AUTHOR’S NOTE: This installment continues the story of how my protagonist, a sexual dominant, became a eager sexual slave to his wife. Those interested in him and his story from reading Part 01 will, I hope, enjoy this. Those who are looking for wank fodder will be disappointed, as this chapter contains little actual sex. Looking forward, there will be about 20 chapters altogether, but the really steamy scenes start only from Chapter 5 onward.

CHAPTER 2

Of course, Ellen was right. My own choices had put me in this predicament. Foremost among them: my decision to marry her. For forty-seven of my forty-nine years, I’d been a confirmed bachelor. The idea of limiting my penis to a single vagina had seemed to me ludicrous, and that of committing my entire life to one woman — insane.

This attitude had been strengthened about fifteen years earlier, when my smoldering dominant/sadistic streak burst into flame. I’d at all times enjoyed a high libido, as well as considerable success with women (being 6’2″, gregarious, and conventionally attractive, not to mention very well-off and influential, helped), but otherwise my sex life was unremarkable.

Then one night, I was looking for porn on the internet (a fairly challenging activity in those days before Google), and I ran across a gallery of bondage photos. Everything changed. My cock instantly grew hard when I discerned that the thumbnails were of women, bound and helpless, their intimate flesh exposed to pain or pleasure, their faces lit by expressions of sublime submission, or contorted in exquisite agony.

Although this was many years before Fifty Shades brought BDSM into the mainstream, I obviously knew about the practice in theory. But those images! A frenzied desire to bring them to life, to enter them, to feel the thrill of having a woman under my complete control in the way they depicted, seized my imagination and would not let go.

I jerked off quickly.

When I was done, I didn’t wipe up and fall asleep, or start reading a book, or get up to make myself a snack, or do any of the other things I usually would have done. Instead, I lay there, clicking on photo after photo after incredible photo. For how long? I don’t know, but at least long enough to build up a second erection and orgasm, then a third. When I finally fell asleep, I was morally and physically drained. My cock ached from self-abuse, my balls were slick with sweat, my sheets and stomach were sticky with dried and drying semen. But my laptop remained open to the bondage gallery as I drifted off.

When I awoke, I found that vanilla sex had lost much of its appeal. Of course I continued to date women, to sleep with them even. But every time I conversed with a date, I found myself wondering what she would look like tied up, how she would squirm under various tortures I could imagine but had never experienced, what she would sound like screaming in pain and pleasure.

Where did these urges come from? Why did they wait until I was in my early thirties to awaken? Who knows? I haven’t thought about it much, and I’ve never had enough curiosity or patience to sit with an analyst to explore the topic.

My initial BDSM experiences were with a prostitute who advertised submissive role play in various underground newspapers. I will never forget the high that I felt after that first time — the thrill of tying her up, of smacking her bottom (tentatively, almost shyly) with a riding crop, of fucking her (not making love to her, fucking her!) as roughly as I could convince my conscience to accept. Although we obviously shared no emotional connection, I still regard this woman as among the best sexual partners I have ever been with.

After a few times with the professional, I finally gathered the nerve to place a personal ad in the Washington City Paper. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t the dozens of responses I received in the days after the ad was published. One thing that has astonished me ever since is how many women desire bondage and discipline, and how relatively few dominant men (at least demonstrably sane and competent dominant men) there are to partner with.

I soon found that only a steady stream of submissive partners would allow me to slake my thirst for new, kinky experiences. Fortunately, as the internet developed, it became much easier to meet women with similar interests, and I became an early user of alt.com, bondage.com and a plethora of other kink sites. Online, both parties can be open about what they’re looking for, and there’s less chance of an awkward misunderstanding. I suppose that I also could have met partners through Washington’s very active kink community, but I was reluctant to acknowledge my proclivities openly, even among like-minded souls.

The reason for this is that there were dozens of journalists around town who would have liked nothing better than to learn the sordid details of my sex life. It would have been catastrophic if some horrified young woman had contacted one of these bloodsuckers after receiving an unexpected and unwelcome proposition from me. The last thing I needed in life was to be featured in the Washington Post’s Style section under a headline like “The Diverse Sexual Appetites of D.C.’s Power Elite.”

I’ve always worked hard to maintain my anonymity, but on the rare occasions when my name did show up in the news, I was nearly always referred to as a “power broker.” Specifically, I was a well-connected government affairs attorney, who represented many of those evil corporate interests that feature so prominently in modern morality tales. For the record, what goes on in our nation’s capital isn’t nearly as black and white as the media like to portray. Nevertheless, if the Washington press corps ever got their hands on a story that would simultaneously titillate their readers, embarrass me, and put my clients in a bad light?

