Dominant Women; Tortured Husbands

Dominant Women; Tortured Husbands




A work that includes what the title says it should, but is perhaps best-remembered for 10 plates drawn by deMulotto.



Publié par
Ajouté le 01 décembre 2013
Nombre de lectures 49
EAN13 9781626578135
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English
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Dominant Women; Tortured Husbands

L.K. Smith

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.


“It's marvelous! I never would have thought of it.”

Lena stepped off the helicopter and smiled at Rhoda, who had made the remark.

“I thought you might have liked the idea.”

Behind her, three more women were scrambling out of the helicopter onto the tarmac of the small landing field.

The island was Opotu, off the coast of Greece. It was owned by Lena, part of a bequest from her grandparents on her mother's side. In the distance, the sun oozed out of an incredibly blue sky like honey, coating everything in the thin patina of gold, including the massive, craggy house, more like a castle (parts of it were once a castle), situated on a rise straight ahead, about a mile.

In the distance, like blue-tinted slate, the sea flashed back the rays of the sun defiantly.

The attendant came off the helicopter with the last batch of luggage, which he placed in the waiting station wagon. Then he walked over to Lena, and tipped his cap.

“Will that be all, Miss Lena?”

“Yes, thank you Romer. I'll be in touch.”

“Very good, ma'am.”

The attendant smartly turned, got into the helicopter and gave a signal to the pilot, who took off, leaving the five beautiful women on the landing strip.

They looked at each other, uncertainly.

“Well,” Lena said, taking a deep breath. “Let's go have lunch.”

They climbed into the station wagon, and the chauffeur, who greeted them cheerfully while he held the door open for them, drove them up to the palatial family home where Lena had grown up.

The dining room table was already set for lunch. There were Calla lilies in a crystal vase in the middle of the table, which set off the beautiful decor of the room to perfection.

After luncheon, the women donned bikinis and went to the private beach to swim and take the sun. On large towels, they reclined and talked.

“How do you know it will work?” Fran asked Lena, the obvious ring-leader of the group.

“It has to! After dinner tonight I'll show you our implements of warfare.” Rhoda giggled.

“We're apt to kill our men!” she said.

“No,” Lena said. “Medieval torturers were very scientific. If you had read your history...!”

“Well, I didn't, so explain!” Nora laughed.

“They knew the limitations of human nature much better than modern man. They knew exactly what a man or woman could take in the way of suffering. I'll instruct you all in the use of the torture devices.”

“Our husbands obviously didn't know our limitations,” Rhoda said, sarcastically, as she applied oil to her soft white skin.

“But they'll find out.”

“If they follow us, Lena,” Ginnie said anxiously. Lena patted Ginnie's hand.

“Don't worry, darling. They will. They know what side their bread is buttered on.”

“And that's the long and short of it,” Rhoda replied.

“Rhoda, you could probably do with a little disciplining yourself. Neal does love you. He's just being callous and rude...”

“And a spendthrift! He acts as if that money is his.”

“Well,” Lena said, “legally it is. You are his wife.”

“But that money and those estates are still in my name!”

“What are the servants going to think?” Nora drawled.

“I came out here last weekend, and instructed them on our plans. You know how faithful they are to me, and they think the idea is wonderful. They will all help, except old Tana. I didn't tell her for fear of shocking her.”

As the sun started to go down, the women retired to the gorgeous mansion to spend an arduous evening being instructed by Lena in the arts of constraint and pain.

The women gradually lost their doubts, and became fascinated in an almost hypnotic way with Lena's plans.

For a week, the women rested, read, planned, and waited. It was a basically peaceful time. They were all friends, and schoolmates, and they had all been attendants at the others' weddings.

And they all discovered that there were problems with their marriages at about the same time.

It was Lena who had suggested the mass route. She owned the island of Opotu, which would be ideal for their purposes. Lena was the scholar, and she had a vivid imagination, to boot. It was she who had suggested the means of chastening their husbands, whom they all really loved, and bringing them back in line.

“At this point,” Nora said one night, as they were reclining on the roof on chairs, sipping drinks and looking at the incredible stars, “I wouldn't care if the men never came.”

“I do!” Ginnie and Lena exclaimed at the same time.

“I don't want to live without a husband, or without love,” Ginnie said.

