Wifedom - Female Supremacist Marriage story
“Husband,” her liquid, throaty voice commanded, “Read this to me again.” She leaned over and her electric, full-bosomed assertive beauty dazzled his adoring senses as he read his own hand-written words:
“I, Malcolm Masoque-Laverge (once Malcolm Masoque) this day unconditionally and devotedly yield myself to the complete authority of Madame Cressada Laverge, my wife and absolute Mistress. I vow that: I am to accept her decisions in all matters as final. I am to comply with her every wish, to obey her every command and to always be faithful in heart and deferential in manner to my beloved Mistress. I am to submit my body, mind and soul to her strictest discipline, and expect severe punishment for the slightest disregard of her authority. Said punishment will be administered to me in whatever form my Mistress feels best befits her mood and the occasion.
(Signed) Malcolm Masoque-Laverge
His voice weakened towards the end, and he was conscious of the arch-browed, haughty face over him, her finely carved aristocratic nostrils flaring delicately as a superior smile and sneer touched her moist red lips. Having deferred to this superbly regal Venus from the first, he had written the submission contract in a love-mist of enthralled enchantment, thinking it meant no more than continued courtesy on his part.
“Well read, husband,” the sensuous lips murmured. “Memorize it word for word, so that you can recite it whenever I wish.”
“Yes, Sada, I will,” he answered humbly, not needing the sharp pinch on his ear, or the sparkling, tingling sting on his cheek from the slap of her palm to prove her power over him. He watched her move sinuously to the couch, especially attracted to her glittery black six-inch stiletto heels, and then resumed unpacking as her icy stare met his abject eyes.
Cressada Laverge lowered her lids and gloated over the ease with which she was subjugating Malcolm to her complete domination and imposing her firm will upon his rambling family estate, and the two teenaged nephews he supported. She had long yearned to punish them all, and her friend, Mrs Truella Murdstone would be a wonderful ally in her plans. Cressada’s fully rounded hips and magnificent bosom writhed in anticipation, surging from within at the thought of Malcolm’s place in her schemes. Little did that love-dazed man realise what was to come
[Little indeed, one might say! The new bridegroom finds he has to wear a dog collar and is then set to work scouring the hotel bathroom while his wife and Mistress goes out on a shopping trip. He then discovers a whip is his bride's suitcase, and this is soon put to work when she returns. Malcolm is ordered to clean her shoes]
Emotion squirmed within Malcolm’s loins, half love and half grinding fear, as he saw Sada’s strong, tapering gem-laden fingers grasping the handle of the whip. She fondled the lash, dangling the flexible tip before his panic-widened eyes, and pulling the whole supple length of it through caressing, dagger-nailed fingers, while Malcolm, breathing hard from he feared to know what feelings inside himself, at her feet, his spotless handkerchief ready in his hands.
“Put that damned rag away.” Cressada struck the arm of the chair with the doubled whip. “When you wipe your Mistress’s shoes you will do it reverently, with your tongue!” Malcolm looked up, gulping with awe at the derisive smile and her threatening flourish of the whip as he hesitated. Sada’s eyes narrowed. “So…my pet is not full of the proper respect and reverence – yet!”
“Yes, Sada,” he stammered, throwing himself belly-prone before the glittering black-shod feet. Street dirt clouded the brilliance of the patent leather at the heel tips and just above the soles. He began removing the dirt, his tongue polishing the leather and gathering the debris which he swallowed.
In his haze of adoration and awe he knew that this was the only true way to keep his wonderful Mistress’s shoes clean. With whimsical amusement in her eyes, Cressada toyed with the whip, watching his willing debasement. The pungent taste of patent leather filled Malcolm’s mouth, flavoured by the admixture of dust and offal from the street. His lips laved the pointed contours of the gleaming shoes and felt the dainty garlands of pearls at the slipper throats and sucked the terrible thin spikes of the nearing six inch heels.
“Husband, be respectful with that tongue.” Cressada’s lips smirked at his abject humiliation. “Slobber just once on my stocking and you’ll feel this whip.” She raised the foot he was licking, toe up, on the skewer heel. “And a good husband knows that his wife‘s soles get dirtiest of all.” Cheek against the floor, Malcolm tongue-washed the slipper bottoms, first one and then the other, and sucked the extravagant heels into his mouth until he gagged. All the time he was conscious of the lash dangling over him, ready to strike. Amused, she pressed his face beneath her foot. “Does this little toy frighten you, Pet?” The lash hissed wickedly past his ear. With one foot riding his neck, Malcolm tongues and retongued the glowing shoes in abject humiliation.
In this fashion the “honeymoon” continued, with Malcolm being subjected to increasing discipline. Meanwhile Cressada warns him that when they return to his house, which is being suitably refurnished, things will be worse rather than better. There Mrs Truella Murdstone, the governess, would be installed; also one Sheila Collins, a personal cook, to whom Malcolm would have to “show every consideration.” Finally, there would be Malcolm’s two nephews, as well as his niece, Margery. Things do get worse for Malcolm, but he gets his first real taste of punishment before leaving the hotel.
