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Author’s Note: This was written for a girlfriend of mine many years ago. She chose the motif for me to write about. All flames should be directed towards her. Alas, I know not where she is.

Her eyes adjusting to the faint glow of the monitor’s lights, she awoke. Every inch of her skin was cold, but that was to be expected after ten years in thermo freeze. The room was not as she remembered it. Once shiny metal cabinets were now covered with dust; debris littered the floor. She glanced over at the three other thermo tanks in the room, there lights were out. This meant that her companions had already evacuated or more likely that they were dead.

Slowly, she lifted herself off the bed on which she lay, ducking her head to avoid the glass cover which had protected her for the last ten years. She walked stiffly over to the next tank. Commander Barton’s body was still inside, while her pulse and respiratory indicators showed her to be dead. The other two tanks, which were reserved for the two men of the crew, also contained bodies with no detectable respiration or heartbeat. She was the only surviving member of her squad.

There were nearly a hundred squads of four in isolated control rooms like this. They were separated by several hundred miles. The rational behind this was that when the bombs started to fall at least one-third of the control rooms were expected to survive. After the nuclear winter had eliminated all human life the chosen ones would emerge from suspended animation and start over; at least those who survived would.

Her name was Jessica Martin, an architect, art historian, construction engineer and most important a fertile female. By her acceptance into the Savior’s program, she had agreed to become the mate of one of the members of her squad. He was a loathsome man with a genius level I.Q. This requirement had almost made Jessica reject the program’s offer, but she had wanted to survive the holocaust. It was almost a relief that his life support system had failed. Unfortunately, the only two other members of the Saviors program who could help her were also dead.

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I am a dominant wife, and I dearly love to crush the male.

We’ve been married one year. I’m 29 and Gene is 26. I stand 5’10”, measure 37-25-36, and have won several beauty contests. Gene is 5’7″ and slender, and only his money attracted me. At age 23, he inherited a thriving business when his parents died; at 24, he inherited considerable stocks and bonds from an aunt. When we dated, and I discovered he could be completely dominated, I decided to share the wealth. He proposed, and learned he would have to be my slave. He agreed.

Even before the wedding I sought other couples to share fun and games. I found two perfect pairs. Bill and Ginger are 31; Don and Phyllis are 30. Each couple is socially prominent and dedicated to female domination. Bill and Don are big, muscular men who, unlike Gene, are bisexual. Although I ridicule and discipline Gene daily, Saturday night he is humiliated and punished by others.

We arrive at Ginger’s house about 9 pm. Each wife prepares her slave in a separate room. I know Bill and Don will wear rubber jockstraps and be unbound. I make Gene strip, fold his arms up against his back, and with cuffs and short chains I lock his hands to a collar. Naked and helpless, he is marched into the game room to stand at attention near us. Don and Bill, making drinks, pause and run their eyes warmly over Gene’s body.

The men kneel alongside our chairs while we three girls visit. Soon I designate one of the men to watch Gene and report if he relaxes his attention pose. When he does, Ginger or Phyllis gives him several hard swats with a paddle. One of them suggests nipple rings as further punishment. A heavy steel ring is snapped onto the tip of each nipple, and Gene’s penis rises and swells instantly. We girls laugh at his slim six inches and I tell him how inept he is as a lover.

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“Hi Craig.” she said as we passed in the hallway, “remember me?” It isn’t that I didn’t recognize her, it’s just that I didn’t expect to ever run into her again. Hilary had graduated from the university some four or five years earlier, and it is pretty unusual for former students to return to visit beyond a year or two after graduation.

“Well hello Hilary, what are you doing here?” I replied, a little surprised, since I didn’t remember her being overly friendly with me, especially since I was merely on the staff at this university, and not one of the faculty.

Hilary explained that she had been invited back to give a guest lecture to the current students on the life of a working actress on the road with bus and truck musicals.

These are revivals of old standard musicals, usual a performing vehicle for some fading variety star of twenty years ago, like Robert Goulet or Debbie Reynolds. They go from city to city playing anywhere from one day to a couple of weeks. It can mean being on the road for months at a time. The name comes from the fact that the scenery travels in a truck, and the performers in a bus. The hours are long and the work grueling, and the hotel rooms are all the same. However, the pay can be excellent, and competition for the roles is tough. If you can last it out on the road for any length of time, you are good, and you are tough.

