Couples Counseling Pt. 01

"Which is it gonna be, Rex? The pain-training, or do I just go wild on your ass --?"

"Umm, pain --" Tosh has been extra confused since I strapped on the blindfold. "'Rex?' Wait, Emmalee, define 'wild' --?"

"Sorry, backstory -- should've led with that," I say, slipping into "friendly-neighbor-voice" to sort it out. As opposed to "business-voice," which I was using just now to make him feel like a "client," just to start him off. He's not getting into the spirit of it, which is annoying, given the "intake" discussion we just had, not fifteen fucking minutes ago.

Me, him, and his wife.

"You're 'Rex,' my Thursday afternoon regular." He's on his knees and I'm crouched by his feet, snapping the manacles onto his ankles.

"Session goes one of two ways. Either it's 'pain-training,' which is my ongoing tutorial in pushing his thresholds and limits. Or I 'whip him 'til he weeps,' and put on a show like I climaxed, hands-free, just from punishing him to tears. Although, sometimes it's not entirely an act ..." I giggle, hoping to put my aspiring plaything at ease.

"You're right, Emma, you should've led with that."

Dry sarcasm. So Tosh. I bite my lip for forbearance. Most circumstances, I'd deal with a sassy mouth like that cobra-quick. But with Tosh, I know we're not in the same space yet, so I'm trying to be patient. With some effort. Even though I've got his pretty Asian ass naked and kneeling, ankles cuffed, hands drawn up over his head with his leather puppy-paw gloves clipped to a vertical chain ... he's still acting like he hasn't gotten the memo.

His resistance to the scene, that's all on him, the overthinking brat. My annoyance at that, I realize, makes me want to see him fail and lose the argument with his lovely wife; same time, I realize I've got other (self-serving, connivingly hedonistic) reasons to root for her to win; and I realize next, I've got to be careful. Can't put my thumb on the scale. But I tell myself, I know my job, and I can do this.

After all, I am a Professional.

"Wait, is Paige here?" Tosh asks softly. "Emma, is she watching this --?"

"Sssh, puppy-boy, it's 'Domina DeVauer' to you, or Mistress -- you agreed to that. You slip up a third time, I'll make you regret it."

I've risen to my spike-heeled feet to deliver that warning from the "towering-over-him" position. I cast a scowling eye down at his half-hard penis, and decide which way I want that timid, conflicted boner to go. I lean down and curl my fingers around his glans, tease my way down the shaft of his cock -- which, though I shouldn't even be thinking it, is surprisingly impressive for someone of his, um, background -- and sweetly cradle his balls. Ahhh, this gives me the full effect I want.

"Ohhh," he breathes. "Yes, Mistress."

Mixed messages, I know, but we're not quite "in-scene" yet. Not quite, but getting there.

"Okay, never mind 'Rex'," I say, bouncing his undershaft on the tip of my forefinger. "What are you, puppy-boy?"

"Your plaything, ahhhh... Mistress."

"Good boy."

I think now I've got him properly focused on where his center of thinking needs to be. You could say I've straightened him out. (That's a dick joke, if you didn't catch it.) Watching him lick his lips and relax his jaw, I think Tosh is starting to get the picture, too.

Okay, idle playfulness over. Studying his face, I wonder what was inside him just now when he spoke? If Paige is here, and she is watching me restraining and teasing him -- witnessing her husband's naked, kneeling submission -- how does he feel about that? But he's been a cipher, giving me nothing. Dammit, if I hadn't blindfolded him, I'd read his eyes, and have my answer in a heartbeat. But then, duh, he wouldn't be asking after his unseen wife.

"Anyway, no, pet, the slut isn't here. But soon enough, she'll be along to see you in all your exposed and helpless glory," I purr in his ear, studying his lips and his breathing. "In fact, she'll be joining the party -- restrained and deliciously vulnerable to me, just like you."

Something there, yes ... Or maybe, just my hand on his erection. Or the domme-taunts. Seriously, I'm going to have to start managing my control variables better as this erotic experiment proceeds.

And speak of the Devil-minx: No sooner is she the topic of conversation than, as always, Paige appears!