“And I don't want to be a liberated woman!” Lena exclaimed. “I love Peter.”

The choppy rhythm of the helicopter was heard in the distance, getting closer and closer.

The women's eyes widened.

“Who do you suppose it is?” Rhoda asked.

“Well, I assume that Peter will arrive first. But we can't tell. Romer was given instructions to inform all the men when he was asked, that we were all here.”

“Now what do we do?” Ginnie giggled nervously.

“We wait,” Lena said, stretching luxuriously. “Romer has his instructions, and there are Philip and Hannibal to help him, if need be.”

An hour later, Romer appeared on the roof, grinning.

“Miss Lena?”

“Yes, Romer.”

“Your husband, Peter, and Rhoda's husband, Neal, are now confined to the dungeon.”

There was applause among the women.

“And the others? Did they tell you anything?”

“They phoned Conrad, Mike, and Frank from the mainland when I informed them that all of you were here.”

“Very good, Romer. Leave them in darkness. Oh, and nothing to eat but bread and water. We'll wait for all of them to arrive.”

“Very good, Miss Lena.”

Romer disappeared.

“Well, half an hour ago I was chafing at the bit,” Rhoda exclaimed. “Now I think it was done in jig time, and the waiting has been nothing at all!”

“I told you so! Our lives have been woven together since we were children,” Lena said. “Where one of us goes, the others follow. It's always been like that.”

Lena retired early. She was lonely, and horny, but horniness had been a problem in her married life after six months.

Peter was a philanderer. When she discovered it, she was shocked, and shocked at his blatant disregard for her pride and her faithfulness. He had been irritated with her for her hurt and anger, and had told her to go find lovers.

Then he had disappeared for several weeks, and Lena eventually found out where he was when she saw his picture with a young chippy on the Riviera in the gossip column.

She had seethed for two weeks after that, and then, at a luncheon she had had for her four friends, she had spilled the beans, needing someone to talk to, at which point, the others shared their woes.

Rhoda's husband was spending money hand over fist, and had sold one of her chateaus to pay off some gambling debts. Ginnie's husband, Conrad, was constantly drunk, and began disgracing himself and her at social functions with his outrageous behavior. Fran's husband, Mike, beat her. Nora's husband, Frank, was given to temper tantrums, both public and private, at which time he always damaged property, in addition to mortifying poor Nora.

The five women had sat on the terrace of Lena's penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, overlooking the park, and, under the glow of a good Chateau Lafitte Rothschild, they had laid their plans, based on Lena's sudden, electrifying inspiration.

Friends from childhood, they were each welcome at everyone else's home. The servants knew them all, and counted them part of each other's family.

They had chosen Lena's home because it was isolated, and isolation was exactly what they needed to pursue their bizarre plans to bring their husbands back in line.

Then they acquired all the literature they could get on the subject of discipline. All of them became fascinated with the subject, and after arriving at Opotu, and seeing the antique and modern weapons of torture, which had been Lena's grandfather's hobby, they became strangely enamored of what they intended.

Lena was up fairly early in the morning. Ginnie had already gone for a morning swim, and she appeared in the breakfast room just as Lena was pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“I suppose you've heard,” Ginnie said.


“Romer brought in Conrad, Mike, and Frank early this morning. They took the first planes out here when Peter called them from the mainland about our whereabouts.”

“Well, it proves one thing,” Lena said, with a smile.

“What's that? That old friends from old, established, wealthy families stick together?”

“No. I think it proves that they love us.”

“I hope so! I have visions of Conrad's divorcing me after this.”

“I don't think he will, honey,” Lena said, stroking Ginnie's blond hair fondly.

On the beach, after breakfast, the final plans were laid.

“The first thing is the softening up,” Lena said. “We leave them in the dungeon, in the dark, for a week. They will have nothing to eat but bread and water.”

“Maybe they'll die,” Rhoda suggested, somewhat caustically.

“Nonsense! People have lived on bread and water for longer than that and survived very well,” Lena said. “What we have to do is weaken them just enough so that we can establish our ascendancy over them. After all, we have already determined that we are morally superior to our husbands! But being morally superior does not mean that we should put up with their outrages.”

For another week, the women rested, practiced their new-found arts of persuasion, and talked about their plans.

