by Ben Boswell
§1 ¶1: The Slave’s Role
The slave agrees to submit completely to the Master in all ways. There are no boundaries of place, time, or situation in which the slave may willfully refuse to obey the directive of the Master without risking punishment... The slave also agrees that, once entered into the Slavery Contract, their body belongs to their Master in that they now exist solely for the pleasure of said Master.
It continued in that vein for an additional ten sections of dense legalese defining the who, what, when, and where of being dominated. It was like the product of some demented law school study group session.
Another correspondent sent me “submissive’s creed,” that read like a list of daily affirmations and included:
I will accept the responsibility of discovering what pleases my Top, and will do my best to fulfill his wishes and desires.
and
Above all, I will wear my title of submissive with honor. I will never cause others to think that being submissive means to be weak or sub-human. I will take pride in who and what I am and will never show myself in a negative way.
I was about to give up and delete that account, if for no other reason than that I wasn’t crazy about the ever accumulating number of schlongs in my inbox, when I received a message from Tommy. Not Baron Tommy or Duke Tommy of Torment, but just Tommy.
–Hey man, I don’t know if you’re for real or if you’re just getting your kicks from trolling the list, but I get what you’re going through. If you want to talk, let me know.
It was brief and while I didn’t really like the implication that my honest query might have been an exercise in trolling, this was the first authentic response I’d gotten. Actually, authentic is the wrong word. Most of my other respondents were probably authentic in their own way, but they were just in a very different place from where I was.
I wrote him back and assured him I was for real. I gave him a cursory run-down of the situation, though I didn’t mention Rachel’s affair, or her name for that matter. I told I’d just found out that my wife had a kinky side, that she didn’t seem comfortable revealing it to me, and that I didn’t know how to bring it out. He replied immediately.
–Why do you want to? Is this for you, or for her?
I thought about it and answered.
–I’ve been asking myself that question as well. It’s mostly for her, because I want her to be able to enjoy all aspects of her sexuality. But it is also for me because I don’t want her to feel tempted to go elsewhere for it if I can’t meet her needs. And, I like the idea of dominating her. It seems like a sexy experience.
He didn’t correct my capitalization. Instead, he honed on the sentence I’d buried in the middle of the response.
–Go elsewhere?
I sighed. We’d exchanged five emails in an hour, but now I had to take a step back and think. How much did I want to tell him? He was just an email address. I knew that. And yet, there was something difficult about getting into the details of Rachel’s affair, even if it wasn’t a fully consummated affair. Just admitting it, talking about it, was difficult and emasculating. I decided not to write back.
If he’d pushed me I’d have cut off all communications. But he didn’t. He gave me time, and it was Rachel who ended up provoking me into renewing a few days later, though she didn’t know it at the time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It is funny how some things seem to happen in slow motion and yet you are unable to react in time. I was sitting at the conference table, reviewing some financial projections before the start of our weekly status meeting when I noticed Barry walking toward me. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand, had a stack of papers wedged under his arm, and was trying to carry on a conversation with a pretty young intern at the same time. His foot caught the edge of the table. I actually saw the coffee arcing toward me, individual drops of mocha separating from the main flow and spotting my suit jacket before the rest of the cup spilled all over me. At least it wasn’t scalding hot.
“Aw, fuck,” he grunted.
The intern stared at me wide-eyed.
“You owe me a new suit,” I said, coffee dripping from my forehead.
I sat through the meeting in my soaked clothes, but since I had an important lunch meeting, I headed home afterwards to change. I drove home absentmindedly, thinking about various work projects.
When I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the plumber’s van parked out front. Right, the garbage disposal. Rachel had mentioned she was getting it replaced.
I walked into the house quietly. I wanted to see the look of surprise on Rachel’s face when she saw me. It would be good for a laugh. I heard voices from the kitchen, so I started in that direction. I was just short of the doorway when I saw them. I paused. There was something about the scene that made me freeze.
He was a big guy, tall, and very powerfully built. His company tee shirt was at least one size too small. It stretched across his thick chest, distorting the lettering and biting into his oversized biceps. The guy was ripped. And tattooed. Swirls of colorful ink up and down his arms, rising out the back of his shirt and up his neck. I sensed immediately he was the sort of man Rachel would have sought out in the old days for an inappropriate encounter.
They were standing close, talking softly. He was showing her something, some plumbing part. She was staring at it attentively, but his eyes roamed over her body. She was wearing jeans and a thin, white cotton tee, her hard nipples poking through the fabric. She brushed the hair out of her eyes, shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
He asked her a question. She turned to point at the sink. His eyes went immediately to her ass, her hard, perfect, heart-shaped ass. His hand twitched as if he was fighting back the urge to cop a feel.
She turned back around. She should have seen me out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t. She was too focused on him, he on her. Tunnel vision. Her eyes were wide, a little glassy.
It would only take an instant for something to happen, I knew. He would take a step forward and caress her nipples with the back of his hand. She’d retreat, shocked. He’d advance on her, backing her into a corner. She’d try to escape, but he’d grab her wrists, hold them together above her head in one hand, while his other hand pawed at her breasts.