On the final day she was out alone till after six and when she returned, a pink-sheathed vision of high voltage glamour, Malcolm was panting at the door to take her hat, gloves, furs and packages. Her eyes had tigerish, predatory glow as he prostrated himself and faithfully tongued her lance-heeled, sharp-toed kidskin boots of lavender. He could feel the tinge of iron when she spoke. “Husband, it’s time you faced the facts of life under me. Tonight you’ll get a true taste of the kind of punishment I’ll be laying on. On your knees and open that parcel.” Obeying her steely voice and pointing finger, Malcolm nearly fainted at the sight of what the package revealed – a murderous strap of belting leather, half an inch thick, two inches wide, and over a yard long, with a stiff leather handle and slim wrist loop. Writhing sensually on the couch, Sada laughed throatily at his reactions. “Just one of my special disciplinary instruments, Pet – specially for you – tonight.”
After dinner Sada regally sway-strutted the floor, her back arched, nostrils flaring in anticipation, beautiful breasts stretching the blush rose gown which fitted like a second skin. Finally she spoke the fatal words. “Go to my bedroom, Husband, and prepare for punishment!” Malcolm saw no mercy in that haughty, glacier-eyed face, and disrobed, sobbing inwardly. He was standing humbly nude when Sada strode majestically into the bedroom, the heavy strap held in one elbow-high lavender kid-gloved hand. She tossed him some cotton drawers.. “Get into these.”
“W-what are they?” he stammered. “What are they for?”
She gripped his hair, jerking his head back to stare disdainfully into his eyes. “Those are your whipping drawers. You’ll soon find what for.” The thin fabric was skin tight and stretchless from his waist down his thighs and he struggled to get them on. Eyes glittering, Sada pointed to an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “Bring that here.” Malcolm obeyed, deadened by dread, watching her remove her dress to reveal a tight-laced pink leather corset hourglassing her voluptuousness. “Get over that bench – crosswise.” She ordered.
The drawers tightened even more when he jack-knifed and he glanced up to see breath-taking sheer-nyloned legs made shapelier by uplifting minaret heels. Sada stepped back, dropping the strap gently across his bottom to gauge her stance as he squirmed, begging for mercy. Then she swooped the flail up as high as her arm could reach and whirled it around to gain speed. As Malcolm quailed in terror, she smashed it down full sweep, flush across his buttocks. He made no outcry but his midsection convulsed upwards from the force of the blow and then slumped back to the bench. As the initial numbness warmed into pain, Malcolm could see in the closet-door mirror, his own head-down, butt-up figure with the dynamic, imposing, corseted woman towering over him, preparing the administer the next stroke. He tensed, watching with fear and admiration as she whirled it around her high-swept coiffure, and the leonine grace of the downdrive.
Seven power-packed full-swing agonizing strokes fell, making hollow whacking sounds on Malcolm’s upthrust backside, before he cried out in protest. His sobs came with the eighth stroke, when the whipping drawers began to torment him. The broad welts from the heavy strap were unable to swell within the skin-tight, unstretchable fabric of the garment so his flesh ridged up, unable to escape and agonisedly compressed. Under the relentless, expert, measured blows, Malcolm howled in anguish but made no effort to protect himself or free himself from his Mistress. He squirmed and writhed under the torture while Sada savoured to the utmost his song and dance under the strap, whaling his podex with regal dexterity and aplomb. Cressada thrashed him from each side, and then imprisoned his head between her firm round thighs to flog him vertically. Malcolm clutched her skewer heels as the curling strap snapped excruciatingly down his cheek curves. His cries went unheard in the soundproof penthouse. He could only see Sada’s taut-full hips weaving above him in the mirror with each cracking blow. As his body became a throbbing reservoir of agony, he visioned Sada as a heartless goddess to be glorified for her brutal prowess. At last a bench leg shattered under his pounding and Malcolm slid to the floor, moaning low, his head still pinioned in his Mistress’s shapely limbs.
As had been promised, things did not improve for Malcolm upon their return to his home, now called Masoque Manor. The nephews have not yet arrived, but meanwhile there is no letup in discipline, either by word or deed.
Returned to the boudoir, the statuesque beauty’s eyes chilled haughtily, her strong chin hardened. “Fun and games are over, husband.” Her tall heel crashed. “Open that cabinet.” Malcolm’s knees weakened on seeing the ominous arsenal of straps, lashes, birch-rods, whips, cats, canes, crops and switches that hung within. “You see, lover,” Sada smirked, “I have the means to flog you unconscious – or just make you sparkle. There’ll be disciplining here, without letup, and you’ll learn that chastisement is the heart and soul of it.. You’ll be put to the most debasing drudgery; you’ll slave in any way that might amuse me…without word of protest. I begin your training as a lady’s maid in earnest now. Get me out of this dress – at once!” Her grey-gowned, scarlet-belted luscious figure undulated. Apprehension and servile closeness to the overbearing goddess made Malcolm fumble…and he took several training cuffs before Sada stood forth in the magnificence of black-corsetted deshabille.
