9 comments/ 256114 views/ 213 favorites Melting the Ice Princess By: scorpio_gal "Well, well. This is quite a situation you've gotten yourself into, isn't it?" I say nothing, glaring angrily at my captor from across the room. God, how I detest this man! My heart is full of venom for this vile, brutish creature who dares to masquerade as a human being. No, I quickly correct myself. He is not human. He is not even worthy of my hate. As if reading my thoughts, he looks deeply into my eyes and his mouth lifts in a half-smile. Slowly, deliberately he walks towards me. "I'm well aware of how unpleasant your feelings are towards me at this moment," he says quietly. "You are furious. And I understand why." His face is very close to mine, his dark eyes piercing. "But I am sure you are just as furious at yourself for allowing yourself to be put in this predicament. Am I right about that?" I am silent, but my mind acknowledges that he speaks the truth. How foolish I was to trust this man! How could I have been so careless? What was put forth as a harmless invitation to dinner at his home has turned into this nightmare. Inwardly I curse my stupidity. I was duped in a moment of weakness. He is a highly intelligent man and for all his faults, he can be devastatingly charming. A few drinks, some witty conversation, an engaging smile, a harmless invitation to tour his wine cellar....What was I thinking? No, that's just it. I hadn't been thinking, not at all, and that was the problem. Then before I could think, before I could reason, he had grabbed me roughly. He is a strong man; even though I had struggled fiercely against his grip, he had overpowered me. He reads my thoughts again. "Yes, my dear. One small lapse in concentration...one brief moment in time when your guard is down....and this is the result. Pity." He shrugs his shoulders and looks slowly up at the ceiling over my head. As though against my will, my eyes are drawn there also. There is a pulley attached to one of the ceiling beams; looped around the pulley is a stout rope that hangs down to just above my head. The rope is tied to a large iron ring from which hang padded handcuffs. My wrists are encased in them. It is not a painful position; my feet are on the floor and I am not stretched in any way - there is some latitude and I can move my body slightly - but there is no doubt that I am quite immobilized. I have yet to speak or make a sound. I vow that I will not give this monster the satisfaction of knowing what I am thinking, what I am feeling: that my heart is beating wildly with fear, that I abhor the feeling of being so vulnerable. He needs to know only that I absolutely despise him. Silently I pray for calm and rational thought. He steps back and observes me intently. "Yes, I think that it is a very efficient set-up. Simple, but effective. You really are quite helpless, aren't you?" He indicates the rest of the room. "And what do you think of this place? Perfect, don't you think?" His eyes are gazing into mine. "This is a wine cellar, designed to be air tight. Therefore it's sound-proof. Someone could scream down here and no one would ever hear them. Imagine." I'm very frightened now. He sees it in my eyes. For a brief moment, the coldness in his gaze is replaced with something softer. The corners of his mouth twitch. "No, my dear. Don't worry. I have no intention of causing you any physical pain. No, that is most definitely not part of my nature, and quite frankly, would not be nearly as satisfying as dealing with you in – other ways." My heart skips a beat. "Other ways?" I hear myself whisper hoarsely. He grimaces. "Ah. She speaks. I was beginning to think that you had no voice. But at least now I know you do." He moves close to me. His hand, warm and soft, strokes my neck. As he talks to me he watches my face intently. "And I also know that by the time I'm done with you, that voice of yours will be saying all sorts of interesting things." I shake my head away from his touch, my fear replaced by anger. "You're insane," I hiss. "Untie me right now!" "No, my dear, I'm sorry. I can't do that. I plan to be keeping you company here for quite some time." The hardness in his gaze returns. "What do you want?" He shrugs. "Nothing too complicated. Revenge, mostly." "Revenge?" My mind is racing. What is he talking about? "Revenge? For what?" "For you being so cold, so inaccessible. So unattainable. So frustrating." He walks around me slowly, observing me from all angles. I struggle against the bonds, but I know my efforts are in vain. He was right about one thing: the bonds are effective. My heart sinks. I'm convinced I'm dealing with a madman. He pretends not to notice my distress and continues his conversation, his voice cold. "I have known you for quite some time. Travelling in the same professional circles, I have had many occasions to interact with you, although you usually distance yourself from me." I silently acknowledge that he is right. I have noticed him – he is far too striking a man for a woman not to notice – but up until this terrible evening I instinctively have kept my distance from him. Tonight he had lured me here with the guise of talking business. Oh, how