Folie à Deux: A Novel of Erotic Obsession

Excerpt

My name is Melissa G. I am, among many other far more embarrassing things that you will learn about me if this missive catches your fancy, a Board Certified psychiatrist in private practice in a major West Coast city. I am also a wife for several years now, and this memoir is being written in parallel with one composed by my husband, Eric. Actually, he is a good deal more than just my husband; he is also my…well, I guess there’s no more accurate term than the one that makes a certain telltale organ between my legs demonstrate the signs that are its sole means of communicating its approval: Master.

Now you might reasonably wonder what exactly I mean when I call him by this rather heavily charged name. Well, I’ll tell you: it means that when we are together and either of us feels an erotic hankering, we have choices of which most other couples probably don’t avail themselves. We have a series of code words that we have worked out to let each other know exactly what each of us desires in the way of naughty fun without breaking character from whatever roles we end up in. So for example, let’s say I am in the mood to be topped rather intensely. I might cuddle up to him and ask all innocently,

“How is my dear husband’s energy level today?”

If he (quite rarely) responds that he is tired, that ends the topic for the time being and I get to practice patience, always a useful activity for a girl who tends to want what she wants when she wants it. But most of the time my Eric is remarkably tuned into my moods and quirks, and responds to my inquiry with his own,

“Why, I’m feeling quite lively, dear love. Why do you ask?”

Then I get a surge of excitement between my legs as I become more certain that sexy fun is in the offing, and snuggle deeper into his way-hot body as I reply,

“Well…you know how wicked my mind can be…”

He sighs dramatically, clearly warming to the prospect of a long encounter with the part of my body we both agree to be my most attractive feature. His hard right hand will then find that nether portion of my anatomy and squeeze and caress it possessively as he muses,

“You’ve been having salacious thoughts again, darling wife, haven’t you?”

I fall seamlessly into role,

“God that feels good…funny how the part of me that most needs to be handled…strictly…so loves to be fondled… But yes, I’ve been thinking about my spin instructor again…imagining him…giving me a very private class…”

Now this is true, as I have a notoriously wandering eye and a lively imagination about matters carnal. But it is also true that reminding my husband of this well-known quirk of his bride is a sure fire (pun intended) way to get my rear end the kind of attention my twisted mind seems to think it needs. Eric continues to caress our mutual favorite of my erogenous zones as he muses,

“Such a naughty little slut I seem to have married…what was I thinking, I wonder sometimes? But there’s only one thing for it, don’t you agree, my love?”

Well, in point of fact, my own self was sharply divided about that very issue. My poor buttocks, had they been given a say, would have chosen quite differently from my brain, where some wires apparently got crossed sometime during my psychosexual development. You see, I seem to enjoy certain activities that are sexual for me, certain intimately painful attentions to my vulnerable derriere, that the majority of people would experience as traumatic. But the clear plurality of my inner demons voted to let him have his way with me as usual, and I reply,

“I’m sure my exceedingly wise Master knows far better than I do what should be the fate of the part of my body he claims was constructed so perfectly by Mother Nature to receive his disciplinary attentions. I will cheerfully trust him to handle me towards my best interests, even if I must endure some discomfort for a time. Tell me where and how to present myself to be properly punished as we both know I need.”