The home looked like any other found in the miles of suburbia. A regular observer on the street might have noticed that the shades and curtains had been drawn more often than in previous weeks. That strange flashes could be seen illuminating the windows in the dead of night. But other than that, the house appeared perfectly normal.

Even the inside would offer no hint of the unusual. Perhaps the upstairs master closet might appear a bit empty, devoid of the many dresses and other clothes that signified an upscale woman's abode. The ground floor, though obscenely pristine, would yield no abnormalities. Save the screen saver on the office computer, which flashed new pictures every 15 seconds of couples performing lewd and lacivious sex acts.

Head into the basement, though, and you'd immediately sense a difference, a strange turn from the mind-numbing sameness of modern life. Your gaze might be caught by the strange web of ropes, hooks and pulleys attached to wood studs forming the wall on your right. You might be drawn to the long line of arcane and ominous artifacts laid in precise rows upon a table, each vaguely recognizable as a twisted version of a familiar sexual device. Much more likely your eyes would alight upon the wooden contraption in the center of the room. Made of angled planes of black-painted wood, it's purpose wouldn't be immediately discernable, but it would nevertheless appear foreboding. The work of 13 evenings, it would best be described as a mish-mash of seating options, some reclined, some upright, some swiveled, some reversed. Next to it you'd find a plywood board, covered by 25 evenly spaced cup hooks. On each hook hangs a single square of plywood, each evidently covering something on the base board. Finally, nearby you'd see a simple red tool chest, filled with a wide selection of paraphenalia from candles to whips. Not your usual mechanic's tools.

Just 30 hours left, Jack thought as he strode from his car into the kitchen entrance. Thirty hours left in the too long, yet too short, 14 days to redemption. Redemption. He liked the taste of the word. It helped him justify everything he'd put his wife through the last 13 days. The perversions. The embarrassment. The degradation. Redemption took action on her part, while forgiveness would've been just up to him. Truth was, though, that she'd redeemed herself several days ago. She'd put up with everything he'd forced her to do, with barely a hint of protest. She'd let herself be used as a sexual plaything in such a wide variety of perversions that they were all beginning to blur together. She'd redeemed herself by complying with his every order, yet never once looked as though she might judge him for his thoughts or actions. For someone with her religious upbringing, that was a major change.

He stopped in the doorway and watched his wife bustle about the kitchen. She wore nothing but an apron around her waist and black high heels. As she bent over to get a pot from the drawer, he took a moment to admire her soft, proud ass, with its long cleft leading down to a pair of pussy lips that he could now intricately describe in his sleep. Despite the fact that he'd spanked her ass to a nice pink nearly every day, right now it was a pale shade of white. He should've made her do some nude sunbathing to even out her color.

By all that was fair and sporting, he knew he should call a halt to their deal and declare all accounts settled. She'd done everything he'd asked of her. And he, in turn, had already forgiven her in his heart. Everyone had weaknesses. She had discovered that hers was a weakness of the flesh. He had discovered his in graphic detail over the last two weeks. He wouldn't find his in the arms of another woman. Instead, his resided in the darkest recesses of his heart. They involved power. And domination. And revenge.

That's why he wasn't going to call off the night's activities. Not because Kelli had any more to learn. But because he wasn't done having his fun yet. For him, the pleasures of the next 30 hours would greatly outweigh any guilt he might feel. And he'd already proven adept at rationalization. The past two weeks were coming to an explosive conclusion. And he wasn't about to let it pass him by.

"Hrrgh!" he cleared his throat, alerting Kelli to his presence in the doorway. He watched with pleasure as she turned and immediately dropped to her knees, the dinner and everything else immediately forgotten.

"I'm sorry, Master, I didn't hear you come in," she said, her eyes never leaving his feet.

His eyes, on the other hand, hungrily roamed up and down her body. He noted the way the apron demurely covered her thighs and private parts, yet her upper body and breasts were in clear view, just awaiting his touch. Her hands were properly clasped behind her back, and her manner was entirely like that of a women kept in subjugation. She'd learned this lesson very well.

"Is dinner ready?" he asked sternly, stepping into the room until he towered over her.

"Your drink is waiting on the table, sir," she replied, still facing the floor. "Dinner will be ready within five minutes." She said it without inflection, though he could tell that she meant five minutes if he didn't decide to have her perform some sexual task in the meantime. He'd let her be for now. Time enough to indulge himself later. Speaking of which . . .

"Did you have any trouble renewing my prescription?"

"No, sir. It's on the table next to your drink. The doctor says that if this allergy attack lasts too long, you can call him for a stronger dose."

In fact, Jack wasn't suffering from his allergy at all. Instead, the medicine would be a key component of the evening's activities. He'd discovered, strictly by accident, that when combined with small amounts of alcohol, his allergy medicine had the unfortunate side effect of keeping him erect for hours at a time. In addition, a stimulant in the formula would keep him awake and alert for over 24 hours. Perfect for taking advantage of the situation that would soon be unfolding.

Jack carefully led his blindfolded wife down the basement steps, letting the door boom shut with a foreboding finality. He'd spent almost two weeks to get this "playroom" ready, and now he wanted to completely control her exposure to it. Like their past adventures, he'd dictated what she would wear and what they would do. To increase the shock value, he'd blindfolded her. To let her feel how cold and clinical it would be, she walked barefoot on the concrete floor. She wore only the barest of clothing; a tiny triangle of paper between her legs, and two miniscule triangles over her breasts. Enough to just cover the nipples, but not nearly enough to offer any support. Those would be coming off soon, of course. She'd spend most of her time naked, like the slut wife she was.

Slut wife. Bitch. Whore. Fuck toy. He tasted the words on his lips, all used to build up a hard veneer. He could begin to feel the aggressive power growing in him. Just the sight of this beautiful woman, wife or not, trembling at the thought of what might be coming, was enough to start his cock to throbbing. She was, once again, at his mercy. For the next 29 hours she wouldn't be his wife. She'd be his sexual plaything, a living, breathing toy for his pleasure. If he thought of her as his wife, he'd end up denying himself something. There'd be a place or two he wouldn't explore, because he'd fear that she wouldn't like it. There'd be something he'd want to do that he wouldn't. Besides, she'd already proven to like more than he'd anticipated. So it wouldn't be fair for him to hold back, would it?