Couples Counseling Pt. 05 - Epilogues

Sweet Kinky Reader,

Thanks and kisses for reading all the way through. Well, If you had your wagering chips on this particular outcome, good on ye, and I wish there was a prize.

A fond acknowledgement to 'angeline_dc' (check her out!!) who graciously lent me her thoughts on 'the mechanics of an erection' (see Epilogue 3).

As always, feedback eagerly solicited and eternally appreciated!

xxox Emm

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"Couples Counseling" Part Five:

EPILOGUES

by Emmalee_Strict

©2024

"Two little Hitlers will fight it out until

One little Hitler does the other one's will."

-- Elvis Costello

(ALMOST) THREE MONTHS LATER.

EPILOGUE ONE: PAIGE.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON. DECEMBER. THE DUNGEON OF DOMINA DeVAUER.

The gurgling, spit-roasted victim chained to the correction bench took the strap-on pummeling of his ring-gagged mouth from the slender young Dominatrix in red. He took it as bravely as he could, given his helplessness to resist it. One hand gripping his hair to steady her target, Mistress Scarlett had the other one free to wield the short-handled buggy whip, peppering the captive's back and flanks with stinging lashes. On the other end, the larger bitch in black gripped his hips with both hands and owned his boy-hole with a relentless Domme-cock.

"Give up, slave, huhh!, submit!" barked the tall, big-boned blonde on the ass-end. "Ooof, when I give you a second chance to kiss my boots, and you even dream of hesitating - ugh! - remember this is the price you pay."

Mistress Scarlett was happy to leave the Domme-taunting to the alpha in the room, whose realm this was. Domina DeVauer was nothing short of brilliant at it, and the protégé knew her own verbal abuse talents were feeble in comparison.

"Ugh, pig! Uhh-uhh-ugh, give up now, and I won't have to break you like a bitch-boy."

Scarlett liked being the whip-hand anyway, she was good at it, and Domina trusted her. Then again, her trust was well founded; she had trained the whip-hand herself. Scarlett appreciated this implement for its fine precision, which appealed to her meticulous side -- the intimate bite the knotted striker left when wielded by a measured hand. Bite or, if she flexed in more forearm, burn, or even slice.

She knew the sensations well. Her husband used the same model on her.

"Okay, bitch-breaking it is," Domina snarled, pulling unceremoniously out of her victim's anus. She reached for the hardware that secured the chains around his waist and started freeing him from the bench. The blonde sweetly suggested to Mistress Scarlett that she fetch the pail they'd used for his enema, "And keep it handy to give him a cold bath, in case the bitch-boy doesn't go down on his knees without a fight."

Once unshackled, though, the bitch-boy did; which to Scarlett was a relief.

Domina manacled her captive's wrists, leashed and tugged him on his knees across the floor toward the notorious 'back room.' Midway there, she spun, glared down at him, and wound up the slack of the leash chain in her hand until his collar ring was tight against her fist.

"Listen, slave, when we get in there, you'll go meekly into the pet cage, sweet and obedient as can be."

"Uhh 'ess, 'Iss'sthess."

She slapped his face and pushed it down on the floor. Straightening up, she ground her stiletto heel into the back of his neck.

"Stay down while I fetch the cane! Ass up!" She crossed the floor toward the tool rack, winking at her whip-hand. "Mistress Scarlett can't bear the disgusting sight of you any longer. So it's just you and me now."

Trailing behind with the pail in hand, the redhead pulled up, shocked. Was she being dismissed? Domina gave her a sharp look, nodding insistently toward the wall clock.

"Oh," Scarlett saw. Getting on toward five; she would be expected at home. "Time flies..."

"When you're breaking a bitch." Domina lowered her voice to a whisper, "Listen, go up and change, but wait for me. Please, Paige? I want to see you out."

Emma took the pail of enema slop from Paige's hand and returned to her client Harry, the cane whirring through the air, her voice hardening, as she went. "I promise, this won't take long."

#-#

Upstairs in the living room, Paige kicked off the stiletto pumps, unstrapped the strap-on, and peeled herself out of the red latex briefs, leggings and open-tittie bustier. Three hours ago here, she had doffed her street clothes and waited, sitting naked on the couch. It wasn't long before Domina DeVauer appeared at the basement doorway in her black leather catsuit and beckoned her downstairs. Paige followed her down to the dungeon anteroom, where her red rubber regalia awaited.

