Her husband, Jordan Ralston Clark, was another story. Twenty-nine-year old JR shared Lori's aspirations to make it big on the internet, but this trustfund bunny lacked his wife's real world finesse and street-smart know how. Working out of their three-bedroom condo, JR maintained a number of dead-in-the-water websites. Some were less inspired knock-offs of other people's better ideas; the rest were JR's own sorry-assed originals. Still, he could talk a good game to investors -- at least those who had never even signed on to the internet -- like the dry-cleaner JR convinced to front him 25K.

With nothing much going on for himself (he ventured out only for pizza and to get his cock sucked at the local tanning salon front), JR took to spending his afternoons doing bong hits, trying to get onto that "Be A Millionaire" TV show and websurfing. Lots of websurfing. The sports sites. The music sites. The game sites. And inevitably, the porn sites. JR found that he had a particular taste for the female wrestling sites, a new kink for him. Weirdly sexy stuff, strap-on chicks doing lots of hair pulling and tit slapping. He got into it. Pay-sex site hopping soon went from being a blow-off-some-steam goof to a veritable part time job for JR. It was a dumb thing to be doing, for more than one reason. Lori was sure to catch on, at some point, to all those $79.99 charges to "Grappling Gals Inc" and the like. She got their Amex bill. Duh.

One night, JR was enthrall to a videostream of Katia Koxx, one of his favorite lady wrestlers. Ms. Koxx was putting a particularly obscene hold from behind on a lesser female opponent, when JR heard the electric garage door grind open -- his cue to whack it, get offline, and dump the history file of his browser.

By the time Lori came into the kitchen, JR was going through the motions of throwing together some miso soup. He greeted his wife with his usual "hey babe," stirring tofu into the pot while pretending to be deep in concentration on the latest issue of Fast Track Magazine.

Lori came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to kiss her and was met with a blindside, careening smack across the side of his face. He tried to duck at the last split second, and her hand ended up boxing his ear, with a deafening thud. His wire rim glasses shot across the room. His ear felt like it was turning cauliflower. But before he could even get the "what the ffff" out of his mouth, Lori, in half-focus, came at him again, before he could even duck or get his hands up, waylaying him with another roundhouse open smack, this time catching him perfectly, just above his jaw, her open hand smashing down and landing on his cheek with a resounding, echoing "splat!"

JR stumbled back and braced himself on the refrigerator. He could see the blurry image of his wife, furiously taking off and throwing down her suit jacket, slamming it to the kitchen floor, and rolling up the sleeves of her silk blouse.

When Lori started coming at him again, he dizzily grabbed a dinner platter -- a piece from their wedding set -- and held it up in front of his face.

Lori merely set her sights down below, taking aim just south of the zipper of her husband's cum-flecked Dockers, cocking her leg back and letting it fly, as if taking a full-tilt crack at the dummy's foam-stuffed crotch in kick-boxing class. Her form was perfect. The leather instep of her boot met it's intended target, slamming the tender fulcrum that separated the tops of her husband's thighs with a deadening (to a man, sickening) "whump-thud."

Lori caught the dinner platter, fluttering from her husband's hands, while JR himself crumpled to the floor as if gun-shot, hands between his legs, with a cough, a low howl and a gasp for air.

"Asshole," she said. "I got the credit card bill."

Thusly, they had reached a significant and exciting new threshold in their marital relationship.

JR laid on his back, sprawled on the kitchen floor, wrenching and spinning his legs, like a half-stepped on cockroach, while Lori went to her briefcase. She laid it on the counter and looked down at her husband.

"What's the matter, JR?" she said, nudging his nose with the heel of her boot. "I thought you liked this stuff?"

She rubbed the sole of her boot across the bridge of his nose. "Lick it," she said. "Come on, you little fuckface. Lick it. You spent nine hundred bucks on this internet shit last month. Now you can taste it for real. Lick it."

She wedged the tip of her boot into his mouth.

"Come on," she said, stuffing her foot in his mouth.

JR was unable to respond, as he was still enthrall to the agony between his legs. He laid curled up in the fetal position, like a baby, helplessly gagging on the black leather, high heeled pacifier his wife had lodged into his mouth. All he could do was gag, whimper and drool.

"You fucking weasel pervert," she said, kicking his head away.

Lori popped open her briefcase. She pulled out a shopping bag from the Vital Vixen Sex Salon and dumped it's contents on the slate counter top.

She let her long hair down. "I decided to do a little sex shopping with the credit card myself, this afternoon."

Gazing down at her leather and latex purchases, Lori unbuttoned her blouse and stepped out of her slacks, tossing them both aside, leaving her clad in only her black bra, matching panties and her trademark high-heeled boots.

JR looked up at her, woozy and glassy-eyed, as Lori stepped into the wide, black leather belt/harness she'd purchased. The one with the nine inch rubber phallus attached to the pelvis plate. She secured it around her waist and slapped the head of the phallus, so that it bobbed up and down, before standing straight at attention, pointed directly at JR.

