0 comments/ 19515 views/ 1 favorites Connubial Rites By: Allison Cranley The waiting is always the most intense part. Waiting; alone in my room, alone with my thoughts. A whirling confusion of thoughts, a mixture of feelings. But I keep returning to the inescapable present, to the unavoidable, existential fact that now I have no choice. I have made my decision, and whatever is going to happen is going to happen. I’m utterly powerless to change it. I’ve given my unqualified consent, of course; Richard has free rein. But, because of that, I’m not quite sure what exactly I’m waiting for. My heart’s pounding. I’m preparing myself for something rather unpleasant, and there’s no question that’s accurate enough. But I’m also waiting in delicious anticipation of something thrilling, something truly exciting. I certainly hope that’s accurate, too. But I won’t know until it happens. And it won’t be long now. Meanwhile, all I can do is wait. Here’s the real puzzle. I honestly don’t know how I truly feel about it. Scared? No question. Excited? Yes, definitely. But there’s something else, some other faint emotion, elusive, hard to capture. Maybe it’ll become clearer later on. Anyway, that’s as close as I can get to sorting out my sentiments right now. Confusion and ambivalence. A fitting synopsis of my entire mental state these days. Perhaps it’s about time I took stock of my life and decided, one way or the other, what I’m going to do about it. If anything. But as I consider my situation right now, I’m surprised by a sudden shudder of impatience and irritation. It’s different today. I’m dissatisfied, frustrated, and uncertain, and I’m not sure why. I need to take a good look at that. Meanwhile, it’s a perfect summer afternoon. Brilliant sunlight slanting in through the window to my left, a breeze ruffling the gauzy white curtains. I’m not uncomfortable. Even with my quickened pulse, I’m fairly relaxed physically. I can’t see outside, but I can hear the lazy drone of Mr. Copley's lawn-mower on the adjacent property and I can smell the cut grass. I've always associated that scent with the summers of my childhood. Tennis. Final exams. The long train journey home to my parents' lake house for the summer vacation. Glorious summer days on the beach. Smiling at the memories, then a sudden thrill of emotion as my thoughts rush back to the present. And, unaccountably, decisions once again. What we’re planning to do at the weekend. Whether to go away on vacation this year. Whether my marriage is really going the way I want. Funny thought under the circumstances. And, inevitably, back to the question of what I’m waiting for. I can’t complain, I did agree to it, and it’s practically certain I can’t go back on it now. At this point, Richard is in complete control. Before he left he instructed me to review the last couple of days very carefully. The inference was that if I think hard enough I’ll be sure to realize what has upset him. He didn't say think — reflect, that was the word he used. Typical Richard. He wants me to reflect on the previous few days, then I can work it out for myself and there’ll be no need for him to tell me. Meanwhile, he’s taken the dog for a quick walk in the field behind the house, maybe five minutes or so. When he gets back we’ll discuss it. Then, when we’ve discussed it, he'll see if I don't agree with him that some form of punishment is in order. That’s the only purpose of discussing it, of course, to see if I’ll agree. But he has already made up his mind. I’m going to get punished, either way. Another flicker of feeling runs through me as I think of it. I can't stop thinking about how enormously, laughably absurd my situation is. How could I possibly have got myself into a position like this? That's good, position. Even more laughable. Position, figuratively and literally. I'm waiting for my husband to get home, and when he does, I'm going to have to take my punishment. One of his favorite phrases. Emotion surging through me as I think about what might happen. It probably won't be too bad. I’m pretty sure I know what Richard has in mind, and I’m confident I can handle it. But nothing is certain. If I always knew exactly what he intended to do to me — well, it wouldn’t be the same, would it? It wouldn’t be as tantalizing without that flutter of anxious anticipation. What is he going to do? What is his perverted mind hatching up, out there in the field? I know he’s enjoying the waiting, savoring every minute. He’s probably looking up at the house from down the hill this very minute, picturing me up here, waiting helplessly for his return. He gets a kick out of keeping me guessing. And it's usually just when I think I've got Richard figured out that he'll do something different, something offbeat, something I'm not prepared for. And, once in a long while, those somethings can be quite nasty. I hope today isn't going to be an example. As it is, I don't have