by Ben Boswell
The display window was pretty lewd, but nothing compared with what was inside. I hate to sound naive, but until you’ve seen an entire wall covered with dozens of dildos of various shapes, sizes, and colors, it is hard to imagine it.
I spent almost twenty minutes just getting my bearings. Well, that and gawking at all the toys, imagining using them on Rachel.
It wasn’t all fun. At one point I passed a young couple. I studiously avoid eye contact. But even still, as I walked away I heard him clearly.
“Is there anything sadder than a old dude alone in a sex shop on a Saturday night?”
I looked back over my shoulder involuntarily and immediately regretted it. The girl had looked toward me as well, and our eyes met. She was a pretty little thing, barely five foot, with big, heavily made-up eyes. She was both embarrassed at her boyfriend’s comment, but also in agreement with his sentiment. Or at least that is how I interpreted her expression.
I took a step toward the door to flee. Then I took a deep breath. Fuck ‘em. I was on a mission.
Funny thing about sex shops, they don’t have shopping carts. Or even shopping baskets. At least this one didn’t. So as I found my supplies, I cradled them awkwardly in my arms.
Door straps. A spreader bar. Choosing a ball gag was particularly difficult. What is the right size? And what is the best consistency? Solid? Gel? I bought three of different types. I needed a whip. Should I get a strop? A riding crop? A cat o’ nine tails? I bought all three of those as well.
I headed toward the cashier, but stopped. What was Rachel supposed to wear? I thought of the girl in the video, her short, pink, frilly skirt and matching top. God, Rachel would be sexy in that. I reversed course, walked toward the clothing and costume section.
Nothing was exactly right. I wanted something more than lingerie, something less than a full costume. I wanted to put Rachel in the mood of submission, not Halloween. Still, it was fun to imagine her as a slutty nurse, a slutty schoolgirl, a slutty whatever.
I paused at a slutty secretary outfit. A short black skirt, a sheer white blouse. It was almost what she really wore. Too close really. When I imagined her in it, I immediately pictured her with Jack, bent over his desk, exposed, vulnerable, looking back over her shoulder as he stroked his fat cock.
I shivered and almost dropped my armful of sex toys. A wave of doubt came over me. What the fuck was I doing? This was crazy. I should be trying to tamp down Rachel’s dangerous fantasy, not stoking it. But it wasn’t just her fantasy anymore. It had infected me as well. It wasn’t just that I wanted to meet her needs so that she wouldn’t be tempted to cheat; I also wanted to participate.
I scanned the wall. My eyes alighted on a leather skirt and bustier, both inlaid with metal studs. They were absurd, trashy, and very sexy. I added them to the pile.
I brought home my purchases, hid them behind a bunch of a files in my home office. I was in a weird mood. Excited and angry at the same time.
Again I wondered if I wasn’t mistaken to be picking at scabs. Is that what this was? Was my growing desire to be the kind of man that Rachel had so often sought out to save her from the boredom of conventionality, was that desire really about saving our marriage? Or was I in a weird way trying to keep alive the pain her affair had caused? Or was all of that just rationalization? Rationalization of what? My own desires? Or my desire to punish Rachel?
Affairs suck. And it is not because another man has put his dick, or his fingers, or whatever, in your wife. Jesus, that is so fucking trivial in the big picture. In my case, it wasn’t either the fear that she loved another man more than me. She didn’t, and it never occurred to me she would leave me for Jack.
No, the real problem is that it complicates everything. Rachel and I had been together for a decade. And suddenly, I couldn’t trust any of it. I thought I knew her, but I didn’t, obviously. Every moment we’d shared, every conversation we’d had, both before and since, now seemed somehow counterfeit. I didn’t feel like I could trust any of it. Hidden motives beneath the surface. Alternate meanings.
It wasn’t so much that I felt she was misleading me. Rather it was that everything I’d known and believed was now uncertain. That’s the problem with an affair. It isn’t about dicks and vaginas. It is about no longer being able to trust that things are indeed as they seem.
CHAPTER TEN
It took me longer than I expected to engineer a night alone at home with Rachel. The last thing I wanted was the kids to wake from a nightmare and barge into our room with Rachel dressed in leather, bound to the door, getting whipped by Daddy. Is there even enough therapy available to deal with the consequences of that? I mean for Rachel and me, never mind the impact for the kids.
I finally managed to get the kids packed off to my folks for the weekend. I had the whole day planned out. Lots of couple’s time during the day. Rachel and I would go for a jog. Then we’d go to the nursery to buy flowers. An afternoon working together in the yard. I had a nice dinner planned, light enough for sex, involved enough for foreplay.
As we sat together, with the windows wide open and a lovely breeze playing over the dinner table, we ate our meal of mussels, French bread, salad, and a delicious bottle of Sancerre. I’d made a “mixed tape” of songs I knew she liked.
Rachel was glowing. I thought I could read her expression, a sense of relief that we were over the hump, that things between us were going back to normal. It gave me pause. Would it be better for me to just forget about Jack and the rest? To just accept her transgression as an aberration? To forgive, which I believed I had already done, and forget, a much harder task?
