Absolute Submission [MultiFormat]
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eBook by M. J. Rennie
eBook Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
eBook Description: From the Bestselling Author of Erotic Domination! Their love-life with had once been great. Now it had been dead for almost two years. Then they discovered the world of bondage. As her master, he finds complete fulfillment, while she finds fulfillment in complete submission. By the bestselling author of The Perfect Wife and Submit My Lovely! Countess Leah says M. J. Rennie's novels of erotic domination are "Well-written? An extremely sophisticated style and mastery of language places his books well above other works with similar plotlines."
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, Published: 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: May 2005
CHAPTER ONE THE PERFECT HUSBAND
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There was a warm, soft wind blowing that sultry night. It was the leading edge of one of those moist marine air masses that occasionally come up from the south, moving just ahead of a storm. It's the kind of wind you can almost taste: ripe, sweet, and laden with the thick floral scent of the tropics.
When the warm wind blows, you start licking your lips for no reason and sprout an erection that won't go limp. Images of wild, uninhibited sex crowd your thoughts and there is nothing you can do about it.
A night with the warm wind makes people a little crazy. Near closing time, rejected lounge lizards suddenly start to get lucky. Squeaky-clean sorority girls who pledged to remain virginal until marriage arrive home with ruptured hymens. High school boys who never counted on scoring wind up getting laid, not just once, but twice. On a night like that, anything can happen.
You can even get a hotel hot tub all to yourself.
That's where I was at the moment, soaking in the tub at the hotel, thinking about Veronica. One way or the other, I knew I still wanted her. One way or the other, I was going to get her.
Whatever she wanted me to do, I would do--no matter what. If she wanted to have sex with me, I was willing. That was, in fact, what I wanted most of all, or my name wasn't Martin James.
Rising up a little on the bench, I slipped my swim trunks off, hooking them to my right ankle, in case anybody else showed. The solid shaft of my crank felt painfully hard, and it was all I could to resist jerking myself off into the foamy water.
From the way the wind was blowing, I knew it wouldn't last long. Rain would be falling, within hours.
I sank deeper in the tub, feeling the knots in my lower back slowly unsnarl. The night air tasted so fresh and sweet I drank in great gulps of it and relaxed without a care in the world.
Ohhh. Aaah. Overhead, the stars shone brightly, a brilliant backdrop to the low-flying jets roaring in over the river, streaking toward the airport.
No doubt the city was going to be swamped in a monsoon, but for now, everything was perfect.
The Second Annual Conference on Diversity had attracted a crowd of more than four hundred professionals from around the state. Though participation in the seminar was considered vitally important and invaluable in advancing a professional career, the only reason I came was to see Veronica.
Why wasn't she here yet, I wondered. Damn. Veronica was supposed to be here by now. I was surprised to see her name among the list of attendees. I hadn't expected it.
Now, I'll bet she's not coming after all, I thought.
Nobody was around; nobody was looking. I kicked the Speedos off my ankle and wallowed in the steamy efferevescence. Down below, my erection simply wouldn't quit, a pleasant, solid ache. I toyed with it under water. Talk about a bludgeon. The purple head looked bigger than a fist, magnified by the foamy, rippling water.
It was fun to let my thoughts float. In the space of an hour, they traveled from Xanadu to Palenque, from Slateville to Paris, from Andromeda to the deepest part of Lake Baikal. Again and again my thoughts returned to that hot, sweet slit between Veronica's legs, and there my thoughts remained.
As the clock lurched past 11:00 PM, I realized it wasn't going to happen. We were not going to see each other--at least, not tonight. I put on my trunks, got out of the tub, and went back to my room. I climbed into bed and masturbated, my orgasm streaming on and on. I fell asleep immediately afterward.
It wasn't until the next morning that I discovered Veronica, unexpectedly, talking with a woman friend at one of the tables in the ballroom. Okay. At least she made it. Let's see where it goes from here, I thought. * * * *
For more than ten years, my relationship with my wife, Crystal, had been virtually sexless. Don't get me wrong: Like a good wife, she was still willing to accommodate me, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it. Crystal no longer had any interest in sex or in the joys of lovemaking.
I don't know. Maybe it was my fault, but when I tried to bring it up with her, she made it clear she didn't wish to discuss it. One way or another, she was done with it.
Yes, like everybody else, I knew all the theories. It so happens the human population is infinitely varied. It also happens that major numbers of women and men in our repressed culture have sexual dysfunction issues. Put the blame wherever you want. The simple fact is that the commonest sexual dysfunction is not wanting to do it anymore.
Unless my partner is enthusiastically enjoying sexual affection, it doesn't interest me. That is how normal people should be. Only abnormal people seek inappropriate partners, either among the unwilling or the underaged.
Naturally, I have my share of minor, harmless perversions, but I do not now, and never have had, the mentality of a rapist. I cannot force myself on someone and get any pleasure from it.