She comes in butt-naked on her knees, though, so there's that. Lovely, lithe, blue-eyed-ginger Paige -- carpet matching the drapes, I see at last -- the apple of my sexually omnivorous eye. She sees me teasing her blindfolded husband's exposed cock ... he, naked and bound, me in my lace-up spike-heel boots, tight black velvet, knee-length skirt and matching leather bustier, and pristine white silk blouse open to bare my impressive cleavage. I give Paige a lusty wink, and she drops her eyes. She pauses in the doorway, silent, blushing all over in her complete and gorgeous nudity, handcuffed with her arms behind her, upright on her knees but face lowered ... awaiting instruction.

My darling kitten Paige is late to the party because, just as the two were stripping down in my anteroom, she suddenly realized she badly needed to pee. Nerves, I figured, but good to get that out of the way. Tosh assured me he was good. Paige was down to her cute, pink panties and bra at that point. I tossed her a pair of handcuffs and shooed her away to the back room with instructions: Finish stripping back there, get on your knees and crawl on all fours into the larger one of the two pet cages. Cuff your hands behind you and avail yourself to the litterbox. Find a towel, wipe as best you can. Return to the main dungeon on your knees. In the meantime, I got started on her fully undressed and ambiguously compliant husband.

And now, here we all are, together at last. More or less in our proper places.

Unlike some people, Paige had listened carefully to my orientation speech before we began, and she's gotten herself into the proper, dutiful and obeisant, spirit of the thing. But I have no doubt she heard her name mentioned and quickened her knees to get in here. I'm not kidding, in real life -- and I'm saying this affectionately -- she's a greedy little attention-whore. I ask myself where I'm going to place that trait of hers (Paige/domme or Paige/sub), once I start keeping score. Also, I'm factoring it in as I continue to strategize how I'm going to unlock the sexual puzzle of pretty, passionate Paige.

I'm doing the same with her deliciously slender, bound, long-muscled, smooth-skinned husband Tosh ... and his gradually more agreeable manhood. I'm just a little further ahead.

"Come join us, kitten."

#-#

Paige Goodwin and Toshiro Ito have been my next-door neighbors for going on three years. A young, married, childless professional couple: she, an in-house corporate lawyer; he, a software engineer. Smart, fun, well-spoken. Marathon-runner fit, the both of them. Ridiculously good-looking.

Open-minded, too. After we'd reached a certain stage of familiarity, I had no trouble telling them what I do, my "work from home" thing, what goes on in my soundproof basement. They were more fascinated than shocked. At least, they didn't run screaming to the neighborhood watch council, or complain to me about what having a "house of ill repute" next door was going to do to their property values.

I fielded their many questions, answered them in polite, clinical terms, and declined their request to tour my work space. My idea of boundaries. But other than that, they were cool with it. ...Well, more than "cool" with in Paige's case. More like sopping-wet-panties curious about it.

But don't let me digress.

As in all marriages (I am guessing), there eventually came a time when their sex life went through a dull patch, and they addressed it by asking each other, Tell the truth, darling, what's your most secret, deepest and darkest sexual fantasy? With Paige and Tosh, I like to picture it as a cliché rom-com trope where someone suggested, "Let's say it at the same time!", and what came out of their mouths was so shockingly, diametrically opposite, the dull patch quickly morphed into a rough one. Really rough. (I wonder if there's a general lesson here, that when your partner asks you what's your deepest desire, you just fucking change the subject.) Long story short, they brought their beef to me. Smart move, too, because the crux of the controversy was a topic squarely within my professional wheelhouse.

Paige's deeply-held yen was for a "FLR" -- Female-Led Relationship. She wanted to rule their suburban roost with the full-on Husband-as-Sex-Slave experience.

Tosh, in turn, influenced by vintage Japanese bondage porn (a secret addiction to which he awkwardly confessed, which was a whole other argument), wanted to see Paige as his naked and kneeling, collared and leashed, abused and degraded, meekly submissive paintoy and sex-pet.

Now, you'd think the obvious solution would be to take turns at their fantasies -- alternate weekends, say. But then, you wouldn't know these two. Tosh, who had a closet "head-of-the-household" mindset, was deeply offended that Paige could even begin to see him that way. Paige's reaction was a little of the same, but more importantly, insistent that playing out her fantasy was more of a "lifestyle" thing.

From my angle, she was right about that. The classic FLR is a sustained commitment to the wife -- as Domestic-Goddess -- taking strict charge of the household and the husband in it, regulating his behavior inside those four walls (outside, too, maybe), and dictating the terms for how they would both receive pleasure -- or, in the slave-husband 's case, not. There could be no swapping collars on the odd Saturday night, or the Goddess's spell would be broken.

