He married her because she was very young and slender which made him feel good because he
was past thirty-five and built like a grizzly bear. More to the point he married her
because when he tentatively broached the subject of marriage she said, giggling, “You mean
you want to chain me up in some kitchen then?” She thought it a rather clever joke; he
misunderstood it as an invitation to do just that: he had very clear ideas about the role
of a wife but up to that fateful moment he’d labelled them fantasies rather than real.
It all began when he took her out one evening after he’d seen her sitting looking
tearful in the office at the end of the day, had sympathised and had discovered she’d been
stood up by a date. Pretty little thing all alone in Reception. He took her for something
to eat and because she turned out to be amusing and bright it grew from there into a
regular thing – which flattered him. But then she dropped the remark about being chained
up in a kitchen and he turned it into an old-fashioned but implacable wooing.
Old-fashioned because there wasn’t any sex beyond minor kisses but he told himself he
didn’t mind about that; told himself and believed that she was a sensible, attractive girl
and a delight to have around. Implacable because his fantasies told him that nothing else
mattered until he’d got her; he even bought a length of slender chain with a lined
ankle-cuff attached and a lockable rubber penis-gag, having daydreams about the first
moment he took her back to the house from the wedding and saying ‘Right, let’s get these
on you…”. Daydreams. At the time, because she was good for his ego and he was working very
hard to achieve her, he didn’t really notice that she was only a sensible, attractive,
amusing girl when he bought her things or played the gentleman and pampered her. When she
sulked or stuck out her bottom lip in a trembly way his fantasies told him that when she
was his wife and did that, he’d cane her. First though, as soon as they got back from the
church or whatever, he’d thrash her for all the times she should have been thrashed while
he was courting her…
It was different after he married her and found that he had indeed been fantasising all
along; she didn’t like sex, she didn’t like this, she didn’t like that; she made it plain
that as far as sex was concerned any of his mildest fantasies were boring. Not ‘weird’ or
‘disgusting’ but boring. Neither did she like housework and shopping for anything other
than clothes for herself... On his salary there was no need for her to work but work to
her included even minor housework – of which he began to do more and more. Penny’s idea of
a weekday morning was to be woken, not too early, with a cup of tea, to lie back down and
sleep again until he reminded her of the time and then to be ‘so tired’ that she could
just manage to sit down in a big chair while he got breakfast and set off to work. His
idea of a marital-weekday morning was of his wife kneeling submissively by his bed,
waiting to be told to relieve his morning erection - but by then he’d married her and it
was too late. He blamed himself entirely for being a stupid, fantasising fool and had a
very bad time on the honeymoon when he realised what he’d done. Because he didn’t know
what else to do he didn’t stop pampering her, didn’t stop buying her things, never
objected to the rising credit-card bills, pretended to himself that it wasn’t really as
bad as that and that after they’d been married for six months he’d be able to insist on
obedience and respect at least. Because he really didn’t want to spend his evenings
watching TV soaps and being enthusiastic about the contents of fashion magazines, he
reverted to his fantasies and created a quite sophisticated computer application named
‘PFPW’ – Perfect Female, Perfect Wife. It was so good that he believed it, but Penny
showed no signs of ever becoming either. He believed his computer fantasy so much that he
created a Part Two, which was ‘How to Train the Perfect Wife’ and believed that too. It
was extremely sexual in various ways.
So one morning when he said he had would have to go away for two weeks on the firm’s
business and she said, “how do you expect me to manage then?” He said only three, only
mildly critical things to her, before she threw a tantrum. Screamed at him. His wife,
screaming at him. He stood there watching her while out of his fantasies came a brief
mental-video of Penny strapped naked and gagged over something-or-other while he thrashed
her…
He spent three weeks in Maharastra, not two - which produced daily phone calls from Penny
listing things he ‘had to come home to do’ and during his spare time he spent a great deal
of time with his laptop creating a PW Project Plan – a ‘perfect wife’ project plan, based
on ‘How to Train a Perfect Wife’, detailing what he really had to do if he was going to
turn her into a wife…
So Rollo - his name was Rowley but everyone called him Rollo – did some heavy spending
in Maharastra, went home, turned his investments into cash, talked to the Chairman and sat
down with Penny to tell her:
“We seem to have gone off the rails, sweetheart. Need to start again. Go away somewhere.
