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Persephone in Winter
by Night Writer (night_writer99@hotmail.com)
***
A marriage shaken by routine and miscommunication sends
Elyse on an odyssey of submission with a mysterious
stranger. (Mdom/F, d/s, wife)
***
Prologue
Elyse waited patiently by the open trunk of the car as
the boy placed the last bag of groceries inside. She
found herself smiling, for no particular reason. The sun
was warm on her face, and a slight breeze played with
her hair, tickling her cheek, teasing her in and out of
her daydream.
The soft knit of the light sweater fell away from the
firm swell of her breasts as she reached to close the
trunk lid, then settled smoothly over them again as she
turned to the boy to tip him. She caught him staring and
blushed, almost having forgotten how a boy might be
distracted by the slight sway of a woman's bare breasts
and nipples beneath the ordinary white turtleneck.
Looking over the boy's shoulder, her smile widened, and
she waved. Steven had disappeared at the last minute,
and now came bounding across the parking lot clutching a
small bouquet of wildflowers.
"For you, my lady," he announced as he bowed, raising
the offering as though she was royalty. "You!" she said,
giggling.
The boy watched them play. He saw the sparkle of
happiness in her eyes, and the kiss that Steven planted
on her lips, then turned away to give them their
privacy. There would be a day in his future as well, he
thought as he walked back to his eight hour shift, a day
when he would see the same sparkle in the eyes of the
perfect girl, the girl of his dreams.
They drove with the top down. The immaculately restored
Triumph convertible took each turn as if it had just
come off the production line, hugging the road with
familiar security as they left the highway behind,
traveling the winding lane that led them home.
Elyse stretched her arms upward, the fall air rushing
through the spaces between spread fingers. Weeks ago the
leaves had changed from summer green to blazing yellows
and reds. Now a fresh layer of red and brown covered the
roadside as the last of the forest harvest fluttered
reluctantly to earth.
Steven glanced at her as he drove, smiling at her
playful gesture. He could see where the sweater revealed
the soft skin of her belly as she stretched, and the
shape of her breasts and nipples under the white knit.
"I've never seen you leave the house like that," Steven
said, breaking a long silence. Elyse grinned at him with
satisfaction and stretched higher, relieved that he had
finally noticed.
"I thought you might like it," she said, her face now
tilted upward into the wind.
"I'm sure the boy at the market liked it," he answered
with a hint of irritation.
"Mmmm, I didn't think about that. I suppose it's
harmless enough. I doubt that I've corrupted him for
life." She laughed and turned to look at him. As she
lowered her arms, a falling leaf met her outstretched
hand and tangled itself in her fingers.
He kept his eyes on the road ahead, refusing to return
her look. "What I'd really like is that my wife not
expose her breasts to every teenager in town."
Suddenly the joy of the crisp air and fall colors was
drained from her. She sat next to him, hands in her lap,
shocked into silence. "I - I did it for you..." she said
quietly. She stared at the leaf, turning it over and
over in her lap. It was perfectly shaped, but brittle
and brown, without color or life.
Hidden away in the woods at the end of a gravel lane,
the sprawling house's presence was surprisingly
overwhelming to anyone who might come upon it by chance.
A wedding present from Elyse's father, the summer
"cabin" as he called it had belonged to his father as
well. Though made of large logs taken generations ago
from deep within the same forest, its sheer size and
modern interior made it anything but the diminutive
description her father was so fond of.
"I'm sorry," Steven said as he turned the key and the
car's engine died. "I love the way you look; I love
everything about you. You know that. It's just that I
don't want everyone in town staring at your body. I know
you did it for me, but it's a small town. Someone may
take it the wrong way. If everyone thinks you're
flirting, well, who knows what might happen? It's
embarrassing."
Elyse stared at the leaf, now turned to hard branching
veins as its petrified flesh crumbled into her lap. "I
know," she told him. "It was silly - I just didn't think
about the consequences. I'm sorry."
Steven leaned over and kissed her. "Don't be sorry.
Besides, you can show me your nipples, at home, any
time, in fact, all the time, if you want." He grinned,
hoping to get the same response from her.
She did her best to show him the grin he wanted. As she
returned his kiss, she felt his hand on her breast, his
fingers teasing her nipple beneath the thin knit
sweater. She kissed him harder, the sounds of the woods
bringing her alive again, making her wet for him then
and there. His belt opened easily, and in seconds her
hand closed around his erection, stroking it, pulling it
free into the wilderness she loved.
"Not here," he said finally. "Let's go inside."
"Here," she moaned, as she lowered her face to his lap,
reaching for the hard tip of his sex with her tongue.
"Elyse," he said abruptly. "What's gotten into you
today? What if someone should come by?" She took an inch
of him, then another, into her mouth. She knew he
wouldn't resist; she was sure he couldn't, once she
began to move her lips and tongue over him. When he
cradled her head in his hands, she melted inside, and
closed her mouth even more tightly around him. "Please,"
she thought, "show me, show me what you want me to do to
you, show me how you want me to suck you, how you want
to fuck my mouth, oh god, please show me..." But he
pulled her face away from his lap, her soft hair tangled
in his fingers, her eyes pleading for something he
didn't understand.
"Inside," he whispered. They sat, trembling, staring
into each other?s eyes. Elyse nodded, and, with a smile
Steven didn't recognize as one of consolation, felt his
hands slip from her hair. The air had taken on a sudden
chill as she helped carry the groceries to the house.
Winter was coming. If only she had worn her jacket.
That evening Elyse sat curled up in a big overstuffed
recliner by the fire, her nose buried in a book. Her
robe had worked its way open, revealing a delicious,
smooth expanse of thigh, as well as the deep V between
her breasts. Steven sat across from her on the sofa, his
papers scattered over the wide, rustic coffee table. Now
and then she glanced up at him, checking to see whether
he noticed each time she shifted positions, letting her
robe open another inch.
"Damn it!" he muttered. "Where in the hell - Elyse, have
you seen part of my manuscript? A loose page maybe?
Something with a lot of calculations on it?" He still
hadn't looked at her.
She knew how important his paper was to his future - at
least she thought she understood. His explanation was
always a little cryptic to her, all that math and those
strange symbols. She did understand that a college
professor would always be just a college professor if he
didn't distinguish himself in his field. Publish or
perish. She had heard him say it so many times, as
though she might have somehow forgotten the clich‚.
"You're tired," she told him, her voice as silky and
inviting as she could make it. "Why don't you come to
bed? We'll look tomorrow."
"But it was just here!" he insisted. "Maybe I left it in
my office." He rose and left the room, never glancing at
her open robe. "For Christ sake! Damn it, damn it, damn
it!" His curses echoed from the open doorway down the
hall.
Elyse sighed, put her book on the floor beside the
chair, gathered her robe around her, and went to help.
She stood at his office door, listening to him rant and
watching him tear though stacks of papers. "It must be
here! It has to be!" He still hadn't looked at her.
"I'm going to bed," she told him finally. "You coming?"
"Soon," he told her, finally looking up at her. She had
let her robe fall open again. She was naked under it,
and smiled when she saw him staring at her body. Steven
paused and sighed, as though he was annoyed at being
caught ogling her. "I'll be up soon," he said evenly,
still shuffling through a chaos of white paper.
An hour had passed before he woke her from a light sleep
as he slipped into bed beside her. She felt his hand cup
her breast, then move slowly down her belly, finally
probing between her legs. Pushing away the numb calm of
an hour's sleep, she turned toward him and placed her
hand along the side of his face. Another minute, and he
would kiss her, then move closer, working his hips
forward tentatively, as if asking permission to enter
her. She would find his penis and hold him, playing with
him lightly, coaxing him nearer, assuring him with her
pounding heart and loving touches that she wanted him
inside her.
He made love to her with tenderness and precision. She
knew every move so well. He would wait hours for her to
cum. On the rare occasion when an orgasm eluded her,
times when merely enjoying the closeness of being one
with him was enough, he seemed relentless. It shamed her
to think of the times she had pretended, offering up a
quiet sigh of a climax so he could finally enjoy his own
release.
She stroked his chest and shoulders as he worked, his
erection reliable and tireless, pushing into her with
machine-like predictability. He would lean closer to
nibble on her neck soon, then find her ear with the tip
of his tongue. So loving. So caring. So careful.
Elyse studied his face until his eyes closed.
Concentrating, she thought. Trying to please me. Trying
to make me cum. As time passed, she stared past Steven,
into the darkness of their bedroom. He loves me. He
loves me. He loves me. She would make the practiced
sigh, tense her body, then give up a crescendo of moans,
her sign to him that he had satisfied her, and all was
right with the world. Elyse wondered if he counted her
moans, analyzed them with the precision of the
mathematics that had become his life.
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.
Chapter 1
It wasn't quite as though she was cheating. He had known
for some time. And she knew he knew. She couldn't help
crying out a bit louder when she came. She had always
been quiet, her small throaty moan rising on those few
special occasions when she seemed especially wet.
Now she came with mouth wide open, filling the darkened
bedroom with unfamiliar words, telling him over and over
how she wanted him, how she loved his cock inside her.
When she straddled him and played with her breasts, or
rose on her knees offering him entry from behind, he
knew another man took her that way. Yet, they went on,
week after week, knowing but not admitting, too fearful
to let the words pass between them.
She was the first to break the silence.
"I have to tell you about him."
He couldn't look at her. He wouldn't.
She watched him look away, then glanced at the phone.
"I don't love him. I just can't say no to him."
His spine turned to stone at her words. His hands
trembled, breath coming in thin packets that racked his
chest.
"I want to stop. But when he wants me - "
Steven jumped when the phone rang. His eyes went to it,
then to Elyse. She ignored the insistent warble, now
pale and oddly neutral as she searched for his reaction.
She was slim and fragile in the cotton sundress. Enough
light poured through it from behind her to reveal the
outline of her breasts and waist. He guessed she was
naked beneath it, then was sure of it as she approached
the phone. She pressed it to her ear, listening,
motionless, familiar lines of bare thigh revealed
through the translucent cotton.
Elyse held the receiver out to him, knowing he would
take it.
He listened, still frozen in place, while the voice
delivered options and ultimatums.
"She still loves you, you know. She comes to me for
something else, a sense of possession, an unresolved
sensual necessity. You can choose to allow her this, or
flee, freeing yourself of the pain and her love. The
decision is yours."
The voice was precise and confident. He could see she
knew it well. Her eyes were wide with anticipation and
excitement. The voice told him everything, what was, and
what was to be. And Steven knew that a part of her
already belonged to the voice, but not the part that
loved him. Could he share her flesh to keep her shining
eyes?
"Your decision is one that's easier to agree to than to
live with. But then, agreeing is only the first step, is
it not? Can you take the second? Only time will tell.
And time is growing short. So, to test your stride, the
second step, if you're up to it. Simon says ..."
At sundown, Steven followed his wife into the warm rain
of the shower. Elyse offered herself to him, head back,
erect nipples waiting for the soap in his hand against
them, then down her belly, smooth slippery skin made
fresh for her late-night lover. Her thighs tightened at
his touch as a soapy river raced over them, swirling
into the drain below. She turned her back to him, and he
studied the lines and valleys of her shoulders, filled
now with frothy white as he passed the soapy cloth over
them.
Finally, gliding down the deep crevice of her back, his
hands now free of everything except the scented soap, he
cupped and lifted the soft but firm globes of her ass,
circling over them, feeling the weight of them in his
hands. Her legs opened. She leaned against the shower
wall, her open slit reminding him of his duty.
Simon says...
The soap made her slick and wet between her legs. Had it
been that way before he touched her there? Did her back
arch a little when his soapy fingers drifted into the
space between fleshy cunt-lips?
After a quiet moan, her words - bitter, breathless,
agonizing.
"Will you give me to him? Will you clean me, dress me,
take me to him? Will you love me after I take another
man inside me and cum, screaming under him, knowing I
love you more each day?"
His answer was not with words, but with actions. He
dried her with the large towel, careful not to dwell
where more questions would come.
Chapter 2
The house was one of many hidden behind dense hedges and
wide iron gates along the endless avenue. Finding it was
painfully slow. The camera's cold, glass eye found them,
internal elements shifting with precision, then stared
unblinking at them through the windshield for what
seemed like hours.