too much to complain about. I’m lying on my front. The temperature is just right. The open window lets that cool breeze play all over me. Feels sort of sexy, really. My wrists are OK, but my arms hurt just a little, held in the same position. Surely it must have been at least five minutes by now. Richard will be back any minute. Another stab of emotion at the thought. Quickly, I’m testing again to see how much I can move. Answer? Not very much. All I can do is jiggle the bed frame a little. He’s used both sets of handcuffs this time. I know them well. Buying them was my idea. Each set has the customary two bracelets, joined by about four inches of chain. My wrists are fastened by handcuffs to the brass rails of the headboard, two or three feet apart. There are five upright brass rails (yes, I’ve counted them a few times) between my hands. Richard thinks of everything. He’s fixed the handcuffs so that the bracelets are clamped around the lower horizontal rail, between the upright ones. That way, I can’t slide my arms upwards. As I said, I’m on my front. The quilt I’m lying on is smooth and puffy, the huge bed firm beneath me. I can move my head a little, but it hurts my neck to hold my head up for any length of time. My hair's tickling my shoulders and back, and some of it has fallen across my cheek; I want to be able to push it aside. I normally put my hair up at bedtime, it=s so long, but this isn=t bedtime. Not normal bedtime, anyway. The most frustrating thing is not being able to see out of the window, but I can turn my head sideways and I can see most of the bedroom that way. A large, modern room with a cream and off-white decor, airy and comfortable. It's perfectly in keeping with the house itself, which is also large and modern and splendidly situated in Huntleigh Meadows (and it came with a pretty splendid price tag, too, leaving us extremely strapped financially). I’m suddenly startled by the rasping of a large bee blundering in through the window. I’m keenly aware of how vulnerable I am. If that bee decides to sting me, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it. After some alarmingly close meanderings, the bee lurches outside again on its erratic course, but though I’m not going to get stung my thoughts have turned in a very unsettling direction. What if some burglar happens to choose this particular afternoon to break into the house? Wouldn’t even have to break in, Richard always leaves the doors unlocked. I can just imagine this burglar’s reaction, quietly creeping upstairs to see what might be worth taking in the bedroom, gently padding across the thick pile of the carpet, glancing over to the king size bed, and suddenly getting an eyeful of the bare behind of a nude woman. That’s quite a thought, what I might look like to someone coming into the room. Stretched out naked on the bed, a cascade of black hair reaching halfway down my back, my wrists shackled to the brass rails. Giggling at the thought of my colleagues and patients, especially my patients — what was the expression, if they could only see me now! That was quite a thought. Dr. Astrid Sorenson, psychiatrist and psychotherapist, the feminist professional who helps abused women take charge of their lives. Chained to her bed in the nude, waiting for her husband to return any minute to punish her! I’m testing the handcuffs again. My legs are free and I can move them unrestrictedly, but as my arms are fixed to the headboard there isn=t much I can do to move around. I can crawl up the bed on my knees, more or less getting up on all fours. That way I can at least twist my head around a little more and see something of the room behind me. It kind of emphasizes my nakedness, too, sticking my rear end up like that with the breeze wafting over it. And there’s no denying how sexy I feel, stripped and in restraints, waiting helplessly for my husband to come back and do whatever he pleases with me. I expect I’m going to get my bottom spanked, but I can never be sure with Richard. As long as he takes care of me sexually I almost don’t care what he does beforehand. It’s been a few days now, and I can’t handle too much more frustration. Oh, no! The darn phone’s ringing in my study in the next room. I gasp as I suddenly remember I was going to call Dermot Cairns back about a patient — yes, it’s him, the answering machine picked up: “Astrid? Are you there? Just need that phone number for Harry Daniels’ mother — I need to call her before he’s transferred to Northern Psychiatric. If you get this soon, please call back on my mobile. Oh, it’s Dermot, of course. G’bye.” Now, this is truly the height of frustration. I absolutely need to get that number to Dermot within the next — what time is it, anyway? I don’t even have my watch on! Damn! Pointless as it is, I’m pulling and yanking at the cuffs as if I can get free that way. Maybe Richard will understand that as this is a work matter, he — oh, hell, what difference would that make to him? He’d just enjoy my frustration all the more. As you’ve probably guessed, this sort of thing is a routine practice for Richard and me, effectively an addiction that we indulge at every opportunity. But even apart from the hassle of missing that phone call, for some reason I’ve felt different about it today. I still haven’t quite figured out what it is that’s got me so unsettled. I know, of course, that sex is going to be on the agenda when Richard gets back. That part’s fine. Sex with Richard is great most of the time, especially when he’s masterful and takes complete charge of me. We enjoy quite a varied repertoire of activities in that area, not much of it very conventional, either. It won’t be a problem for me, I can handle it. Richard likes me to be tied up, it’s a real turn-on for him. That’s good. That’s good because, even if when the time comes I don’t really want to do it, I know he’ll be so highly aroused he’ll finish almost as soon as he starts. Nothing to worry about there. But the 'punishment' is going to be first, and, depending on what he has in mind, that could be cause for a little concern. Almost in a detached way, I’m idly speculating as to whether the gamble I took earlier this afternoon is going to pay off. A spanking would mean I’ve won. That would be the best possible scenario. But could it be something worse? I’m just beginning to form a few worrying images of some of the more drastic things he might be contemplating when the downstairs door bangs open and my heart starts pounding wildly, my insides turning to water. All the rapid sounds of Richard’s return merge into a confused assault of sudden noise. The woody resonance of the back door closing; the jingle of the chain leash being hung on its hook; the scrabbling of Bonnie’s feet on the tiled floor of the kitchen; my husband=s urgent voice commanding her to calm down; then his steady tread on the stairs. Curious how time can drag during peaks of emotion. He must be climbing those stairs in slow motion. I’m recalling how it started, right after lunch just an hour or so ago. I came home early, deciding I could take the afternoon off and leave the hospital to Dermot and the others for a change. I knew, of course, that coming home to Richard on his afternoon off was a pretty clear decision on my part to submit to him sexually. We had a pleasant lunch on the patio while Richard talked animatedly about some new financial venture he was planning. Unusually, we both had a couple of glasses of wine with our meal. Then he abruptly got up from the table and led me indoors, saying briskly, "We're going upstairs, honey." It wasn't a question, it was an order. I didn't even think about contradicting him, but I did ask him what was up. "You'll see." Something about his tone of voice made me wonder if I had miscalculated. As I thought about it, I wasn’t really sure I did want an afternoon of weird sex today. But it would probably be good once I got into it, I told myself. Careful to conceal my incipient frown, I muttered some faint agreement and quickly followed Richard up to our bedroom. I did excuse myself and visit the bathroom on the way, though. I can never tell how long these sessions are going to last. We were both standing next to our bed, facing each other. His expression was dispassionate as he gazed sternly at me, looking me up and down appraisingly. I suddenly felt weak at the knees. We were definitely in the other mode at that point. He was unquestionably in charge. That look meant we were in role, we were the kinky couple who pretend I’m the slave to his master. It even gets so I forget we are in role; there are times I fear him no less than a real slave might have feared her master in days gone by. Still, while I might not always like what Richard does to me, there’s no denying the rush he gives me when he takes charge like that. No man ever made me feel so sensual. "Take your clothes off, Astrid." My sudden jolt of sexual arousal must have made me look uncertain for a second. I may have hesitated, but I certainly had no thought of disobeying him. "Is there a problem?" "No, no, of course not, dear," I replied hurriedly, and rapidly undid my belt. My fingers were trembling. I had changed out of my business attire before lunch, and I was wearing my casual, summer clothes, salmon-colored tennis shirt and white shorts. My zipper gave me a little trouble, and I had a pang of anxiety as I saw a look of impatience cross Richard's face. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Astrid, do you want me to do it for you?" He spat the words out in his annoyance. "No, no, it’s OK, honey, I’ve got it, see!" His expression relaxed as I pushed my shorts down and kicked them away. I fumbled with the buttons at the vee of my shirt before pulling it off over my head, then I unfastened my hair and let it cascade down. Then I just stood there, uncertain. I didn't know what he wanted me to do next. Maybe he wanted to get my bra and panties off himself, normally he gets a kick out of that, so I waited. But I had misjudged him. There was no mistaking his exasperation as he paced abruptly back and forth, frowning. With exaggerated patience, he said: "Astrid, you're my wife. I'm your husband. I simply want you to strip for me. Is that too much to ask?" "No, of course not, dear," I whispered faintly as I quickly unfastened my bra and tossed it aside, then pulled my panties down and stepped out of them as gracefully as possible. “Good. Now, get on the bed." I always have trouble meeting Richard=s eyes when I stand naked before him. It=s a very, very sexy feeling. I backed up to the bed, blushing, and put on what I hoped represented a coy smile as I laid back on the soft quilt, my hands clasped behind my neck. "No. No, not like that. On your front." "All right, Richard." Awkwardly, I turned myself over on my front and crawled up towards the pillows on my hands and knees. I wasn't sure what to do with my arms, so I propped myself up on my elbows and stared at the brass rails at the head of the bed, my face flushed, my breathing rapid and uneven. I was more than a little apprehensive about what was coming next. Taking his time, Richard sat down on a chair beside the bed, under the open window. He obviously wasn't planning to take his clothes off yet. "What’s going on, Richard? You’re in a strange mood. What’s this all about?" I had turned around to look up at him, frowning, trying to conceal the genuine trembling of my hands. "I have to tell you, Astrid, something you did recently really bothered me. I can't get it out of my mind." A vast rush of excitement hit me, accompanied by a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach. Yes, he was going to punish me! Richard's tone was almost apologetic. "Honestly, I’ve been trying to let it go, but that simply is not going to work. It still keeps nagging at me, going round and round in my head. I won’t get any peace until we’ve dealt with it. So we’re going to get it resolved right now, and afterwards we’ll be able to forget all about it." "OK, honey, I guess it makes sense. Tell me if I’ve got it right. There’s something I did, some little thing, I know it can’t have been anything major, but whatever it was upset you — quite justifiably, I’m sure," I added hastily. I was trying not to make my pleading too obvious. "So we need to talk about it and clear the air. Right. It’s a good idea, Richard. Let’s just talk it through, whatever it was, explain the misunderstanding, and then we can simply move on, right, honey?" I had to try, but Richard’s faint smile confirmed that he had something very different in mind. So much for suggesting a painless resolution. "Not quite that simple, I’m afraid, Astrid. You know holding on to resentments doesn’t work for me. We need to get this settled immediately and not waste any more time on it. Life’s too short. And just talking isn’t going to do it, as I’m sure you will appreciate. You are going to have to take your punishment. You may not agree with me right this instant, but I can assure you that it’s just as helpful to you as it is to me. It removes all the emotional baggage. No resentment for me; no guilt for you. Just a few minutes of discomfort, then you’ll have paid in full, the whole thing will be past and gone, and we’ll be back to normal." I suddenly decided to take a calculated risk. I was determined to squeeze every drop of excitement out of the situation. "No, Richard. You’re right, I don’t agree. If you want to make love, that’s fine, I agree, I give my full consent. But I’m drawing the line at punishment. I’m not a small child, I’m an adult woman. You had better treat me as such. And I sure as hell didn’t take my clothes off for you so I could listen to a stern lecture about our relationship." "If you didn’t want to be punished, you shouldn’t have displeased me." "I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done wrong." I was pouting. Dangerous, that. Sounded like I was already giving in to him. "Somehow that upsets me even more." To my complete surprise, I recognized how genuinely angry I was feeling. That was the undefinable mood I had noticed before. I’ve never let myself even get close to acknowledging anger toward Richard on these occasions — far too scary, it confronts me with certain ideas and notions I’d much prefer to avoid. Does it mean that I'm not altogether OK with this scenario? That I truly do not like these painful encounters? Wow, that would be a switch. Lying there naked sure didn’t make me feel any less helpless or vulnerable. I suddenly felt a rash impulse to get up off the bed and get my clothes on and stop this foolishness right then and there. I had definitely miscalculated this time. I had given him far too much power, far too much control. And I knew I could not take it back