A Bad Scene, Part 1
by Tigger
Copyright 1996

This is a work of adult fiction, intended for adults who enjoy
stories of this nature, and who read them knowingly within the
existing laws of their locality.  Anyone not meeting all the
above criteria should exit this file, now.



A Prologue

     Even with the stark clarity of hindsight, I am not really
sure how or why it came to pass.  I cannot say I regret that it
happened.   I do regret that it happened the way it did, that I
reacted as forcefully as I did and that it was not done in
private.  I most especially regret that.  And, I think, so does
she.

     This tale is a story of communication and communication
failure, of caring and carelessness, of loving and hurting.  In
short, it is a romance story about fallible human beings who
tried to walk on the fine edge of limits.  In such a story, your
own perception will depend on which side of that edge you choose
to fall on.

Chapter 1: First Contacts/Second Chances

     The message counter blinked imperiously in the dim, gray
darkness of the pitifully small studio apartment.  Exhaustion
blocked out all but the mildest curiosity about the identity of
my caller.  My co-workers would simply have called me at the
office.  More than a few of them had commented recently,
wondering at my sudden interest in long hours at the office.  The
overtime was paying for this place, and besides, where else did I
have to go?  None of my friends would be calling, principally
because I did not really have any - not of my own, in any case. 
I had acquaintances, people who were more friends of my wife than
of me.  I could not think of anyone who was more mine than hers.

     I walked over to the small table where my answering machine
sat and pressed the play button.  I expected a wrong number, a
wordless hangup, or worse yet, a phone solicitation.  What I got
was the voice I had not heard in more than a month.  What I got
was my wife.

     "Mark?" the cheap recorder's tone was tinny.  "This is
Jeanne."  She still used the French pronunciation - "zshenne"
instead of the anglicized "gene".  The sound faltered and I
wondered if the machine was working properly.  Then, in a burst
of sound it squawked, "Could we talk?" What might have been a
soft sob broke in.  "It's time, don't you think?  We could meet
at the Coffee House, and decide where to go from there.  It is
neutral ground and there would be other people around.  Please,
Mark?" Her entreaty held an emotion I did not recognize in the
woman my wife had become in the past year.  "I will wait until
you call." The line went dead and the machine beeped.

     I wondered briefly if it really was time.  It had been six
weeks since I had stormed out of our house and out of her life -
six endless, interminably long weeks since the night I had her. 
Had it been long enough that I could deal with the hurt without
dealing hurt in return?  Conversely, would healing start without
facing her?  Without facing what was left of us?  I picked up the
phone and punched in a number so familiar that I did not have to
look at the keypad to dial it.  The phone had not finished the
first ring when the connection clicked and a breathless voice
said  "The Weston residence.  May I help you?"

     A sardonic grin tugged at my face.  "Ever courteous, eh,
Jeanne?  I will meet you at the Coffee House in half an hour." I
hung up before she could respond - and before I could change my
mind.  

     The Coffee House is nestled in the middle of a little strip
mall on the outskirts of town.  Contrary to what you might think,
it is not some trendy little espresso shop where people dressed
in designer suits sip tar flavored sludge out of little demitasse
cups, while trying to convince themselves that it is a culinary
experience of the first order.  No, this was a little old
fashioned Mom and Pop bakery that served wonderful breads and
cakes, and even better coffee. Matter of fact, everyone in town
called the old couple who owned the place, Momma and Pop.  

     Jeanne and I had discovered it when we first moved to the
area - after I had resigned my commission in the Navy and gone to
work in this area.  Money had been tight back then.  We had not
been able to save much money during my single hitch in the Navy. 
Hawaii is a great place for a pair of young newlyweds to live,
but it is bloody expensive, too.  Like most junior officer
families, we had elected to live in Navy housing, but even so,
Jeanne had been forced to find work just to make ends meet.  The
small savings we had managed to build up in Hawaii had just about
been wiped out when we bought this house.  The mortgage was just
about as much as we could afford, too.  After the making the
monthly payment, not much was left from my paychecks for little
luxuries.  We lived paycheck to paycheck in those days and the
Coffee House had become our treat to ourselves.  A bagel, or a
croissant from Momma's oven and a cup of Pop's dark rich coffee
celebrated many little victories and softened many little
failures.  