At first they sat in silence in the waiting car - her
heart racing with forbidden surrender to another, his
with apprehension, and finally terror. She was delicious
in the cool evening light. He had never seen her so
radiant - the creamy white skin of her neck gracefully
arched over a tempting hint of heaving breast revealed
at the border of the modest neckline.
The dress was delivered earlier that day, a plain black
box with a single red rose attached. Steven was curious
but quiet upon its arrival. She placed it on the bed
unopened, smiled, and put her arms around his waist.
"He always dresses me. Oh, it's not what you think. No
garter belts or lingerie, none of that. He puts me in
the most tasteful clothes, something different each
time. Very chic. Very expensive. Afterwards he takes
them from me and destroys them."
"He thinks that little of you?"
She smiled, resting her head on his chest against a
bounding heart.
"No - he thinks that much of me. Each time, I'm what he
wants me to be. Each time is special. And after, it's
gone forever. Me, the place, the time, the dress - it's
his creation, unspoiled, and forever unshared by
anyone."
Her words still echoed in his head as they waited in the
dark car. The dress fit her like a glove, a black,
velvet glove. He marveled at how the fabric could be so
thin, and yet so opaque. It moved as though it was a
part of her, revealing fleeting lines of breast, hip,
and thigh with the slightest motion of her body. Down
the front, a single row of soft, tiny, black buttons, an
inch apart, ran from neckline to ankle. He had watched
her button each one, an agonizingly slow process.
She had taken her time, smiling up at him after every
two or three, as if to say, "Imagine how long it will
take him to get to me, to open me up, to peel me like a
piece of wet, juicy fruit."
The heavy gates swung inward on smooth, silent hinges.
He hesitated, his foot hovering above the pedal, now
uncertain whether he could guide the car through the
entrance, then along the densely wooded drive that would
take her to him. She sensed his reluctance and turned to
him. He fought for breath as she leaned closer, her
trembling body draped in exquisite ebony. The fine,
delicate swirl of her ear bore sparkling clusters of
emeralds that flirted with the light between perfectly
placed strands of hair. She took his hand. Her smile was
weak but genuine.
"Now that we're here, I can't ask you for this. I can't
bring myself to utter the words, to sound so selfish, or
to hurt you."
Her eyes were liquid and wide with sympathy. But was
there a fleeting hint of excitement in the flicker of
her dark lashes?
"I can only tell you that it's happened, that it's
something I can't escape. Something in me needs this,
something so powerful I feel I'll self-destruct if I
don't see it through. I don't understand it. I can't
answer your questions. But I can love you. Is that
enough?"
He flinched when she squeezed his hand lightly, then
took the wheel and drove through the open gates without
a word. She turned away without apology, looking
straight ahead as he drove on. The tear he waited for
never came. He knew the road ahead was the only way to
keep her.
The gates vanished into darkness behind them as the car
crept along a broad curve, lit only by muted lamps
hugging the driveway at regular intervals. He heard her
small sigh as she settled back into the seat, her eyes
now staring miles into the night. Guessing her thoughts
tortured him as he peered ahead into the blackness. Was
she already with him? Did she know his plan? Was she
eager to escape his costume for the night, to be naked
and used in a game of their making? Or was it the
anticipation of the unknown - something that would push
her far past boundaries not yet crossed?
The house rose like a glowing fortress, awash in the
blue-white of countless lights spread over the sprawling
grounds. The hulking Georgian manor, spacious entry
court, and winding drive were carved out of the
surrounding dense vegetation that contained the light
within it, keeping the property in near-daylight long
after sunset.
A wide portico supporting six massive ionic columns
dropped to the level of the circular driveway through a
series of gleaming white marble steps that sparkled
under the intense light. He stopped the car in front of
them, peering into the rows of tall, arched windows
lining the front of the massive two-story structure.
Taking his hand again, she looked as though she belonged
there - elegant, beautiful, a precious gift to be
enjoyed, treasured, possessed.
"Wait for me?"
"I'd rather not. I - I don't think I can..."
"No, my love. I'm not asking. He is."
"But, he never said anything about having to watch you
with him. I couldn't take that. Isn't this enough?"
"He doesn't want you watch us. In fact, he won't allow
it. I'm his and his alone when we're together. But you
must show that you're willing to share me, to give me to
him whenever he wants. Bringing me here to him, and
later returning me to our bed is the only gesture he
demands. You have to give me willingly. It's sex, not
love. I love you. I always will. Please show him you'll
wait."
She was out of the car before he could answer, making
her way up the rows of steps. As she turned just briefly
to glance back at him, he noticed the flush across her
face, and her hardened nipples straining against the
delicate fabric.
She rang the bell at the door. He watched her as she
waited patiently, hands at her sides, the slim curves of
her body on display in the finest detail under the
intense light. Even so, the black dress clung to her
body in ways that would have made her unrecognizable to
him from the back, had she not just left her place
beside him minutes ago.
The door opened. She took a step forward. His arms
encircled her, one at the waist, the other moving up her
back until his fingers dug into chestnut curls, pulling
her closer. She lifted her chin and opened her mouth to
him. He covered it with his, suddenly pleased that her
response was so eager, that she would so savagely invade
his mouth while her husband watched.
His hand moved lower, palm now gliding over the hard
flesh of her ass, naked under the wisp of black cloth.
She moved close against him, her legs closing around the
muscle of his thigh. Her hips tilted into him, then
again, and again, as the kiss became more frenzied.
Steven watched them from the car, the kiss, his
caresses, her thighs clutching the stranger's leg, hips
grinding against him in heat. And when he thought he
could watch no longer, they stopped. Two large hands
appeared on her shoulders. He was speaking to her. She
was nodding, slowly, mechanically. His hands disappeared
again, retreating down the front of her dress, busy,
doing what? From the back it was difficult to tell. His
hands reappeared on her shoulders, this time pulling the
dark material to the sides, then down, over her arms,
until her bare back glistened in the floodlights. Elyse
stood before him, naked to the waist, her hands now busy
below his belt, her actions also hidden from her
husband's sight.
She knelt, now on her knees below him, her hands still
busy, still hidden from her husband by waves of shining
hair. Her small fingers closed around his cock, smoothly
running the length of it as the tip grew wet before her
eyes. She closed her lips around it, the ball of flesh
hard and warm against her tongue. She welcomed the
familiar taste of him, and let him know with eager but
careful teasing, sucking and licking just as he had
taught her. But this time it was different.
She was wet, and loved the feel of him in her mouth as
she had on each occasion, but now she felt her husband's
eyes upon her. Would he allow her this one passion? Was
he strong enough to accept her physical need for another
and be party to it as well? She loved Steven
desperately. He nourished her soul. But Simon fed her
cunt, and her mind refused to consider having to choose,
should it come to that.
Steven watched them from the car, stomach tied in knots,
glancing away each time doubt began to overcome him.
Although he saw nothing but his wife on her knees in
front of him, her flexing back naked in the night air,
agonizing images filled his head - her lips sucking
greedily at the stranger's cock, her hands busy,
milking, coaxing the semen from his body into her
waiting mouth. He fought the temptation to escape, to
turn the key and drive away. But he knew her well enough
by now to recognize the genuineness of her love for him
and her need for this stranger's hold on her.
At that distance, it was difficult to make out the man's
features. The skin of deep bronze against the crisp
white shirt, shining jet-black hair pulled back, bound
into a short tail, all suggested a man of Latin descent.
And the voice on the phone; he thought he detected a
slight accent beneath the intimidating, articulate
voice.
His display of total control as Elyse knelt before him,
her naked breasts offered to him as Steven imagined her
caressing a stranger's cock with her lips and tongue,
all against the backdrop of the brilliantly lit mansion
presented a surreal and painfully erotic scene that
mesmerized him. As much as he needed to look away, he
found he could not.
After a minute, maybe two, the man reached for her,
pulling her gently to her feet. His hands appeared
again, this time lifting the dress back over her
shoulders, methodically fastening the open buttons, one
by one. The demonstration was brief but effective. Elyse
understood the intent all too well, but wondered whether
the show of power was excessive, considering the
emotions her husband must already be juggling.
She also knew that power was everything to Simon, power
and control. He would insist on an offering, a
sacrifice, from her husband from the start. To witness
her submission from behind, with few details, forcing
Steven to imagine her mouth on Simon's cock, to ask
himself if her nipples hardened when she touched her
lover, to agonize over what Simon saw as he looked down
over her bare shoulders and firm, young breasts - all
this was what he would demand. Simon took her hand, and
as the mansion swallowed them she warmed inside, knowing
she had not heard the engine rev or the car speed away
into the night.
Chapter 3
She sat some ten feet away from Simon in the walnut-
paneled library. Glasses of brandy rested on identical
cherry tables beside each richly upholstered wingback
chair. He was unusually quiet this evening, taking time
to savor the rich, dark drink, allowing her to nearly
finish her own generous portion. She expected he would
talk of her husband, and was apprehensive about
betraying her love for him, even with unshared thoughts.
Instead, he sat and watched her, his fierce eyes
drinking in her slim body, harboring clues to her fate
later in the night.
"Do you love me?"
His first words startled her, both with their suddenness
and their content. She hesitated, trying to guess the
answer he wanted from her.
"Simon I-I..."
"Do_you_love_me? A simple question - four words - none
more than four letters."
His eyes were locked on hers - dark with savage
intensity. Her hand trembled as she reached for her
brandy, only to find the glass empty.
"I love my husband. I love your cock."
He stiffened suddenly and leaned forward in his chair,
dark eyes narrowing.
"Such language from a pretty wife. The day will come
when I tire of your hungry, young body. Poor little
thing, hanging on my gate, used and discarded."
He had never spoken to her like this. Would he turn her
away for giving just one wrong answer? Should she beg?
Play indignant, or proud? What did he want from her?
His fierce stare melted into a wide smile.
"But how could I possibly discard such a thirsty young
woman who knows so well what she wants, and loves. Oh, I
did very much like the sound of that - what was it
again?"
Now she trembled for a different reason. She felt the
coolness between her legs where her juices pooled,
wetting her inner thighs.
"I love your cock, Simon."
His smile faded a bit, his eyebrows arched, then after a
few thoughtful seconds, he tilted his head to the side
with lips pursed.
"I love your cock, Simon," she purred slowly, letting
her heat warm every word.
He poured another drink, then rose and went to her,
half-filling her glass as well. She drank it in gulps,
not stopping until it was gone. When he reached for her
the empty glass slipped from her hand, shattering with a
pop on the hardwood floor. Without flinching, he began
to open the dress; one button, then two, three,
lingering deliberately before going to the next,
savoring the trail of tender skin left behind as the
front of the dress parted.
It seemed to take forever, and by the time he had undone
the last button, she was breathless and limp. She slid
lower in the chair over the slick fabric of the open
dress, until her hips passed over the edge of the seat,
supported only by her splayed legs stretched out on
either side of him.
"Are you wet?"
"God yes, Simon. Can't you see?"
The dress had fallen away from her belly and legs. He
studied the swelling slit between her legs with a
puzzled frown.
"Show me."
She struggled to hold her cunt open to him, her fingers
slippery with the fluids that poured from her. She had
never felt more naked, more vulnerable. But that's what
Simon did. Why did it feel so good? From what dark
corner of her imagination had this maddening addiction
Freed itself? Her husband was just fifty yards away,
waiting for her to return to him, knowing that she would
give her body to Simon in ways that would forever remain
her secret. Was at least a sliver of the excitement from
knowing her husband agreed to surrender her, and would
likely do so in the future? Was it really his strength,
his compromise to keep them together, or some perverted
sense of power over him that made her dripping wet so
quickly tonight?
"Play with yourself. I want to watch your face as you
cum."
"Please Simon, I..."
A sudden ripple of disappointment shot through her. Her
first orgasm was always the most intense, and riding it
out without his cock in her was something she hadn't
expected.
"Well, well. You are a spirited little thing tonight.
You've never hesitated for a second at one of my
requests - always eager to play the slut so unbecoming a
prim and proper wife."
"I-I... want you inside me when I cum."
"So. We regress. Remember how we play? Simon says..."
She sank two fingers deep inside, then drew them out
slowly, one along each side of the hard, wet button of
flesh. Cradling it between them, she eased both fingers
along her swollen clit, circling over the sensitive tip
every so often with a trembling swirl.
He stood between her outstretched legs and watched with
satisfaction, then raised the half-full glass of brandy
in the air over her, tilting it slightly just above her
upturned face.
"Simon says, 'Open'."