Two weeks to the day when the five beautiful women arrived on the island of Opotu, their new careers began in earnest.

Each of the men had been placed in a dungeon alone, in solitary confinement.

The women at breakfast that morning, looked awesome. Each of them had donned some costume to heighten the first effect of their individual meetings.

For the first day, the women would be with their husbands alone. After that, they would all be together.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Nora asked.

“Depends on how stubborn the man is. My Peter is terrifically stubborn.”

“So's Conrad,” Ginnie said.

“And Mike,” Fran replied.

Rhoda laughed.

“Ditto for mine...”

“And mine!” Nora finished. “I think we're in for some protracted, if gruesome fun,” she added, rubbing her hands together.

The women descended into the dungeon part of the mansion, which was the east wing of the house. The huge rooms above the dungeon were used as state rooms for formal occasions. The thick walls precluded any sounds from being heard beyond the confines of the dungeon.

“Good luck, ladies,” Lena said, handing out keys to the various cells in which the husbands were being confined. “And remember, if you need any help, Philip, Hannibal, and Romer are standing by.”

Fran walked with trembling legs toward the farthest cell where Mike was being kept. She knew the cells contained nothing to be broken, but she had a feeling that Mike had had a week of non-stop temper tantrums. When she opened the cell door, and walked into the room, her tall, slender husband rose on wobbly legs, and glared at her, blinking.

Fran had a candle with her, and she placed it on a shelf just beside the door. The flickering candle cast a weird glow in the cell.

“What the fuck...?”

“Mike,” Fran said, quietly, “It's Fran, and you know I don't like your foul language.”

Mike tottered toward her. His face was covered with a week's growth of beard, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His normally healthy, tanned complexion had already started to assume that pallor peculiar to those confined without light.

He swung awkwardly, weakened by the week's confinement, and the meager diet of bread and water, meaning to sock Fran on the jaw—usually his first opening move when he beat her up.

Fran ducked, felt her anger coming to the fore, and when she came up, her fists, encased in thick black leather to which were added brass knuckles, were clenched. Her right arm shot out, and she winced at the sound of the brass knuckles contacting Mike's jaw.

Mike went down hard, and then shook his head, dazed from the blow. Fran stood over him. She was wearing, in addition to the elbow-length, deadly-looking black gloves, a black leather harness, and black nylons whose tops were elasticized. She had on leather spiked heels which completed her outfit of the moment.

Mike had been stripped, as had all the men, when they were hustled into the cells. He looked up at her, uncomprehending for the moment, and dazed.

“You have spent the two years of our marriage disrespecting me, treating me the way you never treated your horses!” Fran said, her voice resonant. She planted her gloved fists on her hips and spread her legs.

Mike staggered to his feet, and attempted to hit her again, blind with an unreasoning rage. This time Fran's brass knuckles caught Mike in his solar plexus.

Grunting, Mike went down to his knees heavily, and then bent over, his forehead pressed against the stone floor, retching.

“How does it feel, Mike?” Fran asked gently. “Doesn't it feel awful? Isn't it humiliating and degrading to be hit by someone who's supposed to love you?”

“You fucking bitch!” Mike snarled, trying to rise.

This time, Fran's boot dug into his rib cage, and Mike rolled over, wincing. He curled up and raised his arms to ward off another blow, but Fran, truly incensed now, and remembering that reason would dictate the effect of her discipline, backed off and waited for the pain to subside.

Her womanhood, deprived for two weeks, turned very warm, and tingled. She wanted Mike, but desisted from the impulse to demand sexual satisfaction. She had another idea. Smiling slowly, she went to the locked chest in the corner of the cell. The women had all picked out their instruments during the course of their indoctrination.

When she had extracted the equipment she wanted, she went to the door of the cell and called for Romer. He and Philip, an equally powerfully-built servant, arrived instantly.

“Shackle him to the floor, doggie style,” Fran said, smiling.

In a moment, in spite of his violent struggles, Mike found himself on his knees, his wrists bound to iron manacles attached to the stone floor, his legs spread-eagled and his ankles similarly attached.

Philip and Romer left, and when Mike turned to his wife, his face paled with shock.

To the leather harness which hugged her hips, she had attached a long black dildo. The base of it just fit over her cunt, a strap going under her buttocks through the crack, and attached to the back of the harness.

