Bethany was desperate. Why couldn't her husband see it?
Please read the Standard Disclaimer on the Alextasy Biography page
--=[OOO]=--
One night. That's all I asked for, just one good night. I was sure that was all it would take to get the bizarre urges out of my system.
One night, the Saturday before my thirtieth birthday. Little Charlie and Becky were staying with their Aunt Cece. We had the house to ourselves. My husband and I were both hoping to re-kindle the fires that had cooled after seven years of juggling a home, two jobs and two kids.
One night.
That was my birthday request. I had to know. Was I crazy, or could I really subject myself to such...depravity?
After reading that book--you know the one I'm talking about--I hadn't been able to stop fantasizing about Charlie doing those things to me. A deep yearning to let go, to give complete control to somebody else, filled both my dreams and every idle waking minute. My spirit burned with a lust to hand over the reins and accept whatever fate was dealt to me. I longed for a chance to explore harsh and jagged erotic landscapes.
Alone with my computer, I had delved deeper into a kinky world. I didn't understand why my excitement grew as I read about all the dreadful yet strangely enticing paraphernalia. Ropes. Chains. Leather. Handcuffs. How many pairs of panties had I soaked imagining myself handcuffed to my bed, powerless against my husband's wicked desires?
Then there were the titty clips, the butt plugs, the paddles and whips and crops. Ohgod, how my skin tingled at the prospect of a riding crop's sharp bite.
When I tried to think about it logically, nothing made sense. Only a few years ago I would have gone ballistic at the very idea of letting a man dominate me. That was ludicrous. I was a strong, liberated woman. A successful branch bank manager. Why did I get all weak and gooshy inside whenever I imagined being forced to submit to the sort of degradations I read about? Was this some sort of early-onset midlife crisis that happened when you turned thirty?
I found other books and stories online, and videos, too. Many of those were far more intense. That didn't scare me. I wanted more. I learned the names for all the different roles and activities--master, slave, submission, dominance, bondage, discipline, power-exchange, painsluts and cumsluts and analingus and humiliation... Oh, my fucking God, yes! Humiliation! I wanted that. All of it. The last six months my fingers had spent more time fiddling in my panties than during the whole of my randy teenage years.
When I timidly mentioned a few mild fantasies, Charlie had laughingly agreed to give it a whirl one night for my birthday. He tied me face-down to the bedposts, then he spanked me.
"Harder!" I begged him, twice, then bit my lip and accepted the tentative smacks.
Then, in his deep, sexy voice, my husband said somewhat forcefully, "Suck me, Bethany."
Okay, that was more like it--Charlie had always waited for me to offer first. He knelt next to my head and I sucked him, hoping he would grab my hair and fuck my throat. I should have known better. I would have even settled for my husband coming in my mouth or all over my face.
Instead, after a minute or so he pulled out, hoisted my hips up, and took me from behind. The scratch of his stiff pubes on my lightly glowing butt was more titillating, but not nearly enough. I wanted to shout 'No!' when he reached underneath and diddled my clit, making sure I came before he did.
Afterward, he untied me. He asked if I enjoyed myself. He didn't get it. That was the whole fucking point. I wasn't supposed to enjoy myself, dammit!
In the interest of marital harmony, I lied, telling him it was wonderful. Then I timidly mentioned he could have been a little rougher if he wanted. Charlie chuckled. Then he kissed me and turned out the bedside light. In minutes, I heard the steady rhythm of his breathing.
My one night was over.
I went to pee. Looking in the mirror, I admired the pastel color on my buns. They felt warm and excited. Sitting on the toilet, I fingered myself while pinching my titties and my butt. That orgasm was stronger than any I'd had in years. Maybe ever.
In the following weeks, I dropped lots of hints about doing it again. He mostly laughed them off, snorting when I replied "Yes, master" anytime he would tell me to do something that sounded the least bit like a command. I knelt on the floor by his recliner in skimpy outfits, my hand in his lap. He gave me funny looks as I fondled him, licking my lips lasciviously. He chuckled and shook his head, turning back to the TV.
Then I noticed that he was no longer amused. When I mentioned something about needing a spanking because I'd forgotten that he'd run out of beer, he gave me a disgruntled look.
"Will you please stop joking around like that, Bethany," he said. "Little Charlie might hear you."
The frustration kept climbing. In my free time at work, I pulled up stories and videos on my phone, filthy smut about women being used, abused, disgraced and embarrassed in thousands of ways. My thoughts turned dangerous, imagining myself in those women's places, my body subjected to unspeakable suffering at the hands of brutal, uncaring men. My panties were constantly wet.
Don't get me wrong. I loved my husband. He was an exceptionally good man. He was too good. I'd always been a good girl myself and never associated with any of the 'bad boys' at school. Now I was regretting my lack of experience. I didn't want to cheat on my husband. The urges kept growing stronger and stronger. Something was bound to break.
--=[OOO]=--
Road crews were doing work on my usual route home. The detour took me through one of the older areas of town that was just beginning a renaissance. A sign on a store caught my eye--'Eve's Apple'. An open street-side parking place appeared. I pulled into it without even thinking.