Her mouth fell open just in time to catch the ribbon of
burgundy that fell from the rim of his glass. He smiled
down at her as he kept it coming, soon filling her mouth
faster than she could swallow it. As it overflowed
across her chin he followed with the glass, pouring a
thin, steady stream over her breasts and belly, until it
funneled between her legs, mixing with her own sticky
nectar, finally trickling into a building puddle on the
floor below.
"Decisions, decisions. What should I do with such an
anxious young lady? Should I grant her, her wish and
stick my cock in her? Although, I haven't really heard
her beg convincingly for it this evening.
Perhaps I should bring her husband inside. We could
watch her face together, her body twitching as she
fingers herself to orgasm in my library."
He turned his back to her and walked slowly toward the
door. Would he do it - even after he had promised not to
push her husband hard enough to endanger their marriage?
He was going too far - she couldn't allow it - but she
was so wet, now suddenly much closer to the brink, still
without his prick filling her.
"Simon, please! I can't... can't hold out... much...
much longer. I need you, Simon. I need... your cock in
me. I-I... need... your cock... I need your cock...
I..."
He wore a pleased grin as he turned to face her.
"Ahh, you have such a way with words - convincing words
indeed."
His chair was only a few steps away. He went to it, sat,
unzipped the front of his pants, and pulled his erection
through the opening. Her eyes were glued to it - so hard
and thick, like a bar of bronze sculpted into a warm
likeness of the perfect cock.
"Simon says, 'Over here.'"
She slid over the edge of the chair until her knees
touched the floor, allowed the dress to fall from her
shoulders, then crawled to him on hands and knees,
slowly, with her head down, the way she knew he would
want her. Stopping between his parted legs, she waited
for the sound of his voice.
He withheld it until he could see her shiver, knowing
that her need to be filled grew with each agonizing
second. He watched in silence as the small of her long,
smooth back arched, her ass rising and falling almost
imperceptibly in a futile effort to bring relief to the
ache between her shaking thighs. 'How long would she
wait?' he wondered. Hours? - Days? - this fragile,
loving wife, cowering, naked on the floor below,
silently begging to be taken by a stranger...
She watched her breasts hanging and quivering, engorged
nipples straining toward the floor, and through the
space between them the small tuft of hair matted and
dripping with her juices. In time she closed her eyes,
knowing that the sight of her body's response to him
would only excite her more. Soon her eyes were clenched
tight as she struggled to concentrate, to become
whatever he wanted that night, at whatever cost.
Her body shook in rhythmic spasms. Ridges of muscle rose
between her shoulder blades, and her inner thighs flexed
and relaxed in an uncontrollable cadence. He waited for
a sign - something new, something not easily
surrendered. When her tears fell from within the tangle
of hair that covered her face, landing with tiny splats
between his feet, he spoke.
"Look at me."
Elyse raised her head slowly. Thick waves of hair parted
to reveal her tear-streaked face.
"Interesting. What brings tears to the eyes of a wife as
she sluts for another man? Is it shame, an overpowering
disgrace born from the incapacity to control her own
desires? Or is it simply pure lust, her body's final
desperate mechanism for dealing with extended
deprivation, fired by a ravenous carnal appetite? Of
course, a true slut could never feel shame. A true slut
would abandon everything for a good hard fucking, never
stopping to think twice about her future, or the future
of those she loves. So which is it? Tell me, are these
the tears of a slut or sinner?"
She searched his eyes for some small hint that this was
just a game, hoping that he would break into a
sympathetic laugh, scoop her up in his arms, and take
her to his bed. Soon she understood her answer was
required, a necessary part of their evening together.
But which answer?
"Both. I'm both, Simon."
Her voice cracked and wavered. She could taste the salt
of her own tears.
"I-I'm your slut-your slut, Simon. And-and sinner-and
worse, in my husband's eyes."
Leaning forward, he ran his fingers lightly over her
face, then cradled it in his strong hands. She welcomed
the gentle pressure as he drew her closer, stopping just
inches from his towering erection.
"You may be many things in his eyes, but *you've* made
this a refuge from such things, a refuge from all things
proper and respectable. You've asked him to bring you
here, and beyond that, to wait in the wings as I use his
wife's body in ways that must test the limits of his
imagination."
He paused, his fingers working their way under her hair,
circling the small, delicate contours of her ears, then
trailing lower, caressing cool bare skin at the back of
her neck.
"I'm not interested in the sinner. The world is full of
sinners. So don't waste my time with words. Actions
speak with much more conviction."
She sat up, rested her hands on his thighs, and took the
solid, golden head of his cock into her mouth. Closing
her lips tightly just over the jutting ridge of the
glans, she attacked the meat of it with the tip of her
tongue. She could feel the beat of his pulse as she
tested the hard ball of flesh, pushing hard against it,
swirling around the edges, then gently probing the eye
at its center. Each precious droplet teased from him
arrived warm and sweet against the back of her throat.
"I don't think I've ever seen you suck me with such
abandon, or for that matter, any wife so willing take
another man's cock in her mouth. Are you as eager to
take your husband's in the same way?"
She stopped and looked up at him.
"We don't - I mean, not like this. It's different with
him."
"I see."
He sighed, showing his frustration with her evasive
answer.
"Please, don't..."
"Come now. Whining doesn't become you, my dear. Tell me.
I insist. Just how different is this husband of yours?"
She lowered her eyes. Her nipples seemed to reach out to
him, embarrassingly hard.
"It's more - more, comfortable with him, I guess. It's
safe, calm, warm, wrapped around each other in our bed.
I could never - I mean, it's just not the same. He'd
think - "
"You may be surprised what he thinks. Must a wife who
does her whorish best by night forsake the lady she's
become by day? You think nothing of offering your body
to me for whatever amusement I might invent. In fact you
flaunt your lust, so desperately, so ravenously, for
what you could easily have at home."
"I don't understand it, Simon. It's not as simple as you
make it. I'm not proud of this - I know I'm hurting him
deeply. Do you think I enjoy that?"
"Do you? There is a certain exhilaration in exercising
one's power over another, even if it's someone close to
your heart. The liberation from feelings of
powerlessness can be a stimulating awakening. And, as
horrifying as you might find it on the surface, the pain
you deliver with a newfound weapon can be both
empowering and arousing."
A sudden chill shook her, causing her hands to tremble
as she moved them along his thighs. When her hands found
his erection she closed them gently around the firm
shaft. She could feel the heat it radiated before
touching him, and imagined it flowing into her fingers,
along her bare arms, then into the core of her body,
finally chasing the chill back from where his words had
summoned it.
She found herself crying again - suddenly, unexpectedly
sobbing, despite the comforting warmth that poured into
her.
"Please stop, Simon. Why can't you leave him out of
this? Why won't you just fuck me? I'm begging, Simon -
oh God, I'm begging you..."
He rose and went to a desk at the far side of the room.
From the wide center drawer he retrieved a coil of
thick, heavy cord. Her heart raced when she saw it,
partly from fear, partly from excitement. He ran a
portion of it through his fingers, now careful not to
look at her. It was woven of black silk, thick as his
finger, but hollow at its center. Looping it loosely
around his hand several times, he tightened it slowly,
feeling it collapse slightly as its suppleness conformed
to the contours of his knuckles and palm.
She was on her knees by his chair when he returned. He
reached for her hand, she gave it, and he helped her to
her feet. Gently but firmly, he brought her wrists
together, circled them three times with the cord, then
once more, passing it between them, finally tying the
knot between her palms. He again looped the remaining
length about his hand and headed for the wide, open
stairs that led to his bedroom. She followed, two short
steps behind, as much as the rope would allow, her cunt
open, red, and flowing with juices from an hour's
torment.
Chapter 4
"If only others could see you as I do."
He paced slowly as he spoke, eyes feasting on white
flesh against the crimson sheets under her. The bed, a
heavy four-poster with a canopy frame, was positioned at
the very center of the room. At first sight it was an
imposing structure, a fusion of dark carved woods and
burnished metal in an old-world Mediterranean style. As
he circled it, he studied her from every angle. Her thin
wrists were stretched above her head, bound by two feet
of cord secured to a grille of metal bars at the
headboard. A tangle of brown hair framed her face, one
eye hidden behind sweat-soaked strands that clung to her
forehead and cheek. Her open lips waited, red and full,
poised, ready at the next instant to beg him to finish
her.
'Such wanton elegance,' he mused. 'Delicate shoulders
carved from the purest alabaster...white breasts firm
enough to mimic stone, yet soft enough to allow cherry-
red nipples to quiver with each breath...the flat belly,
showing a hint of muscle beneath it, as though carved by
a master sculptor to compliment the sleek lines of her
long waist...legs, white as glistening ivory, chiseled
and slim, a thin layer of satin drawn tightly over stone
cut and polished by hands of passion and grace.'
He could almost understand how a husband might prefer
sharing such a treasure to losing her.
Small lamps mounted on the inside of each corner of the
canopy bathed her body in blue-white light. The rest of
the room was dark, and the bright light blinded her to
his progress and exact position. Only during the few
moments when he passed the foot of the bed could she be
sure he remained in the room with her, his crisp, white
shirt and golden cock emerging from the shadows just
long enough to rewet her appetite for him.
Minutes later, he appeared beside her at the edge of the
bed. He was naked, and the sudden sight of him sent a
shudder of expectation through her. He held a small
silver vial, just slightly taller than a thimble. Within
it rested a thin needle topped with a single black pearl
that seemed to hover above the lip of the container in
the brilliant light. As he withdrew it, a drop of clear
liquid fell from the sharp tip back into the waiting
pool at the bottom of the miniature reservoir.
She shifted away from him as he brought the needle
closer.
"Are you afraid?"
Her eyes told him before she could speak. "Yes," she
whispered.
"I could untie you, set you free. Your husband is
waiting."
She shook her head without hesitation, as if to chase
away any chance of retreat. "No!" - another whisper, but
one more forceful.
The tip of the needle arrived at her breast, stopping at
the edge of the bright pink areola. With a quick
stabbing motion, he tapped the point repeatedly over the
sensitive skin. She gasped, then began to moan quietly
as the needle danced over the engorged button of flesh.
The pressure was never enough to draw blood, but
sufficient to deliver minute quantities of the drug just
below the surface of the tender nipple. He returned the
needle to the shining vial, wetting the tip again and
again, until both nipples lay wet and glistening in the
harsh light.
He stopped, watching the circles surrounding her nipples
darken to an angry red. She gasped as the tickle of the
needle turned to burning twinges, finally subsiding to a
constant, mild irritation that made her squirm and pull
against her bonds.
And then he was gone. The darkness surrounding the bed
simply swallowed him. She called out to him, begging him
to return, to extinguish the fire that had started at
her breasts and now crawled methodically through her,
seizing her cunt with raging urgency. Her cries echoed
through the room, unanswered. She cried out louder, slim
legs now shifting to one side, then the other in a
futile attempt at relief or freedom. The cord around her
wrists tightened and held. Helpless and alone under the
intense light, she felt as though she might suffocate in
its heat, a heat that suddenly seemed to melt her womb,
sending it flowing between her legs like a river of
molten lead.
Suddenly, he was there, kneeling on the bed, naked,
between her restless thighs. He watched her with
piercing eyes, his golden chest shining, his erection
thicker and harder than she had ever remembered it.
Multicolored spikes of light surrounded him, flickering
and wavering as they stretched from his bronzed skin
into the shadows of the darkened room. His voice seemed
distant and out of sync with the words that formed on
his lips.
"My, my. Where has she gone? Mommy and Daddy's good
little girl - a husband's faithful and loving wife - the
proud day-virgin and reluctant concubine. What would
they say if they could see your hungry little cunt
yawning for my cock? What words could you possibly use
to make them understand?"
"Please, Simon... I'm begging you..."
"Your answer is the price for my company tonight - and
ultimately, the price for coaxing my cock inside you."
"Simon... I don't care... none of it matters... none of
it..."
Her slim hips rose off the bed as she spoke, pumping
uncontrollably in a futile attempt to somehow capture
the swollen purple head that jutted and bobbed, still
impossibly far away.
"Ahh, finally, the truth. None of it matters - it's
empty baggage, a burden you needn't bear. Here, to be
free of it is a simple choice - your choice - no one
else's.