could I have been so foolish? He is walking slowly around me, his eyes raking up and down my body as it is stretched out before him. "Did you know, my dear, that when we attend social gatherings –" He pauses. "Did you know that I watch you?" He is behind me now, his mouth close to my ear. "You like to display yourself to men, don't you?" he whispers. "You must know that you are a terrible tease." I remain silent. I musn't let him sense my distress. "Yes, you are. You flirt, you play, your body throws out offers that you have no intention of keeping. We call that a tease." He is behind me and I feel his hot breath on my ear. His voice is a harsh whisper. "It's not very nice to tease. And do you know what happens to a tease, my dear?" He walks in front of me again, his eyes glittering. "What should be done to a tease like you? How should you be punished?" Silence. He is insane. His comments are not worthy of a response. "Come now. You're a smart woman. What? No answer?" He smiles that crooked smile. Then suddenly, alarmingly, his hands are at the front of my blouse. He leisurely undoes the top button. I hold my breath. "Can't you guess?" The second button is opened, then the third. "No? Then I suppose I'll have to tell you." The last button is undone now. My knees start to tremble as he slowly pulls my blouse open. He cocks his head to one side, his lips pursed, staring at my exposed breasts. "Well, that is very cooperative of you. How fortunate that you chose not to wear a bra tonight. Then again, that's what a tease would do, isn't it." I feel panic rising in me but it's as if I am frozen still, unable to move. He observes me silently for a few moments. Then slowly, his hands move to touch me and I hear the sharp intake of my breath. His fingers, surprisingly soft, are gently stroking the sides of one breast. He caresses the round swell on the underside, over the top, and pauses in his exploration to gently probe under my arms. Then he returns to the side of my breast, back under my arms, circling, stroking, all the while deliberately avoiding the pink nipples that I realize with horror are beginning to harden. No. Impossible. I hold my breath. No. I will endure this, I vow to myself silently. No matter what he does I will remain detached. But his warm hands are very experienced. They seem to know exactly where all my sensitive spots are. And there is another alarming thought that is creeping up on me. No, it can't be, I tell myself. I can't – could I possibly be – not with this man... After what seems to be an eternity he stops, but then immediately, before I can catch my breath, moves to the other breast. Damn. His touch is unbearably tender. Again, the same methodical exploration, the same soft stroking, the same maddening circles. My emotions are in turmoil, at war with my body, that same body that is betraying me by responding to the touch of a man I hate. My nipples harden and begin to ache. The fear I had felt earlier is being replaced with another feeling. It's indescribable. Warm. Overwhelming. Something like – dear God, no.... "So have you figured it out yet?" His deep voice interrupts my thoughts. I'm grateful for the distraction. I can think. "I have no idea what you're talking about." I hope that my voice is more confident than I feel. "Oh, I think you do. Remember? What we were talking about before I became distracted with your breasts? You know. How to punish a tease. How to punish you." His hands continue to stroke my underarms. His mouth, hot and soft, is against my cheek, then lower, dropping light kisses along my collarbone. My neck is an extremely responsive area on my body and I'm angered that he seems to know it. I fight the sensation. "So delicious," he murmurs again my skin. "And tied up like this you are also so very vulnerable. I am going to enjoy this." Suddenly his hands stop and I instinctively sigh deeply in relief. It's a chance to compose myself and I intend to take full advantage of it. He has pulled away from kissing my neck is watching my face with amusement. "I know you so well," he says quietly. "You will do everything you can to resist. But you should know, my dear – " His lips are close to mine. "That I will do everything I can to break you." Break me! Enflamed at his words, I twist my head away from his and begin to struggle against the handcuffs. I am angry now and I want him to see that. Anger is an emotion that I can deal with. The fury is a welcome antidote for the disturbing feelings raging through me. "You bastard!" I hiss. "Dream on!" I pull at the rope over my head and thrash my body, trying to loosen the bonds. He laughs – a mirthless, cold laugh. "You really shouldn't try, you know. It's quite useless to struggle. You should know better." His hands are on my waist, trying to settle me. "There, now. You should learn to cooperate." "Never." My voice is firm now. Anger is proving to be my ally. I am regaining control. "Never?" He raises his eyebrows. "That sounds like a challenge. I love a good challenge. What did you say again?" I meet his gaze squarely, my eyes blazing. "I said never!" "We'll see." Then before I can think, his hands are on my nipples. He pulls on them