     How long had it been since we had last been in there?  One
year?  Maybe longer.  I thought about it for a time.  It gave me
something to do other than get out of the car and go face Jeanne. 
Then it hit me.  We had not been there since before I had been
promoted to Head Project Engineer - since before Jeanne and I had
first experimented with her new interest.

     I got out of my car and walked into the lighted storefront. 
The warming aromas of fresh coffee and hot yeasty bread welcomed
me.  The shop seemed empty.  Instinctively, I turned to the small
corner table that used to be "our table".  She was there, seated
where she always sat, with her back to the store so that I could
sit with my back to the wall and face the room.  Training and
habits, particularly those that save your life, are hard things
to break.

     She must have heard something, because at that moment, she
turned and saw me.  Slowly, she rose from the chair and took one
step towards me, then hesitated and stopped.  My heart raced just
looking at her.

     Jeanne DuLac Weston is a beautiful woman.  At thirty three
years old, women ten years her junior dream of looking half as
good as she does now.  Her silver-blond hair falls loose and
curling to her shoulders.  Her complexion is still as fair and
wrinkle free as when I had first fallen in love with her, twelve
years ago.  Her jewel-bright green eyes still pierce at my very
soul.  

     What stopped my mental inventory of her charms was not how
she looked, or what she was wearing, but what she was not
wearing.  She was dressed in a simple green cowl-necked
fisherman's sweater and green corded jeans.   For the first time
in more than a year, maybe closer to two years, Jeanne was not
wearing her signature black color scheme.  La Diamande Noire, or
the Black Diamond as she had become known among the local scene's
in-crowders, was not here.  She was not wearing heels, either.  I
did not have to look up to see into her eyes.  Flat-heeled
loafers adorned her small feet in place of the three or more inch
tall spikes she had preferred for the last year because they gave
her a height advantage over me. Their absence was a clear
indication that she had not come for yet another battle of wills.
Then why, I wondered.  Hope was a luxury I refused to permit
myself after the last few months.

     Still, seeing her in the comfortably snug sweater and jeans
brought back memories of an earlier, and at least for me, a
happier time.  I had first met Jeanne DuLac during my last year
at the U.S. Naval Academy.  She had been visiting the family of
her college roommate, and had decided to attend a ball given at
the Officer's Club for the First Class Midshipmen.  I had been
immediately taken by her and had asked her to dance. Jeanne is
French Canadian and has a wonderfully husky, softly accented
voice.  Even then I had been planning to become a SEAL upon
graduation from the Academy, and had spent every elective credit
I could spare on courses designed to prepare me for that
demanding goal.  Foreign language proficiency was a plus, so I
had taken every language course the Academy offered.  I made
small talk with her, in French, as we waltzed.  She laughed at my
accent - French spoken with a New England twang.  Her accent made
me light headed - all the blood in my head fell into my groin.

     Neither of us danced with anyone else that night.  By the
time she left her roommate's home to return to college a week
later, we were an "item".  After graduation and commissioning, I
spent every bit of free leave I could muster in an old fashioned
courting.  A year later, after completing my initial SEAL
training, I asked her to marry me.  Six months after that, we
were living together in Hawaii as man and wife.

     If this was a fairy tale, we would have lived happily ever
after. I would have become an Admiral, or at least a Captain,
while she made her mark in her chosen field of commercial art. 
This is not a fairy tale.  Oh, that is not to say we weren't
happy together - we were.  Our married life was wonderful -
beyond my wildest dreams.  And professionally, Jeanne did quite
well as a free lance artist - very well, actually.  She earned an
excellent reputation working for several local advertising
companies.  It was my chosen profession that did not work out.