So, after a nearly sexless decade, I was at a complete loss for an effective strategy. Here I was, dying on the vine, a man who strongly craved sexual affection but wasn't getting any.
Truth be told, the stupid cat got more physical affection from Crystal than I did. Of course, I still complained about it from time to time, asking Crystal why she wasn't interested in sex anymore.
She just shrugged.
"I'm just not, that's all," she said. "Since my change, I guess I just haven't cared."
"All right," I said. "I guess that's honest enough." And that was pretty much where we left it.
A period of slightly more enthusiastic accommodation might ensue for a few weeks after one of these discussions then just fade away. Soon we were back to zero. Crystal simply didn't feel like it, didn't feel like doing it, and I couldn't make her feel like doing it, no matter what I tried.
Determined to succeed, I attempted every tactic I could think of, from lengthy foot massages to romantic seaside overnights, attempting to revive her interest. I was unsuccessful every time, and when I tried discussing it with her, she clammed up.
"I don't feel like talking about it, either," she said.
"No, not really."
She just didn't feel like it.
Desperate, I once called her gynecologist to complain about the side effects of Crystal's hormone replacement medication. It did not seem entirely coincidental to me that her hormone pills and her disinterest in sex started around the same time.
"Are you sure it isn't those pills you've been giving her?" I asked. "What's in those things?"
Unfortunately, the good doctor was no help at all, and gave me a raft of shit, meanwhile citing doctor-patient confidentiality.
"You should be talking to your wife about this, not me!"
"I have talked to her, but you're the one who's treating her. You're the one who gives her all these hormone pills all the time. Are you sure that's such a good idea?"
"I won't answer your questions," she said.
"Okay. Thanks for nothing, you fucking quack. By the way, I hope those pills you pass out like candy don't wind up killing the women you give them to," I said, slamming the phone down.
As you might expect, I never told Crystal about my little chitchat with the good doctor. If she was going to hear about it, let her hear it from the fucking quack, I thought.
I mean, what would be the point? Like virtually all licensed allopathic physicians, the woman was, for all intents and purposes, nothing but a necrologist.
In any case, at the completion of menopause, Crystal's sex drive went totally down the tubes, and there was nothing I could do about it. For some reason, I never read about stuff like this happening in the women's magazine articles I sometimes perused at supermarket checkout lines.
Realizing Crystal didn't want to fuck anymore came as a bitter disappointment--very bitter. I am not the kind of man who would casually betray the woman I loved. By every standard, I am a strong believer in fidelity.
But I still wanted to do it before I died.
And not with just anybody.
Hmmm. Somebody nice, with a good body and an easy laugh. I mulled it over often during the long commutes to my job. I also read numerous books, particularly the classics of adult literature, books like "Story of O", "Muriel, Venus in the Country", "Permission", "The Governess", and "Marital Confidences".
I did careful, methodical research.
So, although in truth, while Crystal was not the type of woman who would directly refuse me, she might as well have been doing the same thing. It's a delicate thing, sexual desire. If you starve it past a certain point, it will die.
Did I actually want to make love to a woman who would rather be watching TV? I don't think so. It hurt my feelings more than words can say. There were many nights when I lay beside her, listening to our mutual heartbeats, wanting to make love to her but not pursuing it, knowing from previous experience she wouldn't enjoy it.
What in the hell was I going to do? Find another woman? End our marriage? I went back and forth, performing various thought experiments, imagining probable outcomes. Every-thing I came up with seemed decidedly grim.
The bottom line was this: I couldn't picture myself in bed with another woman. The idea appalled me.
Okay, with the right person, maybe I could get over even that. However, there was still another obstacle.
It came down to our daughter, Tara. She was the most critical factor. Her happiness counted for more than any selfish, lustful desires on my part.
No way did I want to make Tara one of those girls who have to grow up without a father. It doesn't take a blithering social scientist to know that's an extremely poor situation for a young girl to be in. On the primate level, which we are basically still at, it signals loss of protector. A girl who grows up without a male protector never feels completely safe, psychologically.
There is more. Aside from the all-too-frequent lack of a father's income, there is the additional issue of social conditioning.
Women who are raised with men around are fortunate. A girl who grows up with a real father in her household becomes a woman who will generally be fortunate with men.
Men are mechanical beings for the most part, inside and out. Few of them are subtle, and yes, most of them are dumb. To make up for it, they are also very brilliant, somewhat more often than women. But even at the highest level, few men exhibit the kind of emotional intelligence that characterizes even the most ordinary women.
Men have many flaws, I will admit.
Nevertheless, I don't agree with those female supremacists who insist all men should immediately be killed. It seems too drastic a step. Yes, women can do most of the things men can do, but they often prefer not to. What sane woman really wants to spend her life working in a sewer, hauling trash, or driving a truck across country?
Say what you will about men, they can be useful.
Anyway, enough half-baked ideology. This story is about some things that happened, events of an extremely personal nature. It's about how some people spent their time, about individuals who are not now and never will be perfect.