A Bestiary of Unnatural Women (20 page)

Impugning his wife crossed a line. Josh stood
abruptly, scraping his chair back from the table and snapped his
fingers, pointing at the floor. “Slave, kneel!”

Kelly immediately sprang from her seat and
knelt at his feet, her head bowed and her eyes downcast.

“Give me my belt.”

Keeping her eyes downcast, she unbuckled
Josh's belt with shaking fingers, pulled it from his pant loops,
and presented it to him, draped over her upraised hands.

“Present yourself over the chair.”

She rose gracefully to her feet, then draped
herself over the back of Josh's dining room chair. She lowered her
pantyhose and panties to her knees, then raised her skirt to her
waist, baring her backside.

Josh delivered a dozen swift blows to her
ass, using his full strength. Clement and Julia's jaws dropped open
as they watched her face crumple in pain. Despite her welling eyes
and involuntary jerks, Kelly snapped a smart, “thank-you, sir,”
between her whimpers after every brutal stroke. They could not see
her bare buttocks but knew that they had to be striped with angry
welts.

When Josh lowered his belt, he asked, “What
else will you do for me?”

“I will do anything you wish, sir,” she
replied through her tears, “I will accommodate you any way that you
want.”

Josh looked at Clement and smiled slightly.
“That, Clem, is a woman who knows how to accommodate her man.” He
turned his gaze to Julia. “Thank you for cooking this lovely meal
for us, but I'm afraid that we're going to have to excuse
ourselves. We have some urgent business to take care of at
home.”

Julia nodded, her eyes still wide with shock.
“It's all right. I understand.”

“Heel,” he said to Kelly in a low, hard
voice.

She meekly followed him out of the house. Her
skirt fell back to cover her burning ass but she had to take short
steps because her underwear still hobbled her knees. He had not
instructed her to pull them up.

After driving down the street a short
distance in silence, Josh glanced over at his wife and smiled
tentatively. “I'm sorry, mistress. I know that I deserve punishment
for my behavior.”

Kelly nodded solemnly. “You were right to
show that jackass what an obedient woman looks like and I was happy
to play the role for you. But you know that I'll have to punish you
for your insubordination. You can look forward to a severe caning
when we get home. Severe. And you'll have to endure considerably
more punishment as well. You will suffer the agonies of hell
tonight.”

His grin disappeared and he nodded with a
shudder of fear. His mistress always gave him exactly what he
needed, especially when he needed a long night of painful and
humiliating punishment. He gave her reason often enough, but he had
to admit that, tonight, he had topped himself.

A Wife of No Small Promise

Hillary edited and re-edited the email; then
deleted it, re-wrote it from scratch and edited it some more. But
this second draft was getting too long, too wordy, so she deleted
that one, too, and rewrote it in a completely different way. When
she was finished, she was still unhappy. Her intent was simple, the
gist of the message straightforward, but she had to get the right
nuances or her night would end in a disaster. A wrong outcome might
even ruin her life.

It was worth spending time to get it exactly
right.

After sweating over the keyboard for more
than two hours, she admitted to herself that was good enough, that
it had been good enough all along; that her fears – entirely valid
fears – had driven her to look for any excuse to avoid sending it.
But, right or wrong, it was time to commit herself. With her hand
trembling on the mouse, she clicked the “send” button and let her
promise fly through the Internet to Walt’s office computer, warts
and all.

As soon as she sent it, she began to regret
her stupidity with all her heart. Now she was committed. Absolutely
committed. She asked herself what she had done. She cursed herself
out loud because she had to follow through no matter what second
thoughts she had. The email was a promise and she always kept her
promises. If she reneged now, how could she expect Walt to trust
her ever again?

She opened the copy of the email in her
“sent” folder and stared at it for a half hour, reading and
re-reading it. And, with every reading, she imagined a different
way that her evening could unfold. The best she could hope for was
utter degradation. Every other outcome that she could imagine was
worse.

Dear Walt:

Last week, you told me that you were unhappy
in our marriage. I was surprised because I thought it was going
pretty well. Since then, I have been thinking about what I might do
to make you happier. You told me on a number of occasions that you
think that our sex life has become mundane. That I am haven’t been
as adventurous as your wife as I was when we were dating.

I am going to change that tonight.

I am not coming home after work. Instead, at
exactly 9:00 PM, I will go into the bar at 1529 Broadway called
O’Reilly’s Pump, sit down, and begin entertaining sexual
propositions from men. I do not expect that to take long because I
will dress in a way that makes my intention obvious. My intention
is this: I will get on my knees in the Men’s washroom and give a
big, sloppy blowjob to the first man who is willing to pay me
twenty dollars.

If I cannot find any one who is willing to
pay me even that paltry sum by 10:00, then I will start approaching
men and offering to service them for free. One way or another, I
will not leave the bar until I have swallowed some man’s cum. This
is the promise that I make to you and to myself.

I hope with all my heart that you will be the
man to buy my service, but if you chose to let someone else to make
an offer first, I will not hesitate to give him a blowjob
instead.

My fate is in your hands.

I hope that this is the kind of sexual
adventure that will make you happy.

Love,

Hillary

Walt read the email a second time. What the
hell was this all about? He never told Hillary that he wanted to
get a blowjob in a Men’s room in some seedy bar. And he sure as
hell never told her that he wanted her to cheat on him with some
stranger. What the hell was she thinking?

He raged because, after twenty years of
marriage, he knew exactly what she was thinking. This was just
another way for her to jerk him around. It seemed like she spent
every minute of every day searching for some way to impose her will
on him, complaining that he never helped out around the house, and
when he did, complaining that he did everything wrong – demanding
that he fold towels the same way that she folded them and demanding
that he take out the garbage precisely when she wanted it taken
out.

