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Lady Constance is enthralled watching Hollywood’s latest male sex symbol have his backside so thoroughly opened at her behest and for her amusement. Ling’s head is bobbing in earnest under the cotton dress and I find myself aroused, despite just having been attentively serviced by Ming’s tongue.
After several minutes with Adonis grunting loudly with each lengthy penetration, Jasmine interestingly looks down at Lady Constance. The dominant Queen of Constancia nods and the large black hand twists and gives the shaft of Adonis a long firm stroke. He erupts, shooting his creamy wad of semen across the pedestal in front of him to the floor. He has finally been permitted to climax but only after the consent and acknowledgment of the dominant female.
Cruel, I think at first reaction. But he appears to be most satisfied and I remind myself that he is one of the few subservient males that have ever achieved such gratification on Constancia Island.
Jasmine backs away and lowers the cord so that Adonis’s feet touch the floor. Dessert and coffee are served. Lady Constance and I talk while Adonis is left to stand limply in his neck collar. He is a picture of masochism, I realize. A beautiful naked male caned and sodomized to ejaculation merely for the amusement of his most dominant benefactor. And he was so responsive...
Evil thoughts return. My evenings with Ming. My day’s journey with Big Fella. Observing Imelda’s huge breasts being milked like cow’s udders.
Then of course Lady Constance’s offer of employment stirs..., a house; my own genderless Asian servant; and she did mention a pony. Yes. I smile and look up from my coffee and inquire about the potential acquisition of the movie studio. She reads my mind.
“My agents have made a low offer. If acquiring the rights to this one’s naked flesh is a condition precedent to employing your skills, Doctor, my offer will be increased in the morning. Consider the transaction done.”
Over coffee the terms are sketched. My house is to be built on the promontory of the eastern end. Ming is to serve me and the basement storage area of the medical building is to be converted for my use in the transacting psychological experiments. Most importantly Adonis will visit for at least two months of the year and serve as my pony.
Me, transported about the island by the handsome movie star. It is a thrilling vision.
I leave the dinner table to draft a telegram to be sent to the university requesting a change to part time status. Half way across the room I hear Lady Constance command.
“Jasmine, take him to the medical building to recover. I want our pretty boy’s scrotum branded with the Doctor’s initials. That should serve to retard his love life. Tomorrow he’ll spend the day yoked on the village square. Many of the girls have seen his movies and I’m sure they’d prefer viewing and toying with his well bound, naked body to obtaining his autograph.”
The POWER...
Behavioral Modification
Lessons from Constancia Island
Chapter One
Mrs. Dalton
The exaggerated reaction of the doorman should have been the first clue.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dalton. You’re back!”
My experience as an attorney has taught me that rather tautological greetings are hasty substitutes for what cannot be said. I just nod and smile and continue to the elevator. I have indeed returned early but have had an exhausting three days in Chicago...rushing through five scheduled days of depositions just so I could get home early.
But as the elevator doors glide shut, I see my aphoristic friend pick up the house phone, though I did not hear it ring. He’s making a hurried call. Another clue.
So when I open my apartment door, call out to my husband and the smell of cigarettes greets my nose, this third clue is not surprising, but does dispirit me. Husband Ted and I do not smoke.
I immediately head for the bedroom...obviously the m
ost common setting for matrimonial misconduct. The door is ajar. The only light is dim, emanating from a small lamp on a dresser, usually used more as a night light than for illumination. The smell of tobacco becomes stronger. A cigarette smolders in the sole apartment ashtray, normally propped on the living room coffee table for occasional guests.
And there lies Ted. Naked…hog-tied…hooded by a pillowcase...extremely erect.
I can hear faint strains of music and see that a wire runs from under the makeshift hood to the stereo. The bulges in the pillowcase indicate that beneath he’s wearing headphones. So he cannot see me, and he cannot hear me.
The scene would shock most wives, I suppose. But Ted has spent many weekends trussed like a turkey or wearing frilly effeminate clothing at my behest. I Dominate...he submits...that’s the way it is at the Dalton household. But what is not the way is for him to indulge in such escapades without me.
It’s impossible to place oneself in such bondage, yet there is no one else present. A quick trip to the kitchen shows that the service door leading to the back stairway, normally dead bolted, is unlatched and open. The glistening fingers of a well-lubricated latex glove are draped over the brim of the garbage can, evidencing the presence of the co-conspirator and what was an unveiled hasty departure. I close and latch the door then return to the bedroom.
Turning on more lights I find that, as with the glove, Ted’s buttocks also glisten. My priapic but submissive husband has been getting fisted and with his display of tumescence, I must assume he has been denied climatic relief. With my unexpected arrival, a rather kinky form of coitus interruptus has occurred.
Then I see Ted’s wallet on the dresser. It is spread open and a cursory examination shows that it is empty. The cash can go as far as I am concerned. Serves him right. But the missing credit cards present potential long-term problems...including my own credit rating.
There’s no point in phoning the doorman to curtail the exit of the thieving co-conspirator. Though I am sure his warning call was well intended, ostensibly akin to a cheer from the guys in the bleachers in support of marital bliss, it gave the perpetrator an insurmountable head start. Instead, one simple phone call to a security service serves to quickly cancel the half dozen cards. I smile smugly in having enlisted the service 18 months ago after losing my purse. When the representative asks if I want replacement cards sent, I smile more broadly and decline.
