A Husband’s Demotion

Her stygian black hair hung loose over the smooth brown skin of her shoulders and her expression as she regarded him from over her shoulder was of a kind that might be described as: “Haughty”

The above look dispensed from features that were neither beauteous nor patrician and bespoke more the order of Indian horse than Roman Equestrian.

An anomaly that made her power and his lack of it no less… real.

She had sensed his eyes upon her and knew he would be grudgingly aroused by the sight of her rear-view in the grey woolen dress and sheer nylon pantyhose as it tapered down and disappeared into black shoes with pointed toes and sharp heels.

A desire she had cultivated where none had existed before and one before which he had become increasingly helpless.

Probably her greatest triumph.

“Ask,” she said simply, not even bothering to turn herself that they might face each other to converse – the way she might have done with an equal.

“Please, Ms Nirupa,” he began without hesitation, his need so great, “can I…”

“No!” she barked, enjoying the way the handsome Englishman flinched. “You are standing. Is that the way you should present yourself to a superior?”

She felt more than saw the wince her words produced in him and loved the feeling of empowerment being able to address a man of his years and good looks in such a way produced in her.

“And why are you still clothed if you wish to beg a favour of your… employer? Should you not be naked and upon your knees before me?”

There was no answer and she wondered if he might, even at this late stage, finally find the backbone to rebel against the excuse of a man both she and her friend and neighbour – his wife – had made of him.

A wife who, even at that moment, was probably sharing a drink in a hotel bar before being whisked by her latest partner up to a room where she would allow herself to be taken to places her husband was no longer permitted to even attempt visiting in her company.

“Do it now!” she barked.

His haste to do as she asked would have been touching had it not been so pathetic.

“Look at you,” she sneered as his trousers followed his shirt and he was soon down to nothing but bare skin and the metal contraption that took control of his own cock from him and placed it in her hands and that of his wife. “Falling over yourself to obey a young woman that she might be persuaded to release your pathetic little cock and either place her toes around it until it spurts or allow you to squat beneath her and bring yourself off. No wonder Gillian needs to seek out real men to make her feel like a woman.”

The barb hit home, as it always did.

But the shame did not prevent him going down upon his haunches and placing a respectful kiss on each of her hosed calf-muscles – so desperate was he to experience what she had in her power to provide him.

No matter how humiliating the hoops he was compelled to jump through before such a favour was granted.

“Still, now we are all in agreement as to the best use to make of you,” she went on, “Gilly is at least free to experience what a real man has to offer without having to look into your hangdog eyes when her pleasure has been supplied her.”

Returning to the full-length mirror to better appreciate the power-play of her standing, clothed and imperious, while he knelt at her back to smother her legs with pleading and servile kisses, she smiled at the vision of strength and authority staring back at her.

A “strength and authority” she would enjoy displaying for the enjoyment of the friends and family she would be visiting over the next month when she returned with her chattel to Indian hometown and the plush villa she had rented. A villa itself that was a colonial leftover from the days when the view she could see in her own mirror would have been reversed and it would have she, and not him, kneeling to show respect to a master. Days, of which no self-respecting Indian woman with a sense of pride and a knowledge of history could fail to find herself insulted and incensed.

“When we have finished here,” she began, in a tone of voice it thrilled her to use upon him, so demanding and expectant of obedience was it, “you can make a start with my packing.

“I have left a notepad with a list of the things I wish to take on my dressing-table. When you have finished, you make pack your uniforms into case alongside your underwear and whatever toiletries you are taking.”

She smiled at her mirrored reflection, pleased that, despite the shame he must certainly feel for both his position and her peremptory and possessive way of dealing with him.

That he had not once attempted to move from his unmanly posture and neither had the kisses intended to win him his release lessened in their servile insistence upon hastening her decision into a positive, only enhanced her sense of utter superiority and control over him.

“And THAT, after all,” she asked herself, was the pinnacle of her fondest dreams since those dreams first took on sexual overtones, “was it not?”