The enormous, thick dildo was fretted like a Greek column. The head was monstrous and threatening looking. At the base of the head was a circlet of sharp spikes.

In her hand, she was carrying long, thin nails whose tips were needle-sharp.

Mike started to sweat.

“What?” he gasped, pulling at the manacles.

Strangely enough, as Fran watched his terror-stricken struggles, she noted his cock just starting to get hard.

She poured some alcohol into a tin bowl, and soaked the needles carefully. The intent was to hurt and chastise, not mutilate or kill.

“You tell me what,” Fran said, her voice low and steady, as she pulled the needles out of the basin and positioned herself behind Mike. She carefully cleaned his balls and then shaved them, all the while talking to him.

“Fran, listen, we can talk about this!” Mike screamed.

“I've spent two years trying to talk to you,” Fran said. “You have not wanted to listen. Now you will.”

“Aieee!” Mike screamed, as Fran started to jab the needles into his balls. Before she had finished, his shaved balls bristled with needles, and there was one long one inserted through the width of his penis, just at the base.

“You're crazy!” Mike screamed, as Fran parted his ass cheeks. She knew exactly what she was going to do—humiliate and degrade him—as he had humiliated and degraded her. And as she proceeded with her ghoulish work, which was strangely pleasant to the woman, she told him so.

“You're crazy! Marrying a woman and then thinking that you can beat her up because you can't control your impulses. I loved you very much, Mike, and maybe I still do, but I love myself, too, and I will not suffer your brutality for one more minute.

“Since I can't talk you out of it, I guess I will have to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

With that, Fran shoved the dildo up Mike's rectum. The spikes cut superficially into his rectal walls, and Mike screamed again. Often, after beating her, venting his frustration and anger on her, Mike would ass-fuck her brutally.

Now he was getting a taste of his own medicine. The base of the dildo was so shaped that a little nubbin pressed against Fran's clitoris. As she drove the dildo into Mike's helpless ass, she felt the leather nubbin pressing against her clitoris.

Her pussy was already aroused, and she moaned, as she started to pump in and out of Mike's asshole, while her husband moaned.

She was going to either kill him or cure him, and either way, she was going to have her pleasure.


Fran moaned, as she felt her juices gushing out of her hot little hole. There was something incredibly erotic about ass-fucking her husband, that man who had brutalized her, dominated her by sheer physical force.

For all her anger, she felt her love for him, and as the love welled up in her, almost making her weep, she realized how wrong she had been to put up with his violence.

It wasn't love to accept the wrong-doings of a loved one. It was merely negligence. Knowing now that she was fighting for a decent relationship with her husband, she became even more aroused.

Even as she ass-fucked Mike, abrading his rectal walls, stretching his bung hole brutally with the fluted, spiked dildo, she caressed his muscular ass cheeks.

Her petal-like folds of sex flesh swelled, and the leather which secured the dildo in place, which cut through her cunt cleft and ass crack, rubbed against the bloated pussy flesh and sent tingling messages of erotic excitement surging through her.

Her body gleamed with sweat and she started to pant as she felt herself seized with pre-orgasmic lust.

“How does it feel, Mike?” she asked, as she rocked her hips back and forth, ravishing her husband's asshole as he had ravished hers.

“It hurts!” he bellowed.

“How do you think I felt when you did it to me?”

Mike groaned. His body trembled, and his cock swelled to greater size in spite of the pins piercing his cock and balls.

The dildo rubbed against Mike's prostate, stimulating his cock to a painful erection. For once, Fran was taking possession of her husband, and in the process her life.

The thought, and the attendant relief and triumph, caused a powerful rush of fabulous sensations to surge through Fran's beautiful body.

With a loud cry, she started to come. The rhythm of her hips became almost spastic as her cuntal walls closed in on themselves in a riot of carnal delight which she hadn't felt with her husband for a long time.

She gasped and fell forward across his back, trembling with pleasure. She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to caress him, to weep for the pain which she knew had possessed his body.

Roughly, she pulled out of his asshole. It was obscenely distended, and she winced. A thin trickle of blood flowed out, not enough to worry about.

She got up and walked to the front of Mike. The vicious arrogance of his face had abated, leaving in its wake fear and some awe of his wife—that awe he should have experienced before he...


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