     A mission went sour.  The particulars are still, and will
probably always remain, classified.  Suffice it to say, someone
on my team got hurt badly and eventually died.  That someone
could easily have been me, but instead, he was a friend, a
teammate.  And he died saving my life at the cost of his own. 
That made me stop and think - what does someone do with a second
chance at life?  Particularly one bought at such a price?  In the
end, I decided that whatever that was, I could not do it if I was
the next one to die on a mission.  I resigned my commission at
the end of my six year obligation to the Navy, determined never
to need or use those special skills again.

     As I said, life with Jeanne was pretty wonderful.  She was
great when I was fighting my way through the agonizing decision
process that ultimately led me to leave the Navy.  She did not
try to influence my choice one way or the other, although I knew
she really hated that my work in the Navy was truly dangerous, or
that she would never know where I was going, when I was leaving
or even when I would be back.  She just listened, and provided
the love and support that got me through those dark times.

     Our sex life was marvelous.  Jeanne was marvelously
inventive and giving in bed, and I felt like the greatest lover
and most loved man in the whole world.  She was completely
uninhibited, and I never knew what she might try next, but I did
learn to call ahead if I was bringing anyone home with me.  More
than once I was pounced immediately after walking through the
front door by Jeanne, in some sexy little nothing (or in nothing
at all), and then dragged off to some part of the house for a
bout of vigorous lovemaking.  Surprised the hell out of my CO
once.  Surprised Jeanne, too, who practically raped me once the
Skipper had made his stammering, apologetic exit.

     Even after I left the Navy, things were still good, at least
at first.  The new job was a good one that, while it required the
engineering degree that the Navy insisted I get at the Academy,
really exercised were the leadership and team building skills
that the SEALs taught me.  The location was really great because
we could live outside of town, own some land and a nice house,
but not have a horrendous commute for me.  

     Jeanne had to reestablish herself as a commercial freelance
artist in the new area, so money was pretty tight for awhile.
Eventually, her talent became recognized and things eased a bit
for us. She set her own hours, chose jobs that interested her,
and, as in Hawaii, made quite a name for herself.

     If anything, the privacy afforded by our new home made
Jeanne even less inhibited in her sex games.  She did things I
could never have brought myself to do, even with the relative
assurance of no one else being involved.  Once I came home from
work and was sent off on a scavenger hunt, with Jeanne as the
prize.  Oh, and before I forget - each clue was wrapped in a
piece of her clothing - all of which were outside the house.  I
eventually found her in a swing contraption she had suspended
over a small brook in the woods behind our house.  She was
completely nude and horny as hell.  Making love in a swing is not
easy, but at least it was summer so the water was warm when we
fell into the stream after one particularly vigorous swing.

     Then, things began to change.  The actual starting point was
fairly innocuous, but gradually it spread into just about every
facet of our lives.  We had been living at the farm for about
four years when Jeanne discovered Anne Rice and her Vampire
Novels.  Jeanne had consumed every word and work like a starving
locust and was searching for more when someone told her of Rice's
works under the noms de plume of Anne Roquelaire and Anne
Rampling.  "Exit to Eden" was a catalyst in Jeanne's life. Lisa
the Perfectionist spoke to her in ways that I still don't fully
understand.  In any case, Jeanne started exploring the world of
kinky sex and lifestyles.

     At the start, it was pretty good - better than just good, it
was great.  For me, her new games were another way of making
love, and a particularly exciting one, at that.  In the early
days, all the games culminated in some of the most mind blowing
sex which I have ever experienced.  And besides, as a hedge to
get me to play with her, Jeanne offered a program of quid pro
quo. If I'd let her 'do' me one night, then I'd get my own chance
another night with her on the receiving end.  

     Jeanne's early play as the top mostly consisted of bondage
games, with lots of teasing and delayed gratification - delayed
for me, that is, not for her.  In fact, one of the things I loved
about those nights was how easily and how often she came when she
would "force" me to pleasure her with my tongue and mouth.  I
won't speak for other men, but when my woman has been loved to
the point of exhausted oblivion, I feel like a kid on Christmas
Day and the toy store is all mine.  Maybe the gratification
wasn't all that delayed, after all.

