Friday, December 28, 2007

Cuckold Humiliation

I don't personally use cuckolding as a means of controlling my man, but the heroines of my fiction sometimes do. Here's a little teaser from a work in progress, in which a young woman discovers that taking a lover can be the surest way to get your husband's attention.

Standing in the doorway of the Rustler’s Retreat, Jasmine was battling a mad case of stomach butterflies. She knew exactly what kind of a spectacle she presented: she had spend an hour and a half getting her look just right, determined to get her husband’s full attention on this of all nights, their first anniversary. Trying and discarding outfits she had cultivated a look that was seductive, bordering on trashy. Sad as it was, her only hope was something outrageously eye-catching, something that made the maximum value of her petite frame, her full breasts and hips. She chose the low-cut black mini-dress with her most cleavage-enhancing bra, black lace, and matching thong. With her pale skin, her raven-black hair and her dark eyes, it was an outfit that screamed, look at me. It was also an outfit that was never intended to leave home. If only it had worked! If only Dave had taken her in his arms, smiled down at her with his eyes the way he used to do, lifted her up and carried her to the couch, or off to bed, the way she had pictured it as she cooked, cleaned, and fussed with her clothes. If only, she shrugged, making her way around the tables, heading for an empty barstool. If only there hadn’t been a play-offs game on.
Something had snapped in Jasmine when her husband got up from the dinner she had spend two hours on, said, `Hey that was great babe. Hey, that game’s gonna be started by now,` and lumbered off to the couch. Fighting back tears of rage and humiliation, she had stormed out of the house with no clear idea of where she was going. When she told Dave, “Out,” before slamming the door behind her, that was really as far as she’d thought it out. It wasn’t until she had walked the three blocks to Baxter Street, the closest place to flag a cab, that she had thought of coming to the Rustler’s for a drink, just to give Dave a little time to sweat. Now here she was perching herself on a barstool in this crazy oil-patch cowboy bar dressed like she was trolling for roughnecks. She dabbed at her lip with a bar napkin and thought, who’s sweating now, Jazz girl? Before she had a chance to order, the slightly swish bartender presented her with a cocktail. “Tequila martini, our specialty,” he said. “Compliments of that gentleman over there.” A big, handsome man, possibly in his late thirties, raised a glass from the other end of the bar. She toasted him back.
“Thanks,” she said. And then, hardly believing her ears, she heard herself say, “Care to join me?”
Oh my god girl what have you done now? Her heart was thumping as he came and sat on the empty stool beside her. “I’m Jim,” he said.
“Jazz.” She’d never called herself that, except in her own mind. Jazz was her childhood alter-ego, the smart, brave, popular girl she pretended to be when she was all alone. She had pulled the name out of the air in an instinctive bid to put distance, however slight, between this and her real life. After this drink she would walk out the door and be Jasmine again. Just for now smart, brave Jazz was going to enjoy this handsome gent’s company, and keep Jasmine’s husband wondering for just a little longer.
Jim was a drilling consultant. He’d worked on the rigs, worked his way up to tool-push, and then quit to take life a little easier. He set his own hours now and travelled a lot more. That was all he said about himself. He made no secret of the fact that he was more interested in ogling her than in talking about himself. Before Jazz was half done her martini, he had touched her knee, twice. Jasmine was awash with conflicting emotions. She was profoundly aroused, and fear gave her arousal a hard edge. She was also feeling vengeful, looking forward to rubbing it in with Dave when she got home. He kept touching me while we talked. Here. And here. And he couldn’t stop staring at my breasts.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

No time to post these days, but here's a cute little picture that illustrates the proper way to deal with an uppitty man.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Keep it light

