Laura's day of shopping had been as enjoyable as usual, but without Denis's company there'd been something indefinable missing. True, he whined as much as any man about following her from store to store, about waiting while she pawed through racks of garments and dived in and out of fitting rooms, and about sitting around while she tried on pair after pair of shoes until she'd found the exact pair to complement a new dress or suit. All the same, having him with her gave a point to her shopping pleasure. He reminded her of the reason she sought to glorify herself with her clothes: because once they were at home, his eyes would flare with lust, and the reward for her exertions would be given to her.

Her parents had not approved of their marriage. Denis had none of the qualifications they'd sought in a mate for her. He was six years her junior. He was short for a man, no taller than she, and not conventionally masculine. He didn't travel in the right circles. He had little education and no money. His occupational prospects were strictly blue-collar. All in all, her father had said, not the usual first choice of a husband for an ambitious young corporate lawyer. Her status-obsessed mother had agreed. But they didn't share a bed with him. They didn't get to feel his mouth teasing at her clitoris, his luscious rump and velvety balls hot in her hands, his marvelous organ pistoning in and out of her. They didn't wake to his eternal readiness to please her, however she might wish. She did.

She pulled her Lexus into their garage, noted the presence of his old Mustang, and felt the first trickle of arousal. In the welter of bags behind her were treasures guaranteed to inflame him to the heights they both loved. She allowed herself to anticipate posing before him in her new finery, and shivered deliciously.

She gathered as many of her new acquisitions as she could carry at one time, pried open the door to their home with a free finger, and shouldered her way in.

"Sweetie! Where are you?"

"Living room," he called back.

She staggered into the living room, caught sight of him on the couch, and dropped all she held.

He was sitting on their sofa with a book in his lap and his feet up on their coffee table. He was in his usual garb for a day when he expected not to leave the house: a T-shirt and drawstring cotton pants. But his feet were snugly gloved by a pair of black women's pumps with five-inch stiletto heels. She recognized them at once. They were her five-inch stiletto heels.

"Uh, Den, love...why are you wearing my shoes?"

He looked up at her innocently. "What, you don't think they suit me? You thought so last night."

She swallowed. The night before, out of a sudden caprice she'd teased him into donning her black lace bra and garter belt, her black silk stockings and those very pumps. He'd blushed brightly at the suggestion, but once she'd coaxed him into her lingerie and heels she'd given him the ride of his life. He'd served her equally well.

"Denis..." She paused to unload the parcels in her arms onto the sofa. "Have you been wearing those all afternoon?"

He nodded. "I have to get used to them if I'm going to wear them when we make love, don't I?"

"Well..." The thought wasn't unpleasant, but it was unprecedented. Almost unprecedented. And the sex had been the hottest they'd ever had.

She crossed her arms over her breasts. "Stand up and let me see you move around in them."

He rose, grinning as he teetered for an instant on the high, slim heels, then strutted deliberately around their little living room in an unexpected display of proficiency.

How long has he been practicing? Do I really want to know?

At last he turned to face her, spread his arms and cocked his head theatrically, and said, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think," she said slowly, "that you have a gift. But you know, your ensemble doesn't really match."

"Hm? Oh, these? Well, I had to wear something while I did the vacuuming." He stepped out of her pumps, pulled his T-shirt over his head, undid the string at his waist and let the loose cotton pants drop to the floor. He turned slightly to one side, crooked one leg before the other, and posed himself like a fashion mannequin.

He'd depilated his whole body.

He hadn't been overly hirsute to begin with, but the removal of his hair still made for quite an effect. From his chin to his toes, his skin was as smoothly, hairlessly flawless as a young girl's. Even his penis and testicles were free of hair. Except for his genitals, it would have been difficult to guess his sex.

The blood roared in her ears. Michelangelo's David couldn't touch his androgynous appeal. She approached him slowly, put her hands gently to his hairless chest.

"Put your pumps back on," she said hoarsely.

His eyebrows rose as he stepped into the heels. "My pumps?"

She dropped to her knees. "From now on."

He put his hands to the sides of her face as she took him in her mouth.


Their night was a feast of the flesh worthy of legend.