     Most of my pay backs were not all that kinky.  Some did not
even involve sex.  Although I did have my dinner served by a
naked slave girl a couple of times, and enjoyed prolonged
fellatio while watching a Sunday football game, mostly I just
wanted special loving and TLC.  I think the one thing I asked for
that did upset her was when I did not want sex, but rather asked
her to go with me on a fishing and camping trip, without her
complaining.  She went, and she did not complain about it too
much.  However, once we got back, she carefully renegotiated the
limits on quid pro quo.  No more camping trips.

     Everything would have been fine, at least as far as I was
concerned, except that, gradually, Jeanne grew to want more.  She
started reading everything she could find about dominance and
submission.  It got so I grimaced when the new issue of
Variations or Hustler Letters would hit the newsstand, because I
just *knew* that any D/s scene that was in them would be
reenacted in our bedroom as soon as she could talk me into
playing with her.  And some of those games pushed buttons I did
not really want pushed.

     The flood of memories was stanched when she again moved
toward me, only to falter at the last step when she would have
come into my arms.  How do you greet a lover, someone you love
almost more than life, when you aren't very sure you *like* her
very much any more?  I had never understood the distinction
between liking and loving before; had never understood how you
could love without liking.  Maybe, now, I did.

     Still not knowing what to do, I did nothing.  I kept my
hands in my pockets and looked at her, standing there.  A
shameful frisson of pleasure tickled through me as I saw
uncertainty, disappointment, hurt and maybe just a bit of fear
flash across her suddenly expressive face.  One of the things I
had always loved about my Jeanne was how easily her emotions
played on her face.  One of the things I'd come to hate about La
Diamande Noire was the hard, emotionless visage she wore when she
tested me.

     She sighed, and tried to smile up at me.  "Hello, Mark. 
Thank you for coming."

     "Hello, Jeanne." God I have missed her so.  "You are right. 
It is time." She turned on her heel and led me back to the table. 
I seated her and then took my own seat.  Momma bustled up with a
tray and set two huge sandwiches in front of us.

     "You two eat, first.  I don't know what has happened but it
will be easier to fix it if you aren't hungry.  Coffee?"

     Jeanne nodded, but I asked for a cup of Poppa's
decaffeinated blend.  Jeanne's brows rose in surprise.  "Decaf? 
You hate decaf."

     I took out a pill bottle and took my medication.  "Doctor's
orders.  My blood pressure went a little high two weeks ago.  He
thinks it is only temporary, but it was bad enough to require
medication and that does not mix with caffeine well."

     She sat there looking at me, her eyes round, as she
considered the possibilities.  Then a thought hit her and her
eyes narrowed.  She gave me a piercing look.  "But you never go
to the Doctor's.  You *hate* going to the Doctor's.  How did he
know you had high blood pressure?"

     I took a bite of the sandwich to try and avoid answering.  I
was not proud of this, but Jeanne is like a pit bull with a bone
when she cares about something and she simply sat there staring
at me chew.  Once I swallowed, she put her hand over my sandwich
to prevent a recurrence and stated.  "I asked you a question."

     Wearily, I sat back in the chair.  "I had a dizzy spell at
work.  They sent me to the emergency room, and I was kept
overnight for observation.  The doctor stabilized me, and put me
on pills to control the condition until he can figure out what
stressors are causing the problem."

     "And you did not call me??" she practically shouted.

     "No.  I did not want you to know.  I did not want you to
worry."

     She sat quietly, simply looking at me with her brows
furrowed.  Then she broke - her shoulders hunched over and she
began to cry bitterly.  I moved over to her, the instinctive need
to comfort my woman overriding any other response, but she would
not let me.  "It is my fault, isn't it?  My damned perverted
games drove you away and made you ill.  My God, they don't
prescribe medication for high blood pressure unless it is
dangerously or uncontrollably high."  Her sobs were wracking her
now, and nothing I did comforted her.

     Momma came out of the kitchen and saw her crying in my arms
and went over to the entrance and locked it.  She flipped the
sign to closed, lowered the blinds and tiptoed back into the
kitchen.  Well, at least we would have privacy.

