Perversion Therapy: A story of Total humiliation and degradation.

Amazon Description:

Heinemann was a frustrated and angry man. 

He was a man who vented his anger through his personal crusade to clean up the streets, his club and every part of his life from certain ‘substances’ left by pets and their irresponsible owners. He hated them all after a certain bad experience buried deep in his psyche.

He was a laughing stock, a loner, a creep, until that fateful day when a young girl made him wear a collar himself, and face his negative complex full on. It was a day which would entirely transform his behaviour…the day she gave him with own dark and wicked brand of PERVERSION THERAPY.

Extract:

Frederick Heinemann was frustrated about many things, but it was one particular and enduring frustration that made him stop outside his house then, slam his golf clubs down with a rattling bang and let out a hiss of bitter annoyance. 

People who knew him joked behind his back about Heinemann’s ‘pet hate’, which was quite a neat expression in the circumstances, since pets were very much the focus of it. 

He looked down the neat, tree-lined perspective of well-heeled suburbia for either the offending animal or the owner, shading his eyes against the bright, spring sun. Seeing neither, he applied his attention to the windows opposite and to each side. He had become convinced that his neighbours were secretly provoking him by actively encouraging dogs to stop by his house and deposit their waste outside. 

It did not take much for Frederick Heinemann’s feelings to boil over, but he hated showing it publicly. He did not want anyone to see that it was getting to him, particularly if they were indeed trying to provoke him. Surely the amount of dog waste he found outside his property could not be put down to ill luck? 

He breathed out slowly, letting the air through loose lips so as to make a long, flatulent sound. Everything else around him was tidy and pleasant and perfect. His house was unexceptionable, the garden well-tended, both kept up to a good standard by paid help. He was dressed for the course, with a jolly patterned sweater in green and red over his portly bulge of a stomach, with beige slacks and polished brown shoes below. But in the midst of all this well-groomed respectability was the pungent and unpleasant aroma that for Heinemann had the whiff not only of corruption and disgusting reality, but also of personal affront. 

He looked back down at the offending little pile of poo on his drive and abruptly went to put his colourful red and white bag of clubs in the boot of his car, a classic Jaguar XJ6 in racing green. He took a plastic bag from one of the large pockets of the bag and stepped back across to the mess with a purposeful stride. Looking about again to see if anyone was watching, he used the bag to carefully pick it up, and then reversed it so that the pungent material was inside, then walked the ten yards to the little cast metal bin on the lamppost that had been put there for the purpose of disposing of such residue. 

He smiled grimly as he dropped the waste inside and lowered the lid which came down with a satisfying ‘clunk’. It had taken many written representations from him over many months to convince the council that his street required such facilities. On reflection, his tireless efforts to involve the other residents might have been rather counterproductive in terms of his general standing in the community. Perhaps he had been a little insistent, but he had gotten results, and he did not regret it, even if he had the distinct impression that they were subtly trying to get their own back by actually increasing the problem where he lived. 

He had never been on very good terms with the other residents of the street, he thought, as he made his way back to the car. Heinemann kept rather to himself, and did not enjoy inviting people into his house, or making social calls on other people. 

They sensed the tension in him, the frustration, as well as the awkwardness, and in general left him well alone. 

Heinemann thought that it was at least partly jealously, because of his perceived wealth and easy life. It was true that he was quite rich, having inherited several houses, including the five bedroom suburban property that had been the family home for two generations. 

The rents from his small portfolio of properties which had all been long ago converted into flats was considerable, but even so, they did not realise how much of a hassle it was to look after rentals. It was no picnic to deal with arrears and damage and legislation and so on where the sort of lowlifes and unwashed people that generally populated his houses. Nothing is easy, he whispered to himself as he fastened his seatbelt and turned the key to start the engine, which turned with a satisfying roar. Six cylinder 4.2, thirty years old and still full of exhilarating power. 

It was true that he was awkward and difficult as a person, he admitted to himself, as he put the Jaguar into reverse and carefully backed out into the road. 

He viewed these traits as inherited, along with all the wealth, rather than anything that was his own fault. He didn’t blame his parents exactly, both now deceased, but surely he had been given a poor hand by fate in any other sense than the financial? 

He mentally went through his list of frustrations, in no particular order, as he turned onto the main road and headed out of town towards the golf course. He was not good at anything, that was half the trouble. His father had been musical, good looking, physically coordinated, rhythmical, blessed. 

He could still remember the old man looking at him with impatient pity as he fluffed yet another golf shot, convinced that it was a mechanical defect, or a fault that a simple adjustment could rectify. Heinemann had wanted to scream at him that it was talent, not technique that he lacked, that he would always lack. 

Even so, Heinemann often went to the golf course in the afternoons, if the weather was right for it. He mostly played alone, at the municipal course where such aberrations as a golfer playing as a single was permitted as long as his money was good. He was never going to play the game well, but it took his mind off his other, deeper frustrations. 

He thought of Teddy, the Starter, in his little wooden hut on the way to the first tee and he smiled. It was such a small thing, and Heinemann recognised that it was essentially meaningless, but the man was such a warm and genuine human being, and the little pleasantries they exchanged by the first tee always seemed so reassuring and sane and dependable. It had even settled into a sort of routine, where Heinemann inevitably said ‘Punishment, please’, at the start, which Teddie always seemed to find amusing in his jowly, cherubic way, and he always had some sort of smart retort, or observation on the weather, or a snippet of club gossip as Heinemann paid over the money before moving on to start his round at the first tee nearby. 

On this occasion, Heinemann had even more occasion than usual to look forward to this point of sanity and reassurance. It was not the dog mess on his drive; that was quite normal. It was more to do with another of his frustrations, namely his sexual ones. 

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Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

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