She was frenzied, insatiable. She wanted his hands on her everywhere, his tongue and his penis in all her orifices at once. She clutched and sucked and bucked at him as if she wanted to swallow him whole, as a sacrifice to whatever god had brought her blood to so delightful a boil. Even when she bit and clawed and raked at him hard enough to draw blood, he was endlessly accommodating. Indeed, he did everything she asked and nothing before she asked it, as if his desire was entirely to serve hers. The windows glowed with the new dawn before her lust had exhausted her.

And the pumps never left his feet.


Laura met Sarah for lunch at Truffles the next day. Almost before the waiter had moved decently far away, she burst forth with the story of the night before.

She'd thought she could confide in Sarah. Sarah was the youngest and most hedonistically inclined of her friends: the most erotically simpatico, the least likely to start in surprise at a bit of harmless kink. But within thirty seconds of the start of Laura's narration, Sarah had dropped her fork into her plate and sat back from their table, eyes wide and listening with concentration.

Laura had intended to omit certain details of the thing, but Sarah's reaction fueled her desire to tell it all. She even wove a few filigrees into the tale to enhance its erotic power. By the conclusion, Laura was both uncertain she'd attended the event she'd described and burning with eagerness to repeat it. Sarah, though, looked anything but approving.

They grazed over their Caesar salads in silence for a long while.

Presently Sarah said, without looking up, "You know, you usually can't reverse that sort of thing."

Laura cocked an eyebrow. "What sort of thing?"

"Dominating a man. Feminizing him" Sarah pursed her lips. "Especially one who takes to it. They get locked into the...into the mindset. Pretty soon they're good for nothing but..." She trailed off.

Laura's imp was in full command. "Nothing but fucking?"

Sarah nodded. "Sometimes they need, uh, help with that, too."

That set Laura back. Denis had needed help. His erection had remained spongy until she worked a finger into his ass.

Well, so what? He was more than hard enough after that. He rocked.

As unconcernedly as she could manage, she said, "Sounds like you think I should worry."

She looked up from her lunch to find Sarah's large brown eyes heavy upon her. The younger woman nodded gently.

"I would."


Laura surprised herself that night.

He was back in her lingerie and heels at her first hint, but she took him further. Much further. She demanded that he allow her to ride his face, and he complied. She ordered him to turn face-down, spread-eagle, and allow her to tie him to their bed, and he complied. She pulled her vibrator from her intimates drawer, lubed it lovingly, and put the tip to his anus. When she hesitated, he thrust his ass at her as if it were what he'd been waiting for. When she activated the vibrator and pierced him with the tool, he moaned, shuddered, and spurted pearly fluid all over their sheets.

She surprised herself, but he betrayed no hint of surprise.


A broken water main diverted Laura from her usual route home, down a set of side streets in Marina del Rey that she'd never traveled before. In less than a minute she was completely disoriented, uncertain of which roads would lead her back west, out to her home in the Valley where Denis awaited her.

She slowed to a crawl, wondering slightly at the unusual architecture of the shops along the streets. It was uncharacteristic for Los Angeles. Indeed, it resembled nothing she'd seen anywhere in the city, or elsewhere in the Southwest. The buildings were plainly shops, goods set out in their various display windows, but if there were signs to identify them or the wares they sold, she couldn't make them out from the street.

There were no other cars, and no foot traffic.

On impulse she slewed her Lexus to the curb and got out. The district possessed an eerie silence, deep but not unpleasant. As she surveyed the shops next to where she'd parked, one caught her eye and held it: an exotic lingerie emporium, with teddies. camisoles, and high-heeled slippers in its forward display. The shop's name, etched discreetly into the glass pane in its door in a fanciful script, was Naughty But Nice.

She nudged the door open and went in.

The store appeared quite conventional of its kind. Bins laden with silk and satin garments ran from front to back. Torso mannequins displayed lacy feminine underthings of the expected sort. Along one wall stood a rack of high heeled shoes; along the other, a pedestal displayed vibrators and related items under the discreet heading of "marital aids."

The most unusual item in sight was the young woman behind the low-slung counter at the back of the store. When Laura turned toward her, she stepped out from behind the counter and made to approach.

