Chapter One

Who Am I?

 

As you may have guessed, Gillian Ormendroyd is not my given name and is simply a pseudonym to protect myself and those I love from the usual sneers and jibes likely to come their way were I to place my real identity to the fore.

These "usual sneers and jibes", it must be said, emanating from those poor souls who will always seek the comfort of the herd while feeling only resentment for those not content to follow all the norms as stipulated by the moral ground-swell holding sway at any given time.

That such norms are talked up by those in power as the desired status quo for all who wish to be a useful and "aspirational" addition to the "big society" - even as those espousing the blanket normality that makes a people so much easier to govern and more willing to buy goods and services follow a more individual path of their own - should not surprise us. For if a sometimes cold and ruthless pragmatism is the defining component of both the politician, the oligarch, and the self-interested of any colour or creed, then hypocrisy is seldom very far from the decision-making process likely to enrich them further in either power or income.

But enough of that.

Suffice it to say, that if you feel there is a lack of personal disclosure regarding your author in this foreword, you need only read the above to know the reason why.

The less information that might lead someone to my identity, the better I like it.

And the safer I feel.

What I will divulge is that I am English by birth and have seen enough of my fellow countrymen and - it has to be confessed - women to know that the Gallic passion for revolution and the barricades is not a constant in our natures.

Tame concession to either monarchy or president is not intrinsic to the French way but seems endemic on our island, with its one civil-war and various swiftly quashed rebellions supplying eloquent testimony on the subject of the English desire for a quiet, sometimes bovine, life.

And yet, take a step outside the norm of what is considered acceptable English behaviour (I deliberately exclude the rest of the Union from my generalizing) and the vengeful wrath of a Robespierre or Danton will seem as nothing to the opprobrium and misery brought down upon one's head by that aforementioned herd and those hypocrites who fuel their base prejudice from no more pressing a moral imperative than venal self-advancement.

Wrath fetched down upon an undeserving head simply because of that head's harmless and private wish to live life in a way of its own desire and choosing.

Though, in this case it must be said, it is a life of my choosing and mine alone.

My husband would, I am certain, hold a completely conflicting view upon the subject.

And certainly my description of it as "harmless".

Yet for those of you about to read this part autobiographical and part fictional recreation (you must work out which is which for yourselves) of how I took control of the triad - my life, my marriage, and my husband himself - I must state, and with an emphasis that will no doubt make me seem as hypocritical as those described above, my love for my husband and the joy he provides me remains as bright and undimmed as it did when we first met and I cannot imagine my feeling in his regard ever changing.

It is as well to state this now as the pages you are about to flick through with varying degrees of distaste, desire and, yes, boredom perhaps, are unlikely to make you take any other part on the subject than that of my long-suffering and, now, thoroughly obedient, partner.

So be it.

I would never deny that the choices I have insisted upon if we are to stay together are more favourable to me than my husband.

How could I?

But I also believe that he is a better man for having conceded to his weakness and allowed me to take the reins both socially, financially and sexually.

You will have guessed, and if you haven't I confess, that this is no more than an attempt to pre-empt opprobrium on your parts and I am more than aware you will have your own views on the levels of my ruthlessness, desire to control, and sheer sexual perversity.

But there it is, I can say no more on the subject in my own defence and must now let you judge for yourselves.

Chapter Two

What I Wanted

 

My earliest memories of childhood do not include any examples of naturally dominant behaviour, with either boys or girls, and yet the base metal must have been there to some degree.

What else, after all, would explain the sight of the still handsome middle-aged man kneeling silently with his nose to the wall in a corner of the study where I type these words?

My husband.

Ordered there for his latest, minor, flouting of the rules set for his behaviour.

Rules set by me.

The sight of him there, kneeling schoolboy-like in the presence of some Victorian martinet of an educator as he waits for her permission to rise and repent of his wrongdoings, is a sight that would have been unthinkable no more than four years distant - and still is to even those friends and family who know us as intimates.

Now, though, it is no more than the norm in our household when we are alone together and a mild way of showing him my displeasure for his behaviour.

The more excessive forms of my disapproval we will come to shortly and if it upsets you to read of a formerly proud man who is now forced to bend a supple neck to his imperious wife - many times to place a kiss of contrition upon the toe of a shoe it's his duty to keep polished - then I would urge you once again to go the refund route, close, delete or burn, now.

