A ThreeTrilogy BDSM Bundle E-Book

Jon Zelig

• Herausgeber: pinkflamingo
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

In “Governess Dominates Couple,” Rob & Jayce discover the pleasures and the terrors of being utterly subjugated to the will of their stern, middleaged, Swedish Governess, Mistress Svar, who mercilessly and with the active support of Jayce’s biochemist mother, Helene “milks” them both, quickly draining even the possibility of resistance. In “Punishment Incorporated,” Judith’s mildly dim husband deaf, dumb, and blind to the fact that he married a succubus sends her to the basement of a local, strip mall, sex shop, to learn submission. She goes willingly genuinely hoping that she can change but quickly shifts from client to Mistress. The job of “The Sexual Narratologist”? It’s either your fondest dream or your worst nightmare. Three couples engage his services. For $1000, he’ll direct your sex life for a full week. Running out of fantasies and ideas? Bored and blasé? Getting tempted to look elsewhere? What do modern people do with any problem? Outsource! Works out well . . . most of the time.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Book I: The Fall into Her Thrall

Rob, Part I

Jayce, Part I

Svar, Part I

Rob, Part II

Jayce, Part II

Helene, Part I

Svar, Part II

Helene, Part II

Svar, Part III

Rob, Part III

Rob, Part IV

Helene, Part III

Jayce, Part III

Svar, Part IV

Jayce, Part IV

Rob, Part V

Book III: After the Fall? No Spring

Rob, Part VI

Svar, Part V

Jayce, Part V

Helene, Part IV

Rob, Part VII

Helene, Part V

The Full Trilogy

Punishing the Succubus?

The Intake

The Beginning

Coming to Terms

Consulting

Negotiating

Benefits

Mistress Judy’s Journey

Prologue

The Hunger

Strip Mall Seductress

The Line of Judith

On the Menu

The Wisdom of Charla-magne

Get It Straight

Who’s This For?

Same Old Shit

Mr. Smith Goes to … The Basement

The Full Trilogy

If You Wouldn’t Mind

Taken

And the Next Day …

Worth $1000?

Calling Out the Wrong Name

Prologue

Is That Important?

Who’s Jesse?

You Break It? You Bought It

No Regrets?

“I Know a Guy …”

Give It to Me!

Wait! We Don’t …

Checking In

Is It … Safe?

On the Eighth Day: We Rested

Other Jon Zelig Novels From Pink Flamingo Media

A Three-Trilogy BDSM Bundle, Featuring:

Governess Dominates Couple

Punishment Incorporated

The Sexual Narratologist

by Jon Zelig

ISBN: 978-1-945648-84-7

A Pink Flamingo Media Ebook

Copyright ©2018 Angel Ray

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

For information contact:

Pink Flamingo Media

www.pinkflamingo.com

P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI

Book I: The Fall into Her Thrall

Chapter One

Rob, Part I

“Rob! Quiet!” my wife hissed, her face a mask of anxiety. “She’ll hear you!”

I tried to lower my voice but—never mind anxiety—I was genuinely frightened; having lost control of my life, the fact that I couldn’t control my voice seemed more like an ironic detail: slightly funny, slightly sad.

Able to tamp down the volume, if only a little, there was no way I could erase the tremble.

“We have to do something,” I warbled. “This is getting out of control.”

“Getting?”

Now whose voice was too loud?

“Jayce, we have to do something,” I repeated lamely.

Here’s the fantasy: You’re happily married, both you and your wife professionally successful, your family unit financially well-off; with the birth of your first child, you both take a couple of months off work; in addition—triple coverage is always better than double coverage—you hire an au pair; she’s Scandinavian, young, smart, and gorgeous; you start a discrete affair with her; then your wife merrily joins in and you share a few months of threesomes and other debauchery; then the au pair leaves, you go back to work, the kid goes into daycare.

You live happily ever after.

That’s not how it happened.

My wife looked good—she almost always looked good to me—but she was in a bit of disarray, hair loose and a little wild, eyes frantic, the top of her short white nightie becoming blotchy and transparent with the milk leaking from her breasts.

In stark comparison: I was completely nude.

What she wore and what I didn’t?

Neither of those had been our own choices.

“We need a plan!” she said to me urgently.

Yes.

We did.

And then I heard the door open—and knew, without a hint of a doubt, that things were about to get so much worse.

I knew what I would see before I turned to look; it was hard to make my neck move.

Governess Svar was standing in the doorway to our bedroom, hairbrush in one hand—her “weapon of choice,” always at the ready—and, for reasons that wouldn’t be clear for a quick minute, a cell phone in the other.

Her expression was bland.

I had learned to fear “bland” more than “angry.”

When she was angry, she worked to tether herself; when she looked bland, it meant that she had already mapped out a cascade of actions and consequences—to be meted out with precision and intensity.

“So,” she said flatly.

Not an au pair.

Not a young woman—although she was very attractive—had perhaps thirty years on my wife and me.

She was Swedish though, something we had initially found somehow reassuring.

She’d “come to us” via my mother-in-law, Helene, a high-powered academic researcher in biochemistry: efficient in everything that she did; scary to me, in too many ways to list just now.