     Finally, I shook her, hard.  Her head snapped and she looked
up at me, eyes still wide and wet.  "That's enough, Jeanne." She
shook her head and I shook her again, even harder.  "That is
enough." I spoke the words slowly, making each syllable distinct
and separate.  "Drink this." I handed her the glass of water from
the table.  She gripped the glass with both hands and sipped from
it.  "Okay, now the truth is that our separation is probably a
factor in my condition, but then so is my work which has not been
going well lately.  It could also be some other medical
condition.  The doc does not know, but after all the poking,
prodding and bleeding I have done of late, he had better know
soon."

     "But if I hadn't.."

     I cut her off.  "Work would still be a problem, as would
whatever else might be causing this.  As it was, I went and got
help.  If it had not been that bad, I probably wouldn't have. 
You are right.  I do hate the doctor's."

     By now, she was sitting in my lap, still quivering from the
emotional explosion of a few moments earlier.  Suddenly, she
stood.  "Mark, I have to leave.  I have to deal with this.  Can
we please agree to meet again?  In a couple of days?  I don't
think I can handle any more tonight." Her face entreated me, but
I was worried.  I had never seen her like this and I was afraid
for her.

     "You are okay to go home?  You won't do anything stupid?  I
would blame myself if you hurt yourself over this."   I threw
that in, hoping to take advantage of any residual guilt she might
be feeling.

     She took a deep breath and shook her head.  "I would not do
that to you, Mark.  And I like to believe that I am not that much
of a coward.  I just need some time alone to deal with this."

     I thought for a moment and then nodded.  "Jeanne?" She
looked at me.  "I will call the doctor tomorrow and tell him he
can discuss my case with you.  So you will know that I am in no
danger, and that our problems are only a part of the picture,
okay?" She nodded jerkily.  "You okay to drive home?" 

     "I'll be fine, Mark.  Don't worry." She retrieved her jacket
and then saw suitcase that had been beneath it.  Carefully, she
picked it up, hefted it as if testing its weight, then turned
back to me.  "This is for you, Mark, to do with as you please. 
If we can work things out, as I hope we can, you will decide if,
when or on who on any of that gets used, again."

     Curious, I reached out to take the black leather case from
her hand.  It was surprisingly heavy. Impulsively, she moved in,
came up on her toes, and kissed me on the cheek.  She then bolted
off with a hurried goodbye leaving me standing there, the weight
of the bag pulling at my arm.

     Poppa came in then with two steaming cups.  He looked around
before turning to me, his eyebrows raised in question.  "Your
lady gone to the restroom?"  His Old Country accent still
thickened his words.

     I shook my head.  "She had to leave." was all I said.

     Poppa set the cups down and told me to sit back down.  "And
neither of you have eaten Momma's lovely sandwiches.  Sit, sit."
he barked as I tried to get back up.  "Eat your sandwich and
drink your coffee." I started to argue, but stopped when I saw
the look in his eye.  "Now, are you going to get back together
with her?" Warily, I eyed this old man who was poking his nose in
my business.  "Well, are you?  Momma and I have watched over you
two for years now, and if ever two people were meant to be
together more than you, I have not seen them.  'Cept for Momma
and me, that is." He gave me an elfin grin.

     "We are going to get together to talk again.  I think we
are, anyway.  She said we would, but I don't know where that will
lead."

     "Where do you want it to lead?  You belong together.  What
does it take to accomplish that?"

     "But you don't understand.."

     He gave me a sardonic look.  "Oh, but I think I have a good
idea, at least of what Jeanne thinks is the problem.  She was
pretty loud a little while back.  I think it was 'Her damned
perverted games', or something like that.  She probably got you
involved in some kinky sex play, probably with her on top and
with you as her little slave or some such.  Something went
wrong."  I must have been staring at him because he grinned
suddenly.  "Close your mouth, boy, after you fill it with more of
Momma's food."

     I did as directed, but still tried to talk around the food,
so great was my surprise.  "But, how did you...  I mean... " I
did not know what I meant.  I was just shocked that this nice old
man could know about such things.

     He laughed aloud at my amazement.  "Every generation thinks
that they invented sex and sexy games.  You don't live faithfully
with the same woman for forty years without finding ways to
relight the spark.  Some games flame and some games flame out. 
It is called compromise." 