gently, rolls them around between his thumb and forefinger, flicks them back and forth with the pads of his thumbs, all the while watching my face intently. I meet his gaze defiantly but, oh God help me, his touch is devastating. He know exactly what to do...I realize with alarm that my erect and aching nipples are responding to his caresses. There is another part of me that's aching too - a growing heat between my legs. I close my eyes weakly to the spiraling sensation. How could it be? I hate this man, I hate him! How could my body be responding like this? "Oh no," he chides gently. "You musn't close your eyes. Open them for me." I squeeze them shut tighter. He laughs. "Come, now. Open your eyes. I want to see what effect this is having on you." His lips are on my neck again, kissing, teasing, trailing a hot path to my ear. "Open your eyes for me," he whispers. As if in a trance, I obey. His dark eyes are flashing with amusement as he stares at me. "There. Good girl. That's better." His hands, meanwhile, haven't stopped their torment of my breasts. "Hmm. Your nipples are wonderfully responsive. I imagined they would be." He is not stopping, not even for a moment. Slowly, methodically, he continues his infuriating caresses. The palms of his warm hands are playing out over my nipples now. I am fighting to hang on to rational thought. Perhaps if I talk with him, engage him in conversation... "You imagined?" I say, praying that my voice sounds flat and cold to him. I need to focus on something besides his touch. I fight for control. "Imagining is all that you can do, I suppose. How pathetic." He ignores my attempt at an insult. "Yes, I do imagine. I have often fantasized about what your breasts look like, about touching them just like this." He twists the tips of my nipples and I need to bite my lip to keep from crying out in pleasure. This is almost too much to bear, I think wildly. He is watching me face for signs of response and smiles. "I often think about doing other things with them. To them." "Other – things?" He nods. Then mercifully, suddenly, he stops. Again I struggle to regain normal breathing. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing what effect his touch has on me. Wait – what is he doing? He is reaching into his jacket... My attempts to compose myself are halted dead in their tracks when I realize what he has produced from his pocket. I feel my blood run cold. "Do you know what this is?" I am staring wordlessly at the object in his hand. My eyes are silently pleading. Oh no, surely he doesn't intend... "This is an ostrich feather. Quite a good size, isn't it? And very soft. Would you like to feel how soft?" I shake my head and he laughs. "Well, I want to show you." Slowly, deliberately, he uses the feather to stroke my face, then my chin, then down to my neck. "Apparently this particular kind of feather produces sensations that are – er, quite pleasurable." The feather is teasing my ribcage now. I inhale sharply. Surely he doesn't intend to prolong this. Dear God, I pray, give me strength. "Did you know," he says, drawing the tip of the feather under one of my arms, "that feathers have long been used as an implement of torture in the Far East? Hmmm? It's true. It is believed that gentle and incessant tickling – like this –" He punctuates his words with a rapid shake of the feather against my skin – "can drive a person quite mad, largely because of the anticipation factor – you know, where the victim will be tickled next, how they will be tickled. It's called exquisite torture. Could be quite useful in exacting information, I'd think." He draws the feather lightly across my chest and resumes tickling under the other arm. In spite of my best intentions to remain passive, I squirm against the bonds. Stay still, I tell myself. Try to be calm. Don't let him know....don't let him know that he is deadly accurate about how sensitive you are there...my mind is beginning to swirl...why is it, I wonder, that the tickling is not producing laughter but rather, those other unspeakable sensations. I can endure this...I will...I can...as long as he doesn't.... But damn him, he does! The tip of the feather is now teasing my erect nipple. Oh God, the pleasure is overwhelming! He is brushing the feather lightly back and forth, back and forth, around the soft pink flesh surrounding the nipple, back to the tip again. The feather's light touch is barely enough to produce a sensation but he is moving it so quickly that it results in an indescribable and unbearable excitement......damn....Then, almost before I am even aware, a groan escapes my lips. I am instantly angry for my weakness, which is not lost on him. Smiling, and without a word, he sets to work on the other nipple, this time using his free hand to lightly stroke my underarms, ribs, belly, all the while watching my face keenly with that maddening half-smile. What I wouldn't give to wipe it off his face! How I hate this man! He is a boor, a bully. This has got to stop. "You seem to be enjoying this." It's my own voice, and I barely recognize the hoarse half-whisper. Again, I struggle for rational thought. If only he would stop what he's doing, just for one