Got this chance to live like a lord for a year in India – the irrigation project – thought
you might like to be the grand memsahib, servants, big colonial bungalow, everything.
Start us off afresh.”
It took another month to get her grudging acquiescence and another less-grudging, better
month when she pillaged the West End of London for a new wardrobe and ‘just some things’ –
some jewellery to go with the new wardrobe. He’d anticipated that. They went out by sea
because that was ‘romantic’ and because even Penny admitted that the cost of taking her
stuff by air would have been ridiculous. She hated Mumbai, hated the very nice hotel they
stayed in for three days, hated-hated the long journey in a hired air-conditioned Range
Rover to the fine colonial bungalow he’d bought and completely modernised. Loved the
first sight of the bungalow…
“Penny, this is Muni, what they call a house-girl. We’ll have others later but she will
look after everything in the house and all the cooking for now – she’s a good cook. Speaks
a little English, some Hindi. She’s a Gond from the tribal areas so her own lingo is a
closed book I’m afraid. About eighteen I think… Muni, memsahib is very tired; she’s going
to lie down on the verandah, memsahib needs something cool to drink; then you can help me
unpack and you can put Memsahib’s things away…”
Penny was very pleased indeed when her quiet, bare-footed, submissive, dark-skinned
little house-girl brought a glass and a jug of iced Pimms out to her where she lay in a
long cane chair in the big verandah: even more pleased when the girl silently knelt and
put the silver tray beside her and made a hands-together namaste. Must be awestruck
thought Penny;
“Be sure all my things are properly put away, I shall need some later when I’m not to so
tired… Be sure you do it properly, girl…”
Later, while he was in the big kitchen explaining some things to Muni, he heard Penny
calling from the bedroom that she didn’t know how to work the shower. He saw to that, went
back to Muni and made certain that she understood about ‘helping him with memsahib’. A
Muni who wasn’t been at all pleased that Rowley had brought back his European wife to the
house; Muni worshipped Rollo Tanqueray. So although she didn’t understand a lot of the
things he told her, she was more than willing to do anything he said, even though she was
puzzled to learn that foreign husbands too sometimes wanted help with training their
wives. Muni did a number of private pujas centred around the Memsahib because Muni wanted
the great big bear-like white man for herself and a little elaborate prayer might be
answered…
After a long time Penny shouted petulantly from the bedroom “Girl! Girl! Where are my
things? Where are they? Rollo, I thought that stupid girl was supposed to put them away?
Didn’t you even watch her…? My wardrobes are empty, Rollo; surely we can afford
intelligent servants? Where-are-my-clothes, Rollo?”
Rollo Tanqueray is six feet four, hairy and built like a military assault vehicle; Penny
Tanqueray is small, slender, and pale. He walked into the bedroom where she was sitting
sulking on the big bed in her new and expensive white bathrobe, peered into the wardrobes,
abruptly held up one very short, very tarty red latex dress – tight bodice, full, flaring
miniskirt - and said “this is all you need, get it on.” When she told him not to be
stupid, what on earth is that anyway and to fetch her things he merely said, very evenly,
“Get into this, Penny!” He saw the tantrum start in earnest so he walked to the bed,
picked her up off it, dropped her on her face over the edge of it, dragged up the white
bathrobe to her waist, planted one great hairy hand in the small of her back, made a long
arm for the bedside-cabinet drawer, fished out the eighteen-inch rubber strap that was
waiting there, dragged up the white bathrobe – and beat her small neat, bare backside…
Thwappp! Thwappp! Thwappp! “From right now you do…” Thwappp! Thwappp! “Exactly as you
are told. Whatever…” Thwappp! Thwappp! “…you are told…” She screamed and struggled, bucked
and leapt under his hand, writhed, flailed her legs so that the blonde thatch there came
and went, started into hysterics…
“I’m going to teach…” Thwappp! “…you how to be…” Thwappp! “…a wife. Train you… Get into
this dress…” There were pink-turning-to-red bars across her ivory-white bottom and she was
screaming. Screaming that he was mad, stupid, that she hated him, that she’d send for the
police and that if he thought she was going to…”
He dropped the strap, held her down very hard indeed and shouted “MUNI!”