While she suited up, Emma thanked her neighbor gratefully, even humbly. She owed her one, for stepping in and stepping up like a Pro; the partner she'd scheduled for the afternoon double session had tested positive for Covid at the last minute. Paige said it was no bother, happy to help, anything for a friend. But inside, she glowed at the feelings of camaraderie and trust.

A little deeper inside, she thrilled at the anticipation of seeing how, past the curtain, Domina DeVauer had restrained her 'captive' client for his 'resistance-breaking' 'torture.' And in that place, at the intersection of moist Domme-cunt and taut, glossy latex, Paige easily pivoted into Dominatrix mode ...

She was mostly redressed by the time the Mistress of the House came up and approached her neighbor with cash in hand. Paige stood up, hands raised. "Oh, Emma, you could've dropped that off anytime."

"Relax, Harry needs to cool off anyway. Lick his wounds and save up his energy for when I come finish him off," she giggled. "You're not the only one on the clock, eh?"

She pressed the folded bills into Paige's hand. "It's more than we talked about, by the way. He paid in advance, but he's gonna leave a big tip, believe me. So shut up and take it like a Pro."

"Well --"

"No. It's not an argument I'm going to permit," Emma cut in sternly.

The redhead gasped at the authority in the Domina's voice, and instantly lost all will to argue. Anyway, the feel of the cash in her hand appealed to the whore in her. And she wasn't unhappy with the shocking sum of money she'd just made. She worked it out in her head to be much better pay than her annual salary as a corporate lawyer, when calculated as an hourly rate. She was, as always, in awe of her beautiful, blonde bestie. And that tickled her twat, too.

"So," Paige said, "why did you need to see me out?"

"You know why. Or you should. Tomorrow is my final mentoring session with Tosh. After that, it's your last few days of enslavement to him, before, you know..."

"Emma, we're not supposed to talk about that."

"I'm not supposed to influence you," Emma corrected. She shot Paige a glare like, Don't make me call out that bratty rules-freak in you, and punish her.

"Your three month trial is almost up," she said. "I have to have some confidence you're ready for what that means; I'm gonna have the same conversation with Tosh tomorrow. It's something I need. I'm hosting your 'transitional' conversation, after all, and I need reassurances that everyone's coming in with clear eyes and open hearts."

"I know, Emm, don't you think I've been agonizing over that constantly, the closer--?"

"Umm soory, try not agonizing," Emma said with a glower. "That's sort of what I'm talking about."

Paige sighed helplessly, "I don't know what you want from me."

"A moment of reflection on this, to start," she gestured back and down, indicating the dungeon. "After our 'Domestic-Goddess' sessions, those 'pro bono' clients of mine at your disposal -- I mean fuck, they were eager enough and all, but -- You know what I mean, it had a certain 'classroom' feel --"

"Clinical," Paige admitted the word she'd held back during the sessions.

"Exactly. But this, this was real. Scene set, spell cast, a live specimen of sweaty, struggling, real man-victim flesh in play. Have you taken a second to reflect on how that felt? Because, don't try and tell me in your mind, not to mention your pussy, you were just doing a favour for a friend. Bitch, please."

"Ugh, I think the latex down there had some say in that," Paige deflected. "But to tell you the truth, Emm --"

"No. Slut, do not tell me the truth," Emma warned. "You want to tell me how the whole thing made you feel part dom, part sub, or some other light bulb that went on in your conflicted cunt. I, in turn, will have an opinion about that, and it will be torture for me to keep it to myself, so I won't try."

Emma bit off the last words angrily, making the girl feel already punished, even if she hadn't done anything. "And that, in turn, that would be 'influencing' you -- d'accord?"

"D'accord, ma Maîtresse," Paige replied, lowering her blush-warmed face. She leaned down to slip into her ugly rain boots. "Emm, I really gotta go."

"You do," the Mistress nodded, accepting that in deference to the Master the girl needed to go and serve. She picked up her neighbor's winter coat and led her up the hall to the front door.

Along the way, she still had some 'lecture' in her. "Look, next Friday, we'll all be at Minerva's ... this time, sans le Taureau Neige ..." the blonde smiled.

Without the Black Bull. Paige shuddered. Even the mention of Victor's absence had a paradoxically exciting and pacifying effect on her slave-cunt.