They’d think that Christmas had come early.

In any event, I didn’t meet Ellen online. She was serving as the Deputy Counsel for the Senate committee which had the most impact on key issues affecting many of my most important clients. Ugh. Rereading that sentence, I see that it’s a lot of blah, blah, blah. But unfortunately, I simply can’t risk giving out enough specific information to allow a careful reader to identify me or anyone else in this story. So I’ll use fake names for everyone (and no name at all for myself), and I’ll fudge a lot of details.

But to be honest, the details aren’t important.

I’d been best friends with Ellen’s boss, Senator Mike McCleary, for twenty years. We were grad students together at the Kennedy School, and by coincidence we served in the same freshman class of Congress six years later.

When Ellen came to town and took the job on Mike’s committee staff, he immediately warned me that she presented a clear and present danger to my status as a bachelor. He said that I should move fast, since she’d already drawn the attention of virtually all the rich and powerful single men on the Hill (as well as several married Members of Congress, not to mention a few rich and powerful women).

But I dismissed the idea, even after meeting her. I won’t provide a litany of her physical attributes — I’ll allow my readers to imagine their own ideal combination of hair, eyes, lips, boobs, ass and legs. Suffice it to say that I found Ellen absolutely stunning, and at thirty-two years of age, she was just approaching the peak of her sexual ripeness.

What impressed me even more than Ellen’s looks was her ability (extremely rare among Washington women) to maintain complete control of any situation she found herself in, without showing the least hint of arrogance. As a lobbyist, I’d long been used to walking into negotiations knowing far more about any topic than any of the Congressional staff experts present. (Having my own research staff of thirty Ivy League-educated lawyers helps.) But I could barely keep up with Ellen.

We crossed swords on many occasions. She thwarted me whenever she felt that I was trying pull a fast one on her Committee (which I did more often that I like to admit), and the phrase “that fucking bitch” was known to escape my lips from time to time. But I knew that she always acted in good faith. And even during heated arguments, she displayed a wonderful sense of humor, which made tough negotiations much easier to get through.

Most of all, I respected her integrity. She never feared to oppose me, even if she knew that I was just going to convince her boss to overrule her, when we shot our eighteen holes of golf the next day.

Nevertheless, I never sought a romantic relationship with her. My love life (or at least my sex life) was already as complicated as I could manage.

The first time I kissed her was about two years after she joined Senator McCleary’s staff, after one of those long working sessions that are the bread and butter of a Capitol Hill career. We were somewhere in the bowels of the Dirksen Building, cleaning up the mess of amendments, and sub-amendments, and amendments to amendments, which our ad hoc working group had argued about for the previous eleven hours. The day had been long and acrimonious, and we were exhausted.

We sat next to each other at a long conference table, which was covered in disorganized stacks of paper and half-empty containers of Thai food, which looked distinctly unappetizing in the room’s sickly green fluorescent lighting.

And then it just… happened. I don’t know how. One second it was “section two, paragraph three, line four,” and the next, we were going at it like weasels on ecstasy.

After that first kiss, we were together nearly all the time. I don’t recall ever asking Ellen on an actual date. It was always, “Hey, I’m starving, let’s go get something to eat,” or “Hey, Congressman Jones can not make it to the Nats game tomorrow; you want to go?” That kind of thing. But before I realized what was happening, a second toothbrush had appeared in the master bathroom of my Kalorama townhouse, and Ellen’s clothes took up the majority of the space in my enormous walk-in closet.

Thankfully, she never expressed any curiosity about what was in my basement, the door to which I always kept locked.

We also just kind of fell into our Dominant/submissive dynamic. Five or six months after our first kiss, she was on her hands and knees, with me fucking her hard from behind, and I lost my grip on her bottom. I brought my hand up hard to regain it, resulting in an audible slap. To this day, I really don’t know whether I meant to spank her that night or not.

Really.

Had she reacted negatively, of course, I’d have simply apologized for losing control of myself, and we’d have carried on as before. But in the event, she moaned and lowered herself to her elbows, raising her ass in a clear signal that she wanted more.

I didn’t hesitate.

Over the next few nights, I got gradually rougher, pulling her hair as I forced my cock into her mouth, or slapping her face and tits as I fucked her. I paid close attention to her reactions, not wanting to screw up our relationship by crossing the line. But I never got anywhere near the line.