     I finished my sandwich and Poppa wrapped up Jeanne's
untouched one.  "Mark, you go home and think about something for
me.  You think about being my age and being alone.  Think about
all the years you have to spend with that woman of yours and how
it would feel to look back on them from my age and not have spent
them with her.  Then think about what caused your breakup and
decide if fixing that is harder than looking back like that." He
handed me the wrapped sandwich and I started to leave.  "Hey,
Mark, don't forget that." he said pointing to the overnight case.

     I picked it up and headed out into the night.  Funny thing,
though.  As I left, I could have sworn I heard Poppa ask Momma
if, since they had closed early, she might like to indulge in a
little game of slap and tickle.


Chapter Two.  Memories

     A flood of reminiscence blurred the drive to my apartment. 
Over the next few months, Jeanne came to, I don't know else to
describe it, came to feast on the responses she pulled out of me
when we were playing with her on top.  I didn't know what it was
she derived from them, but it was obvious when she was getting
it, and when she was not.  And the closer to the edge I felt, the
more isolated from that thinking, rational core that centers me
emotionally I became as a result of what she did to me, the more
satisfying her emotional repast.  Once I figured that out, I
tried to give those responses and queues to her during whatever
scenario we were involved in at the time, but she always seemed
to knew when I wasn't really feeling *it*.  

     Like during role playing games, for instance.  Role playing
was okay, but she and I both knew it was a game and that stopped
being enough for her - she wanted, needed more.  She needed real
reactions, real responses, real feedback.  She needed affirmation
that what she was doing was *getting* to me.

     She tried dressing me in women's clothes, but I looked so
ridiculous, I couldn't stop laughing long enough to take it or
her seriously.  And I could not take her "blackmail threats"
seriously, either.

     Pain or sensation play was another flop.  There just isn't
much she can do that approaches the pain I dealt with and
overcame every day of SEAL training.  The SEALs taught me to
accept and control pain without conscious thought.  My capacity
for pain and my ability to function normally in spite of it is
scary.  Hell, on that last mission, I had towed an injured
teammate to the pickup boat through salt water with a dozen or
more shrapnel wounds in my backside and a bullet hole in my
thigh.  Without causing me real and serious injury, she simply
could not break through my training in one of her scenes .

     That left humiliation play as the remaining arrow in her
quiver, but it was definitely a sharp and double barbed one. It
hurts going in and it hurts coming out.  For all my training, all
my self confidence and assurance, I could be 'had' when she took
shots at my macho self image.  

     This fragility of ego has its roots in my adolescence.  I
reached my physical maturity later than my peers and because of
that, had never been an "in-crowd person" in my youth.  There was
also the "incident" as my mother used to call it.  The police
called it assault.  In fact, part of my reason for going to the
Naval Academy, and later, for making the SEALs my career goal in
the Navy, was a need for self affirmation.  I guess there has
always been this uncertain little boy inside my soul bellowing to
the world, "SEE? I *am* tough."   Jeanne heard him yelling, and
in her La Diamande Noire persona, arrowed her increasingly sharp
and pointed taunts directly at him.    

     Our sessions together, with her as top, would be sprinkled
with little jibes about how other people would react to seeing me
in that situation, or how her girlfriends might laugh at me in
whatever predicament she had put me.  Trips to the shopping mall
became trials by fire.  She would hold lingerie against me in the
women's section of stores, as if assessing each piece for fit and
style.  Once, she had asked a sales person if a certain dress
came in a size 14, all the while staring pointedly at me.  

     I told myself that I tolerated these games because the sex
following them was so fantastic.  I would fall on her like a
ravening animal after those scenes.  The only reason it wasn't
rape was because she was just as aroused as I was.  Truthfully, I
was almost certainly trying to reassert my manhood after her
demolition of my pride, by fucking her senseless.

