Chapter 7: Cuck and Bull Story

Is this place for real?

“First time?”

Martin blinked and snapped back to reality. He stared incredulously at the woman, “Pardon?”

“Are you a virgin?” Her sarcastic tone matched the light-hearted mockery in her eyes.

“Ah ... um. No ... maybe in the sense of...” he gestured around the room. “ ... all this. But—”

“What were you expecting?”

He took a breath and shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I was thinking maybe...” he made a face. “You see me and the old lady ... well, things have gotten a bit stale lately.” He looked back, met her steady gaze, and blushed. “We were hoping to spice things up, ya know?” He looked around the room and nodded at the counter. “I was thinking more along those lines than ... that stuff.” He pointed at a rack of whips.

Her expression remained relaxed and amused, and she approached him like he was prey. “Are you sure? Many curious men come through that door with the same story. But after an hour in the Bull Pen, they all confess they’ve never felt more alive ... Perhaps you would consider a new ‘sub’ introductory session?”

He felt his skin crawl from her talk. “Erm ... Bull Pen?”

“We also call it the Punishment Suite, depending on your kink,” she added, beckoning him to a counter with various books and magazines. There was also a hardbound photo album open with color digital photographs that were definitely not safe for work. The only thing they shared was the room where they were taken, a medieval-looking dungeon with Inquisition-style torture devices. His eyes widened at some of the images.

“I ... um,” he stammered. “Or rather ... no thank you? I appreciate the offer, but I’m ... uh, trying to quit?” He didn’t have to fake his face turning red and cheeks warming. “I was thinking about some skin-tingling gel stuff ... you know? Er ... Mizz?”

She gazed back at him with a penetrating look. “It is proper for you to call me ‘Mistress,’ or ‘Mistress Leilani,’ or ‘Madame.’

He could smell her soft perfume, and her proximity gave him a heady feeling. He stuck out his hand, “Hi, I’m Eddy.” He was taken aback when the formidable woman glanced at his hand and back at him with a look suggesting he was malignant. He blushed and dropped his hand. “Um, yeah. Sorry. I don’t understand kink etiquette. I meant no offense.”

“Fetish,” she corrected lightly. “And none taken.” She stepped along the counter, rounding the corner and returning to him from the other side. Her heels clicked like a metronome on the linoleum floor. “If you want to experience this community, it behooves you to educate yourself.” She reached under the glass and removed an unremarkable paper-bound booklet with a generic cover. She set it on the counter, and he leaned over to look: Cuck & Bull Story: A Study in Local and Regional Fetishes and the Evolution of Contemporary Domination and Submission and Bondage-Sadomasochism as an Artform.

He blinked twice at the byline and looked back at her in amazement. “Dr. L. S. Calabresi--AASECT?” he breathed. Below the title was a black-and-white photograph of the woman; if the quality had been better, she might have appeared younger.

“My PhD dissertation.”

His eyes widened, “You have a PhD? In ... whips and chains?”

Her laughter filled the room and lifted his spirits. “Oh, dear Edward ... May I call you Edward?”

He gave her a shy grin. “Mistress Leilani, you may call me whatever you desire.”

Her smile brightened with a hint of malice, and his throat tightened. “Oh, I like you. I do hope you find the fortitude to try out my services.”

He felt his face flush, looking back at the photo album. “Isn’t this illegal?”

“A fair question; you might be surprised that coitus is not part of traditional BDSM. Nor is there any exchange of fluids.” She leaned over the counter with her elbows on the glass, pressing her boobs together. “When couples rent my dungeon for their own entertainment, they may engage in physical contact or emasculating measures like spitting and pissing. The same is true during my training sessions. My candidates have some latitude during their sessions.”

He looked at her dubiously, “Latitude? As in...?”

“Sex, Edward. They have sex. Sometimes with clients, sometimes a bull. Sometimes, they offer physical pleasure as a reward to their pets or cucks.”

“How is that legal?”

“It falls under the auspices of my role as a licensed sexologist.”

“Sexologist?”

“Admittedly, my profession isn’t well regarded, but I assure you my services are in high demand.”

He picked up the dissertation and thumbed through it, surprised to find many illustrations. “How much?”

“$24.99 plus tax.”

He pulled a hundred out of his wallet. “What about an oil or lotion for me and my old lady?”

