Couples Counseling Pt. 02

Dear Kinky Readers,

Thanks so much for the private messages of support & encouragement ... and ideas for what happens next to my helpless lovebirds. Keep them coming, plzzzz! And thanks for all the others words of welcome. I like it here, think I'll stick around.

xxox Emm

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"Couples Counseling" Part Two

by Emmalee_Strict

©2024

*Thwickety-twickety-twickety-twickety!*

"Eyes open, pets, and keep 'em that way!" I bark as I flog. "On each other, eh?"

Paige is slower to obey me, so I flick the tip of my whip stab-like at her calf.

*Thwack!*

"Meeeff!" Her shocked eyes popping open, my kitten squeals into the fat rubber ball that fills her mouth and fastens it to the vertical chain. I like to think she is recalling my admonition about 'punishment-for-hesitation,' and she'll do better next time.

*Thwickety-thwick!* my whip lectures the tautly suspended bodies of my married playthings: rapid-fire, percussively and with controlled forbearance. I can make a whip kiss or cut, sing or sizzle, badger or bite -- or fucking punish -- with practiced admixtures of wrist, forearm and bicep. Mostly now, I am testing them with wrist. Backhand and fore, up, down and diagonally, my free hand catching and feeding the tasseled tip back out for added precision, I am treating them to a master's course in the art and science of a light whipping.

I've been laying in a pelting rain of lashes for a good three or four minutes now, and observing the results with lascivious interest. My lenience is evident from the cute, pastel-pink of the stripes that crisscross their legs, asses, backs and sides -- although there are lots of them -- but really, it's been 'Intro Pain-Tolerance 101' so far.

Wanting to be even-handed about it, I decide to give Tosh something to disobey, or mis-obey, so that there's no appearance that I'm singling out (singling-tailing out?) Paige for punishment.

"You, puppy-boy, let's see those hips dance for me, mambo-mambo - faster!"

Whether it's his stubborn resistance to submitting to me, the restrictions of the bondage, or his lack of basic dance moves, Tosh is awkward, hesitant to shake his booty.

*Thwick!* I stripe his thigh.

"Mfff!"

"Did I tell you to shut your eyes, slut?"

*Thwick!*

"MFFF!"

I glance at Paige, who is looking back at me with a sort of co-conspiratorial smile in her eyes. "What part of 'eyes on each other'...?"

*Thwick!*

"Mmhh!"

Lessons learned, I hope.

Here, I pause. I sort of regret telling Tosh how to move, because the whole point of this opening exercise is observe them react naturally and spontaneously to corporal punishment, one of the most basic and fundamental acts of domination. Time for a reset.

"Settle down, pets. When I resume, let's have you keep perfectly still."

Once I do, of course, they don't. No, I'm too good at this, I laugh. *Thwickety-thwick.* My whiplashes reveal a distinct contrast between my two playthings. My puppy-boy's response is to tough it out, grunt rhythmically, bear the pain like a man ...sort of 'hardened.' My kitten's reaction to her lashes is similarly defensive, but with a controlled sort of desperation that I recognize ... she is fighting her ticklishness.

For one thing, score a point for Paige on the pain-tolerance ledger. For another, I think about the 'tickling' thing, which in BDSM is fraught and mysterious. My favorite top, Victor (more on him later), once told me told me he'd played with at least five subs who made tickling a hard-NO limit. Mind you, these same bitches had no problem with a face-slap, caning, sensedep, even bloodletting ... but tickling? Bright red line.

Now, me, I'm not the least ticklish, believe it or not, so I have trouble grasping this. But I have a theory. Unlike the self-discipline a sub can learn to manage with pain, voice or orgasm, for the truly ticklish, there is a complete loss of control. Nothing she can do about it. And that, more than excruciating torture, terrifies the shit out of her.

So for Paige, I add this to her attention-mongering personality and her high pain threshold, weigh in her eager readiness to follow my direction (hello, rules freak), and come to a preliminary finding.

Which I'm going to come out and tell her. But first, I coil up the whip in my hand, sidle up behind her, and fondle her scrumptious bubble-butt.