moment, then I could gain some semblance of control. "I am, thank you. I'm enjoying it very much." My jaw is set firmly and I struggle to keep my voice even. It's an almost impossible task. The feather's touch is shear torture. The torment continues for what seems like hours until every inch of my flesh is on fire. My mind is racing, desperately seeking something, anything, to take his mind off his task. I speak between ragged breaths. "So....you... you enjoy trying to terrorize helpless victims, do you? Does... that.. somehow appease you...your manhood?" Perhaps if he gets angry enough...anything to make it stop. But he is not angry. Not even a little bit. My challenge, however, has apparently bought me some time. The feather torment stops. Thank you, God. I sag against the restraints and he watches me with amusement, his inquisitive eyes never leaving my face. I'm breathing heavily and am grateful that he stopped when he did. As my heart begins to slow I pull myself up and meet his gaze squarely. I dig deep for strength. I try a desperate ploy. "So. You at least know when to admit failure." "Failure?" "Yes. You've apparently done your worst." If only he knew, I say to myself wryly..... But he'll never know. "Time to give up and let me go. Your little game is over." He laughs loudly. "I don't think so. We've barely begun." He has moved closer to me again, standing mere inches away, and has again begun to brush the tips of his fingers over my sensitized nipples. "You're charming, do you know that? I do admire your spirit. But you are stubborn. Which, of course, will only make it all the more satisfying when you submit to me." "Submit? To you?" I laugh harshly. "No, I won't." "Oh, yes." His head bends over one breast. "You will." The first touch of his mouth is electric. I'm caught by surprise and a moan escapes my lips. Then another. Then, God help me, another. His tongue is just on the very tip of my nipple, doing all the things the feather was doing, flicking, teasing, but his tongue is hot and oh so wet and oh so excruciating. I groan again. This is more than anyone should have to endure. His mouth moves to the other breast now to repeat the torture. I thrash about in desperation against the bonds, struggling to free myself – or am I struggling to move his damned head closer, to take the whole nipple in his mouth, to suck it hotly...what is this man doing to me? "Stop," I whisper. "Stop." He doesn't. He ignores my plea and continues to tease both nipples with his mouth, cupping both of my breasts in his hands and playing his hot tongue back and forth, back and forth between the two, until finally, he senses my exhaustion and stops. Those shimmering eyes are scanning my face again and he smiles with satisfaction. "Good. I see you are becoming more cooperative. And was that a moan or two that I heard? Could it be that you are actually enjoying this?" I am unable to answer. My body is on fire, burning with an unexpressed need. Yes, dear God help me, I am responding to it. And I berate myself for it. Shameful. "What? No answer? Now don't tell me you're being uncooperative again." He is holding me tightly against him now with one arm, and with the other is reaching up under my short skirt. Weakened with arousal, I am helpless to fight as his hand moves upwards over my thigh. "Now tell me, my dear." His voice is gentle, crooning, almost soothing. "Was that a moan just now? Did you moan for me?" "No – " "Are you sure? I thought I heard something." His hands are stroking, tickling, playing over the top of my legs. Maddeningly, he pauses at the juncture between my thighs. "All right then. Moan for me now." His fingers caress the soft skin of my thighs. "Come on. Just one moan." His lips are on my neck, biting lightly, nuzzling and driving me wild. "Just one little moan. For me" His free hand cups my breast and squeezes it gently. "Come now. You don't want me to take out the feather again, do you?" "Nooo, not that..." "No, I didn't think you'd want that again." I can hear the smile in his voice. "No moan for me?" The hand between my legs is rubbing over the silk panties, his fingernails gently raking along my slit. The sensation of the soft material against the hot core of me sends a shock wave through my body. I feel myself pulsing against his hand. He is driving me completely out of my mind. It takes every bit of control that I have to remain silent. Melting The Ice Princess After twelve years of marriage, there has been a remarkable change in our sex life. My wife has always been Miss Perfect. Cool and aloof, she exudes an attitude of superiority that has kept most people at arms length. Kathryn is always perfectly coifed, immaculately dressed, and definitely looks down her nose at anybody who isn't up to her measure. Yet, because of my position as a bureaucrat in the small city where we live, we nonetheless enjoy a rather active social life in spite of her snobby behavior. In the bedroom sex with Kathryn was strictly missionary, in total darkness, and largely unresponsive. Even under those aseptic terms the act seemed distasteful to her. In truth, her sighs conveyed the imposition of it all not pleasure or passion. She