The girl was a vision in black. Her abundant black hair fell in gentle waves to disappear behind her shoulders. Her black leather bustier encased two perfectly formed breasts, cleavage nicely prominent, which rose and fell in an all but irresistible invitation to a kiss. Her waist tapered to a wide black belt over a skirt of black satin that hugged her hips and ended just below her pubic bone. Her stockings were sheer black silk, highlighting the exquisite curves of her thighs and disappearing into the tops of her black knee-high stiletto-heeled boots. She was the most completely eroticized image of femininity Laura had ever seen.

The girl smiled gently and said, "May I be of service to you?"

Laura had not imagined herself bisexual until that moment. Her juices surged in her, dampening her panties and blurring her vision. She restrained the urge to take the girl in her arms with the greatest of difficulty.

"Uh...maybe." Laura swallowed and tried to force herself into her lawyer's persona: intimidating and implacable. "I'm looking for a...a harness and dildo."

The girl's eyebrows rose. "To be worn by you?"

Laura nodded firmly.

"For use on a woman...or a man?"

"A man." Laura smiled formally. "My husband."

The girl regarded her in silence for several uncomfortable seconds.

"Well," Laura said, "is that the sort of thing you carry or isn't it?"

The girl remained silent a few moments longer, studying Laura's face. Laura pondered whether she made a mistake in entering the shop.

"Yes, we carry them," the girl said. "But it's not the sort of thing we normally just hand over the counter. Are you willing to sit for a fitting?"


"A properly fitted harness isn't something one just yanks off a rack, dear." The girl put out a hand, and Laura automatically took it. "I'm Martine Arnault, by the way."

Laura smiled again. "I'm Laura Marchesand."

The girl nodded. "Of course." Martine turned without releasing Laura's hand and led her past the counter, through a curtain of brightly colored crystals and beads, and into a place beyond wonder.


"He's not much of a man," Laura said as she trailed her fingers over Martine's mons. "Don't get me wrong: I love him, I'm with him by choice, but I provide for us, I deal with our hirelings, and I look out for our future and our standing in the community. He takes care of the house, and the groceries, and the cleaning and laundry, and..."

Martine smiled. "And you?"

"Yes." Laura's mouth quirked impishly. She ran the tip of her tongue lightly along the groove between Martine's perfectly shaved labia. "That's the bottom line, isn't it?

"It often is, dear." Martine took Laura's face between her hands. "It sounds as if you made your marital bargain with your eyes open."

Laura snorted gently. "I'd like to think so, even if my parents don't." She pulled herself up on the futon and laid her head against Martine's belly. The girl's warmth and softness were endlessly accepting. "I'm a corporate negotiator. I represent billion-dollar companies in their contests with the law and one another. I'd better know what I'm doing before I do it!"

Martine nodded. Presently she propped herself up on her elbows and looked Laura full in the eyes.

"In another life, Laura, I'd have said something noncommittal and dismissive. But the course you've embarked on is no minor voyage. Just now you're traveling through the borderlands of sexuality. It's like an ocean: featureless, ambiguous, where everything is fluid and much is left to chance. But when you reach the opposite shore, you might find that the way forward was much easier than the way back. Returning might be impossible."

Martine's black eyes probed Laura's own. Laura had the sense of a warning being issued in tones of finality. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

She reached for her resolve, found it curiously hard to grip. "He seems to...to want it."

"Do you want it as well? Is it compatible with the other things you want?"

Laura started to reply, halted herself.

"You haven't thought about it, have you?"


Martine nodded minutely. "Perhaps you should."

Laura stiffened at that. Her self-image did not allow for the deliberate entertainment of doubt. Professionally, she couldn't afford it; personally, she couldn't abide it.

If Denis wants it and I want it, what could be the harm?

"Well," she said as firmly as she could manage, "let's have a look at the merchandise. You do have something suitable, don't you?"

Martine's face went utterly still. She seemed to be pondering.

"All right." She rose, pressed the edge of one of the many mirrors that paneled the walls of the room, and stepped briefly inside. Laura dressed as she waited. Presently Martine returned with a contraption of leather and rubber in her hands.

