You couldn’t believe how lucky you had gotten.
I could see you glancing over towards me in the bookstore. You thought you were being so discreet, and compared to some, I suppose you were. But you were obviously following me from section to section, looking away every time I turned to look at you.
You didn’t take any pains to hide your wedding ring. I’ll give you that.
Each time I looked over, I could tell you were refining your approach. How best to chat me up? I was younger than you, but not by much. I was expensively dressed. I showed a bit of cleavage, but my skirt was long. I was wearing jewelry that caught the light, but was not too obvious. What would work on me? I could see the gears turning.
You nearly jumped out of your skin when I came over to you and asked what you thought of the book you had picked up. You hadn’t even looked at the cover yet. I watched you glance down, and back up, and start on an answer.
I didn’t really care what you thought of the book, but I listened politely as you quickly assembled a review.
You handled your own well enough in polite conversation. I was relieved; that would make this much less tedious. We talked of books, and then of movies, and we were walking out the door of the bookstore together before you realized that you were being led, not leading. I allowed you to make the turns from one block to another. You didn’t want to comment on our path, lest it break the spell and I decline what was soon to be the obvious invitation.
And then we were in front of your house.
And I waited for you to invite me in.
And after a few more minutes of conversation, your courage finally reached the point that you were able to.
And of course, I accepted.
Your house was very tasteful. Books everywhere. I wondered how many of them had been purchased during your attempts, successful or otherwise, to bring a woman home with you. A mix of masculine and feminine decor. And, of course, pictures of you and your wife. She was quite the beauty: long dark hair, a very full bust, green eyes. I asked where she was, and when she would be back. We have time, you said. Presumptuous, but I suppose you knew I wasn’t there for the conversation about Italian plays in translation.
You poured drinks, and we sat on the couch, and talked. You were being very gentlemanly. I brought the conversation around to your wife. You spoke of her fondly, and praised her virtues. Although you were a bit crude in your description of her chest, you at least did not attempt to reduce her to build me up. I appreciated that.
I asked if you’d tell her that I had been there. That stopped you, but you recovered quickly enough, and said that no, “this sort of thing” wasn’t something you could talk about with her.
So, I asked, why then? The variety?
You were not used to this level of directness, and I found your flustered stammering amusing. After a few more moments of praising your wife (an interesting seduction technique for a woman you have just picked up, but I’ll allow it), you came to the issue: She was… conservative in bed. Passionate enough, you supposed, but very reserved. So many things on the “no” list: Oral sex, no (although she was happy enough to receive, as long as you were careful to wash your face before kissing her again). Any position besides missionary? No. Too much light in the bedroom? No. Any time or place besides the marital bed just before sleep? No.
I listened with a sympathetic nod to this list of woes, and then excused myself. Before I left, I gave you the smallest brush of a kiss on your cheek, which you interpreted (mostly correctly) as being full of promise.
Your face when I returned to the living room, naked, was priceless. I wish I had been holding my phone.
You started to say something, maybe a witty comment, but I was straddling you, facing you, and pushing you back into the sofa. Our eyes met, and I smiled down at you. You froze, maybe even a touch of fear in your face, as you wondered if you had just brought some kind of psychopath home. Those risks are the occupational hazards of the serial adulterer, but the reality was both more wonderful and more terrible than that.
I ran one hand down over your crotch: already hard, no surprise. I told you to unzip for me, and you did, never breaking from my gaze. A bit of confusion flitted over your face; What’s going on? But having a gorgeous (if I may say so myself), naked woman with her legs spread over you was not a situation lending itself to argument.
And I guided you into me. I was already wet from anticipation (although anticipation of what? not quite what you might have thought), and you slid in easily. You gasped, slightly, as I pressed down, and then back up, slightly, then down, coaxing you with my muscles (daily Kegel exercises, I recommend them highly).
So, I asked, how long do we have?
Maybe an hour, you said.
What’s your wife doing?
You were slightly surprised by this line of questioning, perhaps even concerned that I was somehow hired by her. (I assure you, there is not tremendous overlap between private detectives and sex workers, no matter what you’ve read.) But you said that she usually worked a bit late on this day of the week.
Oh? She’s not having an affair herself? I brought out my mid-level evil smile for this one.
No, of course not.
You seem very sure.
It would be completely unlike her, you said, although I could see that the idea was not quite as absurd as you were acting.