always undressed in the bathroom and insisted on privacy while she dressed. On a warm night this summer we were invited to a barbecue-cocktail affair at the home of a local politician. My wife looked like the beautiful ice queen she was, dressed in a white frock, gauzy white stockings and high heels. Her long blonde hair was in French braids that gave her an aristocratic look. Upswept hair accentuated the tawny tanned skin of her neck and shoulders though, of course, there was no hint of cleavage. She would have thought that common and beneath her. Still, the bodice of the dress could not hide the swell of Kathryn's ample breasts from even the most casual observer. During the course of the evening there was much drinking. Because of the heat, many of the guests had brought their bathing suits and were swimming. The party was divided between those noisy revelers and a few of us snobs who stood in a little group chatting pretentiously and trying to avoid errant splashes from the pool. It didn't take very long before we were labeled party poopers for not joining in. A good many of the gibes were leveled at my elegant wife who was the only woman not swimming. Resentful of her vestal-virgin image, the carousers mocked her aloofness, trying to pressure her into showing her trim body in a bathing suit. Predictably, she ignored their prompting showing them her disdain with withering glances and her snootiest look. As the drinks flowed there was more and more tom foolery and the verbal taunts became more pointed and personal. The liquor gave them courage and they chiseled away at her with increasingly bawdy remarks about what she might be hiding under her dress. After some conspiratorial whispering, a tipsy woman in the pool called out to my wife and asked her pass over a towel. When Kathryn complied she grabbed my wife's wrist and toppled her into the water to the shrieking delight of all. Kathryn thrashed about gasping in disbelief. She had her eyes tightly clenched to keep from losing her contact lenses as she dog paddled to keep her head above water. She groped for the edge of the pool and I pulled her up onto the apron. Once out of the water, her virginal white dress was totally transparent with the flimsy material plastered tightly against her. To the delight of the party guests it revealed everything in glorious detail, including the fact that my stuffy wife wasn't wearing a stitch of underwear. Her nipples, stimulated by the cold water, stood out like ripe strawberries capping the fullness of her shapely breasts. Without the constraint of a brassiere they quivered delightfully as she fought to catch her breath. Across the flatness of her belly the sheer material was limply draped like wet tissue coating her thighs and highlighting the thick pelt of dark maiden hair that made a liar of her blond tresses. Kathryn's first concern was for her contacts. Blinking repeatedly with her head right back, she was trying to clear her vision and not sure if the lenses were still in her eyes or had been lost. She had no inkling that she was so exposed to everyone's view. The other guests milled around Kathryn getting an eyeful at her expense, and a woman's voice was gleefully proclaiming the obvious "she's got no panties on". A fleeting thought that I should cover her passed through my mind but I didn't even try. There seemed to be justice, somehow, in the fact that this was happening to her in front of people she'd treated so badly. A video camera in the hands of our host recorded her indecent exposure for posterity and several other guests hurried to get the definitive shot of my wife's considerable charms on their own cameras. Our hostess graciously came to Kathryn's rescue with a tablecloth to wrap around her shoulders. My wife, eyes still tightly shut, was led into the poolside cabana, and I stepped aside to let the ladies take care of her. They quickly helped her out of her sopping dress and stripped off her stockings. Having worn no bra or panties she was left with only a flowered garter belt girdling her belly. Eyes closed, naked and shivering, not realizing that no one had bothered to close the cabana door, she was unaware that the rest of the guests looked on. A few feet away, Morris circled with his video camera, capturing her plight, zooming in on all that she had kept hidden. When she finally did open her eyes I expected her to blow her top. Instead she wrapped herself in the tablecloth, gathered up her wet clothes, and strode off toward the car with me close behind. As we backed out of the driveway she slid down into the seat and closed her eyes in what I assumed was mortification. She said nothing until we were on the highway. "We're they all looking at me?" she asked in a faintly quavering voice. "Well, not all..." I lied. "Could they see anything?" "Probably not much at all in that light." "They had cameras..." she whispered. Nothing more was said for a few moments until I heard a whimper. I was sure she was crying softly. She inhaled audibly, holding the shallow breath for a few seconds and then inhaled again without seeming to empty her lungs. Her legs were folded beneath her and she had the tablecloth was wrapped around