On the other hand, Paige came around to confessing a fantasy of being forcibly stripped, tied up, gagged and fucked; a seemingly reasonable compromise, but not what Tosh had in mind. Probing deeper, she admitted a certain attraction to a slave-collared CMNF submission scenario. She could easily (and erotically) envision herself being trained for sexual use by a firm dominant hand, with bondage, light corporal, even verbal abuse to grease the skids, so to speak. But she drew a line in the sand at the heavy-degradation parts of Tosh's fantasies. (The forced enemas, I think, were a sticking point.)

But stubbornly, Tosh clung to his vision of cruelly humiliating his wife. Which was fair, I thought. If the "humiliation" thing was his "most deeply-desired" fantasy, and that was the exact premise of the "confession night" talk that kicked off this whole domestic "shit-storm" ... well, who was I to "quibble" with that?

Frankly, I saw both sides of the issue with equal sympathy. I told them that. And I agreed, they were right to bring their dilemma to the doorstep of Domina DeVauer.

I had more than insight into it. I had an indecent proposal.

#-#

"Up, kitten," I coax Paige with my velvety whisper-voice. "Shhh, stay quiet."

At the edge of the station her husband currently occupies, I've just blindfolded her eyes and cuffed her ankles. To help her off her knees and into position, I take hold of her tight red ponytail in one hand, and with my right, dominant hand, I slither my fingers into the cleft of her ass, grip her by her vulva ... and lift.

"Oooh!"

Oooh, indeed. Slippery. Three fingers blunder inside her folds as I hoist her up ... okay, intentionally. I hope she appreciates that I trimmed my nails for her. Per my prior instruction, her red-orange bush is freshly groomed, smooth, I think even lotioned with something scented ... although, that's not the lubrication I feel, nor the smell I smell. Naughty kitten.

Once on her feet, her flanks quiver with a sharp spasm, the release of a wound-up knot of prolonged anticipation, and her knees buckle. I love that, it inspires me. I release her ponytail, but my other hand stays where it is.

Struggling with my direction to stay quiet, Paige whimpers her mounting need. Gently, I clench my hand once more and use it to prod her forward. Shuffling in her cuffs, her bare feet feel the transition from the soft carpeting that nestled her knees before, onto the tiles of the "suspension dock." They are cool. She shivers.

"There, there, pet," I murmur soothingly once I have her in place. Leaving her with the barest, one fingered stroke of her clitoris, I take my hand away. "You're doing so well."

This spot is one of three "punishment stations" in my dungeon: the St. Andrew's Cross, the correction bench, and here, the suspension dock. It's a rectangular, tiled space that has a supporting post at one end with a ratcheting winch built into the base and cabinet built into the other side to hold my tools and toys. From the winch, a thin but heavy-duty chain runs diagonally up to a pulley suspended above the other end of the rectangle, mounted in the overhead beam, which is reinforced to bear potentially a lot of weight. There are D-rings bolted into the floor tiles in places that lend versatility to my options for how to restrain my victims' feet.

(And so long as I've digressed, I'll add this "Pro tip:" Apart from the punishment stations, the floor of my dungeon is equipped with 100% natural-fiber, wall-to-wall carpeting. I operate on the view that an owned slave's knees, like the rest of her or him, are my long-term investment asset that, while expected to receive regular use, shouldn't be subjected to unnecessary wear and tear. Hence the carpeting; you're welcome. However, the floor under punishment stations might take copious amounts of sweat and tears, occasional blood, and more rarely, piss or scat. Hence the tiling. Which is easily cleaned and disinfected. Often by my slaves. Get the picture?)

Back to the suspension dock: The chain that runs from the winch through the pulley, and down again, presently holds the kneeling Tosh's puppy-gloved hands restrained above his head, its end dangling at his chin level, and Paige is facing it as well.

Her hands are still cuffed behind her, and over one of them, I slip a black leather kitten-mitten. Like Tosh's puppy-paw, the glove curls the hand loosely into a fist, negating the opposable thumb, and enforcing a "subhumanizing" effect on its wearer. Strapped tight at the wrist, where there's a small steel ring, it also has a bondage function. Once I buckle on the second mitten, I release the handcuffs, and show her how that works.

"Nnnn-ohhh..." my kitten moans weakly. I move her hands in front of her and clip the wrist rings together with a small steel carabiner. I extend her hands toward the chain. Click. The carabiner snaps home, securing the kitten-mittens to the chain that captures her husband's gloves as well.