"Before that happens, though, I'm counting on the both of you to have worked things through in your own heads, and spoken openly and honestly between yourselves. Conflict-free," she emphasized with a raised finger. "So that when you present yourselves at my usual, private table, you don't waste my time."

She helped Paige on with her coat and turned her around. "I'm watching my figure, you skinny slut. So if you make us go into extra courses, I'm going to punish both your asses afterwards, just for the cardio."

Paige's eyelids fluttered, she melted a little at the threat, and she felt the Dominatrix's chastening voice greasing the skids of her transition back into slave-wife. In fact, underneath her skirt, her panties confirmed that she was already there. She sighed languidly. One last bit of ritual, then, and she would be ready to go.

Reaching under her skirt, she bent and slid the pink, cotton briefs down her legs, maneuvered them past the rain boots, and stepped out of them. Straightening up, she handed the moistened fabric to Emma. She folded her hands behind her back, sucked in air, stood straight and opened her mouth.

"Still?" Emma seemed surprised.

"It's not for him," Paige dissolutely averted her eyes. "I want it. I want to remember, and re-feel, those first surreal moments of my enslavement."

"You should. It only comes once. You know another feeling that only comes once? The enslaving."

Emma wadded the juice-slicked knickers into Paige's slave-mouth. She smiled; deviously, she had waited until the panty-gag was in place, preventing any back-talk, before she gave her young charge a last word of advice.

"I said before, don't tell me the truth. What I meant was, don't tell it to me, tell it to yourself."

#-#

Trudging up Emma's front walk through the soggy-misty winter chill ... undies in her mouth, hands clasped behind her, willingly, though in her fantasy they were bound ... the slave-wife Paige Goodwin reflected on the first time she took this path in this state. It was here, in the predawn darkness three months ago, after 'couples counseling.'

It was after the Black Bull's meaty slave-tamer had broken her spirit. After Domina DeVauer completed her (sexual assault and) battery of tests, breaking her body. And after the Domina pronounced Toshiro Ito the winner of the argument.

Too beaten down to lift her face off the carpet, Paige could only moan out her surrender. But this acceptance of her fate hadn't come from weakness, from a mind dulled by an ordeal of torture, violation and emotional abuse, but from the strength she gained from having endured it. The strength of a born, or reborn, submissive.

The picture of when her submission truly began was seared on her brain. With the Bull's ramrod poised to breach her gates, she saw her own powerlessness reflected back from her husband's eyes, which were what they hadn't been before: forceful, fearless, unmoved by refusal, adamant. More than his voice -- 'tame-fuck my wife! -- it was with those eyes that he sentenced and sacrificed her. As the first thrust plundered her, the thought exploded in her mind that the consent just given to her violation was her husband's, and, helpless in bondage, gagged, exposed, Paige had no choice of her own. And she loved that. All her sense of personal agency, once it fled her body, never looked back.

So later, after the Domina's verdict was rendered, when a strong hand gripped her ponytail and lifted her head, on her way up she prayed that it was her husband's; then upright on her knees, she moaned in delight at seeing that it was.

Oh, there was after-care: lotions, salves and compresses, hushed and affectionate discussion, cognac toasts ... but Paige barely remembered that. When it came time to leave, she looked at her dress hung in the anteroom and wondered where her underthings had gotten off to. Her husband had to explain it to her before the memory crystallized: "Mistress sent you to the back room to finish stripping, piss in a box, and come out here. Your bra and panties are back there."

Nodding weakly, she turned to go, but he caught her arm. "No. Put your dress on here, slave. Then go get your underwear and bring them to me."

She went, and when she returned, he spun her around, took her bra and bound her wrists with it. He turned her to face him, reached under her skirt and dabbed the pink cotton panties on her newly enslaved, freshly dripping pussy, and wadded them into her mouth. Mistress provided the rawhide strip he used to jam the gag in place, and lent him a pink leather pet leash to boot; she still wore her session collar. He draped her coat over her shoulders like a cape.

In that state, the slave-wife was led by her Husband-Master to the house he would now rule.

She felt lucky that it was three in the morning and her chances of being seen as a bound, gagged and leashed sex-slave were almost nil ... but ... inside her softening slave-mind, she pictured herself walking up Emma's cobblestone path naked and barefoot, shivering in the chill, and displayed to the eyes of the suburban, vanilla world: 'CMNF,' she thought, outdoors, subdued, exposed ... and proud.

