Married fifteen years, and feeling it. I didn't suppose it was unusual, but why should I be like all the rest, and settle for life of boring respectability? My urges told me otherwise – with horrible frequency. Problem was, I didn't think they were shared.
Then, right out of the blue, I came across my still-attractive 38 year-old wife, Sandra, reading a little black paperback called 'The Image.'
Intrigued, I said, 'After you,' and she instantly coloured up, like a kid caught doing something naughty.
I made a dive for the book and snatched it. She grabbed it back and gave me a mouthful.
'OK, OK,' I said, 'so it's girlie stuff. I won't press the point.'
Later, she came and handed me the book, shamefaced. She said not a word, but just walked away.
I couldn't believe it. Although I must confess I'd never heard of the work before, it turns out it was an erotic French classic, about a couple who take under their wing a young girl, whom they treat as a sex-slave, dressing her as they wish, administering her terrible whippings and sexual humiliation. By the time I had read three chapters I had a tremendous erection, which I had to relieve before I was halfway through the book. True, it went right over the top in the later stages, but had to be regarded as a work of pure fantasy. What fascinated me was that my wife had obviously been captivated by it.
I resolved to discuss it with her.
The opportunity didn't occur until that night in bed, when we talked late into the night, first of all obliquely, then more directly, about 'The Image.'
Our discussion revolved, finally, around whether it would be practicable to do something like that described in the book, even on a limited scale. I didn't know, my wife thought definitely not. But I could tell she was excited by the idea, and we made love that night as we hadn't for years, with a fervour that had really been missing.
I wouldn't let the idea go. If a pretty young girl got on the bus, on the way to work, I saw her in handcuffs, being belaboured with my riding crop, and begging for more. In the office, a flighty secretary's short skirt had me dreaming of chaining her to the wall, so that I had to pinch myself to bring myself back to reality.
But it was all starting to fade a bit I suppose, as spring turned into summer, and my wife and I had fallen back into our comfortable existence when she walked into our lives. Just like that.
I was cleaning the car, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked around and stood there was a slim girl of about twenty, dressed in a denim jacket and jeans, and a Snoopy tee-shirt, carrying a duffel-bag. Her mousy hair was gathered in a pony-tail, with several strands escaping around her unmade-up face.
'Hi,' said the girl, 'I'm looking for lodgings.' She had a trace of an accent. Eastern European?
We were rattling around in a biggish house, my wife and I, having long since given up the idea of having children, but had never thought for one moment of taking in a lodger.
I won't say I didn't have ulterior motives in the back of my mind – I should be lying, but I never even consulted Sandra, I just nodded and said, 'We'll give it a try, eh? If you don't get on our nerves after a week or two, you've got yourself a deal.'
I don't think we even agreed a price.
I showed Katia to our spare room, and established that she was, in fact, Romanian, and a student, whatever that meant, and left her to make herself at home. When Sandra came home from shopping, I broke the news to her. She went mad, and was all for storming up to the room and throwing the girl out on her ear.
I restrained her, and she eventually calmed down. 'After all, we could do with a bit of extra cash,' I said, and she saw the sense of that.
A little while later, she went up to meet Katia, and said she'd prefer to do so alone. When she came back down, she was smiling. 'It'll be fine,' she said, 'she's having dinner with us tonight.'
At eight, I was opening the wine, when Katia appeared. I was stunned. The slightly scruffy student was transformed. There stood a beautiful young woman. She was dressed in a pleated miniskirt which showed off magnificent long bare legs, and a skimpy tank-top which only just covered a pair of small but pert breasts. Her hair was brushed out neatly and fell down her back almost to her waist. She had applied a little make-up, including artful eye-shadow and pale lipstick, which gave her a totally new look, innocent-little-girl, but with a 'knowing' sort of slant. Sandra came in with the dinner. She had made an effort – it's amazing what an extra woman in the house can do - and wore a white silk blouse and tight skirt.