I've chosen a link in the chain above the one that binds Tosh's wrists, which I calculate to compensate for the slight height difference between them, even them out once I've hoisted them up ... well, that's going to be the surprise. Incidentally, I'm taller than both to begin with, 5'9" bare footed, but with the six-inch stilettos of my dominatrix boots, not to mention my voluptuous, big-boned frame, I loom menacingly over them.

As my hands draw back from fastening Paige's gloves to the chain, I run them softly along the insides of her arms and settle them onto her girlish rack. She's rather flat-chested, two firm little mounds tipped with dime-sized areolas and long, plump nipples. Covetously, I grip the former, tease and distend the latter.

Instantly, my pussy twitches and juices inside my satin thong. God, like they had a mind of their own, my hungry hands have wanted for so long to claim these breasts and their tender nubs, which are every bit as ripe and responsive as I've imagined from lusting after them, seeing them hidden inside her sports bras and swimsuits.

"Oooh," she sighs through pursed lips, a faint whistle of breath escaping them. Keeping it quiet. Good kitten; sweetly compliant.

In reply, I hiss in her ear .... just a hiss, to remind her there is a guiding force of will behind the hands that molest her. This quiets her.

My hands go on claiming Paige's soft, warm flesh. I like the lean compactness of her, the muscular chest, abs and limbs, her slender flanks with the twin bubbles of her yummy, high, firmly rounded buttocks. One of which I reach down and grab, squeeze and fondle. Another soft coo.

Keeping the one hand on her ass, I slide the other down and cup her vulva, so that my two hands, pressing in from front and back, feel to her like they are possessing her carnal needs. With two fingers, I gently trace where her wet petals are beginning to flower, converging on the delicate button they reveal. She inhales sharply, her voice trembling. Her breath comes in torture pants, and the pants come faster as my fingers delve deeper.

Peering over her shoulder, I look down on poor kneeling, blindfolded Tosh as I quietly finger his wife, who is unseen and barely heard. If the transfer of my attention to Page leaves him feeling at all bereft, I'm not seeing that in his penis, which remains just the way I left it. And maybe it's the nearness of her, or the warmth of her arousal that I am stoking, that keep him erect. Maybe the bondage and helplessness, too, I'm not sure yet. Or the sheer presence of me, in control of them both at once.

"Stand up, puppy-boy."

Immediately he complies, the manacles clinking around his ankles. Facing but not seeing each other, the naked spouses stand with their arms extended straight ahead, bound to a common chain, but loosely. "Stay just there, though."

I lick my lips at the sight of his erection bobbing and his scrotum swaying as he gets to his feet. Because it's true, while I enjoy tits and pussy, I do like cock too. Ooh, very much ... in my controlling hand, in my teasing mouth, and yes, in my insatiable domme-cunt. And my puppy-boy's cock is, again, a pleasant surprise with its length and girth, fully erect, groomed for me, and scrumptiously inviting in its present state.

Which is why, without releasing Paige's dripping pussy, I step around her and pivot between the two of them, spit in my hand, and take hold of his penis. I slither my saliva up from the base of his shaft to his twitching cockhead, find a dab of precum there, and smooth it back down.

"Mistress..." Tosh gasps heavily. His hips thrust into my softly pumping hand.

"Shhh, I said no words," I admonish him. "And stop fidgeting, the both of you. Lock your knees. Hold those greedy bellies obediently still for your Mistress."

I smile, my vision clouding over with desire, as I watch them struggle to comply, although my expert hands makes it deliberately difficult for them.

Both of them are shuddering, breathing laboriously, confused with lust and wondering if they are meant to cum in my hand. But it's just a brief tease, really, as I want them worked up into a state of arousal that mirrors my own. Put us on a level playing field, so to speak, before I ramp up their restraints.

Because, in a few moments, my beautiful, naked, married playthings are going to be completely at my mercy.

I pull away my hands, both their knees buckle, and their own ways, different voices, they whimper and groan in frustration.

"Ooh!" I micro-orgasm.

#-#

A couple of weeks ago, I was telling them, "Green means, keep doing what I'm doing ... but harder, faster, deeper, whatever. Yellow means ease off. Red is a stop, but only to rest, recover, redirect. A 'safe-word' is used to say, you've had enough, 'uncle!',' end of session. If the sub is gagged, there are hand or voice signals for all this. Those safeguards are SOP with my clients," I explained.