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The Man Whisperer Program: Break Your Husband in Thirty Days (Jon Zelig)


The Man Whisperer Program: Break Your Husband in Thirty Days by Jon Zelig

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The Man Whisperer Institute is located in a Medical Arts Building down on Harlow Street. Their Program is simple: Break Your Husband in Thirty Days. Bailey and her husband Bob used to “play” dominance and submission games in college; on the cusp of thirty, they’ve long given that up. Time to be grownups, after all.

But Bob has been pestering Bailey for some time, for what he thinks he wants. Finally, she gives in. In short order, Bob is chastised, regressed, and cuckolded: “A Bad Little Boy,” obsessed with and entranced by his “Strict Mommy” and her parade of boyfriends.

Now, Bailey’s sister Lily “wants one too.” With help from Bailey, and The Institute – and a humiliating assist from Bob – Lily’s husband Rico is quickly broken as well. Does that mean everyone has what they want? Life is rarely that stable. And love, however tangled and kinked a relationship may be… That’s just always and inevitably…complicated.

Featuring: women in control; Femdom lifestyle; goddess wife; cuckold chastity training; sub husband; dommy mommy stories; face-sitting women.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Pink Flamingo Publications    Published: 6 / 2018

No. words: 16037

Style: Fem Dom - F/M, Bondage/BDSM Short Stories

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Part I: Dommy Mommy’s Chaste Cuckold ?

Chapter One
A Sisterly Consultation

Bailey tossed her kid-glove, leather bag onto the diner booth bench across from her sister and slid in after it; Lily had already ordered—and been served.
Bailey could have called it with her eyes closed: bacon cheeseburger platter, onion rings instead of fries, a cup of coffee in addition to a Coke, and a glass of water.
Too much fat; too much caffeine; not enough time to hassle over this—just a quick minute to marvel, yet again, over her younger sister’s, seemingly eternally, trim figure—a hundred and nineteen pounds, soaking wet, you were required to say.
Well—for the most part—this was just how she ate when she was out and around; home was a different, rather more disciplined, environment.
Four years younger than Bailey’s twenty-nine-going-on-forty, Lily looked about the same age: undergrad and two years for an MBA in Arizona had baked in a few lines and creases.
Well: Mom had warned her; we make our choices.
“Shoulda come with,” Lily said, around a mouth full of onion rings, “had a coupon. Get you all lasered up, ready for the beaches to open—what?—two, three weeks from now. Trim the shrubbery.”
Bailey took half an onion ring, nibbled at it.
“Done with that.”
Which made her sister stop chewing.
“Done with what-now? Basic . . . maintenance?”
Popping the rest of her onion-ring-fragment into her mouth, Bailey smiled broadly: “Yeah, Sis. Just gone Full-Thatch. Done. With. That.”
Lily blinked and made a face.
“Well first,” she said, “Eww! Second: what’s Bob think about this? And third: what are you going to wear to the beach, be something a little more civilized than a cavewoman?”
Bailey reached over, grabbed her sister’s coffee cup—which earned a squawk—sipped, put it back.
“Dunno,” she said, “thinking maybe spandex boy-shorts and a sports bra? Not worried.”
Lily seemed to consider that, grabbed another handful of onion rings, shrugged.
“What did you want to talk about?” Then—almost an afterthought, mouth full again “—and, wait, Bob. . ?”
Reaching over and fishing through her bag, Bailey pulled out the folder she wanted, slapped it onto the table and slid it over.
Lily’s chewing slowed as she read the cover.
“The Man Whisperer Institute?” she said, screwing up her face, “‘Hell is that?”
“You know that Medical Arts Building, down on Harlow Street?”
“One with that thousand-year-old podiatrist? Yeah.”
“They have an office on the basement level.”
“Yeah, okay,” Lily said, still chewing. “Doesn’t really tell me anything.”
“Okay,” Bailey said, nodding, “told you Bob has always been—”
“Bit of perv,” Lily interrupted, tucking into her bacon cheeseburger. “Got that memo!”
A waitress appeared tableside.
Before she could speak, Lily, mouth again full, waving for everyone else to be quiet, gave Bailey’s order: “Turkey Club on whole wheat; spinach instead of lettuce; no mayo; no fries; coleslaw’s okay; diet Sprite with no ice.”
The waitress looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment; Bailey closed her eyes and nodded; the waitress walked off.
Lily stopped chewing, went still, fixed her sister in a steady gaze.
“Spill, Bails,” she said. “What’s going on?”
Bailey blushed, nodded, cleared her throat.
“I’m granting Bob his . . . wishes—well, what he thinks his wishes are anyway.”
Lily just pursed her lips and waited.
Bailey looked away for a moment, then back at Lily, seeming calmer, and resolute. “I’m going to be his Strict Dommy Mommy—”
Lily actually pulled her head back in surprise.
“He’s going to be my Chaste Good Little Boy—”
Lily blinked and began to smile.
“And I’m going to—” Bailey stumbled there for just a moment, the words catching in her throat, “take lovers.”
Bailey nodded, blew out a breath of relief, reached over again for her sister’s coffee cup; as she lifted it to sip, Lily raised her water glass as well, gesturing a toast across the table, though she didn’t try to clink glass against ceramic.
“Way-to-Go Bails!” she said with enthusiasm and seeming approval.
Then, taking a brief sip of water, she said: “Take lovers? What are you, a character in a Jane Austen novel?”
Bailey shrugged, raised her eyebrows.
“Okay,” she said. “You want modern? I’m going to get fucked on a regular basis by whoever I want to. How’s—?”
The waitress smoothly landed a tray of food between them and began to unload it.
“Power to you, Sister,” she said with a quiet smile as she withdrew again.
Lily shook her head back and forth in wonder.
“So this,” she said, tapping a finger on The Man Whisperer Institute folder, “is where you’re getting . . ?”
Bailey gave a little hum of assent, as she removed the toothpicks from her club sandwich.
“Guidance and support. After lunch?” she said, “Take you to a meeting—if that might be of any . . . interest to you.”
Lily reached over and grabbed a quarter of her sister’s sandwich, took a big bite, with gusto, spoke through the food: “Oh-Hell-Yeah! I’m interested.”
?

