy everything' and Tammy and I could testify to the wisdom of this adage.

That said, we both seemed to understand that we wanted to enjoy the marital bliss that our parents had enjoyed. While these visions of tearful husbands, on their knees, devoting themselves to our pleasure, seemed radical – they certainly didn't seem undesirable.

Tammy was married before me – two years before. And, yes, all of our friends commented on what a perfect marriage that she and Jeff enjoyed – never arguing, never fighting, always holding hands, kissing, hugging, and so on.

Jeff, the wives would comment, seemed so solicitous, so eager to please his bride.

Only I knew the secret. Don't get me wrong. At the core of their marriage, Tammy and Jeff both possessed a deep love for one another. But, as you know, there are many couples who are 'in love' and 'loving' who can tell you, too often, that 'love is not enough'.

Only I knew – and had, in fact, witnessed Jeff's chastisements, since Tammy had decided that the added embarrassment of having me watch him being punished, hearing him, as Tammy put it, crying like a little girl, would 'do him good'.

It seems like only yesterday, though it's been well over a year, that I first saw Tammy punish Jeff. The three of us were sitting in their basement recreation room (actually a 2,000 square foot full-basement, luxuriously finished and furnished, sipping fine wines and chatting.

Suddenly, Tammy piped up with, "Do you remember the talk that mom had with us concerning the training of a good husband?"

When Tammy said this, I saw Jeff blush deep crimson and cast his eyes to the floor.

"Don't be looking at the floor with hound-dog eyes. Lift your head and look Nancy in the eyes while I'm speaking. Do you understand me, Jeff?"

I don't know if I was more shocked by Tammy's admonishment to Jeff, or by his reply of, "Yes, ma'am."

I was looking Jeff directly in his eyes when I answered, "Of course, Tammy."

"Well, Nancy, I've decided to share with you, first hand, how I continue to train Jeff to become the perfect husband. I know that you've suspected my domination of Jeff but, until now, I've kept the reality of his continual training between Jeff and I.

"I've decided that Jeff, with the added embarrassment of your witness, will benefit from your amusement. Further, I'd like to think that your opportunity to see how Jeff and I interact, will cause you to be better prepared to find and train your future husband.

"Jeff, stand up and take off your clothes."

It felt a bit surreal, watching my brother-in-law stand up in front of the sofa and quickly remove every stitch of his clothing. Very soon, he was standing in front of us nude, his penis semi-erect and drooling precum from its circumcised tip.

"You know what to do with your mess."

Jeff didn't hesitate to gather the precum with the edge of his right-hand index finger and lick the finger clean.

"Now, go fetch me a paddle, Jeff."

Again, without hesitation, Jeff turned and strode to a wall cabinet, removing what looked like a 'school paddle' – that is, a rectangular, wooden paddle, perhaps 12 inches long and 3 inches wide, very thin, very lethal-looking.

"Over my lap, now."

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. For the first time, I saw a man, by sister's loving husband, paddled like a school boy, only much more severely than one would paddle a child.

I saw him take his paddling, crying in distress, eventually sobbing with hiccoughs, snot running from his nose and dripping from his chin.

These tangential embarrassments, though, I knew to be secondary to the pain evident in the scarlet-colored cheeks of Jeff's butt.

That was over a year ago.

Tonight is my wedding night.

Dave already knows what to expect since Tammy has been kind enough to share a scene similar to that first one for me. This second time, Tammy allowed Dave to see how she and Jeff love.

So, is Tammy wrong? I don't think so.

So, am I wrong? I don't think so.