“You will be wondering about my name,” Svar had said crisply, her first words on entering the house. “It is Swedish—” she began.

“Well, I rather assumed—” I started to joke.

My apologies for the cliché: She froze me in an instant with her ice-blue gaze.

Maybe that’s when it really started?

In the first forty seconds of our interaction?

I felt the panic of an adolescent boy who has made some sort of terrible etiquette error in the presence of a powerful and beautiful older woman.

Knowing that there was no “taking back” the words, I felt first a frantic desire to apologize, then—given the utter inadequacy of that response—I felt a shudder of masochistic desire ripple through my body: I wanted her to punish me.

She spoke slowly, holding my gaze.

“It is a word,” she said, “my name. In Swedish, it means ‘answer.’”

I felt certain, without looking, that my wife was feeling something oddly similar to what I was feeling.

“You are the answer,” she said, voice a little breathy.

“You will call me Governess Svar,” she said, shifting to gaze at my wife, who looked—apologies for cliché #2—like a deer caught in the headlights.

Not, “can.”

Not, “may.”

Will.

We’d both nodded in immediate acquiescence.

And now, in our bedroom, caught, we stood before her, silent and guilty, waiting.

“You were not, perhaps, plot-ting, were you? That would be most unseemly,” she said dryly.

“No! We just came in here to—”

Looking absolutely terrified, my wife couldn’t even quite bring herself to come up with a reasonable lie.

Governess Svar cut her off.

Holding the cell phone up, screen pointing toward us, she thumbed a button, showed us a grainy video clip of … ourselves, just moments before.

“Out. Of. Control?” she said slowly, pursing her lips as if tasting something sour. “You will go get her bowl,” she said, cutting her eyes to me for a moment. Turning her attention back to my wife, she simply pointed to our bed. “Your position,” she said crisply, then, not looking at me again, “Go!”

I heard my wife swallow a sob as I scurried to the kitchen to comply.

I returned quickly with the specified large metal bowl, to find Jayce where I knew she would be: on her hands and knees on our bed, arms at full extension, head hanging loosely between her shoulders, hair curtaining off her face.

Governess Svar made an indication with her chin.

Placing the metal bowl beneath her swollen and swaying breasts, I tore Jayce’s nightie down the back, from neck to hem, then tore the arm holes as well, rendering it a rag, fully exposing her.

Another gesture of Svar’s chin and I immediately went to the nearest corner of the room and positioned myself facing it, my leaky erection dabbing the wall with a small sticky stain, mortifying evidence, to myself, first and foremost, of how exciting I—how exciting we—found both our larger predicament and the now-familiar ritual in which we were obediently participating: employers subservient to our nominal employee; children in thrall to their governess.

I heard the sound of medical exam gloves being snapped on.

My wife was tearily crooning an incoherent babble of apology, fear, and passion; not permitted to look, I knew that the tremble in her voice wracked her entire body.

I heard the slow, soft, sound of Governess Svar approaching the bed.

“And so?” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

I heard Jayce murmur the required plea for “relief.”

Then I began to hear the sound of milk, first dripping, then squirting, into the bowl.

I’d only seen her do this a few times, but the image had been burned into my consciousness: Governess Svar’s powerful hands, milking my wife; one breast at a time, methodical, relentless; she would start by encircling each breast at the base, squeezing tightly and pulling downward, toward the areolae, where she switched her grip to use only her thumb and index finger; when she got to the nipples—which seemed, in recent weeks, to be elongating—she used only the tips of finger and thumb, pinching hard as she pulled.

I don’t—

I can’t—

There is no … explaining: How? Why?

I don’t know; I haven’t been able to explain any of this to myself.

I “left my body” for some period of time, “returning” to hear the last few drops of milk extracted.

And the familiar sound of Velcro.

My erection throbbed painfully.

Governess Svar’s strap-on wasn’t too-too big—though she made a regular point of underscoring that it was bigger than my cock—and she wore it outside her clothing, over her skirt, at least in that context: exposing us completely; exposing herself not at all.

There was the sound of hairbrush on flesh, as she slapped my wife’s ass briskly to re-position her; there was the creak of the bed; and then the only sounds in the world were those of my wife being fucked through several orgasms: her yelping, moaning, eventually screaming herself hoarse; Governess Svar’s skirt-covered hips slamming into the backs of Jayce’s naked thighs; the slick music of pistoning; finally, the transformation of my wife’s breathing into an agonized, rhythmic, forced, wheezing, as—pounded until she collapsed onto her belly—the air was driven from her lungs with every thrust, until Governess Svar gave her own triumphant shriek of passion and pleasure.

Her head would be thrown back at that moment, I knew: a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead; tightly braided blonde hair, coiled, pinned up, and perfect; eyes and mouth fully open, her face a rictus of angry pleasure and triumph, a Viking Queen relishing her conquest; an iron grip on Jayce’s hips not yet loosened.

For a few moments, there was quiet, just people trying to recover and control their breathing.

