Help!

(Help For The Ex - Help! For Me)

By

Carl Lindant

PART ONE

Chapter One.

Women are intriguing creatures; strange, some would say. They kick you out of the house declaring you worthless and then send for you when some minor domestic crisis means something wants mending or doing.

The funny thing is, most men are even more strange.

They respond!

Certainly, in my case this was so. My wife Tania, physically smaller and lighter in weight, had  lambasted me with very personal insults, belittled me in front of my friends and even threatened me with physical attack. Finally, declaring me useless, she had shown me the door. And, angrily, I had gone!

Yet now she wanted me to fix something in the house that used to be mine and I, being just a man, responded. So, although we were separated and I felt genuinely the aggrieved party, I was there at her call, almost literally with my tail between my legs.

Male putty in her female hands.

I had not seen her for about 6 months. Not since the water feed hose for the washing machine burst and I had to be the `knight  in shining armour rushing to her rescue to avert domestic disaster. I had cleared up the mess, bought and fitted a new hose and then, would you believe, got told it was my fault.

Well, I had bought the washing machine in the first place.

At least I got a  cup of coffee out of it and a sit at the kitchen table in what once had been my home, before being declared once again a persona non gratis and given peremptory thanks and sent on my way.

She had things to do, she told me – like the delayed washing.

Now, on this occasion, the outside security light I had put up just before I was `shown the door` had stopped working and she wanted me to `fix it`.

Easy enough.

I guessed it would be the bulb and bought a new one on the way round. In fact, I fixed it so quickly that she made some barbed comment about me being at least good at some things – but as usual too quick to finish!

The old resentment was still there. 

I felt sorry for her, this inability to let the past go revealing itself in ways other than bitchy unpleasantness. As an example, not once in all the time we’d been together had she let me see her kitted out so sloppily; always eager it seemed to show herself off to best effect. Now though, there was no trace of make-up to be seen and her face was puffy and blotchy. Not the slim, sweet girl I thought she was when I married her but, I could do no more than admit, looking older than her 34 years.

And by a fair distance.

Okay! Not by that great a distance, I admit it; exaggeration, I confess, brought on by her none-too-subtle reference to my sexual inadequacies. The same failings that had been one of our marriage’s major bones of contention and the same ones she brought up on a constant basis; the familiar and tiresome recriminations surfacing as I was finishing the obligatory coffee she had provided with such bad grace.

Sneer barely hidden, she started, “You still chasing porn on the computer, Carl?”

It was a remark no less barbed for being utterly predictable, her incessant references to my anti-social behavior having been at the root of our separation. Though, from my point of view, the real cause had been her selfish and ever-demanding attitude; believing as she did that I should have devoted all my free time to her.

I hadn’t done so and a rift had grown between us.

A rift that swiftly became a chasm before developing with equal rapidity into a canyon.

The distance between us always likely to be too wide for either of us to bridge.

Parting had not been the sweet sorrow that Shakespeare had described but bitter and fraught with insult and accusation from both sides.

Particularly hers.

She avoided my eyes as she asked that derisory question; still angry after all this time and to be honest, I do have to admit it was my preoccupation with sex a la Internet rather than in the marital bed that provided the straw that finally broke the camel's back between us.

So, with a semi-apologetic shrug, I admitted I was still porno driven but no longer of my own free will and watched her expression change. Women are nosy creatures and, I knew, such a strange admission would require explanation.

With furrowed brow and eyes still sharp with malevolence, she asked:

“What do you mean: not of your own free will?

I shook my head and said she would not believe me.

“What, with you and dirty sex?”

She sneered.

“When it comes to that I’d believe anything!”

All right! I told myself, angrier than usual with her shit; especially in light of what I’d been going through just recently. If the self-righteous shrew wanted to disclosure, she’d caught me in just the right mood to give it to her. Just the same, though I was not one to back down, I did catch myself thinking that this was shaping up to the kind of ding-dong battle we’d had in the old times.

I spoke slowly and clearly, showing my anger:

“There is a Lady in America.”