I kept moving, slightly, keeping the stimulation up.
Perhaps she is, I said. Or, perhaps, a man has taken her.
This turn of phrase surprised you. Taken her?
Let me tell you a story, I said.
Perhaps your wife was walking home from work, and a man was coming the other way. He was no one she recognized, tall, slender, older than her husband, but not by much. A bit of old-world look to his suit and tie.
As he approached, he stopped, and politely asked if she knew this neighborhood. Of course she does, she lives here, and his manner was disarming.
Could you tell me where this address is? he asked, a polite portion of an arm’s length from her, offering a business card. She took it, of course, and studied it.
She knew just where it was, and turned to point. He came close, as if to sight along her arm, and as he lifted his arm to follow hers, the setting sun reflected off of a jewel in the ring he wore on his right hand. She flinched, slightly, as the light struck her eyes.
He quickly apologized. She as quickly said it was nothing, and that it was a lovely ring.
He held it up to show her.
(Oh, no, you’re not going to come now. You’ll come when I tell you to. You’ll listen to my story, and stay hard, as my very talented twat keeps you poised.)
She looked at it, and it seemed to flash again, but this time, as if the light came from within. How is that possible? she thought. She looked closer, and he held it so she could conveniently see.
I’m sorry! she managed. I shouldn’t take your time.
Oh, no, he said. Not at all. It’s a family heirloom. I’m told that in the right light, it seems to almost glow. Is that what you are seeing?
She nodded. As she stared, she could hear him talking about how the cut of it was quite unique. The gem itself was a diamond, but with the slightly blue color. Is it not fascinating? he said. You could stare at it for hours.
She could, she thought. I could stare into this gem for hours.
And as you stare into it, you could listen to me.
Yes, she agreed. I would love to listen to you.
She was standing in a small cluster of blushes, not far from where she had met the man. She was not sure how she had gotten there, but the gem still held her vision completely.
And the man was talking to her.
And she was telling him things.
About herself, and her husband, and where she lived. She was telling him about their marriage. And she was telling him that her husband did not expect her home for some hours. She normally worked late this particular day of the week, but she had finished her work early, and was coming home.
She would surprise him.
And why would you coming home early surprise him? he asked.
Because… she began, but she was not sure if she should tell the man this part.
Please, continue, he said, kindly. I want to know all about you. She felt a warm rush that he was so curious and interested in her.
I wanted to surprise him, because he might be with another woman, she said.
Oh! said the man. You suspect him.
I do, she said. I think he is bringing other women to our house while I am working.
I am very sorry to hear that, said the man. Perhaps I can help.
Oh? she said. How?
Let us talk about this at my house, he said.
Yes, she agreed. She felt most agreeable to his suggestions. She was sure he could help.
Are you enjoying the story? I asked.
Yes, you said, your voice a bit of a hiss.
Then I’ll continue, I said.
The man brought your wife back to his house. By a coincidence, it is not far from your house. It is large, a townhouse built when this city was young. He leads her in, and takes her coat. She is alone with a strange man in his house, and she knows she should not be here. But she is, and the feeling… excites her. She is not used to doing things that she knows are wrong. She wonders if that might be the problem in her marriage.
He sits across from her, and holds up his hand again. He moves his hand slowly back and forth, back and forth. She stares at the gem again. She wonders if she should be. Why is she still looking at it? Why is it so comforting to stare at it? She feels as if her mind is starting to fog. It is a strange sensation, and she knows that it is not one she should be feeling alone with a strange man.
And she is starting to feel other things, too. In her throat. In her breasts. And between her legs.
And she is saying things to the man, too. Telling him about being in bed with her husband. How uncertain she is. How she feel she disappoints him, but she is not sure if he is truly interested in pleasing her, or just in finding pleasure himself. He seems loving, but she had not been with any other man before she was married, and doesn’t know… what to expect.
Ah, says the man. I understand. Please, simply relax and watch this gem.
I will, says your wife, and she does. The fog becomes thicker. She feels herself slipping and falling and fading. She feels herself becoming very open and receptive to what he is saying.
And she feels something else.
What? you ask.
You know, I reply, with the next level of evil smile.
Your wife is undressing. This surprises her.
She is standing in a bedroom that is not her own, with a man who is not her husband, and she is removing her clothes. She continues to stare at the gem, and repeat things she is told. Those things seem to sinking into her, becoming part of her, as she takes off each garment in turn.