I shook my head. No. That was the road to disaster. Denying her needs was just a form of cowardice. Or was it? I was suddenly taken with a deep annoyance at Michelle. She was so fucking good at getting disclosures, so bad at telling us what to do about it. The last two sessions had been barren, just plowing over the same ground.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked, concerned.
I forced myself back into the present. “Yes. Sorry, was just thinking about work.”
It was a clumsy lie. Why was being honest with her still so difficult?
She nodded, unconvinced. She was walking on eggshells and had been for weeks. I recognized it, hated it, and yet in a way relished in it. I detested myself for it, but it was weirdly empowering. As long as she felt guilty, I had an odd power over her. Yet another weird, pathological, consequence of an affair.
“I love you, baby,” I reassured her. “Today was fun. No kids. Just us.”
She looked a little shocked, which was in a weird way, hurtful. She had tears in her eyes.
“I like it being just us,” she replied. Then she corrected herself, “And the kids.”
I laughed. They were not the issue. “I know what you mean.”
There was a pause in the conversation. I stepped into it.
“Would you be up for something new tonight?”
“Um, sure?” she replied ambivalently.
“It’ll be fun,” I reassured her.
“Okay,” she replied.
Then after another moment, she continued. “So, what is it?”
I gave her a smile. “You’ll see. Have another glass of wine.”
I’d opened a second bottle of wine and gave her a generous pour.
“I need to be drunk for this?”
I laughed. “Well, it can’t hurt.”
I thought of the man in the bar, buying her three shots. Here baby, get hammered so I can take advantage of you.
-----
We were both pleasantly buzzed as we did the dishes. I let her start the dishwasher while I went upstairs to get her outfit. I was waiting for her in the living room.
When she walked in, I held up the skirt and bustier.
She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I’m going out in that, do you?”
“No, it is just for us.”
Was that the wrong answer? Fuck you bitch. You’ll wear what I tell you and go
where I tell you.
She gave me an amused smirked. “Okay.”
She wasn’t supposed to be amused. She was supposed to be cowed by my demands and overcome with lust at being told how to dress.
Rachel took the clothes from my hands and went upstairs. She returned a few minutes later.
Fuck, she looked hot. The skirt was tight around her ass and only covered her to mid-thigh. The top fit perfectly, giving her the rare impression of cleavage and showing off her flat belly to perfection.
She’d said she wouldn’t go out in this outfit. I could see why. Dressed like that she’d be “asking for it.” I shuddered. Was that what she wanted? Deep inside? As she zipped up the skirt, felt the leather encase her ass, did she imagine what it would be like to be out in public dressed like that?
She reached down and gripped the hem of her skirt. She lifted it up and gave me a quick flash of her naked, closely trimmed pussy.
“It’s so short, I didn’t think you’d want me to wear anything underneath.”
I nodded, dry mouthed. She gave me a lewd grin. Fuck, she wasn’t supposed to be teasing me. I was the one who was supposed to be in control. But I didn’t feel in control. Right now, dressed as she was, exuding sexuality, I was completely in her power. Had she asked me to crawl over to her and lick her pussy, I probably would have.
I took a quick breath and stood.
“Come with me,” I said tersely.
I walked past her, not making eye contact. Should I have taken her by the hand and dragged her with me? Grabbed her hair?
I didn’t dare look back at her. I knew she’d be close to giggles. If I looked at her, she’d begin to laugh, completely breaking the mood.
I entered the bedroom. She was just a step behind me. I’d rehearsed this in my mind, but it just didn’t feel the same as it had in my imagination. I wasn’t dominating her. It frustrated me. Why was she so eager to hand over control to others, but so resistant with me? I could feel my frustration building. I decided to use it.
I slammed the door behind her. She startled and looked at me in surprise.
“Did that get your attention?” I hissed.
She nodded. Was that a small glimmer of fear in her eyes? Good.
I took her by the shoulders and spun her around. I pressed her firmly against the closed door.
“Hey!” she protested.
“Quiet!”
“Okay.” She sounded amused again.
I reached for the restraints that I’d stashed in the top drawer of the dresser by the door. I could feel her looking at me. I worked without comment, attaching the straps to the top of the door, the cuffs dangling above her head.
I took her hand. This was the big moment. Would she resist? She didn’t. She let me place her wrist in the cuff. I tightened it. Then I moved to the other wrist. When both her wrists were firmly strapped, I tightened the straps, pulling her arms above her head.
“Kinky” she said, a smile in her voice.
I shushed her.
I stepped back a little to take a look at her like that. Damn, that was a sexy look. I reached under her skirt. She let out a startled squeak as I palmed her ass. I gave her a light spank.
“Hey!” she gasped.
“Hey yourself,” I replied.
I cupped her ass again. It was tempting to just fondle her like that, explore her body, feel her hard buns, her flat belly. She squirmed at my touch, giggled a little.
“Stop it, this is so silly.”
I reached for the gag. When she saw it she yanked at the restraints.
“No, Max. That’s too much.”
I hesitated. Should I take no for an answer? That girl in the video. She hadn’t protested. Not even when the man had pressed a butt plug into her ass.