This was on the far side of town from my office. I prayed none of our clients recognized me as I walked by the store, peeking in. There wasn't a lot to see. I turned around and walked by the window again. At the last moment, quick as I could while no one was looking, I slipped through the door.
It smelled clean. Not like sex or anything gross. The shelves were neatly stocked with plastic and rubber penises in all shapes and sizes. Several racks on one side had skimpy clothes. The exposed naughty parts of the display manikins were hung with dildos or painted to look realistic.
A pretty, slender young woman at the counter smiled and nodded at me, then turned back to her magazine. Her auburn hair was long and straight with bangs that fell to just above her brows. With her pink blouse and plaid skirt, she looked entirely normal. Except for the metal studs in her nose, her ear, and her eyebrow. Not to mention the brightly colored tattoos snaking down each arm and up her thigh.
I'd heard tattoos were painful. What would my husband say?
I wandered through the store, marveling at all the paraphernalia. The videos were neatly categorized--'Erotic', 'Ass Play', 'Big Women', 'Racial'. I flipped through a few titles on the 'BDSM' shelves. My panties were drenched again.
The heavier gear was in a back corner. Leather outfits and cuffs. Stainless titty clips like the ones I'd read about. They made my nipples ache deliciously. Spreader bars and ball gags. I knew the names of everything and how they were used. With a quick mental calculation of our credit card balance I decided I could buy one of each. Then I imagined Charlie's eruption when he saw the bill.
Several riding crops were displayed about chest-high on the wall. I was about to examine them when the bell on the front door chimed. A balding, middle-aged man came in. I scurried back to the video section, perusing some of the more 'vanilla' titles.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the man talking to the cute girl at the counter. She was laughing. Probably buttering him up for a sale, I figured. An attractive young woman like her probably had no interest in older men, especially an old fart who looked even more dull and normal than my husband.
Engrossed in their flirting, they weren't paying attention to me. Gradually, I meandered back toward the interesting section. Although I'd noticed the many shoplifting cameras, the two other people in the store could hardly see me above all the shelves between us. A long one-way mirror was along the back wall. I hoped no one was in there. I would have been so embarrassed if someone saw me.
Then I got a little rush imagining someone was watching from behind the mirror and they knew who I was.
I picked up a riding crop. It was so light, yet it felt so sexy in my fingers. Woven black leather. So stiff, yet flexible. Like an ultra-long thin cock, I thought. I remembered what the Doms in the videos and stories had done with that little leather flap on the end. Pussy spanking. Titty whipping. Making a sub lick it before she was punished.
The plastic handle was interesting. Round, and about six inches long with a gentle curve, I could picture someone using it to fuck his sub, or stick it in her ass and make her crawl to him on all--
"I recommend that one up there."
I spun around, nearly jumping out of my skin. The middle-aged man was standing right behind me. I stared at him, horrified. He was pointing higher on the wall.
"The one you're holding has a plastic core," he said, nodding toward the crop in my hand. "It could break when he hits you. That could give you a nasty cut. The one up there is fiberglass. Or if you want good quality, Jessica could order you a fine willow or bamboo model. They're more expensive, but definitely worth it if you're a bad girl who needs regular maintenance."
His smile was disarming. He spoke as if he was suggesting which cut of steak to order at the supermarket.
"I, uh...I don't...I mean...this isn't...I haven't ever..." Fumbling with the crop, my nervous hands tried to hang it back on its hooks. Instead, I dropped it on the floor.
When I knelt to pick it up, the breath caught in my throat at the touch of the strong hand grabbing my wrist. Abruptly, I released the handle, jerking my head to the side. The balding man was squatted next to me with that same, serene smile. He picked up the crop, then relaxed his grip on my arm. With only the barest of touches at the soft inside of my wrist, he guided me to stand. We rose together. His eyes never left mine. I felt powerless. I couldn't tear my gaze away.
The man hung the crop back on its hook, then took the one down from higher on the wall. I flinched with the whistling sound it made cutting through the air as he whisked it side to side. I could feel my nipples tighten. Juices were seeping between my lower lips.
"Would you like a demonstration?" he asked.
"No!" I shouted. Regaining control, I said, "I shouldn't...I mean, a demonstration? That's not...no, I don't think that's a good idea."
The horrible truth was that my deviant brain was already imagining how that marvelous implement would feel snapping across my bottom.
He laughed softly. "I see. You already have a Dom who takes good care of your special needs."
"No, I don't have a...Dom," I said, then nearly kicked myself.
How stupid can you be?
"Oh?" he said, raising a brow. "Have you enjoyed the pleasure of the crop?"
My eyes lowered, neither wanting to lie nor to appear as innocent as I was. I could feel my cheeks burning.
"What if I were to let you see what it can do?" he suggested. Before I could summon an answer, he shouted, "Jessica?" and beckoned to the girl at the counter.
"No, really," I stammered. "You...you don't need to...you know, show me. I was...I was just, you know, window shopping."