On the fifth night, I decided that it was time to make things explicit. When we got home from dinner, I pretended to be offended at something trivial she’d said or done, and I began to criticize her sharply. She couldn’t understand why I was getting angry, especially since I was well known for never getting angry about anything. But I didn’t give her a chance to think about it. I grabbed her by her hair, yanked her off the couch, and took her over my knee.

She struggled a bit, probably more out of surprise than anything else, but she stopped when I her gave ass a hard smack. She seemed to understand my intent. Her body relaxed, and instead of defending herself against whatever nonsense I was accusing her of, she simply whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, evenly but firmly.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she corrected herself without hesitation.

“Very good. You are not to forget next time.” I hiked up her skirt, pulled down her pantyhose, and spanked her. I began with just my fingers in quick, sharp snaps. When I paused after half a dozen swats, she repeated, “I’m sorry, Sir,” which I took as a signal to continue. I spanked her harder and harder, using my whole hand. A few dozen strokes later, she started blubbering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over again, and her feet kicked up involuntarily in what’s known as “the spanking dance.”

I stopped, and she relaxed across my lap. I soothed her, stroking her hair and rubbing her warm, red (soon to be purple) bottom. Her blubbering quieted, then turned into sighs of contentment. My touch grew more and more intimate, until I finally inserted my middle finger into her pussy, stroking her between the labia. She was soaking wet. She moaned, looked back at me, and nodded.

We raced to the stairs, stripping of our clothes off on our way to the bedroom. In less than a minute, we were naked and fucking wildly, her on her back with me between her legs. Her desire was out of control, and I saw that she wanted me to control it. She reached back and grabbed two spindles of the bedframe, while continuing to move her hips against mine. I slowed my motion inside her, and she looked at me almost in desperation, showing me what she wanted with her eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, I removed my cock from her pussy. “Shhhh… Don’t move,” I said.

She lay still, breathing heavily and gripping the bedframe tightly, while I found her pantyhose, the only suitable object in the room. I quickly bound her wrists to the spindles, then knelt between her knees and started fondling her breasts and rubbing her nipples. She writhed and struggled for a while against her bonds, as though wanting to feel her own helplessness.

Then she raised her pubic mound, wanting me again. I re-entered her, and she came very quickly. She came a second time when I climaxed inside her several minutes later, then she went limp, panting, “Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god.”

We lay still, kissing for a few moments, then I untied her wrists, my cock still inside her. I slid out only when we finally rolled onto our sides. I wrapped my arms around her trembling body and held her tight, until her breathing and heartbeat slowed to normal.

A little while later, she lay with her head on my breast, one finger twirling my chest hair, and she said, “I suppose we should talk about that.”

“I suppose we should,” I agreed. “Have you ever done it before?”

“No,” she answered. “I’ve come close a few times, but… You know.”

“How did you learn about it?”

She laughed. “Well, there’s this new thing called Google, which you might want to check out.” I should have guessed. Ellen thoroughly researched anything that she was curious about, so I had to assume that she knew more about BDSM than I did, at least in theory. She continued, “Honestly, though, I don’t ever remember a time when I didn’t fantasize about it.”

“Fantasize about what, exactly?” I asked.

“About losing control. About feeling helpless and vulnerable. Having a man take me. Force me. Well, not really force me, but… You know.”

“Sure, of course. So no particular kinks or fetishes or whatever?” I continued to probe.

She shrugged. “I’ve watched a lot of BDSM porn, and it’s a mixed bag,” She answered. “Some clips get me wet; some turn me off; some — meh. It’s not really what the guy does, it’s more how he handles the girl. Could I see myself wanting the guy to take me, if I were in the girl’s spot? You know?”

“So it’s the power exchange,” I said, wanting to clarify. “Not the kink.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But mainly the trust needed to make the power exchange work. It’s tricky. A lot of guys have told me that they’re into it, but no one that I’d trust like that in a million years. There was one guy who I felt that I could trust, but he got all weird when I tried to talk to him about it. Made me feel like a pervert.”

“You’re not a pervert,” I said. “Do you trust me?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” she answered, looking up at me and smiling. “Let’s put it this way, I’m eager to give it a shot.”

“OK. But beyond the power exchange, are there particular things you’ve been curious about? Things you might want to explore?”

Again, she laughed. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that. If you’re making some smart attempt to find out what kinds of kinky things it’s OK to try with me, then stop worrying. I’ll say it as clearly as I can: For as long as I decide to trust you, I give you consent to do with me any damned thing you please.”

“OK,” I replied. “Well, if that’s the case, then there’s something in the basement that I think I should show you…”