Bedazzled by such Junoesque voluptuousness, he moaned “Oh… oh Lord, Sada, h-how can you be so beautiful…” and then winced when her fingers took his ear.
“This is the last time you will address me as an equal,” her thumb-nail dug in, “I am The Mistress – The Mistress Sada – and as an inferior, you low creature, that is how you will address me. Any neglect in this respect spells punishment. Does that sink in?” Malcolm squirmed when she twisted his ear cruelly.
“Y-Yes…the M-Mistress…is most explicit…I will…”
“Quiet, fool, get to the closet…fetch those high black boots and lace ‘em on me.”
Malcolm found a new closetful of awesome, high-heeled femininely masterful boots – of myriad heights, styles and colours. The thigh-high 7 inch-heeled splendour of the first black laced ones he saw sent tingles through his loins.
“I demand skin-tight lacing of m’boots, Husband,” said Sada, watching her kneeling husband; “lace ‘em sloppy and you’ll feel leather!”
Nevertheless, Malcolm is fascinated by ‘this new, entrancing for of servitude’ and, even though he does ‘feel leather’ because one of the lacings is fractionally loose, he is subserviently uncomplaining. Various other forms of humiliation follow. He is leashed like a dog, forced to kneel behind his Mistress, bootlicking as he goes and, ‘when not in use’ as Cressada puts it, he is locked into a windowless cubicle closet. In due time, the nephews and the niece, Margery, as well as Mrs Truella Murdstone arrive. Under the threat of losing their inheritance, the nephews knuckle under to the discipline of the Manor, though with considerable reluctance and, at first, resistance – for they do not have the same masochistic traits as their Uncle Malcolm. The niece, Margery, changes her allegiance, and is soon trained into becoming as much a martinet as the other women. The nephews are thrashed into obedience and abject servitude, and become as submissive as Malcolm.
First he takes his ‘lunch’ on all fours, eating from a dogbowl ‘canned dog food watered down to mush.’ After this unpleasant repast he dresses his Mistress in one of her usual bizarre costumes.
I’ll wear my blonde mink stole, Husband,” said Sada, “furs are most appropriate on a punishing woman.” She selected a longish, sinuous rawhide, and gave it a gunshot snap. Malcolm swathed her wide, alabaster shoulders in the opulent furs. “Down, pup…” Sada jerked his leash. “To heel. You are for punishment for overt delinquence…and an improvement of your appreciation of the spick and span.”
Imagined consequences tortured Malcolm as he dogged the flashing knitting-needle heels downstairs, forth into the balmy afternoon and thence to an unkempt terrace behind the old manor house. Cressada strutted upon the balustraded enclosure, her heel tips smiting sparks from the flagstones. “You…” she leashed him to a suds-filled pail, “will now scrub these flagstones… to the bone. At any sign of a let-up, there’ll be th’ whuppin’. Pick up that brush.” Malcolm groped for the heavy scrub brush, blinded by the sunlight reflected from her patent leather boots. He vaguely noticed that two straps were a-dangle from the hand grip. “You’ll scrub in the meanest way,” smirked Sada, “so the lesson sinks in. Open that mouth.” She wrenched his head back roughly by the hair, jammed the brush handled between his teeth and buckled the straps around his head until his skull creaked.
There…” The cowhide curled, cracking across his buttocks. “Douse that brush proper and get scrubbing.” Malcolm splashed it – and his face – into the strong, hot suds and lowered his head to the ground. The dirt on the long untended flagstones turned to mud under his nose as he scrubbed with lunging shoulders, biting the brush handle which made a lip-stretching bit in his mouth. Sada kept the thong end of her lash draped over his back, and, from time to time, laid it with a stinging crack across his upended rump. “You’ll scrub harder, you lout!” she bawled in her most intimidating growl. “Lets see you put some back and jawbone grease into that.” Malcolm, eyes streaming from the harsh suds and the brush wobbling in his teeth, felt her bootfoot on his neck jammed the brush on the flagging and the handle, chokingly, up into his mouth. The tiny, sharp-edged steel heeltip dug into his flesh and he shuddered as it pricked through his skin. Sada exerted rhythmic pressure with her long gorgeous leg, thrusting his head down and forward, giving helpful, albeit punitive, momentum to his scrubbing.