“No, stop it! Get off me!” she’d hiss.
He’d chuckle and tear off her tee shirt. He’d lean in and kiss her hard, his hand pinching her nipples in turn.
“Don’t! I’m married.”
He’d give her a smirk, an implicit question now hanging in the air. And what if you weren’t?
His hand would slide down over her belly and into the front of her jeans. He’d kiss her again. To the casual observer it would look like he was forcing himself on her. A careful observer, though, would notice her hips thrusting against his invading hand.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
We. Her changing tone wouldn’t be lost on him.
He’d drag her to the floor and wrench off her jeans.
“No, don’t,” she’d repeat, now as a sigh.
He’d tear off her panties. Still pinning her arms above her head, he’d climb between her legs and fumble with his own zipper.
“Please, no….” Then, “AHHH,” she’d cry out as he thrust in hard.
“Fuck, you’re wet.”
He’d fuck her right there, on the cold kitchen floor, hard and fast. It would be quick. Over in a just a couple of minutes. Both of them left panting and gasping and wanting more.
And then he’d stand and lift her to her feet. Half-dragging, half-leading her, he’d take her upstairs to our bedroom for rounds two, three, and four. And then at the end of the day, when he’d enjoyed her every way a man can a woman, he’d prepare to leave. He’d look back at her, lying exhausted on the bed.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to finish. But I think this is a two-man job.”
I shook my head, clearing my mind. It was a vision so powerful that its underlying truth seem
ed undeniable. He could have her if he wanted her. Just like that. And looking at her, standing too close to him, her nipples hard, slightly flush, I knew she was thinking the same thing and that she was torn between wanting it to happen and fearing that it would.
I was tempted to sit back and just watch if for no other reason than to confirm my intuition, but also because if that was the woman my wife had become, or perhaps become again, then intervening was pointless. It was just a matter of time before she was in the right place at the right time -- or is that wrong place at the wrong time? -- for her to cheat on me again.
No, I wasn’t going to give up. Not that easily. We’d been together too long, I loved her too much, to just surrender her like that.
I strode loudly into the kitchen.
“Guess what happened at work?” I said.
Startled, Rachel turned toward me, blushing guiltily. He looked at me as well, a malevolent hardness in his gaze for interrupting what he too realized was a sure thing. Their reactions seemed to confirm my own assessment. I pushed that from my mind. Later. I forced a smile.
“Oh good, getting the disposal fixed? That racket it makes was driving me crazy.”
I walked toward the fridge planning to grab an apple nonchalantly.
“What happened to you?” Rachel asked.
The plumber moved over to the sink, resigned, I hoped, to fixing the disposal rather than laying pipe.
I explained about Barry, the coffee, and my lunch meeting.
“That’ll never come out,” she said, inspecting the damage. “And that was my favorite suit of yours.”
I shrugged. “We’ll send Barry a bill. Come upstairs and help me pick out a new one.”
She looked over at the plumber, but he was obviously just getting started.
We walked to the bedroom. Rachel filled me in on the details of her morning. Brent spilt his milk, Allison refused to wear the clothes Rachel had picked out. There was an accident so she was almost late getting back for the plumber, but then he was late anyway.
I could hear her words, but all I could think about was her and the plumber. The realization that but for Barry’s clumsiness Rachel would even now be on her back, naked, with a muscular stranger between her legs, getting fucked hard…. It was dizzying.
She walked in ahead of me, my eyes on her swaying ass. I closed the door behind us. She was peering into my closet. She was bent slightly at the waist, just enough to give her bottom a little extra rounded definition.
I couldn’t help myself. I stepped up close, one hand cupping the firm curve of her rear, the other reaching around to palm her breast.
“You look extra hot today.”
She squirmed a little. “Stop it, silly. What are you doing?”
I pulled her toward me, her firm ass pressing into my groin against my raging hard-on. It startled us both. I hadn’t realized how excited I was; she hadn’t realized I was excited at all. I continued to fondle her, grind against her.
“We can’t do this. The plumber is downstairs,” she insisted.
“Do you want him to join us?”
“No! God. What I meant –”
I laughed. “I know what you meant. Don’t worry, he won’t hear us.”
I knew what she meant, but I didn’t know why I’d said it in the first place. It just came out. Was I testing her? Teasing her? Just being an ass?
I slid my hand over her flat belly and unbuttoned her jeans.
“What if he needs to talk to us?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.”
“You’re a real charmer,” she giggled back.
I pressed my hand into her panties, slipping my fingertips through her downy muff…
“Don’t,” she sighed. I felt her stiffen anxiously.
... below to her sex. God, she was wet. Soaked.
“My charm seems to be working.”
She sighed and relaxed. I knew it wasn’t my touch or words that had gotten her worked up. But I was willing to let her believe she’d put one over on me.
I ran my finger up and down her slit. She was as excited as I’d ever seen her. When my digit found her swollen clit, she groaned and thrust back against me. I leaned forward and kissed her neck. She moaned louder.
I reached down and pushed her jeans down past her hips. Once the fabric cleared her womanly swells, it fell to the floor, pooling at her ankles. She turned her head to the side and kissed me wetly.
