This work is copyright 2001 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum, provided it is not modified in any way, and provided that this notice is included in its entirety. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
OK - now on to the story -------
I could see this little problem coming up, sure as anything. For the last three years running, my darling wife Lucy had timed one of her tantrums so I couldn’t watch the Bowl games. Her tantrums are an amazing sight to see. The only thing that will stop her is heavy-duty tranquilizers or getting her brains fucked out. Or a trip to a padded room. The trouble is, when she’s on tranks, she’s no fun for anyone, herself included, so she tends not to take them. On the other hand, once she’s in the middle of a tantrum, she’s not going to stop for anything quite as flimsy as a butterfly net, let alone sweet reason. As I’ve mentioned, the only way to stop her is to get physical, and the only way out of that is to fuck her silly. Then she’s good until the next one.
This year, I decided to get out ahead of her. If I timed it just right�
First, I needed some props. I’ve got a nice little woodworking shop in the basement where I knock out odds and ends for friends. It’s never going to make me a living; I do it for the fun. I sketched out my idea, and then fitted it to Lucy’s measurements. Measure twice, cut once. The two padded pieces managed to fit exactly where they should. Polish and stain the wood so it matched the rest of our living room furniture. A couple of hours here, a couple of hours there, and I had my prop in about two weeks.
Super bowl Sunday dawned, bright and early. Lucy bounced out of bed and tore into the housework like her mother was coming over for an inspection, God forbid. She’d dressed in one of her “I’m going to lose it” outfits: slacks and a halter top. I pulled my prop up from the basement and deposited it next to my viewing chair.
“That’s for me?” she asked, looking at it askance.
“Of course, hon,” I replied, trying to pull her in close for a kiss.
She shoved me away and picked up the bottle of wax. Then she kept coming back to look at it some more. It shouldn’t have been that hard to figure out, although I will admit that why one of the padded pieces was higher than the other might not be all that obvious.
“I suppose you’re going to watch that stupid game and ignore me all afternoon.” She’s truly lovely when she’s angry; the energy puts a sparkle in her eye.
“Of course I am, hon,” I said.
That did it. She went into full tantrum mode. “You never pay any attention to me!” she screamed. Fortunately, the house is soundproof. “That’s all I am to you, a piece of furniture!”
This time, when I pulled her in, she fought. She doesn’t stand a chance, of course. I’m close to a foot taller, 80 pounds heavier, and I’d gotten some training in how to subdue hysterics. I swung her over the new stand so the front of her shoulders was on the padded rest. Then I kept her pinned down while I installed the light chain between her nipple rings. That tends to quiet the thrashing; whatever controls the tantrums has learned that she can damage herself, and it doesn’t want that. I got first her left arm, and then her right arm into the cuffs I’d put on the bottom of the table legs. I’d gotten the height exactly right: she could rest on her upper chest, or put her weight on her hands.
Next was the volume control. I held her favorite gag in front of her, and she spit a curse at me. I only had to hold her nose for a couple of seconds before she opened her mouth and accepted the thing. I buckled it and stepped back for a moment to check.
Now that the top was under control, she was still flailing her legs. I walked behind her and pinned her legs down as I unzipped her slacks, and then pulled them off. I’d put a little padded platform on each of the table legs, just at the right height for her knees. I folded her left leg up and slipped the knee into its socket, pinning the ankle into its cuff toward the top. The right knee followed. When I stepped back she’d stopped twisting, and simply lay there, breathing heavily through her nose.
She lay there, back absolutely flat, not particularly relaxed, but not fighting it either. This was the eye of the storm. I drew my finger down her spine, and she shuddered slightly. I pulled our special vibrator out of the toybox and installed it. This little gem started out as a commercial vibrator. I’d added a couple of sensors and some control electronics, and tuned it over the past years. All by itself, it was capable of running her to the edge of exhaustion, and beyond. I started it up; slow enough to bring her to a light simmer.
“Will you be quiet if I take the gag out, honey?” I asked. She nodded, and I removed the gag.
“Looks like you get to watch that game this year,” she said.
“Yep. Just stay here while I get some snacks.” Like she had a choice in the matter. I brought out a plastic tablecloth and put it under her, and then went out into the kitchen and cut myself a plate of little cheese slices. They went on her left shoulder. The chips went on her right shoulder, with the dip in the hollow space between her shoulder blades. After carefully considering the matter, I poured myself a glass of wine and put the bottle on the floor.
“Enjoy the game, dear,” I said as I aimed the remote at the television.
“Enjoy the game?” she snapped at me. “Are you crazy? You know I don’t like sports.”
“There’s an inducement this time,” I said. “You get one orgasm for each point scored. You get an extra one if you can name the scoring play.” I brought her up a bit, just to underscore the point. She moaned as I dropped her back down.
Her head came up as the teams took the field. “Cute ass,” was her first remark as the camera zoomed in on the quarterback. “Why’s he called a quarterback?” she asked then. “His back seems to be all there.”
I chuckled as I dunked a cracker into the dip. “I suppose because he’s back behind the guys in front, hon. There are also halfbacks and fullbacks, but the quarterback runs the offense.”
“Aren’t you going to feed me?” she asked, a bit plaintively as she felt the container of dip quiver. I held out the cracker and salsa in front of her. She took it delicately from my fingers. Then I poured a glass of wine, put in a straw and let her sip some.
The half time shows are usually fun. They’d scored a touchdown at the end of the second quarter, so she missed the first part writhing in the throes of seven massive orgasms, one after the other. When she came out of it, they had a real circus pony act. I felt Lucy quiver as she watched it. “Like that, honey?” I asked.
“I’ve always liked horses. They’re so flowing, so controlled, so wild. There’s times I wish I was one.”
“Maybe next lifetime,” I joked.
“In this lifetime, please?” she twisted her head up to try to look at me. I looked back. This was a new aspect of my darling wife.
Eventually, the game ended, and I flipped the television off, and then cleared the dishes to the kitchen. I brushed Lucy’s flanks lightly, and then drew a fingernail down the soles of her feet. She gasped. I slipped out of my clothes and held a ring gag in front of her. She obediently opened her mouth to receive the device. Then we got down to some serious sex.
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