"You, kitty-slut," I whisper in her ear so that her husband can't hear, "have an attachment to control that borders ... on the unhealthy."

"Mm-mmm-mmh," she replies. Fluent in gagspeak, I read that as, I know, I can't help it.

"I should warn you, to me that says, 'I'm a latent submissive, who secretly craves a take-down."

I rake my fingers across the freshest stripe I laid across both cheeks. She sighs.

I add a little purr to my whisper. "Which, in your case, slut, may need to be rather ... forceful."

#-#

A month or so after I had come out to Paige and Tosh (but well before their current marital difficulties began), I met them one summer night in the city for a double-date at Minerva's with my best mate, Victor.

'Switch-mate,' actually, is the term for our relationship that we use privately. Victor, a transplanted Quebecer, is my number one, hands-down favorite booty call -- apart from being a loyal friend, trusted confidant, and the occasional shoulder to cry on. (Even a Domme can get down in the dumps.) About half the time we get together, it's straightforward, albeit amazing, vanilla fucking. The other half, we play. Who dominates whom depends on our mood, or sometimes a toss of the coin. When he wins the flip, I address him as Victor. When I'm on top, I call him Victim.

Anyway, I bring up this particular dinner date because it was the first time I began consciously eyeing, and assessing, the power dynamic between the power couple. I started doing it after I noticed Paige was all too happy to dominate the conversation on behalf of the four of us, and to make it about herself.

"I was the first one to say it out loud, Scorsese is done as a great filmmaker!"

Not that Paige's grandstanding was a drag on the conversation. She's articulate, an engaging storyteller, and funny as shit. And besides, who doesn't love watching a pretty girl with bright blue eyes flap her lips when they're as yummy and pouty as Paige's?

Secretly, I was taking mental notes. There was a bit of "let me tell it, dear" in the way she would break in on what Tosh was saying. She freely interrupted him when he spoke, but when he returned the favor, she seemed miffed at him. Just slightly. You had to have a keen eye to catch it, and I have a keen eye.

I turned that eye on Tosh. Now, I was a long way from concluding that he was straight-up P-whipped. I knew he's the naturally quiet, taciturn type. Watching him that evening, I sensed an inner calculation whirring in his head as he studied Paige's behavior, as if taking notes like me, tallying up... I don't know what. Studying her for weaknesses, maybe? That was a weird thought. Again, I shouldn't say this, but 'inscrutable.' Whatever it was, I read 'simmering conflict.'

The point is, I had that evening firmly in mind a year or so later, when they brought their dispute to me, and it all clicked into place. And again, now as I have them strung up for a whipping.

There's another point in mentioning that dinner date at Minerva's, which has to do with Victor's presence at it. And his visible contrast with Paige. First, you need to picture him: He's Black, a real big guy, almost brutishly imposing with this tall, muscular frame (a gentle giant, though -- soft-spoken, deferential, says he's never been in a fight in his life). When we fuck, I usually want missionary, because I love having the sheer, African mass of him on top of, and driving into, me. However, when we play and I bottom, there's a funny dynamic; it's actually not much of a turn-on that he towers over, outweighs, and outmuscles me; there are myriad other things about his Dom skills that make me melt and mewl at his feet, but his size isn't one of them.

And this brings us back to Paige. When I'm super-attracted to a girl, chances are I'm going to picture her on one end or the other of a leash. And if I see myself on the collared end, there's a certain physical type I want on the other: notably smaller than me, but wiry and athletic, boyishly slender about the hips, and flat-chested.

There, I said it. Why is this, you ask? I think it has something to do with my lifelong self-consciousness about my imposing frame, and the "big personality" that goes with it, that I secretly crave to have both of them brought low and humbled at the feet of the willowy, waifish gym-rat that I could never be.

You guessed it, Paige checks all my boxes. And pushes the corresponding sexual buttons. And then some, that I didn't know I had. Her voice, for one thing, so musical, enchanting, and commanding at the same time.

And her selfishness. I wanted to lose my self in it.

I thought about that again much later, the night after I'd laid my 'indecent proposal' on them, went back to my dungeon and masturbated. That was when I first realized, confronted, and tried to temper, my hope that Paige would win the contest I proposed to the two bickering lovebirds.