again right away, either. It had to run its course. I had practically committed myself to being dominated by an active, confident, powerful Richard for who knew how long. I was utterly helpless. Connubial Rites At a time like this, actually resisting Richard was unthinkable. Even the idea of opposing him was too frightening to contemplate. Yet I found myself going right on challenging him. "So you want me to guess? Play mind games? Figure out what upset you?" My scorn came through in my voice. He suddenly smiled. "Yes, since you’re so feisty this afternoon, that’s exactly what I want you to do. It’s perfect! I’m going to leave you to calm down for five minutes or so. I’m going to take Bonnie for a quick run in the field. While I’m gone, you can reflect on what you have done. And when I return, we’ll see if you don’t agree that punishment is entirely in order." I was thinking quickly again. True, I had told him I wouldn’t accept punishment. But in this delicate game I was playing with him, I couldn’t be too hypocritical. He and I both knew that I like to be dominated, that I like pain with my sex. There is a limit, though. It would be quite possible for him to go beyond what I’ll willingly tolerate. I needed to regain some control, quickly. "I’ve already told you, Richard, no, I won’t allow you to punish me. If you are determined to go ahead and do it anyway, it will be over my protests. No self-respecting woman would accept that sort of treatment voluntarily." "All right, Astrid, your objection is duly noted. Now, back to reality. I have decided to punish you. The only question remaining is, what form should it take. I’ll be considering that carefully while I’m out. Do you understand, Astrid? You are going to have to take your punishment, there's no escaping that." There was a sudden edge to his voice; he was looking angry, sullen, brooding. A heart-stopping bolt of genuine fear left me weak and faint — there was one thing he might do that truly scared the hell out of me, he had done it to me once, quite some while ago now, but quite, quite unforgettable. These days, after some recent episodes I’ll tell you about some time, I wouldn’t put anything past him. But I had to try to assert myself somehow. I sighed. "I’m telling you, if you go ahead with this sick idea of yours I’m simply going to get right out of here the minute you leave." "I wouldn’t take too kindly to that. It would go worse for you later if you did." Again, an upsurge of anger. He didn’t have to be quite so quick to confirm my accurate assessment of the realities of our domestic relationship. "Neither of us would want that, Richard." I knew he wasn’t kidding. My fear of him at that point was sharply poignant, utterly genuine. "Face it, Astrid. You’ll wait here for me until I get back, and then you’ll take what’s coming to you." "Not if you leave me like this." "What do you mean?" "As I said, I might get up and leave." He was about to interrupt, so I hurried on. "So, you’ll have to make sure I can’t leave, for both our sakes." I was still lying on my front, but I had folded my arms and I was nestling my head in them, looking sideways towards Richard. The curtains were blown by another gust of wind, which tugged at my hair and tickled my bare bottom. Richard was looking pensive. "Yes, all right. It’s a good idea. We’ll use the handcuffs. I guess I won’t need to tie your ankles this time." Inwardly, I sighed with relief. So far, my strategy was working. I had gained a great deal. As I was going to be restrained, I wouldn’t be able to run away, and because of that, Richard wouldn’t have to go harder on me. I would get points for being cooperative. I’m into bondage anyway; I would just have to take my chances that the punishment won’t be too bad. And, as the whole thing would be a tremendous turn-on for Richard, the making up afterwards could be genuinely thrilling. Richard produced the handcuffs from a bureau drawer. "Now, hold on to the rails with both hands. No, further apart. That's it." Richard efficiently cuffed my wrists to the headboard, then stood up again. "Don’t forget to reflect upon what you did. I’ll expect an explanation and an apology when I return." "Yes, Richard." He abruptly left the room, calling for the dog. And now he’s coming up the stairs again. The door opens, bringing in a refreshing draft that whispers sexily around my behind. Richard is in the room, slightly out of breath and smelling of the outdoors. He’s standing next to the bed, patiently staring down at me. "Well? Have you thought about what you have done? Do you understand yet why I’m so upset with you?" I haven’t been so stupid as to forget his instructions. I’m careful to put on an expression of sincere concentration as I awkwardly twist my head sideways to look at him. It’s hard to talk with my head in that position, my hair falling in my eyes. "OK, Richard, I have given this some serious thought. There are a