I promise you, the more... drastic... examples of the respect I have trained my husband to show me, be they symbolic or otherwise, are hardly likely to prove any the more palatable to you if a description of nothing more sadistic than an insistence upon the simple placement of male lips upon female footwear as a show of both respect and contrition is found offensive.

I must also say that, despite the above, I am not an active feminist nor am I a member of any Female Supremacist group.

But I am an avid reader on the subject of the dominant female and have an extensive collection of non-fiction and its erotic and more creative counterpart.

Housed in our loft away from the prying eyes of guests, you understand.

A lack of quality reads in respect of the latter kind having led me to write a book with elements of the slightly more readable former and, with fingers firmly crossed, hoping the mix will supply both author and reader pleasure in the so doing.

I make it plain right from the start that I have no interest in stories - real or otherwise concerning women who provide a service for submissive males simply to boost their finances or make ends meet.

Not even, I hasten to add, for those of my sex who enjoy acting in such a way as well as raking in the cash.

Let's face it, a paying customer calls the shots.

Whether he insists on having his buttocks lacerated with either cane or tawse he is the one in charge. As a paying customer it's his choice when it comes to what he wants to receive and, more importantly, when it stops and whether he decides to return. He has all the control and any boundaries (there should be none in my view) are his to set.

While I'm on the subject, I can't abide these so-called "enlightened couples" who partake of the usual tame, boring and unconvincing, role-play and trot the fact out to friends as if it's a badge-of-honour and they should be regarded as role-models for couples with a desire to keep their sex-lives fresh and be seen to exist at some kind of cutting-edge level.

If I'm acting out a scenario then, ipso facto, it's not real and, again, I'd probably be adopting a role more likely to buy into a man's fantasies than anything approaching the reality that sets my own juices to flowing.

Leather?

Latex?

Rubber and cling-film?

Forget it.

Ditto: BDSM paraphernalia likely to heap ridicule upon the head of the woman wielding or wearing such kit while the man requesting it, and as per usual, gets off with the usual nudge-nudge and/or amused contempt.

This is and remains not what I wanted.

What I did want was simply put:

I wanted it all.

I wanted the comfort and reassurance of a lovely home, financial security, and the respect that goes along with it; but I also wanted a man in my life who accepted that his primary purpose was to both please me and take pride from my being pleased with him. Someone to act upon my every need and desire - sometimes before I was aware of them myself; so well-trained and attuned to the needs of his superior would he be. A husband, in short, who would exert his every sinew to earn the praise and acceptance he would learn being obedient to my every whim could earn.

None of which means I wanted some submissive pantywaist who got off on my domination.

Of course, if my conditioning of him resulted in such an eventuality - and I would have preferred him to resent it even as his sexuality began to respond to my control - that would have been a quite different matter.

What I wanted was a man who is considered strong, at least by his fellow men, yet bent like a bulrush before a tornado in the face of my female authority.

And sprang back into position ready-to-serve after its passing without being so beaten and demoralised he was unrecognisable from the man to whom I'd first been attracted.

A husband not despised for the deference he showed to his wife but regarded in the wider world as someone worthy of respect - even as he donned an apron and went about his household chores behind the closed doors of the marital home.

A tall order and no doubt you think I was, like most dreamers, setting totally unattainable goals.

That being the case, then you might have some difficulty squaring your thoughts with the fact that, when I decide to take a rest from writing this and consider my husband suitably reprimanded, I will call him from his corner where he currently kneels with nose to recess and have him crawl to the feet still enclosed in my work shoes and have him kiss them, unavoidably sweaty aroma through my hose or not, until I am certain he has learned his lesson.

For this is what I always wanted and this is what I now have.

A man strong enough to place my needs before those of his own in both a domestic and a sexual setting while, at the same time, weak enough to know he is nothing without my guidance and the firm hand that now leads him through life.

A loving hand despite the many sacrifices and, yes, indignities, he must accept to be its beneficiary.

Be patient now.

I intend to overlook nothing of the quick and pay as little attention to the dead as possible; so you may be sure we will soon come to his experiences at my hands, feet, and any other part of my anatomy that takes my fancy at a given time.

The above said, and with complete honesty and conviction, there is something else I also wanted along with that unlimited control over my partner.

Something I knew from my Web correspondence thousands of women out there just like me wanted and no doubt still do.