He moved closer, finally edging the head of his cock
just inside her. He waited until her cunt tightened
around it, then went deeper, filling her slowly with
inch after inch of rigid flesh. Each time with him was
as if she was taken by a new lover; the unyielding girth
of his sex stretching her, then the solid presence
filling her belly, possessing her more completely than
any man ever had, or quite possibly ever would. It took
an entire minute for him to bury himself in her. She
wound her legs around his waist, her torso drawn tight
between bound wrists and the small of his arched back.
He sank the last inch into her and stopped, pinning her
to the bed. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Her lips
formed a small, satisfied smile. She had taken all of
him - from the hard, blunt tip nestled snugly against
her cervix, to the thick, flaring root that ground
against her as his hips pressed into her in small, firm
circles under his body's weight.
She whimpered when he pulled out suddenly, surprised by
the emptiness in her belly. She opened her eyes again,
squinting in the bright light. He knelt between her
legs, his lean stomach and broad chest gleaming with
sweat. The aura that surrounded him burned with shifting
color, now pulsing violently with vibrant reds and
glowing violets.
His penis seemed immense as it jutted in the air over
her, growing longer and thicker as though reflected in a
funhouse mirror. The room was spinning. She closed her
eyes. The bed seemed to fall away, leaving her floating
above it, weightless and calm.
He was turning her, rolling her onto her belly. His
hands were cool, his grasp firm against her naked
thighs. She drew her knees under her, offering her ass
to him. What she needed came quickly - his strong hands
spreading her, then the hot, blunt presence against the
entrance, pressing forward slowly, boring into her, deep
enough to awaken flesh untouched by any other. The
sensation of the cord about her wrists, the cool sheet
against her face, the sting of the fullness invading
her, all melted into the single essence of what she had
become. No longer wife, nor woman, nor even flesh - only
need and desire,
desperate to be possessed, to be taken by hands that
would reduce her to nothing, a zero, dissolving her
demons in a sudden rush of Simon's scalding sperm as it
bathed her bowels.
The skillful caress of his fingers between her legs sent
her into a welcome abyss, falling and floating at the
same time through explosions of warmth and color, her
own cries echoing in the distance as though they were
the urgent calls of some primitive wild animal. Then the
darkness arrived, a luscious cradle that closed in
around her, sucking away her flesh with a delicious,
persistent embrace that slowly consumed her until only
the lush fullness deep in her belly remained. Finally it
too faded, the encroaching blackness stealing even the
nothingness she had become, until it swallowed
everything that remained.
***
The car had become a prison for him. An hour passed,
then two, and finally a third. He should do something -
go in after her, confront the man that took her inside,
insist she return with him to their own home, to their
own bed. Why had he allowed this in the first place?
What kind of man gives his wife to a stranger, and then
waits for him to finish with her? Her face haunted him,
so child-like when they met, and even now, years later,
it still cheated the passage of time. She remained an
innocent Lolita with the body of a mature, ripe woman.
He knew men desired her. He saw them look, listened to
their suggestive banter at parties, cloaked in the
feeblest attempts at platonic intent. But she had never
given them the slightest satisfaction of a knowing
reply. She would simply take his hand, or pull his arm
closer around her slim waist, as if to let him know she
was his and his alone.
The temptation to go to her was overwhelming, so much so
that twice he left the car. The first time he was able
to do little more than circle the car, then stand by the
open door, his eyes searching the tall windows for any
trace of movement. The second time he could go no
farther than halfway to the marble steps before
retreating, all the while remembering her soft pleading
just before she went inside. Now he sat staring at his
hands on the wheel, weary from questions he couldn't
answer, needing her next to him more than he ever had.
Then she was running toward him, her body glowing in the
light that still bathed the house. The simple white
nightshirt rose over her thighs as she ran. Bare legs
and feet flashed, gracefully carrying her forward, like
an angel gliding through the night. She snuggled next to
him in the car, an arm around his neck, a hand placed
peacefully on his chest. She nuzzled his neck, her damp
hair cool and fragrant against his skin.
"Mmmmm - take me home?"
She was asleep within minutes. He carried her from the
car to their bed. She moved close to him, pressing her
body against his, a contented smile now fixed to her
innocent face. After letting some time pass, he placed a
hand on her breast, moving a finger over her hardening
nipple. She sighed, uttered something soft and
unintelligible in her sleep, then turned from him and
sighed again one last time. He lay beside her as the
hours passed, never sleeping, her gentle breathing
filling him with both fear and desire until dawn.
Chapter 5
He woke slowly, first to the constant hiss and sizzle,
then to the familiar smell of bacon, teasing him from
his sleep with a hint of a perfect breakfast made just
as she knew he would want it. Sleep had finally come to
him sometime early in the morning, but the lack of it
hung about him as he lifted his legs over the side of
the bed and stood to face the day. She had drawn the
blinds so he could sleep late, and waited until mid-
morning to start his breakfast. He would shower first,
buying some time to think about what he might say to
her, and what she may or may not want to share about the
night before.
To his surprise, she greeted him with her dazzling smile
and a kiss as she brought him his food. He chose to eat,
saving any words till later, waiting for her to offer up
excuses or an apology. None came, so he picked at his
breakfast in silence as she hummed quietly to herself
while busily cleaning the kitchen.
Later that afternoon as he dozed in front of the
television, she snuggled next to him, her small hand
stroking his inner thigh. He opened his eyes to find her
staring at him with a mischievous grin.
"Take me to bed and fuck me?"
They were words he had never heard her use, but words
that caused his cock to stir in spite of the questions
she had still not answered. "So, it's over - you won't
go to him again?"
She slid her hand under his belt, gently closing her
fingers around his erection.
"I want *you*. I want your cock inside me. I want you to
fuck me till I scream."
Who was this woman? As uncertain as he was, he found it
impossible not to play along, impossible not to kiss her
deeply when she moved onto his lap, impossible not to
fuck her like a wild animal in their bed, and finally,
impossible not to wonder what went through her mind as
she found her second orgasm under him, thrashing and
screaming just as she had promised.
Afterwards she lay pressed against him, slowly running
her fingers over his chest and nipples. She looked so
satisfied, no, contented was more accurate. He had no
choice but to try to make some sense of it.
"Why do you do it?" he asked, as he stared at the
ceiling.
"You mean go to him, don't you?"
"You make it sound like a friendly visit when you put it
that way. Go to him? Why don't you just say it? You have
sex with him - you go to let him fuck you."
"Do you want me to say that, to tell you in those
words?"
"I want you to tell me why! Why can't you tell me what
you need instead of going to another man? What does he
do for you that I can't? Just tell me what you want -
I'll do it - anything, anything at all!"
She sighed, then trailed her fingertips over his belly,
finding his spent erection and working it gently between
her fingers.
"Are you sure you want to know? I could say things that
would hurt you terribly, and you'd regret asking."
"I regret asking in the first place. But what am I
supposed to do? Sit quietly by while you have sex with
this man, and never question why? If you still love me,
if you want a future together, what could you say that
would hurt me?"
Her eyes peered into his, searching for a sign that he
meant what he said, for just a brief hint of inner
strength, or possibly arousal. How might he react if she
led him along such a tenuous path? The risk was enormous
- how could she tell her husband such things? And why
did the anticipation of his response make her so wet,
her belly so desperate to be filled?
"I could say I go because he's handsome, and incredibly
sexy. I could say he's very wealthy and spares no
expense to please me. I may even tell you how he
satisfies me in bed, that he's a wonderful lover, that
he drives me to the brink of my senses when he makes me
cum."
She paused, still playing with his cock under the damp
sheet, finally finding it growing hard again in her
hand. She smiled at him, now knowing he accepted at
least some small part of her obsession, that he loved
her enough to find some pleasure in giving her such an
unlikely gift. And then he turned away from her,
shuddered, and drew a sudden, halting breath. Moving
close to him, Elyse stroked his hair lightly as he lay
staring silently into the darkness. She wanted his
reaction, and now she had it.
"None of those things are why I go. I may never be able
to convince you, but it's true," she told him, almost in
a whisper.
"True? You've done a pretty good job of convincing me
otherwise."
She pressed closer, throwing a bare leg over him, then
turned him toward her again and eased on top of him, her
small firm breasts pushed high up on his heaving chest.
"I can't tell you why I go. I don't know myself. It's
not you. It's not him. It's me. Something in me -
something terrifying and exciting at the same time. I
love my life with you. But - I don't know - something
happens there, something that renews a part of me that I
never knew was empty. And after, I love you even more,
so deeply, so fully, as though I have so much more to
give you than I've ever been able to share before. I
love being with you; just your touch makes me warm and
safe. I crave your body constantly. I fantasize about
your cock inside me, and how wonderful it feels. No
other man could make me feel the way I do when I cum
with you inside me. It's true. Whether you believe me or
not, I live for you and you alone."
She was so beautiful, so convincing. He struggled wildly
with jealousy, love, and his best attempt at
understanding. But if she couldn't understand her
obsession, how could he, even at his best?
In the weeks that followed, he found it impossible to
doubt her. She found it impossible not to relish her new
freedom, and every minute of every day showed her love
to him in everything she did. Each touch proved her
sincerity.
Their lovemaking became a series of adventures, each
spontaneous and more daring than the last. She stripped
for him at night after dinner as slow earthy jazz oozed
from the stereo and the dimmed blue light she bought
only that afternoon silhouetted her body as she twisted
hungrily before him. She spoke to him graphically,
breathlessly, as they returned from a Saturday visit to
the museum, telling him how the lines and mass of a
certain sculpture made her think of how wonderful his
own body looked to her, how it made her hot and wet, so
much so she couldn't wait to have him - so she took him
there in the car as he drove, eagerly swallowing his
semen as though it was hot tea and honey.
She arrived at his office late one Friday afternoon
flaunting a new coat, one of luxuriously thick silver
and white fur. She felt the stares of his colleagues,
from bare calf to the upper curves of her breasts left
enticingly exposed. Their attention warmed her a little,
but she went to her husband without a smile or glance at
the others. In the seclusion of his office, she opened
the coat and let it slide off her shoulders, finally
naked before him with a hunger in her eyes that by now,
he knew all too well. They made love on the carpet in
front of his desk, door unlocked, all the while sensing
the danger of being seen by an intruder, overwhelmed by
their passion for each other.
After a month, Steven had forgiven everything. 'A small
price,' he told himself. Memory of the mansion and the
dark man in it went to the place where memories go that
are not forgotten, but only return with the most
deliberate provocation. Now, not even the moans of her
loudest orgasm set them free.
Chapter 6
It arrived a month later, delivered by a tuxedoed
messenger who smiled briefly, then returned to the limo
waiting at the curb. The package was large and black,
its length and width secured tightly by a gleaming
silver cable of ribbon. A single red rose was tied at
the center with a shining knot nestled between clusters
of menacing thorns. Steven stood behind the closed door
for a full minute, not able to take a step, staring at
his own reflection in the glossy surface.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
Elyse had come up behind him in her bare feet, and her
voice startled him. He turned, holding the package
carefully out in front of him as though it might be
radioactive.
"Oh. That."
He lifted his eyes from the box. Elyse stood there in
her robe, her expression at first calm, then apologetic.
She seemed to be waiting for him to speak.
"Please don't go."
His voice sounded so small, as though he barely had the
air to make the words come. He wanted her to move
closer, to take the box and hurl it into the trash and
assure him she could never go to him again. Instead she
looked down at the box as though sizing its dimensions.
Steven shivered as he imagined she was guessing its
contents.
"You don't have to go. He can't force you."
She began to go to him, then stopped after several
steps, lowering her head as she spoke. Her robe was
undone, and parted a few extra inches in the front as
she walked. His eyes wandered down over the trail of
exposed flesh, the inner curves of her breasts, her flat
belly, to the naked slit between her legs, now freshly
shaved and parted slightly to reveal a deep red, pulsing
core.
"You don't understand. He only sees me when I ask. I
thought you knew that. It's me. I have to go."
"You don't have to go, damn it! I love you, but even I
have limits! Just how much more do you expect me to
take?"
Her expression changed to one of disappointment. Her
eyes were filled with more sadness than he had ever
seen.
"I know you have limits. I suppose I knew you would
reach them eventually, that in the end you would leave.
I need this, and I need you. I knew that I couldn't have
both for long - or at least I feared it."
"I never said I was leaving - I don't know if I could,"
Steven said.
"Then please stay with me, please indulge me, for at
least a while longer. You won't be sorry. I promise."
