The Interview ...
Story Copyright © 1997, Lizbeth Dusseau
Photo Image © Will Hughes, Shutterstock
“You own your wife?”
He nods. “In her mind and mine, yes.”
“And what does that mean?”
“She belongs to me. She’s mine to do with as I please.” He wriggles in his chair, but not uncomfortably. His leather boots have a scruffy texture.
“Could you elaborate?”
“She thrives on containment and a strong hand.”
“My mind imposing on her limits, barrier, boundaries, a need to prove her worthiness.”
“And you give her these?”
“What she needs, yes, because I like controlling her, manipulating her body.” His hand clenches into a fist and then relaxes, palm resting on blue jeans.
“It’s a tight-fisted containment.”
“But what she needs, you say? A game perhaps?
“Not a game, a way she thinks, and the way I think. She comes into focus, I’m the lens of the camera that defines the picture of herself. When she bares her ass and I whip it, when her butt squirms, she begs me to stop and I don’t, that dominance.
“When her eyes are riveted on mine and I smack her cheeks, and pull down on the chain she’s tossed around her neck, so she’s clawing for air, breathing death in her struggling, flared nostrils, that’s the moment of reckoning, she’s nothing but an extension of my will.”
By the expression on his face, he’s a satisfied man. His dick is likely hard, just from talking.
“And you punish her when?”
“When she challenges me. It’s a test, her game, to see if I’ll blink in the middle of battle, to see if the way I love her will cloud my command.”
He smirks. “That’s a secret even I won’t answer.”
“So, back to punishment?”
“Real punishment is not a game, not S&M, foreplay or endorphin sex. It’s serious business, strictly behavior modification and rebuke. If I want her obedient, if I want her to stop her moody sass, or end a tantrum or not forget her place … if she deliberately disobeys me, I do something she really despises, which probably won’t be beating her ass.”
“Because she likes that. But what then?”
“Humiliation, degradation are useful words to use. Some kinds of pain work, like working her thighs with a cane, enough so it bites, making it sporadic and unexpected. Hog-tying her in a closet with a dildo in her ass, then walking out the door to drink beer with my friends. She doesn’t know when I’ll get back to her. Leaving her while I watch a football game with a houseful of cussing buffoons who she hates.
“Bringing her out of the closet while my friends are still there, I might make her pee in bucket in front of them … ones that wouldn’t get freaked out by a half-naked, collared, butt-plugged wife. If they really like it, I’d make her serve us our dogs and chips wearing nothing but spike heels and collar. That’s if I let her walk … she might have to crawl on her hands and knees.
“I’d let Gus, she hates Gus, shove the dildo deeper. Once, he rolled her over on her back and she spent half-time until the two-minute warning with a boot in her crotch. She had chains through her nipple rings and the guys took turns seeing how far they could stretch her breasts before she screamed.”
“I thought this was what she despises. Behavior modification?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Usually she’ll get off on the idea of it for weeks after, but she rarely wants to do it again. And that’s a good reminder for the next time she’s fully clothed around my friends. She’ll blush and keep her head bowed and let them smack her ass before they order up another beer.”
“And she considers this love?”
“Containment. It’s peace-inducing.”
His eyes shift out of a dreamy state into something solid, concrete and sincere. Deep brown gazing eyes, without compassion or mirth. His feeling for her sings from him like a melody. He loves her.
“You like being brutal as much as she likes being brutalized?”
“I like what turns her body liquid. What takes away the edge and leaves her soft. Like she’s gathering up all the pieces of herself that go astray by day and threaten rebellion. Punishment focuses the camera on that one place she feels perfect.”
“And you feel perfect?”
“Because she does.”
He looks like he could use a smoke and another bottle of beer.
This is an unpublished work. It does not appear within any novel, or short story collection. All rights reserved. May not be used without Lizbeth's permission, that's me.
Photo image: License for use purchased from Shutterstock. Copyright Will Hughes.
Shutterstock image: 115499956