Something that, from my experience, is what's wanted by all self-determining and take-charge women who wish to live at least a semi-normal life but find control a sexual turn-on desire equally as much.

Namely?

Respect.

And not just from the husband or partner trained to accept one's superiority over him but from those every day contacts we both share, be they family, friends, colleagues, employees, or simply envious onlookers.

A tough ask, given my desires?

Perhaps.

If I were of a type to enjoy the more outlandish and attention-seeking aspects of BDSM - something it must seem obvious by now that I do not - then maybe so.

But believe me, just as there is more than one way to skin the proverbial tom-cat, so are there ways of dressing and acting without the use of the latex and whips that imply female authority.

And implying it just as effectively.

And certainly more satisfyingly.

Ways that ensure we remain in the mainstream, in terms of 'look' anyhow, and place us under the radar of both herd and hypocrite alike.

The aim being to exercise complete and utter control over one's male partner without finding oneself excluded from the usual social whirl and finding oneself on the end of the dread and maddening pointed finger.

Metaphysical or otherwise.

Believe me, if it's done correctly and with intelligence, then the control you exercise with more severity and less inhibition indoors and away from outside eyes can be exercised just as effectively - if less extensively - when in the company of family, friends and colleagues.

Outdoors or in.

In my case, this has led to the envy of my female friends and family who find my husband's deference to me quite charming - though I'm sure the husbands aren't so fulsome in their praise; even if they still seem to regard my man as just that still.

And yes, a few of those female friends and family have even whispered in my ear what a turn on it is to see a man:

"Minding his better half".

They have no idea!

Of course, when one thinks of all the multitudinous male fetishes and those tools in the form of couture at our disposal, one wonders why we haven't brought the male-beast to heel with more totality. Heels, hose, and everyday outfits being as effective in this respect as they are stereotypical. The severe headmistress and authoritative businesswoman look to name but two.

Make use of this.

If going with a stereotype achieves ones ends in making a man more biddable and brings him to his rightful position in one's life, then why not?

I for one enjoy dressing in such a way and can anyone truly say such a look is more stereotypical and obvious than the BDSM examples in latex and rubber offered above?

Without sounding pompous and self-satisfied, my aim with this book is to impart some real-life experience and I intend what's to follow for those women who've always hankered for control over their man.

Wives, mothers and girlfriends who've been too clueless or conditioned up to this point - perhaps both - to act on their imaginations.

Those women trapped in relationships of 24/7 dissatisfaction with only long-held, and seemingly beyond their reach, fantasies to help make the vanilla lovemaking of their husbands and the overspill into a mundane married life at least semi-bearable.

That stated, don't take what I've already said the wrong way.

Sure, I don't want all the male-fantasy crap usually associated with "Dominant Mistress" syndrome.

But that doesn't mean I don't want my husband to be my slave and acknowledge the fact.

Even if it is in his head only and not a signed and sealed contract.

More's the pity.

Actually, when thinking about it, the proscription of actual slavery - and rightly so; I'm not a monster I'll have you know - make the actual ownership of a fellow living and breathing human even more thrilling.

Tacit, rather than legally enforceable, or not.

I mean: what pleasure can even the most entrenched female member of the herd take from having what every other woman has?

Sacher Masoch had Wanda take "Gregor" to another country to begin his service to her; a country in which slavery was illegal, precisely for that reason.

"What value is there in possessing a slave in a country where it is considered no more than the norm?"

"Venus im Peltz", I have to admit, was not a novel that made much impact upon me; mainly for the hero's submission to his idee fixe being of the consensual and sought after variety.

Male wish-fulfilment again.

So please excuse the above quotation if it isn't an exact replica of its original.

Hopefully you will get my drift regardless.

Anyway, I realise this has been a somewhat lengthy preamble and that you are anxious to get to the "Cash-prize", as it were, but it has been necessary to make sure you know I'm committed to the lifestyle I've chosen for us both and not simply another game-player who sees a few ersatz and superficial experiences in the "scene" as something to be regurgitated into a money-making proposition.

Never that!

Shortly, I will introduce you to my husband and explain just how I reprogrammed him to become the most obedient and respectful servant a wife could possible want.

And can do no more than revere me as his owner.

Even as he hates me for having so successfully altered and conditioned his inner-wiring.

His name is "Hugh" and below is my motivation and how I went about achieving it.