Her last words were delivered with sultry assurance. She
smiled, and her eyes brightened. Unable to think, he
extended the box, offering it to her. She moved to his
side and slid the robe off her shoulders, holding it
open, offering her body to him.
"Put it on the bed, then shower with me. I want to be
close to you before we go, both of us naked and warm and
wet..."
She offered herself to him under the pulsing jets of
water, eyes closed, mouth open and panting as Steven ran
the soap over her body. When his hand trailed between
her legs, she reached up and kissed him, their bodies
pressed together, skin made slick and sensitive by the
thin film of soapy water between them. When she felt his
erection grow against her, she went to her knees and
played with him, running soapy fingers of one hand along
the hardening shaft, cupping and pulling gently at his
balls with the other. Elyse knew the signs of her
husband's orgasm, and just as he began to thrust his
hips, she stopped, rising to whisper in his ear.
"I love your hard cock in my hands, but I can't make you
cum tonight. He won't allow it. But I can stay here with
you, help you enjoy it, if you do it yourself. Please -
I'd love to see you make yourself cum. Please my love,
for me?"
Her tongue was in his ear, then licking his neck,
traveling down to suck at his nipples - and she was
moaning, groaning, like an animal in heat. Steven's head
was swimming with lust and confusion. He'd said he would
do whatever she wanted - to hell with the man in the
mansion - he needed her here and now.
He came after just a few strokes, thrusting and moaning
as Elyse nibbled at his belly. She looked down just as
his semen erupted from the end of his cock, his hand
stroking furiously as his hips pumped back and forth.
She fought her own impending orgasm, gained control,
then suddenly lost it again as the warmth rushed over
her. She stiffened, still on her knees, thighs pressed
tightly together, trying to shake the involuntary spasms
that traveled in waves from belly to neck.
It was the first time she had disobeyed Simon - he
forbade her to cum the day of their meeting. She hadn't
touched herself - another first for her. Why had this
happened? Why had she asked her husband to masturbate
just hours before giving her to another man? And why had
she cum when he gave in so easily to her suggestion? She
went cold as Simon's words echoed in her head.
"There is a certain exhilaration in exercising one's
power over another, even if it's someone close to your
heart...as horrifying as you might find it on the
surface, the pain you deliver with a newfound weapon can
be both empowering and arousing."
Chapter 7
His attempts to find the mansion were frustrated at
every turn. The neighborhood's streets formed a maze of
circles and cul-de- sacs hidden from one another by
dense but impeccably groomed landscaping. Each time he
made a wrong turn and she showed him the way, he
wondered how often she had found it on her own. In the
dark, each private entrance looked alike, until they
came face to face with the twisted bars of his imposing
iron gate and the familiar glass eye of the camera,
peering down at them like a mechanical cyclops atop the
towering stone pilaster.
As they waited, he turned to her, only to find her
staring once again through the ominous gate into the
night on the other side. She wore her hair up in a more
formal style, revealing tantalizing glimpses of supple
neck and glittering diamonds decorating each ear. She
was a vision, but not one of his own making.
He remembered her gasp when she opened package, and how
its contents overflowed its edges, as though it had
suddenly taken its own deep breath, increasing its
volume to double the box's capacity. The material was
black as night, and reflected the light as though it was
partly metallic. When she lifted it from the box and
held it up in front of her, it unfolded slowly, its
weight surprisingly light in her small hands. She
dressed herself in private, and he was more than
satisfied to let her do it. It was his turn to gasp when
she appeared from their bedroom, wrapped in the elegant
gift from her enigmatic lover.
The material fit her midsection as tightly as a corset,
softening to cup her breasts in two delicate pouches
that barely covered the tops her nipples. Four gold
catches secured the middle about her like a second skin.
From hips to floor, the dress expanded in a series of
large horizontal scalloped pleats that trailed slightly
behind her as she walked. It opened down the front in an
inverted V, gathered just below her belly, widening two
feet or more by the time it reached the floor.
When she walked, the cascades of pleats opened wider to
reveal her legs, from black heels to the very tops of
her bare thighs. The contrast of one slender ivory leg
after another, slim thighs flexing, thrust through the
opening as she took step after step framed by the dark
flowing fabric, was startling, even to her husband of so
many years.
'My God - she could have any man.'
And then, just at that moment, she had smiled at him, as
though she could read his every thought.
Now they sat in silence as the gate opened once again
and the car slipped through it, winding forward into the
night. She sat taller in her seat as they approached the
house, her shoulders squared, breasts thrust forward,
heaving against the dress with each slow, deep breath.
She leaned forward slightly as though she was drawn to
their destination by the same powerful force that
equally repelled her husband.
When the engine died she looked at him with love and
pity.
"The things you must be thinking about me...and yet you
bring me here, again. You must love me more than I ever
imagined."
She leaned toward him, circling him with her bare,
slender arms, and kissed him deeply. Pressing closer,
she dropped a hand to his lap, exploring between his
legs as the kiss became more frenzied. And then, just as
she felt his erection begin to grow, she stopped and
pulled away, looking lovingly into his eyes once again
as she straightened a few strands of hair that had come
undone.
"You'll wait for me?"
He tried to answer. Trust and jealousy, love and anger,
pride and humiliation, all sliced his insides to pieces,
then tore the ragged wounds in all directions. He
trembled from her lust for him, and from the frustration
of watching that same lust willingly surrendered to a
man waiting to use it for his own amusement. He just
stared back at her, an elegant vision, alive with fresh,
tempting beauty and innocent, smoldering heat. How could
he say yes, agreeing to let this man use her eager body
a second time while he waited for him to satisfy her?
How could he say no, and risk losing her to this
maddening obsession? In the end, he couldn't say
anything at all.
She smiled confidently at him one last time. Her bare
legs seemed to glow in the light that spilled into the
car from the house behind them. The dress had opened
wider when she moved away from him, and now revealed the
pale skin of her lower belly and the pouting lips
nestled between the tops of her thighs. He couldn't take
his eyes from it, and she let him look, knowing he saw
her ripening cunt, juicy and wet, ready for what waited
for her across the white pavement beyond the marble
steps.
Watching her approach the house brought back bitter
memories. A different dress, a different night, but the
way she moved toward her destination, almost strutting
with anxious determination, was painfully familiar.
He appeared at the door just as she arrived and stepped
outside to meet her. A stray lock of hair hung free at
the side of her face, still undone from her husband's
touch. He tucked it back in place, then turned her,
moving against her from behind. She tried her best to
contain a brief moan when his lips found her neck, but
she failed, suddenly afraid that the soft sounds she
made might escape into the night air to reach the open
car window.
A lean, bronzed forearm and palm circled her waist,
drawing her closer to him, while another hand freed her
breasts from the front of the dress. Her nipples
hardened at once and throbbed under his fingertips. She
leaned back against him, eyes closed, lips trembling as
she tried to contain a second moan. He feasted on her
bare neck and shoulder, and she cried out again, louder,
a guttural noise that rose from deep inside her. This
time she was certain it had reached her husband, but was
already beyond caring. Simon was pleased that she so
quickly shed her inhibitions before her waiting husband,
and let her know with a whisper as his teeth grazed her
ear.
"Slut."
The word sent a ripple through her belly, and she pushed
harder against him, until she could feel the hardened
length of his cock against the small of her back. From
the car, her husband watched as she melted against the
man, her nipples swelling so easily as her cupped her
breasts, her hips grinding into him as her bare legs
parted and swayed through the open front of the dress.
With her third moan, he raised the car window and looked
away. He had never heard the sound come from her before,
nor had he ever seen her surrender to lust so
immediately. When he finally summoned the courage to
look toward the house again, they had vanished, leaving
him alone with his imagination and pain.
Chapter 8
They sat facing each other in a room unfamiliar to her.
He had led her past the library to the back of the house
where bright lights no longer spilled through the
towering windows. It was a room of secrets, dark and
quiet, lit only by shrinking tongues of flame and dying
embers sputtering in a nearby hearth. She thought it
smelled of man-smells, of leather, tobacco, and the
charred wood of a campfire.
For a brief minute, just after he took her hand, led her
through the door, and then closed it, she felt as though
she was transported back in time - she in her elegant
gown, he in his perfectly tailored jacket, standing
together, awash in flickering sienna. Now she felt so
small, barely able to reach the armrests of the wide
leather chair. Sitting forced the open front of the
dress higher, nearly to her navel, exposing everything
below it - the soft pillow of her lower belly, her naked
thighs pressing into the leather of the seat cushion,
and the pouting, freshly shaved cleft between them,
glistening at its center with a hint of expectation. She
knew by his smile that he approved.
He moved forward in his chair, edging closer to a small,
round table that stood between them. Lifting an oddly
square bottle, he turned the peeling label toward the
fire to read its faded letters. She watched quietly as
he poured an inch of emerald liquor into each of two
heavy crystal goblets. The liquid seemed to glow and
sparkle through the many angled facets of glass. She
grew more curious when he balanced a long, slotted spoon
across the top of one of the glasses, then lifted a
single cube of sugar from a small porcelain bowl,
centering it on the spoon. After preparing the second
glass in exactly the same way, he placed it beneath the
narrow spigot of a silver tureen which stood atop a tiny
but steady flame, warming its contents to just above
body temperature.
"And the third angel sounded, and a great star, burning
like a lamp, fell from Heaven, and it fell upon the
third part of the rivers and fountains of water; and the
name of the star is called Absinthe."
He hadn't looked up from his work, and his voice,
suddenly so loud and at the same time somber, startled
her. Not knowing whether he expected an answer from her,
she sat without a word, eyes now wide and glassy in the
firelight.
He stopped and looked up across the table at her,
pausing a second between her legs before meeting her
nervous stare.
"La Fe Verte. The green fairy. Such a contradiction -
once so prized, then so despised - how can such a simple
thing be weighed in such extremes of human desire and
aversion? It's only a drink, after all. Have you tried
it? Absinthe?"
She had heard the word, but knew little of it.
"No," she replied, just louder than a whisper.
As he eased the spigot open, warm droplets of water
fell, one by one, onto the cube of sugar, then after
wetting it to the core, dripped steadily into the
waiting glass. Like some sort of strange alchemy, the
green liquid changed slowly to a murky, opaline yellow
before her eyes.
"Aside from 'visions borne of the loins of angels', it's
said that the ritual of preparation is much of the
seduction of absinthe. I believe you know something of
the seduction of ritual, don't you my dear?"
"I - I never thought of this as a ritual, Simon."
"But of course it is - a ritual to be played out, then
dismissed until whatever brings you back to me laps at
your little cunt once again."
"So, I'm nothing more than a slave to this 'ritual', as
you put it? My only true existence is here with you,
bridged by week after empty week of waiting anxiously
for your cock inside me again? I'm much more than that,
Simon. As sure as you are of me, you've dismissed my
strengths - my capacity to love my husband, and much of
what I am."
She expected some sort of retaliation - a scathing look,
or words laced with enough sarcasm to put her in her
place. Instead, he concentrated quietly on his work,
waiting patiently until a second cube of sugar
completely dissolved into the remaining glass. Then,
with a slight flourish, he added an equal amount of
cognac to each goblet, topped off with a bit more warm
water, and extended a glass toward her. She edged
forward to take it, the heat from the fire on her bare
thighs reminding her to keep them open for him as he
moved closer.
"A toast - to a young wife's strengths - and to the
green fairy, with strengths of her own."
The drink burned her throat, leaving behind a slightly
bitter aftertaste. She struggled to keep pace with his
own progress, emptying half her glass in just minutes.
As it warmed her from the inside out, she opened her
legs wider and moved forward in her chair, a gesture
made to assure him that her naked cunt was completely,
shamelessly, his, and to show how eager she was to have
him use her body in some new, perverse way.
"So, shall we talk a bit about the strengths you seem so
proud of tonight?"
His voice hinted at mischief instead of the sarcasm she
had expected, his smile as warm and genuine as her
husband's might have been. She felt her defenses melt
away and a sudden gush flow from between her legs.
"Tell me, what do you tell your husband when he asks
what we do here? Where is this inner strength each time
he asks why you return, so desperate to be fucked by
another man? How does this infinite capacity to love
your husband serve you when he looks deep into the eyes
of his sweet wife as another man's semen leaks slowly
from the depths of her belly? Does he see it, this
strength of yours? Or is it regret, pity, or even
depraved lust that looks back at him?"
