THIS IS A FEMALE DOMINATION STORY DO NOT READ IT UNLESS YOU LIKE
STORIES ABOUT SLAVE HUSBANDS,DOMINANT WIVES, CHASTITY BELTS, TEASING AND DENIAL COCK AND BALL TORTURE WHIPPINGS,HEEL WORSHIP, BONDAGE, SISSIES,BDSM, DISCIPLINE, SADISM MASOCHISM AND THE LIKE…IF YOU ENJOY THIS STORY YOU CAN SEE LOTS OF THEM AT:
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THE CRAFTSMAN
F.X. Copeland parked his truck across the street from the Enright’s Colonial house. Real nice, these houses, Cope thought to himself. He had grown up on the other side of Buttermilk Falls, in the tenements, but his Daddy had done some of the work rehabbing the various stately mansions here on Buttermilk Hill, and Cope had helped a few times when he was a little squirt.
Cope got his toolbox and his manifest list and shut the truck door. Cope was a little fireplug of a guy, who wore a green coverall, but it was unwise to dismiss him—he was a craftsman of the first order. And how many other people knew how to build and repair chastity belts? A Copeland belt was a thing to be proud of.
He’d fixed elevators for a while, and then he’d done HVAC, but the belt thing was up and coming. Cope walked across the street in his stolid gait, and rang the doorbell.
A housekeeper opened the door. Yessir nice titties on them Hispanic girls, Cope thought cheerily. “You are Mister Copeland? Mrs. Enright waiting in the parlor.”
Cope entered the parlor, and yup, here’s a looker. Mrs. Enright was blonde and she had a nice figure in that little black dress of hers. “How are you, Mr. Copeland? I am so glad you could come on such short notice!”
“Oh, you call me Cope, ma’am…what seems to be the trouble? Y’all need a belt?”
Carmel Enright smiled at the squat little man. Well at least he WAS a man, unlike Watson. Watty was constantly whining, and after she’d told him that she was no longer interested in sexual relations…and she began dating around a little, of course Watty had begun playing with himself.
Disgusting…sneaking into her bathroom, jerking off while sniffing the panties from her laundry basket, and of course sneaking around, trying to get a peek of her as she showered or changed for her dates.
Certainly, Carmel couldn’t blame Watty for having a case on her…she had curly short blonde hair, and nice natural 36 DD breasts…very long legs and a heart-shaped ass, as one of her old boyfriends had once told her…her parents had been thrilled when she’d “caught” one of the rich Enrights…but rich men, though good to marry, weren’t too good in the sack.
She’d finally forbidden Watty to play with her breasts because he was always slurping at them greedily, it was quite digusting. This had been heartbreaking for him, as she’d waited a year after they’d started dating to let him touch them in the first place!
And then, finally she’d told Watty she wanted him to stay in his own twin bed…and what does he do? Snivels, bitches, and masturbates…disgusting!
Masturbation was such a disgusting, adolescent behavior in a man. Last night after she’d caught Watty messing around with her Victoria’s Secret catalogue, she’d stripped him and tied him over a hassock and whipped him hard with his mother’s Amber cherrywood walking stick.
Watty’s mother had presented it to Carmel the day before the wedding. “Watty’s a dear boy, Carmel darling, but he is a whiner, and often throws tantrums if he doesn’t get his own way…this will be of prime assistance in handling him.”
Carmel had been amazed how soon she’d needed the damn thing, he’d begun whining and bitching on the honeymoon, and she’d been glad of bringing it along to the hotel room!
But now there was a bigger problem…with all the masturbation, Watty had become rather heavy lidded and lackadaisical…and she was so glad when she’d called the manager of the PainCafe, and he’d sent Mr. Copeland out.
“Well, Cope,” Carmel said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here. I will send for Mr. Enright, and you can give him a measurement, or whatever it is you do.”
“Yes’m.” Cope said as he brought out his measuring tape and his other tools. Damn this is a nice house, he thought. Oriental rug and all that. Cope’s loving wife, Mrs. Copeland, often pestered him to go antiquing, and go to auctions, but they could never afford nothin’ like this.
Carmel left the parlor, and in a moment came back with a little bald man, who looked like Mr. Peterson, the patient in the old Bob Newhart shows when Cope was a boy. He remembered how he and his pals played a drinking game where you chugged a beer every time someone said “Hi Bob” Them was the days…yessir.
“This is my husband, Watson Enright, Cope.” Mrs. Enright said, smiling. Cope was almost sure, plumb sure that Mrs. Enright was waving her big bazoom at him, but of course he had to maintain seriousness. This was the client, after all.
“Now Watty, I want you to take off your clothes, so Mr. Copeland can measure your private parts and lock you into something sensible, so I don’t have to run around keeping your hands off your pecker.” Carmel tapped Watty’s chin with a red nail, and he blushed.
“Look here, Carmel, I won’t stand for this. I don’t want to wear a chastity belt, and you’re neglecting your marital duties by me. How dare you—“
Mrs. Enright slapped her husband hard, and Cope goggled a bit. He was no stranger to witnessing these female dominated households, but he’d be damned if he’d let a woman slap him around like that. She’d be chewin’ her teeth.
“Now you take your clothes off right now. Or am I going to have to ask Mr. Copeland to lend me his belt?” Actually, Cope was wearing a coverall, but Carmel was too distraught to notice this.
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