And, of course, the ultimate battleground for
their two-decade-long power struggle was the bedroom. When he
wanted sex, she got more power by denying him than by allowing
herself to be seduced. So they made love on her schedule – two or
three times a month – rather than according to his needs; needs
which became more urgent every time she looked at him with a
twinkle in her eye, let him beg for a while, then decided that she
wasn’t in the mood after all. And when she did let him make love to
her, the rules were hers – in the bedroom, lights off, missionary
position, and he better come quick or she’d find it too painful to
let him continue to the end.

And now she was commanding him to show up at
some bar at exactly 9:00 or she was going to give some stranger a
blowjob – a sexual act that she had always said was “too
disgusting” to perform on him even as she told him with her next
breath that she loved with all her heart.

He was so frustrated that he wanted to
scream.

Instead, he moved on to his next email.

Shopping took longer than Hillary expected –
most of the afternoon. Who would have thought that it would take so
long to find clothes that would make her look like a two-bit whore?
It was true that she was a little old for the game – already over
forty – but that shouldn’t have been a problem. Dressing two
decades too young for her age would give her the exact look that
she wanted: desperate and willing to do whatever she had to do to
earn twenty bucks. The problem was that she was fifteen pounds
overweight and those few extra pounds on her forty-year old body
made her about six sizes too large to fit into the clothes that
designed to make a twenty-year-old look like a slut.

But she was a trooper and was willing to
squeeze into clothes that were a couple of sizes too small if that
was required. Comfort was not her goal. Her only practical concern
was that she had to be able to sink to her knees without splitting
her skirt in half.

If her personal humiliation would make her
husband happy, that was a price that she was willing to pay. Not a
price that she wanted to pay; not a price that she was eager to
pay; but one that she would pay for his sake.

But she never expected that she would have to
start paying so soon in such large denominations to so many
condescending, skinnier-than-thou, minimum-wage teenage clerks in
trendy clothing stores. The frank sneers and giggling whispers
behind her back made her blush as she sorted through the racks of
plus sized teen apparel. How did these clerks know that she was
shopping for herself and not for a daughter? Maybe their first clue
was that she was shopping alone and their second clue that she kept
taking the clothes into the change room to try them on.

In Rue Chic, she managed to squeeze into a
hot pink tube top in the dressing room. As she looked at herself in
the full-length mirror, she hated the way her waist bulged and
strained the double-stretch almost as much as she hated the way her
nipples made such prominent bumps in the thin material.

It was perfect.

She wasn’t looking for clothes that she
liked; or even clothes that flattered her; she was looking for
clothes that made her look like she was available to anyone who
cared to ask. And the way the skimpy top displayed cleavage all the
way down to her nipples screamed that her boobs were available to
one and all. She imagined that Walter – she had convinced herself
that the man who would buy her services tonight would certainly be
Walter; that was the only way she could force herself to do this –
would want her to pull the top down to her waist while she was
blowing him so that he could watch her naked tits bounce as her
head bobbed back and forth in a frenzy of licking and slobbering.
This hateful scrap of clothing was the prefect top in every
way.

The teenaged clerk gave her a smarmy grin as
she passed her the bag and said, “Have a nice day, ma’am,”
investing the final word with as much venom as possible.

Hillary felt a fresh blush of shame and
wanted to slap the little bitch. She refrained only because she
would not give the little tart the satisfaction.

The scene was repeated at Lilly’s Boutique
where she found a little black miniskirt that was short – the hem
rode more than two inches above her knee – and uncomfortably tight.
Before she left the change room, she looked in the mirror closely,
then took a blue pen from her purse and marked a small line
slightly less than halfway between the hem and her crotch. The line
was hard to see on the black material, but she knew that she would
be able to find it when she looked for it later. The skirt was
already short, but it would be a lot shorter before she wore it out
tonight.

The slender, blonde, teenaged clerk called
her, “dear,” a term usually used to condescend to senior citizens,
in a tone of precisely calculated disdain. She ignored the clerk
and worried about the skirt. She was going to have to hike it up to
her crotch before kneeling down, otherwise it would split the seam
for certain. She could look forward to one more little inescapable
humiliation in the Men’s room at O’Reilly’s. When she thought about
hiking the skirt up, she realized that her choice of panty style
and color was going to matter.

She would have preferred going out
bare-legged, but the skirt would be short enough to reveal a little
spiderweb of varicose veins halfway up her right thigh, even when
she was standing up, and she worried that that would reduce her
desirability – or, she should say, salability – when she put her
body on the open market tonight.

She could not wear a bra with the top, even
if she wanted to. Finding black stockings, garter belt, and a
scarlet thong in her size was easy. She could have chosen a black
thong to match the miniskirt or a pink one to match the top, but it
was important that the thong contrast with the skirt and stockings
as much as possible; she wanted men to have no doubt about what
they were seeing when she had to part her legs or when her skirt
hiked up accidentally. She was not a natural exhibitionist and
hated the thought that anyone would see more than was modest and
proper – she would do her best to minimize the frequency and
severity of her indiscretions – but realistically, indiscretions
would happen no matter how alert she was and how careful she moved.
By the time she got to the Men’s room, she would have no shred of
self-respect left. But she would instinctively fight to keep as
much dignity as possible before that final, inevitable degradation.
That would make her feel every little humiliation along the way all
the more keenly.

As she bought the garter belt, she fretted
about the miniskirt that was in the trunk of her car. It was going
to be very short by the time she was ready to wear it and the
garter belt straps were only adjustable to a limited degree. Even
with the stockings pulled as high as possible, she wondered how
much of the rigging would be visible below the hem. She was sick
with fear that the hem of the skirt would be too high and the
stockings too low, showing more than she wanted. But she was
already committed to wearing the entire ensemble, no matter how it
looked when she finally saw it all together.