"I've told you before, Simon. I tell him as little as
possible. There's no need to make him suffer, no need to
punish him more than I must each time I ask him to bring
me here."
He studied her expression as she spoke, examining the
smallest of gestures, searching for truth in the arch of
a brow, or the corners
of her mouth where full lips met to reveal fleeting
glimpses of those things she tried hardest to conceal.
Now no longer comforted by his sympathetic smile, she
clung in vain to her strength as it slowly slipped away,
her resistance broken, her pride violated by his knowing
grin.
"You speak of your husband's punishment. What of yours?"
"Mine? Mine is seeing the pain in his eyes when I return
to him. Mine is knowing what he thinks of me, and
knowing no matter how I try to prove my love for him,
that he questions it when I take him inside me, even as
I whisper his name over and over when I cum. As painful
as it is, at times I feel I deserve much worse."
"And what might the proper punishment be for a wife that
cheats not just once, but openly and regularly sluts
before her loving husband's eyes?"
She sipped the remainder of her drink slowly, using the
time to think, knowing a certain answer was expected of
her. The taste of the warm liquid seemed less bitter
now, and she scarcely noticed as much of what she was
began to slip easily away into Simon's confident grasp.
He knew her answer would not come easily, and he took
pleasure in watching her labor to invent a suitable
punishment that was sure to please him. He went to work
creating a second set of drinks, pretending to be
absorbed completely in repeating the ritual, one much
like the one she fought to deny.
But still she sat quietly, afraid any punishment she
might devise would be impossible to bear, yet not severe
enough to satisfy him. So she waited, with cuntlips
pulsing and wet, until she took the second glass from
his hand and drank. He sipped his glass, while she
drained hers in long, deliberate portions, all the while
feeling his eyes on her, watching him devour her body
from mouth to cunt as a predator studies its prey before
feasting. Suddenly, all defenses, pride, modesty, and
shame melted away in a single swift rush. The need to
offer herself totally, to become nothing more than an
object used for the carnal whims of anyone who might
want her, became so overwhelming, that she trembled as
though balanced on the brink of a terrifying abyss. Her
nipples hardened urgently against the fabric of the
dress, and her hands found the insides of her spread
thighs, stroking the smooth flesh as near to her naked
cunt as she dare go without his permission.
He rose and went to her, cupped her chin in his large
hand, and tilted her face up to meet gaze. He waited a
full minute, savoring each tremor of her body, each
second of lust and indecision helplessly revealed in her
wide eyes. When she didn't answer, he answered for her.
"Might I offer a deserving punishment, one guaranteed
not to leave you wanting?"
His words seemed so distant, his hand so hot - almost
electric - against her face. Whatever punishment he
offered was something she would gladly take from him,
fearlessly, even greedily, if it was to become the key
that would unlock his every expectation.
And then, somehow, she was on her feet, walking beside
him, her hand wrapped in his, the urgency to give
herself to him never fading. As he led her into the
darkness at the back of the room, a soft amber light
began to glow overhead, revealing the framework of an
imposing structure, until then hidden in obscurity
behind her chair. The scaffold was made of polished
mahogany beams, a foot thick from floor to ceiling. They
rose from a large matching base, raised a foot off the
floor, with a short step in front. As they climbed the
single step together, she struggled to make some sense
of their destination's purpose.
The precise fit of the intricately carved trim and the
flawless sheen of its finish brought a surprising image
to her mind - that of a pulpit, where a clergyman might
go about the task of unburdening those with impure
thoughts and deeds. She shivered, ashamed of the bizarre
association, but within seconds the absinthe shuttled
her thoughts elsewhere and the image was lost, forgotten
in less time than it had taken to form.
She offered up each arm, one at a time, as he fastened
her wrists in heavy loops of cloth attached to the
inside of each vertical beam. Her heart pounded as
hidden ratchets within the beams stretched her upward
until only the balls of her feet touched the smooth
mahogany floor. He stood before her, a foot away,
admiring her body, letting her know with words graphic
enough to make her twist slightly, impatiently, against
her bonds. As he spoke, he unfastened each of the four
catches down the front of her dress, letting it fall to
the floor after the last was opened. She knew what he
saw would excite him - her body hanging naked before
him, the light from the fire flickering over her satin
skin. She opened her legs shamelessly, unconsciously
setting her hips forward, writhing with lust for him,
but completely helpless to find relief until he wished
to give it.
After disappearing into the shadows, he appeared before
her again stripped to the waist, his bronze chest
gleaming high and firm above the sinews of his flat,
chiseled stomach. In his hand he carried short length of
bamboo, no thicker than a pencil, a yard from end to
end. Careful not to brandish it as a weapon, he held it
low against the side of his thigh as he approached,
allowing her to feast her eyes on his bare torso, then,
as he knew she would, lower her eyes to the swollen rope
of flesh straining at the front of his slacks.
She gasped when he brought the end of the stick close to
her breast, then again, repeatedly, as he moved it
slowly back and forth over the puckering nipple. A
short, sudden tap across her breast made her cry out in
surprise - a second more forceful strike brought a
louder squeal of pain.
"Please Simon - not this - you're scaring me!" she
pleaded. He responded with repeated blows, each slightly
more forceful than the last, each making the darkened
room ring with her shrill response. The bamboo fell
across her breasts again and again until they were fiery
with heat and pain, until finally tears swelled along
the lower lids of her eyes, then spilled over both
cheeks.
Just when she began to sob openly, he stopped. Then his
hands were on her, cool lotion beneath them soothing the
nagging burning, caressing the tender nipples back to
life with expert care. He fondled her lovingly, cupping
the firm meat of her breasts with hands both strong and
forgiving, until the fire in her belly began to grow
again, her cunt again seeping with desire. She had been
terrified, but she had
taken his punishment, and now, puzzling as it seemed,
she welcomed it. In some small way, she had paid a price
for what she had become, and at the same time shed a
burden that followed her here. And now his hands were
welcome and comforting as he stroked her so intimately -
those beautiful, strong hands that took her in ways no
other man could.
"I love you, Simon," she uttered in her smallest voice.
In an instant, he backed away, scowling as though she
had intentionally hurled the most obscene of insults at
him. Seconds later the bamboo slashed across her
stomach, sending a searing bolt of pain through her
body. She screamed and pulled back from him as far as
the bonds would allow, her mind a slurry of absinthe and
agony. Again and again the slim crop whipped across her
belly, doubling her over as she shrieked in pain.
"How can you love me?" he snarled as she hung limply
from the scaffold. "You love your husband, remember? Or
do you? Where are those strengths now that you're so
proud of, so sure of? Gone! So quickly! So easily! So
confident that you know yourself, that you understand
what you are! The faithful wife, the perfect lady,
always so certain they're more a part of you than the
drooling harlot inside, screaming to escape. You deny
it, lie about it, every minute of every day, totally
convinced you're in complete control. And when you
discover that the control is an illusion, and that the
illusion can't possibly be sustained, what do you do?
What? You seek out a phantom to host your demons - a
phantom with cock big enough and hard enough to chase
your demons into the shadows until they come clawing at
you again!"
He paced before her as he ranted, spitting the words at
her as she hid behind a curtain of tears.
"Look at me! Don't look away! Look at me!!!"
He took two long steps toward her and took her chin in
his hand, turning her face roughly to meet his piercing
stare.
"You're a whore in a pretty wrapper - just like everyone
else. It's time you admit it! It's time to confess - to
me, to your husband, and to yourself!"
He waited, staring into her bloodshot eyes, his torso
now etched with lines of tensioned muscle glistening in
the soft light as rivulets of sweat trickled over him.
Suddenly, she could see herself as though she was
watching from across the room. The curves of her body
glowed with the color of firelight - breasts, thighs,
belly, all smoldered with a lust that demanded, then
raged for its existence outside the prison she had built
for it. It no longer made sense to contain it, to block
its escape with more guilt and pain.
"W-whore..." she whispered. "Yes - whore. A pretty
whore..."
He took her face gently in both hands and beamed at her.
"Yes, a very pretty whore," he answered.
He moved closer, between her legs, and she opened them
for him eagerly. When she looked down, she found he was
naked, but only wondered for a second when and how.
Then, as he held her in his arms, she felt the warm
fullness of his cock slide inside her, not pausing for
an instant at her slick, gaping entrance. He fucked her
slowly, just as she liked it, never retreating far
enough to empty her, but always filling her completely
with each precise, powerful stroke. When she closed her
eyes, images of men formed in front of her - men from
her past, and men she didn't yet know. They waited
impatiently in line, erections jutting forward, swollen
and throbbing, driven to near frenzy by her promise to
service each and every one. Then his lips touched her
neck, opened, and sucked, while the line of men behind
Simon looked on restlessly, stretching endlessly back
into the darkness.
Chapter 9
Waiting in the chilly car was no easier this time than
the last. Consumed with agonizing images of his wife
with the dark stranger, he sat unmoving behind the
wheel, staring into the darkness, hoping to find an
answer there, but finding only more anxiety and pain
with each passing minute. "What kind of man allows
this?" he argued silently to himself. "What kind of wife
does this to someone she loves?" He should leave her -
start the car and speed away from this revolting house
that held her. A simple act, and the pain would be gone
- but only to be replaced with the pain of losing her.
"Allow her this, and keep her," his rational side argued
back. "One night of physical pleasure, now and then -
something that makes her alive, exciting, and loving
when she returns to me."
And so the battle raged, silently, in the darkened car -
for an hour, perhaps more, until running in circles
exhausted him. With each blink, his eyes became more
difficult to open again, until finally, he couldn't open
them at all.
***
He sat beside her, ten rows back from the stage in the
cavernous opera house. The lights were still up, and the
audience murmured with anticipation of the first act.
She was as radiant as he had ever seen her - hair swept
up as if magically held in complex patterns of shining
swirls, each strand perfectly in place. The neckline of
the simple black dress exposed much of the rounded
globes of her firm breasts in a daring display of flesh.
She held her program in one hand while gently stroking
his thigh with the other. Finally she looked up from the
small print and smiled.
"Thank you for tonight, darling. You know how much I've
wanted this."
Her hand moved to his lap. She ran her fingers slowly
over the front of his pants until she felt the
beginnings of his erection, then gave it a light
squeeze.
"Ladies room," she whispered as she lifted herself out
of her seat.
She made her way along the row as three couples stood to
let her by. Then, just as she reached the end of the
row, he watched in horror as her fingers trailed lightly
along the obvious erection of the young man standing in
front of the last seat. She looked back over her bare
shoulder and winked, then quickly disappeared toward the
rear of the theater. At first the others seemed not to
notice her perverse teasing. Then, still standing, they
slowly turned to look at him, faces frozen in blank
stares as though waiting for his response.
He stood and worked his way past them. Each of them, one
by one, watched him with a blank stare until he reached
the wide aisle. As he passed the young man on the end of
the row, he brushed against his enormous erection and
flinched, quickly pressing into the seat in the next row
to escape further contact. But the man kept the same
expressionless stare as the others, his bulging cock the
only evidence of his wife's playful seduction.
The lights began to dim as he reached the back of the
theater. The four sets of double doors that led to the
lobby were now closed and he fumbled in the dark to find
an exit. Once found, the door opened easily in his hand,
almost as if it had been expecting him. The lobby was
deserted. Scarlet padded benches lined its perimeter,
only a short while ago laden with guests in all their
finery. Now they were empty. A large chandelier burned
brightly overhead, each of the hundreds of pieces of
sparkling crystal hanging silently as though frozen in
time. To the left and right, two wide curving stairways
led to the balcony and restrooms.
He climbed the stairs on the right, eager to find his
wife, but fearing what may lie ahead. The carpet
accepted each footstep, collapsing just enough under his
weight, then rebounding, as if impatient to send him on
his way. At the top of the stairs, an empty foyer
greeted him, silent as a tomb. After pacing in front of
the ladies room, he entered cautiously, glanced quickly
left and right, only to find it empty. After a hasty
retreat, he crossed to the men's room and entered.
"Good evening, sir."
The tuxedoed man standing a mere two feet to his right
stood straight and still as a statue. His face was pale
and as translucent as tissue paper, and as Steven met
his stare, he recognized the same blank, unblinking eyes
as the guests downstairs.
"I - uh - I'm looking for my wife."
"In the men's room, sir?"
"No - I mean - well, she left her seat twenty minutes
ago, to go to the ladies room."