like a cloak. She was rocking slightly and I thought for a moment that she was cold. Then the flutter of the tablecloth where it draped across her belly made me realize that she was masturbating. "They saw everything." I rasped. "They saw your tits with the nipples sticking out hard and pink. And they saw your cunt. She shuddered at the word, moaned plaintively and pushed her head back against the seat. Her face held a half grimace but I couldn't tell whether it was from embarrassment or from the steady rhythm of her fingers. I slowed the car and turned into a laneway that dipped off to the side of the pavement before disappearing into a pine grove. Beyond the trees it was just two tire tracks, worn into the grass, leading to a small open area bounded by a farmer's wire fence and hidden from the highway by the pines. Kathryn had stopped masturbating now and was watching intently as the car came to a lurching stop and I stepped out. Grass, thick, green and ankle deep, covered the half-acre clearing. The soft earth beneath still held its warmth from the heat of the day. Only the sound of crickets broke the evening silence. Making my way to the passenger's side, I pulled open the door and reached in to help her out. She still looked vulnerable and beautiful with her hair still in the French braids clutching the tablecloth as her only covering. She stepped out onto the grass in her bare feet and I felt a tremor as I held her hand. She was changed, different in so many ways. Unexpectedly, her arms went around my neck and we kissed hungrily. Not the pristine peck she usually proffered but deep, tongue probing, lustful, sucking kisses that brought a moan of desire from both our throats. "Tell me what they saw again." "Everything. Your nipples were standing up like spools and your bare tits." The water had pasted your pussy hair to your belly. Everyone could see the pink of your slit. "Did I see cameras, too? Were they taking pictures?" Morris recorded everything on video and half the other guests had cameras too. A soulful shudder shook through her, and the half smile on her face avowed her true feelings. My passionless wife had discovered the joys of exhibitionism. Far from scandalized, she was more aroused than I had ever seen her before... There was no resistance when I took the cloth from around her and threw it in a ball beneath the trees. She snuggled against me putting her hands beneath my jacket and around my waist as I walked her out into the middle of the field. We stopped and kissed again. I could feel her extend her thigh between my legs, then warmth of her hand groping the front of my trousers searching for the zipper. I found myself looking around to ensure there were no onlookers but Kathryn showed no such inhibitions.Unfastening my trousers, she slid down onto the grass imploring me to join her. But I had my own agenda brought on by a thousand cool rebuffs in the bedroom. "Kneel up." I said, and she knew immediately the thoughts in my mind. I expected she would be tentative, unsure of herself or lacking in technique. But once again my wife surprised me. Like a pro Kathryn sucked and licked my cockhead, cradling my balls with one hand and stroking the shaft with the other. It was the first time my wife had ever sucked my cock. It amazed me how good she was, taking more and more of it in until her lips were brushing against my pubic hair. Smiling down on her bobbing head I could look between her tits and watch her fingering her clit. The sight was too powerful to resist and within seconds I experienced the most explosive orgasm of my life. Arching toward her, every muscle in my legs and belly tensed, I felt the glorious gut wrenching pleasure. She didn't pull away as I had expected she might, but stayed swallowing my come like caviar. Since that pivotal night my wife is no longer the frosty bitch that she once was. Between the guests at the party, the snapshots and the video, more people have seen her goodies than I could count. Trips to the mall or the post office quite often bring her face to face with individuals who waylay her with embarrassing comments on her escapade. Some have even managed to get copies of the photos that were taken. Far from offending, these confrontations are very arousing to her and she often masturbates in the car on the way home. Our phone number is a favorite with the bored and the bawdy who like to call her up and talk dirty to her. She loves it, and never hangs up until they do. Our sex life has become a whore master's dream. Her penchant for exhibitionism has blossomed into a basic need for humiliation and she combs the sites feeding her fantasies and entertaining others. Whereas before, I almost needed an act of Congress to get between her legs others now share that privilege with me. I've become better known as Kathryn's husband rather than the person I was before. But at the same time, my career has improved significantly and my salary along with it. In my new role I'm doing a lot more travelling out of town. Kathryn is kept busy with her new friends and doesn't seem to mind my being away and my boss always makes a point of having people check in on her to make sure she's ok.