“Yes Sahib?” She must have been outside the door; now she looked at Penny, looked at
him…
He raised his voice over the shrieking and howling; “In there, top drawer. Red rubber
straps. Memsahib has to be strapped down…”
“Yes, Sahib…”
He climbed on the bed, straddled his wife and wrenched her arms apart, wrenched one hand
up to the carved wood of the bed-head. “Small strap – fasten this…” It was fairly violent
and very noisy while it lasted; but Muni’s slender chocolate fingers buckled the straps
that secured two pale struggling wrists to the woodwork, Rollo swing round on his
hysterical wife, slapped her legs apart hard, knelt and held them…
“Strap her ankles, Muni…”
“Yes Sahib…”
With Penny spread-eagled on the rumpled bed, on her face and still shrieking and trying
to flounder about, he got to the floor, looked at her.
“Thank you, Muni. You can go now. I’ll call you if I want you.”
Muni decided that now she understood, although she was worried about the twinge of
something incomprehensible between her own legs. The memsahib was Sahib’s wife and even
foreigners would be no different – an unsatisfactory wife had to be beaten. And he had
said that his wife was very unsatisfactory and that her ‘will had to be broken’ – whatever
that meant. It had sounded very strong so now she thought she understood why he was going
to be ‘very strong’ with the woman and why he wanted a servant to help. But the feeling
between her legs when she was doing-up the straps was worrying; because any suggestion of
her own female-sexuality - in her culture – almost always led to the errant female being
doused with kerosene and set alight. But this was her sahib’s house, not her village;
foreigners thought sex was all right - but though he wouldn’t burn her he might dismiss a
female servant who showed signs of sex. So do what he said to do and try to ignore the
fact that strapping the Memsahib’s wrists and ankles seemed to be connected with sex;
concentrate on learning the things Mr Rollo expected of a wife… And not think about how
exciting it would if he said ‘Muni, I’m going to beat you….’
Alone with a now shaking, head-rolling and frantically sobbing Penny, Rollo took a pair
of tailor’s shears from a drawer, sliced through the bunched-up bathrobe and peeled it
aside. Penny jerked and screamed at him…
“No, there are no ‘police’ Penny. I’ve paid them. Shut up…” and he grabbed her long
blonde hair, lifting her face from the bed. “Shut up and listen to me!”
She screamed an obscenity at him, the first he’d ever heard her use. That could easily
be stopped. He turned to the ‘toy drawers’…
He had to yank her hair very hard, yank her head up and back and then do some
nose-twisting and cuff her head a bit before he got the thick red rubber staff of the
penis-gag in: he almost had to yell for Muni again to come and fasten the straps but he
managed… Penny choked and gurgled and writhed but the sounds and shrieks and screams had
at least turned to wet-sounding ugh-ugh noises and the rattle of buckles against the bed’s
woodwork. He stood back and watched her for the long minutes it took her to subside into
just trembling and gurgling; naked like that she was very beautiful - apart from the dark
welts across her round white little-boy backside and the gag-straps in her hair. No, even
more beautiful with her beaten backside and the gag-straps in her hair. The first weeks
would be the most difficult – and that thought caused him to reach into his trouser pocket
to feel for his rising erection – training, correcting, instilling obedience in Penny was
going to be sexual, of course it was; female-obedience is sex, sex is female-obedience.
The big room was almost silent now, thick with the tropical warmth from outside and the
air scented, just faintly, with naked-woman and fright.
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