I am in a trance.
I cannot resist this trance.
I am hypnotized.
I will not awaken until I am told.
My mind is completely open to you.
I will do as you say.
(Her blouse falls to the floor.)
My will is no longer mine.
I will do what I am told.
I am under your power.
I will obey you.
I will submit to you.
I will do anything you ask.
(her skirt falls to the floor)
I give myself to you.
I yield to you completely.
I am yours, body and soul.
I wish to be dominated by you.
I wish to be used by you.
I will do anything you wish.
(her bra falls to the floor)
I am your slave.
You are my Master.
I exist to serve you.
I will give you pleasure however you wish.
Mind, body, soul are all yours.
Thank you, Master.
(she slides off her panties)
(the bed creaks)
What is that?
Yes, your wife is now another man’s slave. In my story, I am quick to add.
Does that excite you?
The idea that another man has hypnotized your wife, and is now turning her into his obedient sex-slave?
Mind-fucked her into total submission?
Brainwashed her into being his private whore?
Your cock answers before you can even nod.
I thought it would arouse you.
So, what does he do next?
They are in bed together, and she is on her back, with her legs spread. She is staring at the ceiling, her green eyes huge, as he touches her. He explores her body, his fingers and his mouth kissing, licking, probing, tasting her everywhere. And as he does so, he tells her stories of pleasure, of how she will experience the most amazing sensations at his touch.
And she does. She comes, and she comes, and she comes! She’s never come like this before, never known that this kind of orgasm was her birthright as a woman. But as his fingers and mouth bring her to climax again and again, she feels herself… being remade.
A whole new person is emerging.
One who exists for pleasure.
To give it, to receive it, to live in it.
She’s forgotten where she is, what brought her here… she’s forgotten who she is. She exists to enjoy her body, and her Master’s body, and that’s all she wants.
And then, he is in her.
And her mind explodes with pleasure.
This is what her life has been lacking! The fog clears, and she knows what she is.
She is his love-slave.
She is his sex-toy.
She exists to pleasure him.
She can’t imagine how she did not know this before.
But she knows it now.
And she feels her soul transformed as she comes again, and again.
What is that?
I’m not done with you yet, I say, as you ask if you can come.
Let me finish my story.
Your wife forgets that she is expected back at home. She’s forgotten that she’s married. Her pussy is demanding all the fulfillment that it has been deprived of until now.
She is learning so many things.
How to please a man with her mouth.
How to enjoy having his shaft fully down her throat.
The pleasures of being taken from behind.
Pleasing a man with her breasts, something she is well-equipped to do.
And even that other entrance.
What? you say. She’d never…
She is, I say. Your gorgeous, conservative wife is being fucked up the ass by another man. A man who she is calling “Master.” A man who she wants to serve and obey with all her heart and soul.
And you realize that is why your wife hasn’t come home yet. Because she is in the bed I share with the man who is now your wife’s owner.
And with that realization, you come, and come, and come, and you know this is exactly what you’ve always wanted, as you stare into my eyes.
Don’t worry, I say. We’ll let you have her when we’re not using her.
The next Friday, your wife comes into the living room. She’s a vision in a short dress, a tight top (showing off her “enormous rack,” as you liked to say), high heels. She’ll be spending the weekend with us, as she does most weekends.
With her owners.
With her Masters.
And she comes in, and straddles you, and you are already hard, thinking of what is going to happen to her this weekend.
And you look into her lovely eyes, as she slides you into her. After all, she may be our property now, but you two are still married.
And she begins to slowly grind and tease you, just like I’ve taught her to do. And she tells you all about what we have planned for her this weekend. Being our serving-girl, our bed-toy. Bathing us, massaging us, and of course, pleasuring us wth her mouth, her tits, her cunt, her ass…
And telling you this is what she lives for.
How much she wants to serve us and obey us.
How she exists to give us pleasure.
And how when she comes back on Sunday, she’ll kneel down and use her mouth to bring you off, swallowing every drop. Our present to you for keeping our toy safe when we are not using her.
And she smiles as she grinds, telling you about how completely and utterly subservient she is to us, and how much she loves pleasing us, and telling you stories of all the things she’ll do for us.
And you come again, and again, and again inside of her.
But you don’t tell her it is my eyes you are thinking of when you do.