"Ah, the ladies room is outside, to the right, sir. I
suggest you wait for her there."
"But, I have, and she's - well, she's not there."
The man's eyes narrowed, as though trying to peer
through Steven.
"Is your wife prone to straying, if I may be so bold,
sir?"
"Straying? I - no, no she isn't."
"Well, many women are. My own wife was a prime example.
So unpredictable, so strong-willed, such - unquenchable
desires."
The man's expression relaxed, his eyes now those of a
knowing confidant.
"Look, have you seen her?" Steven asked finally. "Black
dress, brown hair, very pretty..."
"Ahh, yes. I do believe I have. But she couldn't be your
wife, sir. She was..."
He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes now drifting upward
as he seemed to savor the memory.
"Why? Why couldn't she? What do you mean?" Steven asked
in near panic.
"I had a wife once, a very pretty one, much like yours,
if I may say so, sir. She had tastes, for, well, certain
things I couldn't provide. I returned to our home one
day to find her enjoying a ride on a rather well-endowed
young man in our own bed."
The man stopped, looking at him expectantly.
Steven, suddenly feeling the urgent need to relieve
himself, turned away and stepped up to the nearest of
the gleaming white urinals lining the long wall of deep
scarlet.
"She wouldn't admit it, at least not at first. They
seldom do. But, to be very candid sir, men of size and
savagery are what they dream of."
As Steven emptied himself into the white porcelain, he
shivered when he noticed the attendant sneak a glance at
his exposed penis.
"Men like us sir, civilized men, men born without the,
well, sufficient 'equipment' that such women desire,
must often stand aside when a lady finds that our
sensitive devotion is no match for a good fucking. I'm
sure you would understand that, sir."
"Look, have you seen my wife or not?" Steven shot back,
now unnerved by the attendant's suggestive banter. The
man seemed suddenly older. A mixture of arrogance and
amusement filled his eyes, but his face looked tired,
aging years in the few minutes they had spoken.
"I'm sorry sir. I must have been mistaken," he answered,
with a knowing smile.
Steven pushed by him and fled into the hallway. The warm
glow of the wall sconces was now extinguished, leaving
him in darkness. Behind him the attendant's laughter
spilled from the men's room, booming louder and louder
between each gasping breath. A light flickered in the
distance where the stairs met the darkened hall. He
moved toward it, then quickened his pace, running,
running, the plush carpet sucking at the soles of his
shoes, his heart pounding, head throbbing, propelled
forward only by his terror and the hideous laughing
behind him - running, running, his eyes slowly adjusting
to the flickering light ahead, until finally he reached
it and stopped, panting, dizzy, and swimming in sweat.
Below him, hidden by the bend in the winding stairway,
music was playing, but not the lush music of an opera.
It was thin and nasal, as if made by an old Victrola. He
took the first few steps cautiously, then, driven by
curiosity, descended until he could see into the lobby
below. The chandelier was gone, the dim light now coming
from a few flickering gas lamps clinging to the far
wall. The room was filled with Victorian furnishings -
satin armchairs, sofas and loveseats trimmed here and
there with fringe and lace, all arranged atop an
intricately decorated oriental carpet that stretched
away into the darkness.
"Ahh, there you are. I've been waiting for you. You're
very late."
A woman stood at the base of the stairway. She looked up
at him with a slim, bare arm outstretched, her fingers
beckoning. Suddenly the room was filled with women, as
though their flesh was precipitated from thin air during
a blink of his eyes.
"Come, come, mon amour - I won't bite. Unless you want
me to."
Her voice seemed to penetrate him, her words made all
the more intoxicating by an elegant French accent. A
sheer black camisole barely contained her lush, heavy
breasts, and covered her slender curves only to just
above the navel, leaving the slightly parted lips of her
sex completely exposed. He was drawn to her, slowly, a
step at a time, until he stood before her, close enough
to inhale the light scent of perfume carried by the heat
of her body. She moved closer, her arms around his
waist, her hips thrust firmly against him. Her face was
oddly familiar; sparkling green eyes set above a
perfect, delicate nose, full red lips with a hint of
mischief at the corners of her wide mouth, and flowing
loose brown curls dancing over her bare shoulders.
"What do you want from me?" she asked. "There's nothing
I won't do for you - anything you can imagine, anything
you've ever wanted, but were afraid to ask for.
Anything."
As he stared at her, he was unable to stop the images
that flooded his mind - she, on her knees, hungrily
deep-throating him, her mouth like a velvet glove around
his cock as she looked adoringly into his eyes - he,
easing his cock into her ass, her hips hunched into the
air as she begged him for all of it at once, faster,
harder, grunting with each brutal thrust.
"Mmmm, such an evil man," she said, grinning as though
she could read his mind. "Come."
Taking him by the hand, she led him through the crowd of
scantily- clad sirens, pausing for a few moments when
one of the women approached, gliding to a stop in front
of him. A tall blonde, tanned to perfection, wearing
only a tiny red g-string and matching six-inch heels,
unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands longingly over
his chest and belly. A petite Asian girl, nude except
for a white lace choker and white thigh-high stockings,
opened his pants, pulled his erection into the
flickering orange light, knelt before him, and licked
him once, a long, slow caress from balls to the head of
his cock, planting a soft kiss on the sensitive tip
before wandering away. Some just came to look, some to
fondle his throbbing erection, smiling with satisfaction
when they heard him moan or gasp uncontrollably.
In a dark corner, lit only by the slightest traces of
shifting light, she turned to face him, then gracefully
lowered herself to a long divan against the wall.
Spreading her legs, she used both hands to open the
plump lips of her sex, offering him a view of her
clitoris, now hard and wet with arousal. He stared
openly, standing over her, his exposed erection jutting
forward, swollen so large that it seemed as if it was
not his own. She gazed at him adoringly as her fingers
teased the slippery bud of flesh, spreading her juices
over the length of it until it glistened.
"Please, mon amour - don't make me wait," she purred.
"I'm everything you want, everything you've ever wanted.
There's nothing I won't do for you - nothing, nothing my
love, nothing at all..."
Taking her by the shoulders, he pushed her down into the
soft, velvet cushions, then, dropping quickly onto her,
he shoved his cock deeply into her in a single thrust. A
sudden warmth rushed over him, a welcome and delicious
blanket that enveloped them both, a cocoon that held
them so closely that her soft pale skin found, then
caressed him everywhere.
She sighed, closed her eyes, then opened them again and
looked at him expectantly. Oh, yes, mon amour, yesss,
fuck me, fuck me Steven, fuck your little whore."
He plunged into her wildly, battering her with his cock,
the images returning to his head, images of so many acts
of perversion yet untried.
"Oh God, yesss - this is what I want - this is the way I
like it Steven - oh Steven, oh Steven I love you so
much..."
The change in her voice took him by surprise. Gone was
the sultry French accent, in a split second replaced by
an all too familiar voice, a voice that for years had
uttered a soft goodnight from the pillow beside him.
He stared in horror as the face beneath him became his
wife's, hidden beneath a thick layer of black eyeliner
and garish blood-red lipstick. Drained of all color, her
complexion faded to a blue-white mask, a grotesque blend
of clown and corpse. The warm blanket surrounding them
turned cold, shaking him with violent chills.
"What's wrong, Steven? Why won't you finish me? Fuck me
with your big, hard cock until you make me cum for you,
Steven! Empty your balls into your little whore! Don't
you know it's what I need? I like it Steven! Oh God, I
love it hard and nasty, Steven! I love it - I love it -
I love it - I love it..."
He panicked, fighting desperately to free himself from
her, her legs now tightly grasping him, pulling him
roughly into her with frantic, rhythmic spasms. With a
sudden lurch, he broke free, rolled away from her, and
landed on the floor. When he stood, she was laughing,
her wide, painted mouth now almost unrecognizable, the
dark eyeliner now running in long streaks over her face.
"That's just like you!" she jeered. "Be a man, Steven.
For once in your life, be a real man, not a god-damned
pussy!"
He backed away from her as the other women began to
gather around them. She continued to berate him, her
eyes full of venom, her legs still spread wide,
flaunting the gaping, red slit that still dripped with
her juices.
"If you can't do me, Steven, I know someone who can! In
fact, I know lots of men who can! Lots of men, Steven!
Lots of men!"
The echoes of her threats chased him as he turned and
fled, made worse by the growing laughter of the other
women. Her words formed a cadence that matched the
throbbing in his head - 'lots of men, lots of men, lots
of men, lots of men'.
Running and stumbling in the dim light, he finally found
the set of wide double doors leading back into the
theater. He grabbed the handle in a panic, afraid of the
worst, that it might not open. When it opened easily, he
rushed through it, relieved when it silenced the horror
that chased him.
Now dark and empty, the cavernous theatre's musty smells
and deathly silence surrounded him, the refuge mocking
him with an ominous foreboding. Heavy curtains hung
across the stage, the glowing footlights throwing deep
shadows up along the regular folds that ran from stage
to ceiling.
As he felt his way forward down the incline of the
aisle, unintelligible whispers broke the silence behind
him, fragments of conversation dissolving so quickly
that no more than a single word survived. Each time he
turned to look back into the darkness, hoping, or hoping
not to find the ghostly presence that spoke to him, row
after row of empty seats waited as though their last
audience was centuries in the past.
A low railing surrounded the orchestra pit, now a deep,
wide, empty hollow in the floor ahead. Stopping just in
front of it, he could hear a faint, regular rustling
from the stage, hidden behind the towering scarlet
curtain. Then, between the even 'whish - whish - whish'
came the hushed, staccato, soprano counterpoint - brief
little cries that soon turned to familiar cries of
passion, then to frenzied grunts and moans.
He made his way closer, easily scaling the iron railing
and dropping into the pit. Then came the baritone
response, a clean, deep harmony, sometimes matching,
sometimes alternating the beats of her hurried rhythm,
then falling suddenly into a growling crescendo.
The lip of the stage was within reach, only a foot above
his head. Placing his fingers over the polished rounded
edge, he began to pull himself up, until first an elbow,
then a second arm made it over the edge. Straining to
lift his weight, he clung to the stage, both arms
stretched out into the darkness, hands grasping
desperately for a way to hoist him higher.
The curtain startled him as it parted and moved aside.
He lost ground, sliding backward until he forced both
palms down onto the glassy surface of the stage floor,
stopping his fall just before he tumbled back into the
pit. There, center-stage, displayed upon a raised bed-
like dais, a thickly muscled, copper-skinned giant
fucked her in slow-motion. His impossibly immense penis
entered her eager body, then retreated, its pulsing
surface dripping and glistening with her juices, her
flat belly distended with each slow, deliberate thrust.
Elyse's slim legs pulled at him, unable to encircle his
monstrous thighs. Her body seemed so small, so yielding
beneath him.
Then, as though she knew he watched, she turned her face
away from her lover, letting her head roll to one side,
staring into the void of the empty theater, then into
her husband's eyes as he hung precariously from the edge
of the stage. He read so many things in her - on the
surface, pleasure and desire, and deeper, a sadness that
penetrated him, that seemed almost to beg, not for his
forgiveness, but for something more primal.
Unnerved by all that he saw in her, he relaxed his hold
on the stage, brushing his arm against the scalding
backshield of one of the footlights. As the searing heat
quickly melted its way into his flesh, he lost his grip,
slid suddenly over the edge, and fell backwards into
blackness.
Chapter 10
The shock that woke him was as though he had been
dropped into the car seat from a great height. When he
opened his eyes, he found himself strangely energized,
in spite of the lucid details of his dream. Why had he
let this man have his wife, over and over? Few husbands
would have been so accommodating, so weak in the face of
a wife's professed sexual encounters. How could he have
brought her here a second time? Suddenly he knew what
had to be done.
Neither the manicured lawn nor the marble steps under
his feet weakened his resolve. He would storm this
castle, confront its master, and take his wife from this
place once and for all. No longer would he wait for the
spoils of another man like a timid peasant resigned to
gathering table scraps for sustenance.
It was more anger and desperation than epiphany that
drove him through the heavy front door that opened
easily against his weight. Once inside, the opulence of
the house's interior was lost on him as he blindly
invaded room after room, ready to claim his wife at the
instant
he caught sight of her. Pausing at the sweeping stairs
leading to the second story, he looked up into the
darkness, listening for the slightest whisper, a single
footstep, any clue that might lead him to his first and
final stand against this devil, this puppet-master whose
strings held his wife in an endless dance of submission.