Chapter Two
Support Meeting I

“Yes,” Darlene said, putting down her glass of wine. “I’ve found that to be true as well. A distinct subset of them do seem to find derision particularly exciting. And,” she picked up the glass again and sipped, “of course, we use that.”
“Do we know why?” Cathy asked—then, before Darlene could respond, “And I assume this is ‘under study.’”
There was a little ripple of light laughter through the room at that phrase.
“As yet,” Darlene said, “we do not. And—of course—yes, it is under study. One theory, which I find potentially fruitful, is that it takes men back to adolescence. They’re hormonally overwhelmed and desperate; in response we are often cold or dismissive. But that rejection only means they need to try harder—it doesn’t drive them back, rather it pulls them forward.” She nodded to herself for a moment. “However,” her manner now a little more brisk, “we were in the middle of a report.”
“Right,” Bailey said, still tentative, new at being in the spotlight, “so we have not yet,” she hesitated and colored a little, “taken the turn, but I feel we’re likely quite close. His anger is, for the most part, gone; his resistance is worn down; he is clearly in the process of what has been referred to as—” she glanced at the tablet in her lap, swiped through a few screens quickly, “confused surrender.”
“I liked ‘confused surrender,’” Cathy said, softly, looking down, talking, it seemed, mostly to herself. “That can be a very tender period.”
“When was he sexually cut off?” Darlene asked briskly, calling people back to the task at hand.
Didn’t actually snap her fingers?
Felt like she had.
Flustered again, Bailey did some more scrolling and tapping.
“It’s been just over two weeks now. I think. I’m not quite...?” she said tentatively.
“There was a ‘fade-to-cut-off’ period, with a clear end-point,” Darlene said crisply. “Then there was lockdown, yes? He has been secured?” Not waiting for an answer. “You should have logged both of those dates.”
The room went quiet, briefly, as Bailey searched for, finally found, and read out those dates.
“Alright,” Darlene said. “We generally agree that this puts Bailey more or less on schedule.” There was murmured assent. “And so,” her voice softened a little. “How are you feeling, Dear?”
The question seemed to confuse Bailey for a moment. She colored again, looked down.
“I’m not sure—”
“Let me be more specific,” Darlene said, looking directly at Bailey and holding her gaze. “The chastity device will have made clear that his . . . needs, interests, intentions, desires—whatever,” she said, waving dismissively, “are no longer at issue, no longer, for all intents and purposes, exist. What I’m asking, Dear, is how compliant—and effective—he has been in . . . taking care of you.”
If the chronological difference in their ages was not all that great—Bailey in her late twenties; could Darlene have been much beyond thirty-five?—the “older woman’s” demeanor was both a little stiff and a little archaic.
Dear?
What was all this Dear?
Lily’s Jane Austen reference popped back into Bailey’s head.
“Are you asking . . ?” Bailey felt a little like she was waking up—whether out of or into a dream she couldn’t be entirely sure. “Are you asking whether or not he goes down on me enough?”
Which drew a broad smile from Darlene and a few titters.
“Oh, Honey!” Darlene said, sounding for a moment more like a gay man than a powerful woman, “None of them do it enough.” The general laughter this time was looser and longer. “And then of course,” the room hushed briefly before exploding in laughter afterward, “how much doesn’t really matter when you stack it up against how well.”
Bailey felt suddenly warmed and comforted by the heat of her cheeks: welcomed, empowered.
Home.
“He is sufficiently compliant,” she said, over—and briefly hushing—the laughter, then, aware that she was timing things but sure she had it right, “and I believe, in days to . . . come, he will prove to be admirably educable,” which pretty much brought down the house: laughter, nodding, a little clapping, the clinking of glasses.
From across the room, she noted Darlene nodding at her in approval, and could read her lips as she mouthed: “Nicely put . . . Dear.”


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