Even without his glasses, JR could make out from the form of his wife's silhouette, the tree trunk-size strap-on dildo she was wearing. It dwarfed his own manhood -- and cast a long foreboding shadow across his face.

"Get up, JR," she said, standing over him, her hands on her hips.

She flicked the tip of the dildo with one of her long, French-manicured nails and ran her hand up and down the stiff latex shaft.

"Just like the one I saw in your favorite video," she said. "What is it, 'Catfighting Cocks?' The one you paid eighty bucks to download five different times, you fucking idiot. Get up."

"Get up!" she demanded again. "Get on your knees and suck my cock. Unless you want another beating."

Lori was a quick study. Using their Amex bills as a reference point, she'd managed to track down all of JR's favorite sex sites on the web. She perused each one and had even paid to download two videos herself, onto her office computer, so that she could see just what it was that held JR's fascination. She'd even gotten the brusque and sometimes cheesy dialogue right.

"Come on, bitch. On your knees and suck my cock."

JR was shaking off the cobwebs. He slumped to his knees and coughed. "I'm not into it like this," he mumbled. "I..."

But Lori cut him off before he could continue. "I wasn't asking for your opinion," she said, pulling him up toward her by his ears. She pressed the dildo up to his mouth. "Open your yap," she said, forcing the hard rubber phallus up against his lips. She held him by the back of his head and grinded her hips until she succeeded in wedging the dildo head into his mouth. She rocked her hips back and forth, sending the dildo shaft down his throat.

"Suck my dick, boy," she commanded him.

JR wretched and gagged and tried to pull away. Lori merely backed him up against the refrigerator, plastering him to the door, banging him, as if trying to drill a hole in his head with that stealthy dildo. She held him firmly by his hair and let him have it, gyrating her hips, butting his head, and thrashing the dildo in and out of his mouth.

"You're quite a cock sucker, JR," she said, staring down at him as she pummeled him. "Perhaps we've found your true calling in life. Maybe I'll put you in a miniskirt and send you out on the street corner, so you can finally do something to bring some cash into the household." She pulled the dildo out of his mouth "What do you have to say for yourself?"

JR looked sullen. When he hesitated a moment too long before speaking, Lori smacked him across the face. "Answer me," she demanded, holding up her open hand. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The moment hung in the air, casting this husband and wife in a strange, striking and most modern tableau. It was as if they were renewing, or closer to the fact, re-doing their wedding vows.

Another man perhaps would have balked by now, or perhaps exploded back at her. But not JR. Apparently. Lori was learning more about her husband in one evening than she had in the three years she'd known him. And she was learning about herself as well. Lori had only intended to send a chill up her husband's spine. But, as she stood over him in her boots and her new strap-on dildo, with her hand poised to smack him, she couldn't deny it to herself: she was getting an erotic charge out of treating him this way.

"I'm sorry, Lori," JR said, cowering and wiping his mouth.

"You better be," she said, grapsing him by the hair, so that their eyes met. "Because there's going to be some new rules around here. And rule number one is, the next time you want to get your jollies with this internet bullshit, you come to me. And I'll be only too-too glad to kick your ass up and down the house. You got that?"

She smacked his face again for emphasis.

"God-damn it, yeah. You've made your point," JR said, rubbing his face. "You've made your fucking point."

Lori stared down at him, pushing the dildo tip under her JR's nose.

"I obviously haven't," Lori said, rubbing the shaft of the dildo, with a devious smile creeping across her face. "But I'm going to make my fucking point. And when I'm sending my fucking point straight up your asshole, we'll see if you're ready to give me a sincere apology."

She gave him a broad, fake smile.

JR looked at the dildo with widening eyes. It was what Oprah might call a 'light bulb moment' for old JR.

"No... wait a minute... Not that," he said, looking cross-eyed at the dildo head thrust under his nose. "Jesus, Lori, it's too big. It'll rip me in half."

Lori laughed and jerked on the dildo. "The woman at the store said it's going to leave you bow-legged for a week. She also told me that some men need a cock up their ass to make them understand who makes the rules in their relationship. It's called topping and bottoming."

"I know what it's called," he said.

"Well then, smart-ass, do you know what it's called when I'm sticking this up your behind?" Lori said, poking the dildo up against his mouth. "It's called being my bitch. And that's what you're going to be. My little stay-at-home, cock-sucker, take-orders-from-your-wife bitch. From now on. Get your ass up to the bedroom, JR. On your hands and knees." She pointed her strap-on in the direction of the upstairs staircase.

He looked up at her with a forced scowl. But Lori knew better.

"Don't kid yourself, JR. I know what you've been downloading off the internet. Your little macho man pout is nothing but an act. You've had half a hard-on since I strapped this thing on."

She nudged his erection with her boot. JR's face turned blood red with shame.

Lori laughed. "See? It's obvious your little asshole is just twitching with anticipation. So stop playing mind games with yourself, you little sissyfag phony. And start crawling."

She prodded him along with her boot.

"That's right, pig shit," she said kicking, pinching and spanking him as he loped along on all fours.