"This would probably be suitable," she said, holding it out gingerly. "Your legs go through here, this part goes into your vagina, and you tighten this buckle until --"

Laura snatched the device out of her hands. "Thank you. I think I get the concept. What do I owe you for this?"

Martine winced. She chewed on her lip and looked briefly away.

"Consider it a gift. Laura? Don't rush into this without a little more thought. Give him a chance to back out. Please?"

Laura laughed dismissively. "He won't. Thanks for everything. See you again soon."

She turned and made for the door in such haste that she almost missed Martine's parting words.

"We'll see."


Laura found Denis exactly as she'd expected him.

He was waiting for her in the black lace bra, the garter belt and stockings, and the stiletto heeled pumps in anticipation of her return home. Perhaps he'd worn them all through the day; she didn't much care. What mattered was his emphatic readiness, the promise of unconditional acquiescence he presented in his appearance...and his service to her thereafter.

He rose and faced her as she entered the living room. His member was already erect and ready. A welcoming flush spread from his neck down to his chest and abdomen. She stopped to admire him: prize of her labors and her plaything for decades to come.

He held out his arms to her, but she stepped back. "Into the bedroom," she growled.

His face clouded, but he turned and strode, heels clicking, for their marital bed. She followed closely behind, stopped and waited for him to dispose himself on the bed.

"On your stomach with your legs spread," she said hoarsely. He complied.

She shucked her business suit in haste, reached into her purse, and drew forth the harness.

Martine's instructions had been unnecessary. It was obvious how the harness was to be worn. She slipped it on with ease, fitted the rear nub into her vagina, tightened the straps and knelt between his legs.

"Do you know what's about to happen to you?" she whispered.

He shuddered, but made no other reply. She peered down at his exposed anus. The dark ring of muscle seemed to gleam at her in the gloom of the bedroom. She put a finger to it, felt the slipperiness at the opening, and nodded. He knew, all right; he'd lubed himself.

She put the tip of the dildo to his anus and bore down. He shuddered again, but his rump rose, reluctantly at first, to accept Martine's gift. She pressed the full length of it into him, dragged it out slowly, and pressed forward again. He gasped and clutched at the bedcovers as they rocked in the darkness.

She leaned over him, put her lips next to his ear.

"You're not a man," she whispered as she pumped him. "You're my toy...my property. I'm going to use you whenever and however I want, from tonight onward. You'll serve me without question, no matter what I ask." She pistoned into him with sharper, faster strokes. "You'll wear what I've given you and nothing else. You'll leave the house only in company with me, go where I go, and speak only when spoken to. Some nights I'll give you pleasure, and some I'll give you pain, but you'll accept it all." She grabbed a fistful of his hair and hauled his head back as she pressed the dildo into him with extra force. His stiletto-heeled feet rose and waggled alongside her as he gasped in submission. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he hissed.

She jerked his head back harder still. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he whispered. "Yes, Mistress."

"Good," she said, and rode him into oblivion.


Denis remained asleep when Laura rose the next morning. She thought at first to wake him, considered it a moment longer, and decided to let him be. He was still sound asleep, or feigning it, when she left for work.

Her day passed in a sort of haze. She couldn't fully concentrate on her work, and she couldn't quite focus on what she'd done the night before. The events of the evening had her mind firmly in their grip, but held her at arm's length.

For the barest instant, she mused over whether she should feel guilt.

Guilt? For taking what he obviously offered and giving him what he obviously wanted? At such a dividend of pleasure? Ridiculous.

A voice that seemed to emanate from behind her conscious thoughts spoke faintly to her.

But was there pleasure in it, really?

That stopped her. She'd exhausted him. He'd come again and again, but was it because he'd enjoyed being her new toy, sawn in half with her other new toy, or because she'd forced it out of him with stresses his body could not resist?

She'd had no orgasm that she could remember. The thrill of breaking him was all she could recall.

Shortly after lunch, a senior executive came to see her with a question about a negotiation in progress. She tried to answer him, found herself unable to remember the details of the deal or form a coherent sentence about it. He peered into her face, his own face lit with concern, and he suggested that she not stay too late, that she might need the afternoon to recuperate from whatever was ailing her. She nodded absently, and he left.

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