“Yes. So?” she asked, clearly unfazed. “There’s a lot of them I would have thought.”

I ignored it and went straight on:

“She controls my access to porn and what I do with it. She tells me what to collect and when to collect it and makes me use it to amuse her.”

I did not know it then –and how could I have, given it was my use of the stuff in the first place that was part responsible for finishing it- but with that self-damning confession I had just re-opened the door to my marriage!

The harridan of a wife who was going to do the re-opening taken aback at the revelation; staring at me with genuine surprise.

“A Lady in America?” she asked finally, sneer back in place.

I nodded.

“Controls your access to…?”

As her question tailed off and her sneer entrenched itself further; I explained:

“Somehow this ‘Lady’` found out about my birds' eggs collection and one day I found an Email on my computer, threatening to expose me to the English police if I did not write to her there and then and promise I’d do exactly as she told me.”

My wife let out a bark of derision: “I might have known your fucking stupid birds' eggs would come into it somewhere!”

I collected the eggs of rare species of birds and in England that was illegal. Convicted robbers and rapists – even murderers – walked the streets of the UK freely after a slap on the hand; but anyone convicted of saving birds' eggs got years in prison.

What a stupid country!

Anyhow, my guess was that one of the fellow egg fanciers I had contact with on the Internet had got careless or –a distinct possibility- shopped me; jealousy not exactly uncommon amongst collectors of the less successful kind. 

“So you are being blackmailed?”

My nod clearly brought a thought rushing to her tiny brain and it wasn’t hard to guess what it was.

This might just affect her!

Self-preservation kicking right in, she wanted to know if I was paying this woman money on top of the mortgage I paid on the house - the house only she lived in?

I assured her I was not paying with cash. It was my time she took – and my freedom to......... Well..... Never mind. But that came out as well eventually.

Snatching my coffee cup from me, she dismissed me with abrupt rudeness and the comment that I better get home and get to `work` for this `Lady` then.

As I rose to go, she shot a final barbed remark that was meant to speed me on my way:

“Yes, you go and sit at your computer and play with yourself!”

I paused in the doorway, shook my head, and with a rueful smile told her I couldn't do that actually.

I wrote on the pad beside the phone: `CB6000` and said, “You know how to Google on your laptop?” before leaving both her and her baffled expression behind me.

Was I looking for sympathy?

You tell me.

If I was, she of all people should have been my very last point of call.

Then again, maybe it was some subconscious motion on my part towards self-destruction.

Yes.

Given what’s transpired since, that makes a whole lot of sense.

*******

As I made the drive to what I now called home, I reflected on the sorry period of my life leading to my cock finding itself in a cage and the unbelievable changes the American bitch had made to both my everyday life and the way I now viewed things.

That first Email had come as a real shock. Though at first I’d dismissed it as some sort of virus or a joke and deleted it. But, when I didn’t reply, a second Email arrived that made things much clearer:

Either write and accept her terms or the police would be knocking on my door within hours!

Buying time, I had tried prevaricating, asking who she was and how she supposedly knew so much about me.

She was not shy.

She told me she was a Domme – and a deranged one, I told myself, if the next part of her description was to be taken on trust. A woman who believed that all women were superior to all men - especially stupid ones like me!

Some generalization, eh?

Going on, she explained, not hiding the fact, that she lived in Dallas, Texas, US of A, and had cracked into the Internet site we birds’ eggs `nuts` used and had records of everything I had ever written there.

That chilled me a bit - there was, after all, irrefutable evidence on that site of my illegal involvement.

She then went on to tell me that no one else would ever see it - provided I did as I was told. And so began my obedience to this woman so far away in America. Porn play first, and a re-pitching of my Email style to show respect.

That was followed up by the news that there was `something in the post for me`. That turned out to be a CB6000, complete with lock but no key!

That was a bomb-shell, I tell you.

Chastity! Enforced by a woman who lived 4000 miles away.. 

Even then I had no real idea of just how painful it would prove to be!

The first 10000 word instalment of this 3-part story can be found on www.femdomcave.com