few things I regret from the last few days, but I'm not sure which . . ." "Astrid, I have been extremely patient with you. However, this tiresome prevarication will get you absolutely nowhere. You have had ample time to . . ." I hastily interrupt him. "I know! I know! That man in the restaurant, last night, the one who kept looking at me. I didn't encourage him, I really didn't, I just looked over once in a while to see if he was still staring at me." I had deliberately set up this afternoon’s diversion by subtly flirting with the guy in the restaurant the previous evening. By now, Richard is predictable enough that I was confident he would make that an excuse for punishing me. And it has worked! "Precisely! The man in the restaurant." Richard’s smiling and nodding as he paces up and down beside the bed. "He did stare at you. He was mentally stripping you, and enjoying it. And you did encourage him. You know men find you extremely attractive. There was no excuse for you to keep looking back at him so many times. I felt ashamed and insulted by your behavior." But here’s the question: Is his anger artificial, just a pretense? Is he simply going along with my own not-too-subtle manipulation of the situation last night, using it as a great excuse to get into a kinky scenario with me? Or has he really held on to a genuine resentment? Maybe it makes no practical difference. Or does it? Anyway, the big question now is, how upset is he, and what is he going to do? "Well, Astrid?" "What do you mean?" My voice is faint. "You knew all along what it was that upset me. You have just admitted that you kept looking at that man last night. You need to be punished and you deserve to be punished. Do you agree?" His voice is insistent. In my present position I really have very few options at this point. "Yes, Richard." "I can hardly hear you." "Yes, yes. You are quite right." My voice is cracking. "I agree." A quick rush of feeling at the sight of Richard holding one of his slippers in his hand, one of those carpet slippers with a sponge rubber sole. A sudden squirming in my stomach, a strong pulse in my throat. Being spanked by that slipper hurts, a lot more than Richard’s bare hand. I’m closing my eyes and pushing my face down into the pillow, tensing up as I wait for the inevitable. I can’t help it, I suddenly pick up my head and shout, "No, Richard, please, no, don’t do it, don’t . . ." He’s laughing. Tantalizing me. I want it to start so it will be over. But he’s waiting, bringing me to a crescendo of anticipation. As I wait, trembling with fear, I’m starting to think again. The slipper’s definitely better than a cane or, heaven forbid, a whip, though if he had planned on using the whip he would have taken me down to the cellar and tied my wrists to a crossbeam, my arms stretched over my head. Taking all into consideration, I should feel relieved. If it’s just the slipper, I can take it. I won’t enjoy it, but I will be able to deal with it. And, truth to tell, there’s another way of looking at this whole thing, too. Richard=s not being totally unreasonable. He does have a point. He is my husband, after all, and I really shouldn't look at other men. Maybe he’s right, I do have it coming to me. I know I’m not a bad person, but I guess I can be pretty selfish sometimes, doing things deliberately to get a reaction out of him. Of course he’s within his rights to punish me. After all, I have decided to accept it. I need to try harder to be a good wife to him. "You’re not supposed to stare at other men." He’s speaking with slow determination, enunciating each word crisply as if it begins with a capital letter. "I won't have my wife behaving like a vulgar slut in public. I won't have it." His words are immediately followed by the stinging hard slap of that slipper. Richard hits me again and again, first one buttock, then the other. I bury my face further into the pillow and squeeze my eyes tightly shut, trying to take it without complaining. It starts hurting more when he hits the same spot repeatedly. Looking up, I realize I’m gripping the brass rails so tightly my knuckles are white. My rear end is smarting and stinging and there are tears in my eyes. I’m helpless. I can bend my legs and kick my feet in the air, but that won’t stop the blows. I could crawl up the bed on my knees, but that would mean sticking up my rump and giving him an even better target. Richard certainly doesn’t need a better target. Grunting with the effort, he’s expertly hitting the same spot again and again as I squirm helplessly beneath him. I’m sobbing uncontrollably at this point. And part of me is deliciously aware that the pain, the humiliation are exquisite, wonderful. Naked, restrained, helpless, being given a sound spanking by my husband — it’s a dream come true, a richly detailed fantasy actually happening in life. I’m a servant, a slave, an object, a plaything for him to use as he wishes. And I