Cressada slid her bootfoot off Malcolm’s back when young Margery came sauntering on to the terrace. “Lawdy me!” caroled Malcolm’s pretty niece. “You’re surely making this clean-up day around the old homestead, Aunt. I’ve just come from the stable – your Governess has dear Langdon there now, and hard at it on all fours. Seeing him sweat – after that caning job you did on him this morning – was so delicious I could scarcely tear myself away. Y’know,” she chortled, “I had to resist an urge to get astride the big goof…so’s see what kind of horse he’d make me.”
Amused, Cressada flicked Malcolm’s rump, saying, “I’m pleased you’re so in tune with – ah… petticoat rule and wearing the boots, child, but why single out Langdon for your kind attentions?”
“Bah!” Margery snorted, “He’s always burned my little Frances… thinking he’s so all-fired smart,,, and he’s twice too big for his britches. The kicks I’m getting seeing him cut down to size… Bob now, is a nice inoffensive laddie… but this one…” she swaggered so close to Malcolm’s scrubbing head that he had to veer it aside, “this treatment is exactly what he deserves. Any boot licking mouse that lets a woman thrash him and make a damn fool of him gets no sympathy from me.”
“You’re sweet,” Sada swayed aside. “Let’s be comfortable, girl. I can oversee the husb. from over there. And he asks for no one’s sympathy. He crawled under my heel with his eyes open. And he begged for his punishment, my dear, simply crushed by his inability to defy me.” The blonde, lissome maiden and the dark strapping beauty reclined on a lawn chaise. Fingering the ugly rawhide, she accounted for every move of her toiling groom with chilled-steel grey eyes. A deep surge of despotism swelled her momentous bosom, thrusting the sumptuous furs apart. Margery watched Malcolm’s degration snootily. “One time I respect that man,” she said, “but now he’s just a disgusting worm.”
“Don’t say that,” Sada reproached her, “he’s a perfect dear of a worm who worships me and its no discredit to him if I show my affections by whippings and humiliation as well as the lovey-dovey. He’s a very happy man under me.” Margery appeared skeptical, particularly when Sada stiffened, head upflung, eyes wide and glacial, nostrils arching in her fine-ridged nose, her full red lips brutally down-drawn. Then rising to her commanding height, the furred and booted woman strode to her man with all the overbearance of a slave-driving Juno.
“I told you to lean on that brush!” Furs billowed and rawhide snapped over his thrusting head. “Take longer strokes, you sluggard, bear down till your neck cracks!” The lash seared his rear and her tone made his flesh crawl. “SCRUB, damn you. You’ll clean this terrace, you loafing muckworm, if you have to slave until you drop.!” Malcolm scrubbed wildly with his mouth-clenched brush, acutely suffering the rawhide consequences of disobedience, dazzled by the patent leather brilliance of pink and lavender boots. Getting into the swing of things, Margery strolled to the happy pair. “Look,” she pointed, he’s left a mess right here.” Sada lowered her whip arm and looked around herself. :Yes… and here’s another mess he’s left behind, HUSBAND!” she bawled, “get to them, you whelp!”
“Here first,” Margery ordered.
Then Cressada bellowed, “You get to THIS one first, confound you!”
Malcolm poised ready to plunge the brush (and his face) into the bucket, looked up, bedeviled and bewildered, at the hectoring females. Suds spewed from the brush with the frantic switching of his head from side to side. Then the rawhide began cracking again… and he scrabbled, yammering against the brush handle to remedy his errors. When his oppressivenesses again took their ease he was weak and a-jitter. But under the compulsion of his beloved’s gaze he scrubbed till his mouth was raw, his jaw ached, the sun was setting and the terrace was washed down to her Ladyship’s satisfaction.
Later, en boudoir, Malcolm lay at her feet exhausted, his backside raw, swollen and throbbing remorselessly. Moans bubbled from his tortured lips as he mouthed her terrific boots. “Don’t carry on like that, my pet,” purred Sada casually amused, “I’m hardly through punishing you. Tell me, do you like these pretty bootsies?” His reply was a distracted gargle against a shining marlin-spike heel. “You’ll be oh so familiar with them before I’m done with you.” She rose. “Now, back into your corner until I’m ready for you again. You’ll go hungry this time, sweet… that will do its little bit to teach you to respect my little whims.”
It is at this point that The Whiphand ends, but further installments are promised. Installments that will surely be as ornately written as they are illustrated. All of it is, of course, the purest way-out fantasy, utterly impossible. Yet, nevertheless, quite satisfyingly enjoyable to those with masochistic leanings. Also enjoyable, one might add, to those with leanings of the opposite kind for it is simple for such people, be they male or female, to transfer themselves in their imagination, into the position of Cressada the all-powerful, all-dominating Mistress who has a half-willing, half-unwilling victim constantly crawling and groveling at her feet, for ever at her beck and call, one whom she can humiliate and degrade to the limit, one whom she can thrash and flog to her heart’s content.