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Author’s Note: This was written for a girlfriend of mine many years ago. She chose the motif for me to write about. All flames should be directed towards her. Alas, I know not where she is.

Her eyes adjusting to the faint glow of the monitor’s lights, she awoke. Every inch of her skin was cold, but that was to be expected after ten years in thermo freeze. The room was not as she remembered it. Once shiny metal cabinets were now covered with dust; debris littered the floor. She glanced over at the three other thermo tanks in the room, there lights were out. This meant that her companions had already evacuated or more likely that they were dead.

Slowly, she lifted herself off the bed on which she lay, ducking her head to avoid the glass cover which had protected her for the last ten years. She walked stiffly over to the next tank. Commander Barton’s body was still inside, while her pulse and respiratory indicators showed her to be dead. The other two tanks, which were reserved for the two men of the crew, also contained bodies with no detectable respiration or heartbeat. She was the only surviving member of her squad.

There were nearly a hundred squads of four in isolated control rooms like this. They were separated by several hundred miles. The rational behind this was that when the bombs started to fall at least one-third of the control rooms were expected to survive. After the nuclear winter had eliminated all human life the chosen ones would emerge from suspended animation and start over; at least those who survived would.

Her name was Jessica Martin, an architect, art historian, construction engineer and most important a fertile female. By her acceptance into the Savior’s program, she had agreed to become the mate of one of the members of her squad. He was a loathsome man with a genius level I.Q. This requirement had almost made Jessica reject the program’s offer, but she had wanted to survive the holocaust. It was almost a relief that his life support system had failed. Unfortunately, the only two other members of the Saviors program who could help her were also dead.

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I am a dominant wife, and I dearly love to crush the male.

We’ve been married one year. I’m 29 and Gene is 26. I stand 5’10”, measure 37-25-36, and have won several beauty contests. Gene is 5’7″ and slender, and only his money attracted me. At age 23, he inherited a thriving business when his parents died; at 24, he inherited considerable stocks and bonds from an aunt. When we dated, and I discovered he could be completely dominated, I decided to share the wealth. He proposed, and learned he would have to be my slave. He agreed.

Even before the wedding I sought other couples to share fun and games. I found two perfect pairs. Bill and Ginger are 31; Don and Phyllis are 30. Each couple is socially prominent and dedicated to female domination. Bill and Don are big, muscular men who, unlike Gene, are bisexual. Although I ridicule and discipline Gene daily, Saturday night he is humiliated and punished by others.

We arrive at Ginger’s house about 9 pm. Each wife prepares her slave in a separate room. I know Bill and Don will wear rubber jockstraps and be unbound. I make Gene strip, fold his arms up against his back, and with cuffs and short chains I lock his hands to a collar. Naked and helpless, he is marched into the game room to stand at attention near us. Don and Bill, making drinks, pause and run their eyes warmly over Gene’s body.

The men kneel alongside our chairs while we three girls visit. Soon I designate one of the men to watch Gene and report if he relaxes his attention pose. When he does, Ginger or Phyllis gives him several hard swats with a paddle. One of them suggests nipple rings as further punishment. A heavy steel ring is snapped onto the tip of each nipple, and Gene’s penis rises and swells instantly. We girls laugh at his slim six inches and I tell him how inept he is as a lover.

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