Author's Note: My wife challenged me with the very words which start this story, asking to know what I would do to her. This story was my answer. It is 100% fictional.
For those who have enjoyed my romantic stories, this is NOT one of those. **IT IS A STANDALONE STORY** but is in the same universe as my others, taking place sometime after "Vegas Odyssey: The Club." Enjoy.
*****
"I have been bad, very bad. I should be punished. Severely."
Those were her only words, and from the moment she spoke them my libido built like a strumming bass line, rolling like a snowball down a mountainside. I loved her, almost pathologically, but she could be so infuriating. Everything I do for her, to show how important she is to me, was being ignored because she simply didn't feel the same way. At least, how else was I supposed to interpret her lack of response?
To love and obey, that is what she swore to do, till death do us part. My wife was much more than just a partner for me, she was the foundation of my life's accomplishments. I recognized that and rewarded her accordingly, and all I required in return was equal respect and due gratitude. I do not need to ask rhetorically if that was too much to expect—I know it is not. Yet she could not seem to do even that.
...which led us to this moment. At least she recognized her shortcomings and was willing to submit herself to absolution. 'Willing to submit,' indeed: she stood barefoot in the middle of the room, her hands bound behind her, dressed in a strapless latex minidress extending barely to her thighs, blindfolded, and wearing a small ball gag.
I allow her to be a strong woman. I encourage it, actually. She is intelligent and beautiful, purpose-driven and successful. It is only natural, then, that when I expect something from her once in awhile, she can be resistant. That is why we are here: the order must be realigned, the balance restored.
Of course it happens through sex. Words provide too much maneuvering space (schemes within schemes within schemes) or places to hide, so conversation, mediation, and even written agreements become pointless and destructive. Physical abuse—the natural, instinctive method of enforcing instruction from the time we are children—provides both the cleanest results and the most direct medium between two trusting people.
I walked around her, watching the blue glint of the tinted light reflect off the shiny material of her dress, shifting slightly as she breathed. That was the only movement I allowed. She tried swallowing earlier; a softly spoken word, and now a line of saliva dripped from her chin thanks to the ball in her arrogant mouth.
It was really a matter of trust. And desire, I suppose. Did she want to be my wife? Yes, I know she did. We agreed to this arrangement long before I proposed, and while our lives have evolved since those days the foundations of our relationship remain rock solid because of several key points of understanding between us. I have given her my oath, to love her and cherish her for the rest of my days, and I have never broken that. I even went beyond my wedding vows, declaring a promise between us to do anything she requires of me to give her pleasure. We have been to the edge of her sexual universe and back because of that oath and I have never regretted a single moment.
But now that we had arrived at the current problem, I was poised to shatter that universe. The issue lay between how she listened and how we communicated. The words had become muddled, unclear to both of us, so I chose to return to this, our pure sexual bond, to resolve the matter. Here, we are strong and united; here, despite anything I do to her, we are unbreakable. Once that was reaffirmed the petty issues would disappear and we would be in tune once again.
I walked up to her and slapped her face.
That was for ignoring a question earlier this week, which I still needed an answer to. With this, I set the tone early: she is sensitive about her face. I forcefully grabbed her wet chin and broadly licked the cheek I just slapped. I held my face inches from hers, listening to her breathe, smelling my spit dry on her face. I stepped back and let go, wiping the drool on my hand off on her shoulder.
Ah, there it is: the smell of her pussy. It took longer than expected for her body to respond to the setting; apparently the slap was what she needed. Interesting. I continued my inspection, stepping around behind her. My hand drifted beneath the dress, gently palming her smooth ass. It is truly exquisite, one of my favorite parts of her phenomenal body. I wondered what condition it would be in by the end of the night.
Where to begin? This was no simple role-playing—I expected her submission to be total. I knew she wanted it: at every point in the past month where she resisted, it was clear she was goading me. The finale was her aforementioned statement of understanding concerning a severe punishment. This infuriated me—her petulance and taunting tone—and the question etched itself in my mind: does she fully understand how far I will take this?
That I had called on the resources of a powerful man known to both of us in order to set up this event should have told her something. Furthermore, I expected the elaborate setup to put a little fear in her. I was fairly certain that would also have the intended effect of turning her on, too.
I stepped around in front of her. Reaching behind her I pulled her long ponytail over her shoulder, my hand running through the glossy almost-black hair down over her chest, tracing her latex-covered breasts. Most others would speak right now, possibly explaining their actions or asking for permission to continue. I only needed to see her chest rising and falling and to smell the pheromones of her arousal to know how she felt about her immediate future. Like I said: trust and desire. Trust...and desire.