She feigned a yawn, “I have a wide range of flavored lotions and a popular hypoallergenic anal lube. How adventurous are you feeling?” She produced several products from under the glass and added a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs with an indulgent smile.

“I have one burning question,” he admitted.

“Let’s put it out before you catch fire,” she smirked.

“Why The Bull Pen?”

Her smile was redolent. “That’s my husband Sterling’s wit at play. As in ‘Bull in a China Shop.”

He nodded blankly.

“Do you know what a bull is?” His expression suggested not. “Cuckolding?” His face remained unchanged, and she tsked, picking up her book and handing it to him with a smirk. “Here you go. There will be a quiz on Friday.” Her smile was infectious.

He looked around the showroom, comparing the interior dimensions. “Where is this Bullpen?”

She tapped her heel on the floor. “Right under your feet,” she said smugly. “Come back around this time, in a week or so, and I’ll give you a free tour.” She placed his purchases into a red embossed paper sack with the China Shop Adult Boutique logo. “But first, do your homework.”

A week later, he was returning to his apartment on his new jet-black Ducati SuperSport after riding around Cape Cod. A chirp in his helmet notified him of a new text.

Siobhán is coming to surprise you.

It was Vivian, and he didn’t need Leilani’s insights into human behavior, emotions, and the autonomic nervous system—to know how his possessive and envious cougar felt about it. He removed the helmet and secured it to his bike before heading to his apartment. Unlike her mother, Siobahn only had the code to enter the parking lot and his floor. She did not have access to his flat.

When she arrived, he opened the door, took her sweater, and watched her slip off her sandals. A minute later, she was giving him a gold medal blow job in the kitchen. After his emotional reboot, he no longer considered their encounters lovemaking. She was a means of release, to be used and taken. He didn’t allow himself to feel jealous or spiteful over her rekindled passion for her old lover. Such emotions were irrational and irrelevant. But it didn’t stop him from fucking her aggressively and without mercy. He didn’t care if she achieved climax or benefited from their exchange.

Two hours later, they lay together in his bed without speaking. She had been the most energetic and receptive he’d ever seen. Now she lay on her side with her head on his shoulder and her vibrant hair on his chest. She had professed her undying love for him several times but stopped when he never repeated it.

“Is that your new motorcycle in your parking space?”

He mumbled an affirmative.

“I didn’t know you liked riding.”

“I had a Suzuki GSX at Westfield Tech,” he replied. “It was much smaller, only 250 cc.”

“That thing is huge.”

He didn’t reply.

“Can you take me for a ride someday?”

Leilani introduced him to her husband when he revisited the Boutique as promised. She hadn’t commented when he entered with the gleaming black helmet, but he sensed she was re-evaluating her opinion of him.

Sterling Calabresi was a shorter, older man in his early to mid-50s. His build was neither slender nor stocky. He wore a simple monk’s robe with a braided faux cloth-of-gold sash. His long brown hair had gray streaks, tied back in a ponytail. His grip was firm, his smile genuine, and he spoke with a soft Mediterranean accent that Martin couldn’t place. According to Leilani’s dissertation, total independence was the primary distinction between dominatrices. Most never married because it was a form of servitude. She was an exception and admitted having married the man nearly thirty years ago. They had a grown son who lived abroad. Martin reflected on the man’s deference to his wife, referring to her as ‘Mistress’ or ‘Madame.’

While they shared idol banter, Leilani gently quizzed him to determine if he had read her thesis and learned anything. He answered every question correctly and remarked that he understood the double meaning of ‘bull in the China Shop.’ He glanced over the other booklets and magazines when he saw a publication called How to Train your Pet—Cuckolding for the Complete Idiot. Something in his mind pieced together clues, and he asked for a copy, ignoring the raised eyebrow from the man behind the counter.

“Would you like a tour of the Punishment Suite?” she asked idly. Today, she wore full leather attire: a bikini, stilettos with calf straps, a dog collar, and a black military-style hat.

“Yes, please.”

She turned to her husband and communicated silently before leading Martin behind the counter and through a fabric wall covering. Stone steps led down, and her heels clicked ominously in the confined space. A solid wood door appeared on the landing and opened into an anteroom with two open doors. She showed him a viewing parlor to the right with comfortable seating and a large, darkened glass barrier separating it from the last, largest chamber. She switched on the lights, and the bullpen illuminated with an eerie red glow from torch-shaped sconces.