want more. I want him to take me, to possess me, to force himself on me. I have never been readier for him. And at the same time I feel a cold fury at his arrogant indifference, at his insouciant, careless mastery and dominance. Real slave-owners probably behaved just like him, only their victims were not secretly acquiescent. Real women had cowered in abject, visceral fear before men acting just as Richard is this afternoon. And actual, real-life rape was the vivid reality for countless women through the ages. Cold fury, red-hot anger — whichever it was courses through me with a compelling, startling intensity as I struggle uselessly against my restraints. Perhaps I do not want this to go any further. Maybe I truly want it all to stop. "All right, Astrid, that’s enough, it’s all over. You've taken your punishment bravely and all is forgiven. OK, honey?" "Yes, yes, thank you, Richard." I have no pride. I’m actually crying with relief now. "No more pain, honey, just pleasure from now on. I'll just be a minute." "What do you mean? No, Richard, it's time to let me out of these things now, I've had enough. I want to get dressed and go downstairs." "No. I haven't finished with you yet." Suppose I really, truly do not want this to happen. Suppose that, for once, I refuse him. What would he do? Do I dare to force the issue? What if he went ahead, over my genuine protests? Am I really prepared to be confronted by that, if that is, indeed, the reality? Or do I want to actually experience a true-life rape fantasy? Is it a fantasy? Do I have a choice? Richard is taking his clothes off. He is going to mount me from behind while I’m handcuffed to the bed. I’m tingling with pleasurable anticipation, but I notice myself pulling against my restraints again, and contradictory thoughts buzz through my mind. I want him to be firm, energetic, masterful. I’m furious at him for giving me such a hard spanking with that slipper. I want him to dominate me completely. I hate the bastard for using me like a slave. I can’t wait for him to enter me and release me from my tension. And the thought of resisting him flashes powerfully into my mind. I can keep my legs tightly locked together, I can kick out at him, I can even start screaming and see if that will bring Mr. Copley running over to see what’s going on. But I’m not going to do any of those things. I’m actually trembling with excitement as I imagine my husband roughly entering me from behind as I struggle ineffectually beneath him. Besides, I need to stop kidding myself. I’m in no position to resist even if I wanted to. There’s nothing I can do about it either way, that’s for sure. Richard’s gone out of view for a minute. I’m twisting my head around as far as I can to see what he’s doing, but I can't. Now he’s back at the side of the bed. He’s naked and he is visibly and obviously very highly aroused. I’m experiencing undeniable sensations of growing arousal myself, thank goodness. I would not want him to penetrate me forcibly before I'm ready. I spread my legs apart slightly and crawl up the bed a little way. Since there’s no point in even trying to resist him, I willingly stick my bottom up for Richard and he mounts me, sliding in easily. Much as I try, I can't suppress the sudden gasp that his entering me always elicits. I’m sure the noises I make convince him that I always love every minute of it. But as it turns out he’s beginning to get me really excited this time. Maybe, in an obscure way, my helpless anger is partly responsible. I feel my anger as he thrusts. It’s good. It’s good. He’s poking away vigorously, shoving sensation after sensation at me, bringing my body to a frenzy of feeling, it’s delicious, my head’s whirling, I’m going to burst, it’s too much to bear, it’s wonderful. He’s tightly focused right on the very center of my pleasure area, but the sensations radiate into every part of me. Yes, as he keeps on ramming me I’m having overwhelming, involuntary spasms, multiple orgasms, the first I have had with Richard for ages, I’m whimpering with joy. He's thrusting quicker, deeper, he's making me yelp again and again with delight. And now he’s finished, he’s collapsing on top of me, I’m gasping, reeling with pleasure. . . That was ten minutes ago. After Richard released me we embraced gently for minutes on end as he patted my bottom caressingly and slid his hands sensuously all over me. I have never experienced such a storm of erotic sensations. Oh, well. About that phone call. And I’d better call in those med orders, too. Still naked, I’m standing by my desk with the phone to my ear, frowning as I quickly calculate suitable medication doses. And as I listen intently to Nurse Connie Shapiro’s sweet voice in reply, I notice I’m idly stroking and twirling my pubic hair with my other hand. I have to admit, it truly is pleasant to take the afternoon off with my husband once in a while. © 2003 Allison Cranley 06/14/2003