My favourite spanking scenes from mainstream fiction are in the novel A Spy In the Family, by Alec Waugh. In it, the wife of a British diplomat is seduced by a German woman who instructs her in the delights of erotic spanking, employing a riding crop, and then suggests that the younger woman do the same for her husband. The spankings are all very sensual, and while there's talk of punishment and naughtiness, it's all treated with humor and wit. At one point the seductress reminds the young wife to "keep it light", and she makes that a motto as she pursues the game with her husband. It's part of my theory of husband training that you must never forget that domestic discipline is a game. Just like a puppy, hubbie will respond better to play than to unnecesary severity. Whether he's asked you to be his disciplinarian, or whether it's your own idea, make sure that it's always fun as well as improving for him. A tip for those wives who are their wits end on the matter of the toilet. The whole problem with men and toilets is this nasty business of standing up to pee. Not only do they make a mess and often forget to put the seat back down, it makes them cocky and hard to control. Next time you fnd the seat up, or splashes on the bathroom floor, sit down, put him over your knee, and give him 24 with the bath brush. Then inform him that from now on he is to sit down to pee like a civilized individual. You'll be surprised what this does for his disposition, and amazed at the improvement in cleanliness.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

I don't have time for a longer post, but here's a little teaser from my novel, Her Perfect Wife, published by Pink Flamingo.

It wasn’t surprising that Casey began to mope. Who wouldn’t, in his circumstances? Brandy tried not to get frustrated when, after the time passed when the doctor said he should be able to get back to normal life, Casey kept on sulking around the house. She knew he had it in him to recover, to start again, to make a new life. But she’d been waiting for more than a year. When was anything going to change? Once he had been strong, compact, athletic, well-built and handsome, so that no-one would have thought to mock their relative heights, the six inches she stood over him. Now he seemed shrunken, a sad pudgy little man. Brandy sighed. It broke her heart to see him come to this. She turned toward the kitchen. No doubt the stink was coming from two or three piles of powdered carbon scraped from several slices of burnt toast onto the kitchen counter. She’d complained about this so many times, she’d finally given up and started to clean up the mess herself.
“Hey,” Casey said, “if you’re heading for the kitchen, could you grab me a beer, babe?”
There was nothing premeditated about what happened next. Brandy was hardly aware of what she was about to do as she turned and strode toward her husband. It was as if she was someone else in the room, watching, waiting to see how the tall woman in the scarlet mini-dress was about to deal with the lout in the sloppy pajamas. When she reached the couch, she found herself lifting Casey by the arm, sitting herself down in his place, and yanking him across her knees, face down, ass up, in position for a spanking.
“Hey, what the – ?” Casey blurted, too shocked even to raise a serious protest.
I can’t be doing this, Brandy thought, as she raised her hand and began to thoroughly spank the pajama’d bottom in front of her. This is criminal, he could have me arrested, am I out of my mind? If she had a thought at all when she threw her husband over her lap, it was to give him a couple of good swats, laugh, and say, That’s what Magnolia says I should do with you. She would have made a joke out of it, while somehow letting him know that she was frustrated enough to wish she really could spank him. But now here she was, the couple of swats up to a dozen or more, and still spanking, thinking, This is insane. This is my husband, you just can’t spank your husband. The trouble was, once the spanking started, Brandy couldn’t seem to find the right moment to stop. It was hard, because Casey wasn’t following the script. By the second swat at the latest he should have been kicking and yelling and telling her to stop it, which would have been her queue to let him up, but here he was well on his way to a serious licking, and he’d hardly offered a struggle or made a sound. Somewhere around spank number fifteen Brandy realized to her shock that Casey wanted this. Instead of trying to struggle against her grip, he seemed almost to lift his butt for her, as if to say, Yes, you’re right, I deserve every moment of this. Spank me.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Why a blog?

It's been ten years now since hubbie first asked me to spank his naughty bottom. It took most of the first year to get used to the idea, but once I caught on to the benefits of a well-disciplined husband, there was no turning back. My house is cleaner, and my sex life has never been better. A couple of years ago I decided to write a book loosely based on my experiences. The book is called Her Perfect Wife, and it's available at Pink Flamingo, in their spanking section. I enjoyed writing the book, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it, but it is a work of fiction, and for some time now I've wanted to try my hand at some non-fiction writing about domestic discipline in the female-led household. I've begun work on a new book, tentatively titled, "How to make your man into a perfect wife." The purpose of this non-fiction book will be to share my experiences with other ladies who wish to enjoy the fullfillment that I have found as a spanking wife and the head of a well-kept household. In future posts I will include excerpts from my writing as well as some photos of my naughty husband learning to be a perfect wife.