“Okay, but no more complaints,” I replied.
She hesitated and then nodded.
I slid my hand between her legs, but she spun away from me. She wasn’t complaining, but nor was she being compliant. Time for more restraints. I grabbed the spreader bar.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Shhhh.”
She rolled her eyes. She was supposed to be wet with passion, overcome with excitement at being dominated. Instead, she was humoring me.
I hesitated. I was tempted to untie her, end the charade. But damn, she did look sexy that way.
I knelt down and attached the first ankle cuff. I glanced up, under her skirt, catching a glimpse of her naked snatch. Despite my mixed emotions about how it was going, I could feel myself getting hard. I adjusted my cock to be more comfortable.
I spread her legs apart. I could sense her about to protest, but she didn’t. One of the consequences of the spreader bar that I hadn’t foreseen was that Rachel was now unsteady. She almost toppled over, but I stood her back up and leaned her against the door.
I reached for the riding crop. I wasn’t really planning to whip her. I just couldn’t see doing that. But I liked the idea of teasing her with it. Jammed up against the door, she couldn’t see what I was up too until I pressed the rigid leather against her inner thigh.
“What is that?” she demanded.
I didn’t get a chance to respond. She caught a glimpse of the riding crop.
“No, Max!”
She yanked on the restraints. With a loud crack the strike plate tore free of the door jamb. The door itself, with Rachel attached, swung open. With her legs bound, she couldn’t steady herself. Rachel fell backward, her weight on the door increased the torque and tore the top of the door from its hinges. Weakened now on both sides, the door sheared apart. I tried to catch her and fell backward hard.
She landed on top of me, both of us covered in door fragments, paint and dust. I lay there stunned. There was a throbbing pain in the back of my head where I’d hit the floor.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
I had cushioned her fall, but she’d absorbed most of the impact of the door itself.
“You were right. I did need to be drunk for this.”
-----
I removed the restrains and she went off to shower as I cleaned up as best as I could. I was sitting on the bed when she returned, the trashed doorway a silent, yet screaming, reminder of my plans gone wrong.
But even before the door had betrayed me, things were already not going as I had planned. Rachel had humored me, but I don’t think there was even a moment that I had tapped into her desires. And I hadn’t adjusted my game plan to that. Instead, driven on by my own fantasy, I had plowed ahead heedlessly.
I was discovering something about my own fetishes, but I was no closer to solving the puzzle she posed.
I must have looked forlorn because when she returned wearing a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in towel, the first thing she asked was, “Are you okay?”
I forced a smile. “Sorry this turned into a disaster.”
She laughed. “It’ll give us an excuse to repaint... once we get someone to replace the door.”
She paused and then persisted, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. You?”
She shrugged. “It was your scene that, um, got ruined.”
“See, that’s the thing. It was supposed to be your fantasy.”
She tilted her head. “I... what?”
“I’m trying to be the kind of man who can, you know...”
I trailed off. It sounded weird to say it.
“I don’t want you to feel like you need to go elsewhere...”
Her face sank. She had thought we were past this.
“Okay, I understand. I guess all I can do is say again that I’m sorry, that --”
“No. Jeez, no,” I cut her off. “Rachel, no, I’m not fishing for more apologies. I’m being honest when I say I want to be... to be everything to you.”
“You are.”
I didn’t challenge the lie. “Let’s go to bed.”
We cuddled and then fell asleep. Neither one of us seemed much in the mood for sex.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I should have just forgotten about it. But the truth was, I was becoming as obsessed by the fantasy as I thought Rachel was. It wasn’t something I could just let go.
I’d been spending time on various BDSM forums online. So far, I’d just been a lurker. But now I decided to ask for some advice. My post was brief and to the point.
–I think my wife would enjoy being dommed, but I don’t really know how to get started in this. Would appreciate any advice. PM me with suggestions.
It was chum in the water. The responses came fast and furious and kept coming. Most of them were straightforwardly horny and completely useless.
–Send me pics.
–I’ll Dominate her.
Many of those came accompanied by penis pics. Here I was trying to spice up my sex life with my wife, and instead I now had a mailbox full of cocks.
Proper capitalization and terminology are very important in the community. I’d offended several by failing to capitalize “dommed” in my message, and almost every response was very careful to distinguish between Master and slave, Dom and sub. For some of these folks, it almost seemed like an exercise in typography.
But there were other responses. A lot of folks in the BDSM community seem desperate to let someone know what they are up to. So in addition to the unsolicited WIE, wieners-in-email, I also received several long, long stories of a couple’s journey into BDSM. Most of those started off with the phrase, “So after our kids went off to college,” or “after thirty-five years of marriage,” which is fine. It is great to know that older people have active sex lives, wild even, but as a practical matter they were discussing a whole different kind of situation than the one I was in.
Then there were a whole slew of emails that, for lack of a better word, were just creepy. Signed by people who called themselves The Master or Lord Spankbottom or Emperor Pumpatine (I admit, I got a kick out of that one), they were full of rules and regulations. The good Emperor insisted I had to have Rachel sign a “slave contract”, which began:
