Sexual Manners at the Manor
by Joy Zelig
“Seems like he must have had a good day?” Angelique said, as she prepared my enema — the third one.
He’d let her punish me — which he did often but not always: twenty flicks with the riding crop; ten on each cheek. And then — of course! — bonuses that had become more the rule than the exception: two on my asshole; two on my clit.
Angelique’s joy and enthusiasm at these additions sent convulsions of resentment — and sweet and sour pleasure — rattling through my body, and my consciousness.
And flicks, by the way, doesn’t do them justice, makes them sound less than.
They are not.
Not even remotely close.
Godfrey — thank God or thank Godfrey? it’s a close call; I can’t make it — has a thing about marking; doesn’t like it.
If he felt differently?
We would never have been married.
But that Does. Not. Mean. That it doesn’t hurt.
It. Hurts.
I’d bet my tennis lessons that Angelique came, at some point, during those last four — while subtly making sure that I couldn’t.
Nasty little bitch.
And then we had been sent upstairs.
So that she could prepare me: bathing, primping, perfuming.
And flushing.
Front and back.
Multiple times.
Until the water runs crystal clear!
His mantra; now her favorite song.
As Mistress-of-the-Waters, she was the one who decided when I was “acceptably” clean.
Arguing only made things worse.
I tried desperately hard not to — usually, but not always, with success.
Then I was dressed, bound — strapped to the bed, arms and legs tugged to the corners of the mattress, a pillow under my hips, my ass elevated at an inviting and convenient angle for whatever manner of penetration struck my husband’s fancy — and . . . prepared.
Angelique was diabolically meticulous, especially once I had been completely immobilized: dressed in expensive, diaphanous lingerie — or a négligée, or both — often meant simply to be torn off; lotioned and lubricated and teased to a heightened state of sexual tension and need; ridiculed and humiliated as appropriate — which made me wetter still.
When Angelique did her job well — which was almost always; I have no specific memory of her “falling short,” perhaps this happened once or twice during her probationary period — I was left, bound, vulnerable, screaming and pleading to be violated.
In.
Every.
Way.
Imaginable.
Pleas which my dear husband — of course! — as a man of taste and civility, obliged.
He violated and plundered and savaged my body — in response to which I loved him helplessly, hopelessly, and beyond all reason, no possibility that I could live, that I could survive, without the heady and addictive mix of his love and his cruelty.
So I thought.
“Are we ready now?” Angelique asked archly, her face very close to mine — if I lunged and stretched enough, could I get her nose between my teeth, perhaps bite it off?
At least scar it?
No ball gag — this time — and there was a little slack in the restraints.
But she wasn’t imprecise, Angelique.
And she was never careless.
I’d learned — through painful experience — that she took particular pleasure in making sure that I was often a dog on a just-too-short chain, so close to being able to lunge at, and reach, my tormentor before that spiked collar bit into my neck and jerked me back, mid-air.
So. Close.
Not quite close enough.
Only once . . . such a sweet memory — I treasure it still; I will treasure it, I have not the slightest doubt, until the day after I die — was I able to get my jaws around that pale delicate neck, and then, of course, I couldn’t quite allow myself to chomp down with the vigor I so desperately wanted to unleash: not really that kind of bitch.
But . . . someday.
Maybe.
Because — the truth, the truth, the awful and inconvenient truth — if I don’t quite love Angelique? Let me lie to myself about that for just a moment longer. I adore, I am arguably addicted to, what she does to me, what I do to her, what Godfrey does, to . . . all of us — what he orchestrates, a simply Masterful conductor of his household menage, of whatever configuration, whatever cast of characters, suits his whims — and he seems to have the ability to call on “a cast of thousands” whenever he sees fit.
He certainly has the money. Some nastiness in the family that he’s never talked about in meaningful detail: alliances, feuds, and deaths; contested wills, lawsuits, and harassment; a younger brother, married to a former model, two nephews — none of whom even came to the wedding. I’d seen them perhaps two or three times in the five years I’d been married.
If I had any in-law at all — an intimate who came with the marriage? It would have to be Angelique.
Somehow, whenever I am utterly in her power, my hair knotted painfully in her remarkably strong fingers, my face pummeled by the aromatic abrasion of her hairy, hungry, angry, selfish, and greedy little cunt, her face somewhere above me, seemingly far away, a flickering rictus of anger, power, and pleasure — and whenever, in similar fashion, I smother and batter her, with my insatiable pussy, smooth, slick, perhaps as a matter of contrast, bald-by-my-Master’s-command — I feel, more deeply than at any other time in my life, than in any other place I have ever existed, home.
Angelique kisses me: a long and tender, but invasive, kiss, a statement of how she has been authorized, gifted with the permission to control me — if only for this moment, though these moments, like clockwork, recur — and I give myself over to her completely, as I will give myself over to Godfrey, to my husband, to my Master, because, having made my first choice, I have no further choices to make.
I made a deal.
I live by that deal.
Angelique made a deal as well; she lives by it too — and, though younger, she actually preceded me in the household.
She’s the top today; tomorrow, if not sooner, she will be the bottom; we both savor that switch, which — of course! — Godfrey both understands and facilitates: our shared Puppet Master.
“The Master will be with you shortly,” Angelique says, pulling back from me only slightly, her breath still warm and sweet on my face, mocking me with the voice and the cadences of a medical office receptionist — assuring me that my treatment is on the way, is imminent, surely not a cure, but definitely a dose.
Words are now difficult for me; I moan more than speak.
“I am going to. Ravage — and viciously. Every. Part. Of you,” I manage to moan.
“Oh!” she says, wide-eyed and faux innocent, “I know, baby,” as if indulging a Mad Woman, which, almost certainly, she is.
And then, her voice raspy with passion that I know to be completely genuine, “I very much look forward to it.”
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An Excerpt from Joy Zelig’s: Sexual Manners at the Manor
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