Because if she did, I wanted ... deeply, wetly, ravenously wanted ... to mentor her. I would show her all my best tricks of the trade, of domination, bondage and discipline. And I would offer her a live model to work on.

And that model would me.

#-#

"Listen up, my pets."

I reach up and crank the ratchet-release lever on the overhead pulley, easing them down from their taut suspension. Their heels regain the tiled floor. I give a little slack to their arms. The ballgags no longer tip their chins up, and their faces are levels, eyes obediently on one another.

"In conflict resolution, there's a tool called the 'talking stick.' Whoever holds the stick holds the floor, and no one can interrupt until the stick is passed off to someone else. This is like that, but the opposite. It's the 'no-talking ball."

I tap on their gags. "If you've got the ball, then soory, you aren't permitted to speak."

I giggle, "Kind of obvious, I guess, eh? Anyway, one of you is going to get the privilege of giving up the ball and getting three minutes to make the case for your position on this little spat of yours. In the interest of fairness, first speaker to be determined by a coin toss."

I show them the dollar coin. "You call it, puppy-boy. Heads or tails?"

"Theh-thhh."

"Tails it is." I flip the coin, catch it and show them. Heads; advantage Paige. I unstrap her gag. She works her jaw and licks her lips. I note the time on the far wall. "You're on the clock, kitten."

She knows exactly where she wants to begin. "Mistress, your puppy-boy told me he thinks you put the 'FLR' idea in my head. He thinks we met secretly and you ...I mean, Mistress... Mistress talked me into it. He said, 'If not for that bondage whore --'"

"Whore?" I shoot Tosh a dangerous glare. His eyes blink, objecting, but mine tell him to keep quiet.

"His words," kitty says.

"Hmm. It's your time, darling, don't let me interrupt. But did he call me any ... other names?"

"Adjectives. 'Conniving,' 'manipulative,' umm, 'back-stabbing.'" Tosh shakes his head furiously, like he never said that. "'Bitch' and ... forgive me, Mistress ... 'cunt.'"

"Oh. Really?" I look at Tosh, reach out and grab his chin before he can wag it. "Still and silent, pup. Eyes on your wife while she has the floor."

Then to Paige, "Go on."

"Punish him." She glances at the wall clock. "I'll yield my time."

She's right, of course, these slanders cannot go unanswered. Although I ought to admonish her about her tone of voice and telling me what to do, I give a nod of appreciation to her style. Enlisting me in her cause, the clever bitch. Sorry, who was calling whom 'manipulative,' exactly?

"That's gracious of you," I say to Paige as I set down the whip and pick up my thin, rattan Singapore prison cane. "Fancy we'd both like to hear the puppy howling like a bitch. But keep your time; no need to switch out the balls. This won't take long."

*Thwack!*

"Mmfff!!"

The stroke landed high on his ass -- and the resultant stripe will not be pastel-pink. To his credit, my pup learned from before, and held his eyes wide open as the lash landed.

"That's for 'whore,'" I say. "A whore 'gives away' for money; I get paid to 'take' what I want. As for 'cunt,' well, I'll own that. It is, after all, the object of worship, the fetish and idol, of my slaves' devotion. But it's also, if you cross me ... a thing I can be."

*Thwack!*

Mid-ass, a tad sharper stroke into the meatier part of him.

"Mmfff!"

*Thwack!* Same, just a bit lower.

"That was for 'conniving' and 'back-stabbing.' For your distrust of me and our friendship."

*Thwack!* Lower still.

"MMFF!!"

I can see the stripes reddening before my eyes. three perfectly parallel furrows of pain. I am artist.

"That was for imagining I would even dream of interfering in your marriage. And this ..."

I wind up, aiming for the 'sweet spot' where the yummy curves of his well-toned glutes meet his upper thighs, and I give it some bicep.

*THWACK!!*

"MMM-GHAAAH!!!"

"That was for failing to validate your wife's honest, deeply-felt fetishes. Imagining some outside agent provocateur?" I scoff. "That's just unforgivably insulting, belittling ... and sexist."