Silence. The eerie emptiness of the house began to eat
away at the confidence that had taken so long to muster,
as though his wife's lover may even possess the power to
take her from this world for a time, or make her
invisible to anyone who might intrude.
He pressed forward, past the thickly carpeted stairs,
then under the open balcony twenty feet over his head.
The door before him was different than the others.
Wider, made of solid hand-rubbed walnut, its very
character carried a warning of what may lie inside.
Imagining the overwhelming strength necessary to force
it open, he placed his hand on the cold, black, iron
latch, pressed downward, and felt the door swing
silently inward.
Elyse hung from the scaffold, her body drenched with
sweat, her legs and belly still convulsing as Simon
suddenly robbed her of her orgasm. She felt his cock
leave her, withdrawing as quickly as it had entered her,
and she struggled to capture it again, thrusting her
narrow hips at him in a futile effort to trap the hard,
golden rod of flesh between her legs, to somehow will
the plump cockhead back inside her hungry cunt.
In her mind's eye, the line of men before her advanced,
each of them ready to take her, each somehow promising
her a release of equal intensity. She saw them as bare-
chested satyrs, erections wagging eagerly in the air,
wet with a layer of glistening pre-cum from the long
wait. The shifting shadows of the flickering fire
obscured their faces, but displayed every muscle and
sinew of their bodies, each slightly different, but
perfect in every physical way a man's body could be
imagined.
She moaned quietly as her vision became more real to
her, now narrated by her own inner voice. 'All those men
- all those perfect men - all of them for me. So many of
them - big, hard, throbbing - so much sex - all for me -
for me - all for me...'
Her body burned for them. Every nerve screamed for their
touch. If only the bonds about her wrists would pull
tighter, raise her off the floor, suspend her before
them, her legs helplessly open, inviting invasion. She
would let every last one of them have her to find what
she needed, to be fucked brutally by the largest and
most powerful of them, taking her body relentlessly,
without feeling, fueled only by instinct-driven lust.
Now and then, part of a face would appear - an eye, a
nose, full lips, a square jaw - but just as it began to
resemble a man who was known to her, it vanished again
in shadow, teasing her with its familiarity, promising
her nothing but sex, the jutting cock always in full
view.
Then, for an instant, she saw Steven's face, first in
shadow, then in the shifting ambers and golds of the
firelight. She blinked, trying to focus, at first sure
that his face was a vision like all the others. But the
others were gone now, chased away by returning reality,
shrinking and fading into the darkness.
Steven stood just inside the heavy door, eyes adjusting
to the dim light, staring in disbelief at the wooden
scaffold where Elyse hung by her wrists, her naked body
gleaming with sweat, writhing and moaning beside her
master. Simon stood close to her, his lean, muscular
torso ablaze with light against the black depths of the
room. He was naked as well, his cock still brutally
hard, jutting proudly upward, glistening with her
juices.
Elyse cried out, suddenly limp against her restraints,
shrinking back in horror, now certain that it was truly
Steven's eyes that were fixed on her. Simon turned
toward Steven in a flash, his eyes red burning embers,
piercing Steven with lances of anger that paralyzed him.
Steven froze, overwhelmed by the impossible scene upon
the darkened stage. Like some bizarre Faustian nightmare
played out before him, Elyse and Simon looked down at
him, her Persephone shamed by his presence, his
Mephistopheles enraged by it. Until that moment, Steven
had never pictured them together; his mind wouldn't
allow it. In the past it had been off-limits, a place
where he refused to let his imagination wander. The
reality of it robbed him of every trace of confidence
and resolve. Steven broke free of Simon's stare, turned
away, and fled.
The walls of the hallway, the grand stairway and balcony
overhead, the very substance of the mansion melted away
as Steven made his escape. He ran blindly, allowing
instinct to guide him through the wide doors and over
the brilliantly lit portico, until he closed his hand
around the handle of the car door, opened it and dropped
into the seat. The engine started instantly, and before
he could regain his senses, the car was speeding along
the winding drive, through the open black gate, and into
the night.
Steven drove recklessly through the quiet neighborhood,
following landmarks that had led them to the house, his
mind now more machine than mortal. It had mapped a maze,
and was now un-mapping it, meticulously calculating
distances and turns, mathematically guiding him home,
away from his horrors. But at the same time, before his
eyes, he saw them, frozen in time, looking down at him
from their stage, their expressions unmistakable. Now,
in his mind, their looks were accusing, looks one gave a
trespasser, an interloper into one's private domain.
Elyse's words echoed in his head, an anguished wail that
repeated, over and over. "Oh God, Steven - No! No,
Steven, No! No! Noooo!" He had thought the meaning all
too clear, but they were still her words, his Elyse, his
love.
As Steven turned from the maze of cul-de-sacs onto the
main highway, his cell phone came alive with its
persistent, no-nonsense warble. He retrieved it and
glanced at the caller's name. It was Elyse.
Chapter 11
"She does love you. Perhaps too much."
Simon's voice still carried the same self-confidence
that Steven remembered from the only other time he had
heard it. His thumb hovered over the "End" button, an
instant away from silencing him. Instead, he pulled the
car to the side of the road, unable to look away from
Elyse's name staring back at him from the tiny glowing
screen.
"How did you get her cell?" Steven asked, after a
moment's pause. He was determined not to let the defeat
show in his own voice, but doubted that Simon would be
fooled.
"There's no shame in fleeing from a blow to your very
heart, a blow that may keep one from returning to fight
another day."
"Arrogant fuck!" Steven shouted into the tiny phone. His
hand closed around it, now so tightly it dug into his
palm like a weapon sent not to kill, but to merely
torture him.
"Arrogant, Steven? Do you see this as arrogance? Is
asking a husband to rescue his loving wife arrogance? Is
warning her husband that her very life depend on his
actions arrogant?"
"What have you done to her?" Steven shouted again, now
shaking violently with both anger and fear.
"Have you've ever taken her for granted, ever
disappointed her, Steven? Think about those times, every
one, however frivolous or short-lived. No doubt at least
a few of those times were taken to heart more deeply
than you imagined. But you know that, don't you, Steven?
Inside, you're afraid to own them, afraid to count them,
afraid they might justify her surrender to another man.
Don't disappoint her this time, Steven. It may be your
last chance."
The phone went silent. Elyse's name vanished from the
screen, the connection severed. At that instant, Steven
felt the delicate thread connecting them stretched to
near breaking. Would he hold tight while Elyse dangled
from the opposite end, or release her, letting her fall
helplessly, even perhaps willingly, into Simon's hands?
A light rain pelted the windshield, and the darkened
streets became slick, black mirrors, each abstract
reflection suggesting the existence of some unseen world
beneath the black asphalt. A sudden gust of wind heaved
an overhanging branch toward him, then away, it's leaves
waving the way to his new destination. Steven turned the
car around and drove back into the night.
Steven retraced the route to Simon's estate not by
effort of memory as before, but by sheer determination,
as if guided by the programmed instructions of a hidden
subroutine triggered by something he chose not to
understand or question. The mist on his windshield
turned to a wall of water bursting from the night sky.
Flickers of lightning in the distance now found him, the
stabbing electric explosions of light and thunder
following him as he drove. There was a time when he
might have thought of the weather as a horrific monster,
some bizarre extension of Simon, intentionally impeding
his way to save his wife. But Steven drove on,
unaffected, untouched by demons he had feared for so
long.
He found the entrance easily, turning sharply into the
wide space in the dark hedges that hid the property from
sight. The drive swept to the left, still lined by ten-
foot hedges, concealing any trace of the inner grounds
from the street. Steven stopped the car before the huge
iron gate, the headlights suddenly revealing his worst
fears.
Elyse hung from the gate, her arms outspread, her wrists
tied to the heavy bars. She was naked, her alabaster
skin glowing against the black night. Her head hung
forward, her dark hair a solid, drenched curtain that
hid her face from him. Steven stared, fixed to the
steering wheel,
searching desperately for a hint of life, one breath
that might give him the strength to escape the
suffocating fear that had again become an unwelcome
passenger within the car. A sudden blue-white burst of
light turned the night to day for a split second,
accompanied by an immediate deafening crash of thunder.
Steven's hand rose to shield his eyes to the blinding
light, shuddering as the thunder rocked the car. Then,
focusing once more on Elyse's glistening ivory body, he
noticed an almost imperceptible rise and fall of her
breasts, a shallow breath that became a ray of hope as
the raindrops fell, one by one, from her small red
nipples.
Steven bolted from the car and ran to her. He lifted her
head and found her eyes open, staring back at him, as
wide and full of life as he had ever remembered.
"Steven," she whispered. 'Steven..." She smiled at him -
not the weak, trembling smile he might have expected,
but a full, luscious one, with open lips and dazzling
teeth. Startled for a second, he moved away an inch,
then went to work untying the bonds that held her to the
gate. To his surprise, they were made of soft, hollow,
velvet cord, and came undone easily.
Elyse fell into his arms, her soaked body melting into
him, wetting his clothes until he felt naked against
her. She reached up and pulled his mouth to hers,
kissing him fiercely, ravaging his mouth with her
tongue. Steven felt her hand snake past his belt,
fighting to find his cock, her body now writhing against
him. She began to moan into his mouth as they kissed,
crushing her body against his, desperate in her sudden
heat. Atop the tall pilaster beside the gate, the tiny
red light of the camera winked on and the glass eye
rotated silently toward them.
Suddenly, Steven broke their kiss and held her at arm?s
length.
"What is this, Elyse? Some kind if trick? What is it
with you? Do you need him that much? That you pretend
I'm him, even after he throws you out? What's wrong with
you? What do you want, Elyse? You have to tell me! You
have to decide! You have to tell me what you fucking
want, Elyse!!!"
As Steven spat the words at her, he pushed her away and
she fell backwards, landing in the soft wet grass beside
the gate. Rising up on her elbows, she pulled her knees
up, spread her legs, and grinned at Steven with the same
wanton confidence Simon had shown her during their first
meeting.
Steven stared, no longer able to cope rationally with
the invading threads Simon had woven into their
marriage, into Elyse, and even into himself. He wanted
to unravel everything, to return their life to the past,
to the ordinary, to make Elyse the wife she was before
Simon's meddling. Anger welled up inside him. 'Damn him!
Damn her! Damn me!'
"So, is this what you want?" He raged at her, stripping
of his wet clothes, tearing at them as though he was
tearing at his own skin. "To be fucked? Like an animal?
Like a fucking whore?"
Elyse spread her legs wider, still grinning, quietly
inviting his threats. Steven went to her, hitting the
ground hard with both knees, landing between her legs.
He took her wrists and pulled them roughly over her
head, waiting for her to come to her senses, to beg him
to stop. Elyse closed her eyes and moaned.
"If you want to be fucked like a whore, I'll fuck you
like whore! Is that how he does it? Is this how he fucks
you, Elyse?"
Steven plunged into her, forcing her to take the entire
length of him at once. Her body shook as he slammed into
her again and again, taking her as roughly as he could,
imagining how Simon might have poisoned her against him.
But with each stroke of fury came satisfaction, and then
excitement. All fear and uncertainty came boiling out of
him, and with it, filling the space they occupied, came
a feral sexual appetite fired by a bewildering new
strength.
Then, as their eyes met once more, Steven slowed his
pace, moving inside her as he once did in the comfort
and safety of their own bed. Her grin faded, and he
recognized the familiar soft features of the woman that
loved him.
"This is what I want, Steven. I want this, with you, not
with him. It's what you want too, isn't it?"
Steven kissed her, softly at first, then harder, biting
her lip, feasting on her neck, as his pace returned to
its former fury. Elyse laid her head back on the wet
grass and closed her eyes, feeling the slowing raindrops
dance against her face. She spared him nothing. Each
moan and whimper was only for Steven now, and she knew
he understood that.
"Yes - Steven. This - is what - I want. It's - what I've
- always - wanted."
High above them, the camera turned slowly and silently
away, the tiny red light winked out, and the glass eye
went still, its watch given up not with discretion for
modesty, but with a sense of satisfying completion. And
below, two new lives were born in the first rain of
spring.
* End *
--------------------------------------------------------
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life
in any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out
any of the scenarios in this story should seriously
consider seeking professional help.
--------------------------------------------------------
Kristen's collection - Directory 82