She approached the front door knowing that just past that threshold, her husband would own her. Seeming to have the same thought, on the porch Toshiro stopped her and untied her wrists. "Down on all fours, pet. We're going to bed now, but my slave-wife is going on her hands and knees."

It was in that posture, minutes later on their martial bed -- still collared and gagged -- that she experienced another taming-fuck, the confirming one. Her Husband-Master filled her newly enslaved belly with the release of everything Mistress had restrained inside him for hours. And she yielded her own tribute in return.

In every moment since, she had lived as her husband's property: his domestic servant, sex-slave, bondage-toy, humiliation-whore, and pain-slut.

For the owned slave-wife, all of that was so, so good.

#-#

Well ... technically, not every waking minute of Paige's life was spent 'owned,' or at least not outwardly. Tosh and Paige lived their lives, went to work, shared chores, jogged together, stepped out socially and all the rest, enjoying each other as affluent young suburban spouses ... beautiful, high-functioning and happy.

One difference, though, a glaring one, was that under the new regime, Paige spoke far less.

At first, that was a thing enforced by the husband's word and whip, then eventually, by settled habit. Into that open verbal space Tosh inserted more of his own words ... which turned out to be full of affection for his wife, praise of her beauty and intelligence, and unguarded confessions of his deepest, manly feelings. When he gave Paige her own space to speak, she found she was able to reciprocate his honesty, effortlessly and completely. Her heart glowed, and her pussy pulsed, at the realization that, to achieve this level of openness, happiness and mutual compassion in her marriage ... all she had to do was shut the fuck up, and listen. In that way, she came to accept her restricted speech, not with frustration, but as liberation.

In any case, they no longer argued.

Domestic tranquility: Once an instrument of Toshiro's passive-aggressive manipulation of their home life, now he raised it as the triumphant central pillar of his man-palace. Paige loved giving him that, his ideal of a placid, conflict-free home, of the kind she had once mocked, but now conceded to him entirely on his terms.

What Paige found most thrilling about the change in him was his utter unself-consciousness: his adamant disregard for her anxieties or limits, and his arrogance in taking what he wanted. He treated Paige's body as his property to use: to please his eye and satisfy his flesh, as a compliant human plaything for the practice his Craft, and as the object of his sadism and his dark, controlled fantasies of misogyny and degradation.

She learned to submit to his darkness too, because even in the depths of her pain, fear and disgrace, she never lost trust that her husband loved her.

But if his newfound arrogance of purpose was the most thrilling thing, a close second was ... the rope, oh the rope, oh the fucking rope ...

Hemp in his hands, Toshiro was a natural. There was no end to his inventiveness, and sometimes it seemed, no repetition. He could make the ropes feel sensuous, or punishing, or deliciously defiant of her fear of losing control, or all three at once; but at all times, lovingly secure and inescapable. Her Husband-Master's bondage was constrictive everywhere, but in no place too tight or uncomfortable. This trained her body to accept complete loss of control ... or anyway, left it with no other choice. Looking back on the awkwardness of their aborted bedroom bondage games 'pre-Emma,' Paige saw what their play had been missing: no other choice.

By the way, she was no longer ticklish.

Her pussy simmered every time, as the rigourous loops whirred and tightened around her. She loved best of all, watching this happening to her in the full length mirrors mounted in their play spaces. She looked on mesmerized, self-admiring, as the firm, soft strands subdued her muscles, their athletic definition etched in sweat under lurid track lighting, and forced them to yield. She was glad she had been a gym-rat before, and that inspired her to ramp up her work-outs, to make her surrendered body even more pleasing to her Master's eye.

And to hers.

#-#

Wait, was that a flare-up of vanity, willfulness, and pride unbecoming of a slave?

Paige giggled, aroused, knowing her slave-mind had been conditioned to react that way to conceit, with a reflexive beat-down of her own ego. Many times she wondered, how much of her 'self' had she compromised by submitting to her husband the way she had? The short answer was that whatever she surrendered of herself, she surrendered willingly, to her husband in their home, and to him exclusively. Elsewhere, her willfulness, autonomy and independence survived and thrived. She never really abandoned her 'OCD control-freak' impulses, or even tried to; she had only redirected them.