     Since Jeanne became involved in BDSM, I have heard and read
a variety of definitions and precepts for these games, for D&S. 
What works for me, however, is that Dominance and Submission, in
simplest terms, is consenting, within reason and within mutually
agreed upon limits, to giving someone permission to push your
buttons without retaliation.  And Jeanne pushed mine - hard. 
Sometimes, I had to exert tremendous control on my emotions to
avoid saying or doing something nasty during or after one of
these scenes.

     Limits became the key.  My SEAL-taught skills and reactions 
are outside the normal experience.  Physical restraints are not a
reliable way of containing me.  Even after years out of the Navy
and out of training, I am still limber enough that I can get out
of most ropes, even when professionals tie me up.  Additionally,
I only need about 3 inches of free play in a restraint, such as
hand cuffs or manacles, to be able to strike out and inflict
serious injury.  

     As a result, I have cultivated rigid controls over my
emotions (particularly on my temper), and over my situational
reactions.  The danger I could pose to anyone near me when I am
in a rage became evident on that last mission.  I do not like
remembering what I did to the terrorist who had killed my friend. 
But I do remember, and the deeper I permitted Jeanne to take us
into her games, the greater my anxiety became.  I trusted her
intentions implicitly, but judgement and execution can be
fallible.  What would happen if she uncovered some hidden little
shame, some trigger that should have been left untouched in the
dark, and press it?  What would happen if I lost my careful
controls?  I did not dare let that happen.

     I was just too sensitive to her verbal taunts and insults
even though I *knew* that she did not really believe or mean
them.  They were simply her best, most expedient tool to achieve
her goals during a scene.  They were rough in the privacy of our
own home with just the two of us involved, but in the presence of
other people, and in particular, in the presense of other men,
their power increased geometrically.  Initially, I had a hard
limit that no one else would be directly involved in her play. 
Only she and I could know what was really going on.

     That changed after Jeanne met Vera Saunders, the wife of one
my company's vice presidents, at a company function.  Something
clicked between the two women.  They grew very close, almost like
sisters, and spent a lot of their free time shopping or visiting
one another at home.  One such visit set in motion the chain of
events that, to this point, has nearly sundered my marriage. 

     Jeanne and I had played out one of her scenes the night
before that fateful get together.  We had not been as careful
putting away our toys as we should have been. Vera had seen a
leather wrist cuff peeking out from beneath the sofa.  Not only
had she seen it, but she had recognized it for what it was. 

     She recognized it because she owned several just like it. 
She had been using them on her own husband for years.   

     Such was the growing intimacy between the two women that
everything came out into the open between them - our
relationship, the quid pro quo nature of our games, and Jeanne's
growing dissatisfaction with the intensity level of our play.

     Vera understood all those feelings, having felt them herself
early on in her own development as a domme.  In her case, her
husband Ed had introduced her to the professional Mistress whom
he had served before falling in love with Vera.  That woman had
become Vera's teacher, friend, mentor and confidante as she
gradually took control of her marriage and her husband.  

     Vera offered to perform those roles for Jeanne.  

     This posed a problem for Jeanne.  She wanted to accept
Vera's offer, but I had been particularly adamant that there was
to be no sexual contact with anyone else in the context of these
scenes.  That night, after I got home, Jeanne formally requested
that we renegotiate that limit, so that she could include Vera in
some of our play.  I had been hesitant, mostly because of that
macho thing again, but at least partly from a desire not to share
our intimacy with an outsider.  Ultimately, I relented, and
agreed to have Vera join in our play from time to time.  For
their part, Jeanne and Vera promised that all the rest of
Jeanne's and my negotiations would stand.

     So Vera had become Jeanne's mentor, and things immediately
became much more intense - to Jeanne's pleasure and to my dismay. 
It was Vera introduced Jeanne into a club in a nearby city that
catered to D/s type games, and it was Vera who had nicknamed her,
"La Diamande Noire" - the Black Diamond - in honor of her favored
color scheme and of her particularly hard brand of play.  I never
accompanied them to those public scenes, but Vera always made a
point of telling me how popular Jeanne had become with all the
male submissives at the club.  It was her favorite and most
effective way of goading me during a scene - letting me know how
inadequate my submission was when compared to the submission that
others, who *desired* to serve my wife, could give her.