My puppy-boy blinked hard at the blow. It was a doozy, can't fault him for that, so I won't scold him. Besides, he returns his eyes to Paige's, so gets a point for obedience. Still, there are tears welling up and spilling out of his eyes. Makes me want to cane him once more, just because that's what boy-tears inspire in me. But that wouldn't be fair. Lesson over.

"Well, I trust my character and impartiality won't be impugned going forward. All clear now, eh?"

"Not quite," Paige replies.

Then she does something that takes me by complete surprise. She hocks up a loogie and spits in his face. The glob lands squarely between the eyes and dribbles down both cheeks, mixing with the tears. His face looks anguished and humiliated, and the way he screws up his nose, I can tell it galls him deeply that his hands aren't free to wipe away the wet, mucusy insult.

Score a big point for Paige. Even with her hands bounds, my kitten shows her claws. I fucking love it.

"That was for everything Mistress just said," Paige goes on. "And for your deep denial of what you truly are."

Oh boy. She's just getting warmed up.

"When I ask a favor -- no, when I tell you what to do, you never disobey me. Do you, puppy-boy? Think about it, even when what I want bothers you, or you disagree, I see that grudging acceptance on your face while you do what I say. Now, you think that's all in the name of domestic tranquility, that conflict-free environment that you're so obsessive-compulsively attached to. Go along to get along. 'When the wife's happy, life's happy.'

"Well, let's just take that attitude and move it to the next level. I mean, the next level down. Which is you kneeling naked at my feet. Me in my work suit, coming home to happily see you in the front hall, waiting for me that way. The collar and leash and puppy-muzzle on the floor in front of you. You, eyes down, longing for me to put them on you and call you 'good boy.' That's just one way our 'domestic tranquility' is gonna be different.

"You know what else will be different? You will have spent zero time at your work station wanking off to that Japanese porn of yours. You know why? It won't just be because I've trained you to obey me. It'll be because you can't."

She laughs in his face. "Oh, this isn't just fantasy, dear. I've already taken steps. Last night, after you turned in, I went to your computer and located your cache of smut. By the way, it was helpful that you thought you could just bury it deep in your folders and leave it unencrypted. But guess what? It's encrypted now! Haha-hah!"

Oh. Shit. The devious little minx. I can't help it, and I don't care if they notice, but listening to the sound of her musical, mocking voice, I have to slide a hand under my skirt and finger my pussy. I'm wet already, juices dribbling inside my thighs, but I feel a fresh gush of delight at the nastiness of her taunts. And the clarity of her purpose, her preparation. If 'proactivity' wasn't on anybody list of turn-ons before, Paige just put in on mine.

I move closer to study Tosh's eyes as she lectures him. While I'm there, I take my hand out from under my skirt and slip two well-lubed fingers up inside his squirming, puckered bunghole. My puppy-boy's eyes widen, then roll back, and I hear him moan. I'm a good judge of such things, and I think he's a virgin back there. And if this is his first, small taste of anal intrusion... I think it's a bit of a revelation.

"In case you try and find your jollies elsewhere, there's spyware on your system now. Oh, I know you can find it easily. But if you remove it, I'll know. Then, bitch, you can kiss your beloved 'domestic tranquility' good -- Mfff!"

"Time's up, kitten." Gripping the back of her neck, I feed the ball back into her mouth, and tighten the velcro strap behind her neck. "Rules are rules."

I give the both a happy nod. "Great sharing, though, eh? I feel like we're getting somewhere."

But before I can ungag Tosh, I get a ping on my phone, which is set on the tool cabinet by the post of the suspension station.

--> im here.

"Just a sec," I tell my expectant playthings. I thumb out a quick reply.

--> hi Vic! theres wine in the fridge. put yr feet up. wont need u for awhile.

That's true. Tosh still has to have his say. And in the interest of fairness, I'm probably going to give them each another round. Maybe, I mean, I'm kind of winging it. I'll decide at the end of round one.

But after that, things are going to get a lot more interesting. And I'll be watching their eyes carefully, gleefully, hornily ... when the Black Bull enters the ring.

**TO BE CONTINUED**