People will sometimes go to dark places, both mentally and in reality, when their desires for a certain type of affection have become as intense as mine have become in recent weeks.
My name is Walter. I am happily married to a beautiful woman, Marie. We have two children together; Andrew, nine and Elizabeth, thirteen, both as pleasantly round-faced as my wife and I.
I work for a large company, the name of which I can't say for legal reasons, but suffice it to say, my family and I live comfortably.
Marie and I are happily married. We've been together since high-school. We've been through everything, and know every last detail about the other, including the fact that we each have desires that the other is not willing to or can not fufill.
Marie, my darling wife, occasionally pines for the sculpted, hairy chest and tight ass of a young man, desires to watch a tanned adonnis clean for her. She likes to watch muscles quiver and veins throb as a heavy weight is lifted. Watching the man strip and shower while she smells his sweaty undergarments does it for her. I can not now, nor can I ever be this man.
But she loves me and we have a very satisfying sex life. Though, there are some desires I can not escape.
Myself, I like leather and latex. Tight garments, restricting my every roll, making me look almost attractive, rubbing my skin raw, holding in the feelings I'm doomed to express; of wanting to be dominated and almost abused. The feeling of a riding crop or metal-tipped object hitting my skin, digging in, leaving welts and a stinging sensation in it's wake can have me erect in mere seconds. When I confessed this to Marie, she cried. She could never hit me and felt that she was an awful person for not being able to give me the painful rush of pleasure that I desired. It's less about the pain, I told her, and more about the feeling of being owned. Giving up control.
After many months of searching, I finally found a woman in this line of work, one with the same last name as my brothers ex-wife. A young lady who I could pretend was my neice and be seen in public with and not raise suspicions.
This, of course, cost me extra, pretending she was my neice. Wasting her time, introducing her to co-workers who had happened upon us at a coffee shop, planning our next meeting.
Her name was Katherine. She was about average height and build, a brunette. The only thing stunning about her was her lips, the brightest of pinks even though she claimed to wear no make-up.
Yes, I'd thought about what those lips would feel like on my cock, what it would look like, watching my length slide between them. But in all honesty, the thought did nothing for me. In fact, there were times where I would find myself softening at the mental image. Marie's lips were fuller, and paler, but soft and kind, loving in their affection of my nether regions. I wasn't even sure if Katherine was capable of being gentle.
On the surface, though, Katherine struck me as an average woman. She met me for coffee in a pair of blue jeans and a lavender button-up blouse. She ordered an iced beverage that was mostly cream and sugar. But after talking to her for an hour, I'd come to find that she was all business. Unlike the men my wife hired, who would have casual conversations with her as they cleaned, about their shared hobbies and interests, there would be no friendship formed here.
I was led to an apartment, a nice three bedroom, second floor in a five story place. The grounds outside were kept well, as were the inside hallways. This is where the children of upper middle class families lived as soon as they left the nest, whether heading off to the local college or just getting a small taste of life on their own.
The living room looked normal. Well, as normal as a young female these days would have her place look. Paintings and photographs hung on the wall with words meant to be inspirational. If she would have had me here, I don't think I would have been able to have gotten it up, what with pictures of flowers and kittens draped over words like 'love' and 'family'. I made to say something about this, but she held up her hand to silence me then motioned for me to follow her down the hall.
She stood in front of a door, placing her hands on her hips, her shirt riding up to reveal a hand-gun in the waist band of her pants.
"Payment before services are rendered. No refunds," she said. Poor girl, I thought, someone must have tried to swindle her before.
