Betrayal… and Worse

Betrayal… and Worse

A previously unheard of tropical disease, complete with irreversible muscle-reduction and mental fatigue, gives a wife in a previously loving marriage the opportunity to become the driving force in her relationship with her husband.

In fact, with the help of a woman recently dismissed by her husband from his company, she is about to become the driving force in just about EVERYTHING in his life.

A tale of age-regression and erotic female domination.

EXCERPT

ONE

The Present

It was not a common sight – even in the more lurid of “anything goes” porn films – and, in the highly unlikely event of a complete stranger being invited into the bedroom to witness it, they would have been hard pressed to guess that the ludicrous and pathetic figure of the undeniably handsome Englishman kneeling against the wall had once been a highly driven small-businessman who ran his business, his marriage, and his life, with a sense of justice that went hand-in-hand with his own pride.

Despite a somewhat “I know best” conceit that had led, without his realising it, to feelings of resentment in the mother of his two twenty-something girls who felt smothered in what she considered a poor second place to his other preoccupations.

“Resentment” he certainly realised now.

That this once virile and vibrant man was not only kneeling in the corner of a room in the home his endeavour had paid for upon his knees, but was wearing a pair of childish and inappropriate socks below the shorts themselves and an oversized Euro-Disney tee-shirt above it, seemed even more evidence that he couldn’t possibly be the same financially solvent and builder of a small but successful software-company he resembled.

Especially when taken with the fact that his hands were clasped behind his back and his nose was pressed into the corner of that wall.

Far from evoking such an image of maturity, achievement, and self-autonomy, the man softly crying on the thick carpet of what had once been the marital bedroom he had shared with his wife would have instantly fetched to mind in a witness the puerile role-playing of those adults with money enough to be able to indulge their desires for infantile treatment of such a kind – and the money to be able to pay a certain kind of woman to deliver it, of course.

An understandable assumption on behalf of a witness that would have been utterly and completely erroneous

For the reality was far less simplistic and, on many levels… evil.

With the benefit of a closer inspection, that witness would have seen that the man’s apparent baldness was nothing of the sort and that his totally hairless scalp was not a natural condition of age and genetics. Had they looked closer their mistake would have become obvious. For then they would have seen the crisscrossing of numerous razor nicks left by his most recent shave.

In short, it was a scene most people considering themselves civilised would have found as mystifying as it was abnormal and still more baffling were they to be told it was a view shared by the handsome and thoroughly despairing Englishman.

The same man currently seen attempting to keep his nose pressed to the corner, lest he incur the wrath of his wife’s lover.

Not to mention that of the wife herself.

“My name is Clive Benshaw and I will not be beaten,” he repeated to himself whenever his thoughts were his own and not devoted to pleasing his female Masters or simply ensuring his behaviour met their… standards. A mantra devised to maintain a sense of his own identity; even as a part of him confessed that with each day that passed he felt himself being lost more and more. Knowing that if the diminishment continued for much longer all the mantras in the world would not save him from the life they intended him to live.

The voice that carried across from the bed – a voice he had once thrilled to hear – seemed to paraphrase his thoughts:

“Doesn’t our little boy look lovely and natural in the corner of my bedroom, Prisha?” he heard his wife’s voice drift towards him from the bed, interrupting his mantra and focusing his thoughts on what torment she had in mind for him now.

The Bengali accented English that formed her reply was from a source he hated even more then the once unthinkable hatred and bitterness with which he responded to the London-English of the woman who had mothered the two girls he loved so much and by whom – though he knew they continued to love him – he was now pitied.

A snort of derision preceded the answer; praise on any level in his regard coming only with a scorpion’s sting.

A sting made all the sharper for him by the fact the thirty-something Indian woman delivering it had once been his own secretary.

Until the need for an assistant with more technical and product knowledge had ensured he had to let her go, of course.

“I suppose he is more… acceptable… these days,” he heard from behind him; even this faint praise delivered with distaste.

“Oh, come now, Prisha, don’t be so reticent. In praising him you only give praise to yourself, you know? I would never have been able to make him accept his true place without your advice and assistance.”

From behind him he heard the sound of a kiss and, despite hating his wife for what she had done to him, the knowledge she was kissing the Indian abomination as a reward for getting him to such a place seared his consciousness.

“He is such a good boy these days, my lovely Prisha, and for that you deserve most of the credit.”

Clive Benshaw heard more movement on the bed and his cheeks flared into red and vivid life as an anger far beyond his straitened physical capacity ensured he remained in his place and did not act upon the desire to rend and maim both.

After all; reminded an all too fresh and recent memory that had the effect of ice-water upon his anger; hadn’t he already tried that?

“And to think, he once considered himself your boss,” he heard his wife titter, imagining the shaking of her head at a former truth now ludicrous as he listened.

“Little Clivey was obviously a very delusional little boy, my lovely Prisha,” his wife went on, knowing he could hear and knowing how painful hearing it from her lips would still be to him. “His behaviour these days, however, is exemplary and a great tribute to your loving strictness with him.”

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