The bed creaked again; I heard the gloves removed; there was a crisp finger snap. Turning as I fell to my knees, I closed my eyes and dutifully licked the strap-on clean of my wife’s juices.

I remained in that position after she’d withdrawn from my mouth.

There was the swish of skirts and Governess Svar, along with the bowl of milk, was gone.

“I will go feed the baby,” she murmured, as she swept from the room.

Opening my eyes, I arose slowly, took in the ravaged figure on the bed: her pale buttocks blotched pink, where the hairbrush had landed—the blows accompanied by Governess Svar’s disdainful biting off of the words “plot-ting” and “dis-hones-ty!”—a new overlay of finger-shaped bruises beginning to bloom on her hips.

Jayce looked unspeakably beautiful to me, and I was painfully hard, dizzy with excitement—with the amalgamated feelings of confusion and humiliation.

This shouldn’t turn me on!

This shouldn’t turn her on!

Taking the few steps it took to get to the bed, I reached out my hand, lightly traced my fingers over her sweaty back.

She flinched, head jerking up, looking directly at the digital clock on the nightstand.

“Noooo,” she whined weakly.

I nodded.

“Right,” I said glumly. “Smile: You’re on Candid Camera!”

Video.

Of course there was video.

After all: That was part of how the whole thing had really started.

Chapter Two

Jayce, Part I

I’d never told him.

And if he didn’t notice—which … duh! clearly he did not—how is that anything but his fault?

To Hell with my mother, the eminent biochemist—and naming me for Joyce Carol Oates and literary interpretation; and that little bit of Catholic residue: sins of commission and sins of omission; and her “interpretation” of Feminism and “how women should be.”

Rob could have read the, well … not tea leaves, exactly?

He could have read me!

He could have “understood what he was getting,” with some precision and clarity.

That was kind of his job, wasn’t it? And—a financials guy, after all!—that’s pretty much due diligence, isn’t it?

Know what you’re getting?

The upside, the downside, and … the sideways.

I didn’t mean to lie.

I understand—I accept that—I did a little ducking and hiding, a little shucking and jiving.

I could have been a little more up front; I wasn’t.

He could have been a little more perceptive; he wasn’t.

Not-too-deep-down, I had known for as long as I can remember that I was a natural submissive; some things don’t change.

And here we are.

So painful to reduce myself to a handful of stereotypes.

But …

The “canonical, established, realities,” as my—fucking theory-marinated—mother would say:

I got off on being punished as a kid: check.

First orgasm during corporal punishment: check.

“Experimented” with women—a simply odious phrase—when I was in college: check.

Oh!

My—fucking theory-marinated—mother taught me how to masturbate: check.

And mate.

I mated!

That’s what I was supposed to do—right, Mommy?

Even if you rather hoped—like you—I’d kind of “mate and dash,” just “grab a little genetic material” from … some poor schmuck and then ditch him?

Who needs men, anyway?

Why would a daughter need a father?

Right.

So, if I wasn’t—if I’ve never been—as open and honest with Rob as I might have been?

Well … you’ve never really been open and honest with me either.

Song and dance and “ideological commitment” notwithstanding: you’ve kept your secrets; you’ve exploited mine; and I know that you sent us Svar—and I know why.

Give her—give you—this: Bitch knows her shit; she’s bending me further, and faster, than you ever did.

But, Mommy, I’m not sure you’re going to end up happy with where this goes.

Chapter Three

Svar, Part I

I should feel guilty?

I don’t see why.

People, in the end, only do what they want to do.

There is no real compulsion—save the inner compulsions that I release and exploit: faults and needs and desires that were there already … waiting; dormant seeds in need of a little water.

Or perhaps … milk.

I’ve always enjoyed milking the women—taking complete control of that most intimate of functions—good childhood memories, perhaps, my grandparents’ farm?

I enjoy milking the men as well, but that’s a rather different thing.

For the women, it may take them time to realize and accept this but—just as with cows—there’s a real element of relief. And every layer or variety of surrender reinforces every other layer or variety, driving them faster, more deeply, irretrievably, into submission.

For the men … well, they know immediately that—cloaked ever-so-thinly as relief—what is being done is being done “to them,” rather than “for them,” that, whatever I choose to call it, it is a thwarting.

But then at least some of them want that—which can be a beautiful thing as well: that surrender, that giving-in, to the siren song of their submission, which is accomplished faster, more deeply, irretrievably, by their complicity in the regular violation of their wives.

Which—well, the men and the women, really; both the milking and the fucking—they all tell themselves will only be temporary, a “tactical” surrender, part of their, delusional, long-term plan, to “regain their footing,” to “get back to normal,” to “remember who they really are.”

No.

There is no “going back.”

Never.

And for me? With both the men and the women?

The pulse of power and pleasure is, of course, an important part.

But—it is so much more than that!

The buzz and the throb of my pleasure?

I know who they really are.

I take them where they belong—where they need to be.

Eventually?

They see that.

They understand.

They break.

And when they resist—that futile squirm and moan, that desperate thrash and struggle?

The buzz and throb of my pleasure?

It grows only stronger, a scorching heat, its intensity almost unbearable.

Almost.