I slipped my other hand under her tee, pinching her nipples. It struck me that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Was it just because she’d forgotten the plumber was coming? Had she gone braless on purpose to tease him? I felt a rush of heat at the thought and groaned in response. I needed her, now.
I took a step backward, pulling her with me. She stepped out of her jeans and we stumbled together toward the bed. I yanked off my suit jacket, and clawed at the buttons on my shirt, popping two of them clean off in my haste to get free of the fabric. We reached the bed and I shoved her onto the mattress, harder than I had intended, but she didn’t seem to mind.
She looked so hot lying there, her nipples threatening to poke right through her shirt, her hair wild with strands crisscrossing her face. My gaze was drawn between her splayed legs. She was wearing a pair of thin, white panties. Simple and innocent underwear in normal circumstances. But she was so wet that the fabric had become transparent, showing off her swollen, pink snatch.
I pulled my tee shirt off and dropped to my knees by the side of the bed. I grabbed her thighs, yanked her roughly toward me until her ass was right at the edge of the mattress. I slid her soaked panties aside and took her cunt into my mouth, sucking on her puffy lips, tonguing her clit. She reached down and took my head in her hands, holding me tight as she thrust her crotch against my face.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my Gawd!” she cried out in passion as I felt her body spasm against me.
I fumbled with my own zipper, just as I’d imagined the plumber doing earlier. I managed to free my prick. I rose up on haunches and launched myself at Rachel. With her panties still just yanked aside, I thrust wildly, but my cock found its target and I sunk into her effortlessly. She gasped and threw her head back. I rammed into her as fast and as hard as I could.
She was moaning loudly. The bed creaked. Her cunt was drenched, furnace hot. Her eyes were closed. I knew she was thinking about him, thinking about that tattooed musclehead taking her, hammering her hard, like a rusty nail. I gasped and it felt like my entire body tensed. And then I came hard, spurting deep inside my wife. I collapsed onto her, both of us breathing hard.
“I told you I’d be quick,” I sighed softly.
-----
Rachel was too mortified to come back downstairs immediately, so I left her to shower, got dressed, and went down to the kitchen. The plumber gave me sneer. I laughed to myself. I wasn’t about to apologize for not letting him have a free run at my wife. I had a little time before lunch anyway and I wanted to make sure he was done and gone before I left.
The problem was, then what? What would stop him from just coming back later that afternoon or the next day. Sorry miss, I think I left my wrench here by mistake. Maybe because I’d interrupted it, she’d resist his advances. But was that going to be my life from here on out? Always suspicious, always on edge?
Those minutes in the bedroom had been the hottest sex we’d had since that evening in the kitchen months earlier. But in both cases we were pretending, or at least she was. When she let me bend her over the counter, I was consummating her encounters with Jack. Just now, I’d played the role of the plumber. I didn’t actually mind that she was thinking about another man while we did it. It was, in a weird way, sort of hot, if it stopped at that. But I knew it wouldn’t.
When she first told me about Jack I was hurt, but willing in my mind to write it off as an aberration. But now, after hearing more about her past, seeing her just now in the kitchen, it seemed clear to me that her ability to resist her fantasies had been seriously frayed. T
he thing with Jack had, somehow, torn down her defenses, and it was just now a matter of time. Unless I did something about it.
I paid the plumber and he left, looking longingly up the stairs. Maybe I was wrong about Rachel. Maybe I was just projecting my own fears, my own inadequacies, my own resentments onto her, but he’d seen something too. Just like the ex-con by the pool and just like the tall, rough stranger in the bar those many years ago who had lined up three shots as an opening line, the plumber had gotten a quick impression of my wife. The vibe of an easy mark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I had trouble staying focused during my lunch meeting. Both the sex and my ambivalence over the circumstances distracted me from the task of trying to convince two new Silicon Valley millionaires to invest their IPO money with my firm.
The meeting had begun as a long shot. These guys were mid-twenties, wearing jeans and tee shirts, and looked on us VCs as sharks. By the time we were halfway through our entrees, I’d given up on making a pitch, and we spent the rest of time debating ski resorts. It was, all in all, a more fun way to spend the hour.
It also allowed me to let my mind wander. I thought back to Rachel’s description of her sex life before she met me. I’d been focusing so much on my impression that her desires tended to grow, until the impulse to act became irresistible. But I hadn’t much focused on what happened after.
As she explained it, her inappropriate affairs didn’t trigger a downward spiral. She wasn’t always looking for a new thrill. Once she scratched her itch, her sense of propriety returned. The fever broke and she could go back to normal.
I wondered if I could live with that. The constant dread that she might cheat would be unbearable. But what of the idea of giving her a free pass? A weekend vacation from our marriage, or maybe a week? Either way, an understanding that she was periodically free to sow some wild oats.
I thought about the logistics. It couldn’t be anyone we knew. And I wouldn’t want her to rub it in my face. But what about a discrete fling, maybe at a resort in the Caribbean or something. Out of sight, time-limited, but an opportunity to quench her desire for some “rough trade,” as she’d put it.