The dinnertime conversation was stilted somewhat by Katia's strangeness in our company, and also, probably, by her lack of perfect English. I questioned her on where she came from, and she talked openly about her village and family, but when I started to ask her what she was studying, she became evasive, and I soon saw tears welling up in her eyes. Soon afterwards, she made an excuse, and went hurriedly to her room. Sandra followed her without a word to me. They were up there for almost two hours. I know, because I watched the whole of a football match on the television before Sandra returned. When she did so, she sat down on the sofa beside me and put a hand on my thigh, something she never did, then let it creep up to my zipper.
I kissed her as she fumbled with my underpants, releasing my growing erection. Then I felt for her tits beneath the silk blouse to find to my surprise that she wasn't wearing a bra. This was an entirely new departure for Sandra, and one which turned me on irresistibly. She took my by now massive stalk between her red lips and ran them gently up and down, up and down, then harder and deeper, taking me to the back of her throat, until I could bear it no longer, and I came with a great, convulsive jerk as she sucked every drop out of me.
'What brought that on?' I asked.
'Just.......things,' she said, mysteriously, but I knew that the arrival of Katia in our house had had some kind of effect on Sandra. I was to find out a whole lot more.
Next day I went off to work early and had no contact with my wife until I arrived home in the evening.
I had changed into casual garb – chinos and a polo shirt - and was listening to music, when Sandra walked into the room wearing a knee-length black dress and black heels.
Her blonde hair was swept up in a new style, lending her an unaccustomed sophistication.
'Hello, Mark, darling,' she said, 'You know I have talked to Katia at length? And you remember our conversation about three months ago – after we read that book? Well Katia wants to take on that role.'
I started to speak, ask about money, that sort of thing, but Sandra quickly hushed me, 'It's all arranged, darling. I love you, you know that. We have everything we need, and now we have Katia – don't ask any more questions.'
She went out then, and came back shortly, with Katia holding her by the hand. She was wearing the same clothes as the previous night, miniskirt and tank-top. Her nipples were clearly visible through the thin material of the top.
'Kiss Mark, dear,' she said to the girl, and Katia came over, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me, her gorgeous full lips open, her little tongue probing around the roof of my mouth, her whole lithe body pressed hard up against mine. I felt an instant hard-on grow unbidden, and kneaded her round young buttocks with both hands.
But Sandra was suggesting dinner, so we all sat down and ate the pizzas Sandra had prepared, conversation at a minimum.
When we had finished, Sandra said to Katia, 'Stand up, girl.'
Katia complied, standing beside the table, looking embarrassed as we looked her up and down.
'Undress,' ordered Sandra, and the youngster looked on the point of protesting, until she saw that Sandra's expression was too stern to admit any procrastination. She unfastened the waistband of her skirt, and it fell to the floor, the she hesitantly pulled the tank-top over her head, revealing pointed young breasts, with protuberant aureola and prominent nipples. She was left wearing a pair of white cotton panties.
'Those too,' said Sandra, and she hooked her thumbs under them and pulled them down revealing her luxuriant bush of pubic hair.
Knowing my role, I ran my hand through her slit, letting two fingers linger at the entrance to her cunt, and then tracing it to her tiny arsehole, where I drew a gasp from her when I pushed a finger just a little way into the puckered entrance.
Meanwhile Sandra was ruffling her bush, and said, 'This must go.' This very decisively, and from my wife, who had never deigned to shave her pubes in fifteen years of marriage, despite several requests from me.
Leaving me open-mouthed, she led Katia from the room, and shortly I heard giggles coming from the bathroom, and running water. Then quite a time elapsed before they returned. When they did so, Katia wore a robe I identified as my wife's, but proudly parted it for my inspection. She was completely clean-shaven, and it looked as if her labia had been rouged. I was overtaken by a multitude of desires.
But Sandra was speaking. 'Katia, I want you to tell Mark what you have told me, very clearly. Tell him what you want.'
She looked uncertain, and then said, in her halting English, 'I will be a good slave for you. I want that you hurt me much. For that I like. I do everything you want.'