And Hilary was tough. When she was a theatre student, she was not one your stars-in-the-eyes innocent acting students. Quite the contrary, as the daughter of professional performers, she knew what it took to succeed, and because of that she worked hard at her craft. After four years of intense study, she had developed into a talented singer, actress and dancer.

Her biggest drawback as a performer was that she was small. Petite is perhaps a better word. Standing barely five feet tall, Hilary was not the standard show girl type. All the more need for talent and sheer will to get ahead in the business.

Her small stature was never a drawback in my book. Being on the short side of average height myself, I always had a preference for small women. And Hilary fit my ideal almost to a ‘T’. At five foot, she may have weighted ninety five pounds or so, but her small body was exquisitely shaped and well packed to boot, her shape reminded me of Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing. When she was still a student I can remember watching her rehearse, and being fascinated with her small taut round thighs and her pert tits, that jiggled so nicely when she danced. My pulse would quicken rise whenever she was dancing on stage and an actor would lift her so that her costume would rise to reveal her high round butt encased in lycra and lace. She was the kind of vision that would occupy both my sleeping and waking dreams. I spent much of my time back stage watching her great little ass.

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This is my first posting … I have more to share in the future if you like this, but must post anonymously, since I am a senior manager at a Fortune 100 company and knowledge about my extra-curricular activities would cause the end of my career.

It was hot and steamy as we arrived at the airport in Brisbane for the long journey home to Boston. This was the end of a month-long campervan vacation in Australia, and I, for one, was overjoyed to be heading back to some normalcy. For an entire month my wife Anne (I call her “the queen”) had avoided sex in the campervan, or anywhere else for that matter, since “the children are nearby.” – The irony of her way of thinking will be evident shortly.

Actually, she is not very interested in sex anytime, since she was taught by her mother that sex was “dirty.” The only time she ever saw her parents making love, they were fully clothed (hike up the skirt, dear – I’ll just quickly unzip.) Sometimes I wonder how we ever ended up with three children; one is grown and on her own, the two boys (Ralph, 17 and Trevor, 14) were with us on holiday. Because I travel regularly, I have opportunity for other sexual outlets during the year, but four plus weeks within close quarters with a demanding uptight woman does not give you much opportunity to develop alternatives.

I had some first class upgrade coupons, but at check-in time was told there was only one seat available. Anne immediately volunteered because of her “potential for a bad back,” and was seated in 3A. The boys and I were given 21K/L and 22L. This was aisle and window seating in the 2-5-2 configuration, and the last two rows in the second section. I took the single seat, and let Ralph and Trevor sit together for the first ten-hour segment of the flight.

An attractive woman dressed in a loose sweater and very tight blue jeans took the seat next to me. I could see that Ralph was uncomfortable and maybe even a little jealous, since he kept turning around to talk to me, but she was too old (29) to be interested in him. She introduced herself as Christine, “You can call me Chrissy.” She was about five foot eight, light brown (almost blond) long hair, a nice ass – firm and high, breasts with an impact even through her shapeless sweater, and obviously in good physical condition.

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I met a guy through a personal column, and he came over to my place one night to get acquainted. We were sitting there that night, having a drink, with the lights low, and we walked to my bedroom window. There was a guy across the lane, jacking off. Boy, was Peter surprised.

Up to that time, besides my preoccupation with solo-sex, my sexual experiences had all been with guys who went on to date girls and marry. Peter identified himself right from the beginning as being gay, and made it clear that he had never been interested in girls and never would be. He had advertised for a “male friend”, and I had answered.

Peter was exactly my height, 6’2″, of European extraction, and spoke with a slight accent. He had a lot of class, and I found him very attractive, although just a bit feminine in his speech and mannerisms. He was nineteen, with dark hair and striking features, and I must say I was pleased with his broad shoulders, extremely small waist and moderately large basket. He was wearing grey flannel slacks and a T-shirt, and I was wearing a T-shirt and white jeans.

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