[FM/F; D/s; bondage; humiliation; blackmail]
Synopsis: This story is the first part of a 5 part assignment written for a Taskmaster from the BDSM Library Academy. The instructions set for this assignment were to write a fantasy story about a sexual rendezvous with a real life person who I despise. The Bitch is just such a person and in this first part, my attempt to confront her over an affair I believed she was having with my husband backfires. It starts a bit slowly but progresses through a series of subtle blackmail scenarios before I am ultimately humiliated.
Dear Sir,
You may already be a little bit acquainted with the person I am about to fantasize about while performing for you. In one of the entries about her in my Erotic Stories & Fantasies blog, you might have seen me refer to her as 'The Bitch' and I will continue to call her by that name throughout this task. I hope it isn't cheating to use her for this task because I have actually had one or two fantasies of sexual rendezvous with her in the past and even written a little along these lines, although I won't be using these for this task. It's also been more than five years since I saw her and with the benefit of the intervening time, I may have mellowed (just slightly) in my attitude toward her, but I think I still have enough antipathy in reserve to properly complete my assignment for you.
The Bitch and my connection with her can be described simply as this. Back in 1999 my husband started working with her - a job that, at the time, he used to do from home, so she used to be in my house quite a lot. I took an instant dislike to her. It was an intuitive thing at first where I was able to clearly read her thinly veiled intentions to seduce my husband. I should mention right up front here that this all happened at a time before my husband and I got involved in the BDSM scene and by extension, polyamorous relationships we explored with one another's mutual consent. She did end up having a brief fling with my husband although this was merely a stepping-stone for her toward her ultimate goal of wrecking our marriage. I'm actually not the jealous type and believe I could have even accepted a split with my husband, if he genuinely loved somebody else and if they loved him in return. Sure, it would have hurt me deeply, but not nearly as much as the thought this woman clearly didn't love my husband at all. Even in divorce, I think I would have felt more sorry for my husband than myself if he had fallen for her trap. She had no intention of marrying him, of course, or even maintaining any sort of relationship with him if we had separated. All she wanted to do was ruin the good relationship my husband and I had enjoyed for many years. I guess if anybody was jealous at all, it wasn't me - it was The Bitch.
I always remember her as a spiteful, nasty woman. Sure, she acted otherwise and initially treated me with compliments about this, that or the other thing, but she was totally transparent and insincere. Another thing I could never stand about her was the way she dressed. It feels a little odd to say this now, since I happen to enjoy dressing up in 'slutty clothes' from time to time, although I still won't do it unless it's to go out at night and only then, if we're going on to the BDSM club afterward. But The Bitch dressed like a slut all the time, which might not have been so bad if she was twenty years younger. I was actually slightly jealous of her slender figure, but then she'd never had kids, so I was at a disadvantage there anyway. There were other things I hated about her. She claimed she was younger than me (and I'm damn sure she wasn't) and she'd been briefly married to some old guy when she was still a teenager, undoubtedly divorcing him after she'd fleeced him of all his money. There's probably a million other little things I hated about her - her stinky, cheap perfume (I still can't stand the smell of Charlie perfume to this day because of her) and her posturing like she knew everything when the truth was, she left school at fourteen or something and I'm university educated. So, there you have it. The Bitch.
What is it about her that could ever hold my attention in a fantasy? I think it's a strangely alluring feeling to imagine what she would do to me if ever she had the opportunity to treat me as physically bad as she had mentally and emotionally. She'd certainly be nasty -- that's a given, and so begins my first fantasy rendezvous with The Bitch.
It's about now I have to close my eyes for a few minutes and conjure a scenario. I'm not naked or even dressed to arouse anybody, but I don't need to be to begin slipping into a dreamy place. The image I most remember of The Bitch is the lop-sided smirk -- a condescending look she always greeted me with whenever she arrived at my house. She always wore a lot of lycra, either a black bodysuit and leather jacket or black lycra jeans and a loose fitting top that revealed her (insignificantly sized) breasts. She stood with her hands on her hips a lot of the time too, when she wasn't waving them around in theatrical gestures to emphasize her trivial conversations and make them seem more important than they were.
The Bitch's shoulder length hair is dyed red, but the black roots of her true hair color are still evident. Her emerald green eyes sparkle - not a dancing, happy kind of sparkle but rather an icy glint that fixes me in a stare and forces me to look away. She's surprised to see me pay her this unexpected visit at her home, and makes no attempt to hide her disdain of me like she usually does whenever she comes to my house.
She's wearing a long, almost transparent nightgown and high-heeled fluffy pink pumps. Her make-up is its usual overdone paste of rouge that accents her strong cheekbones in such a way as to make them stand out like ripe plums and make her look almost clownish. Heavy dark eyeliner and mascara add to her slutty freakishness; her lip-gloss a garish red that taints her nicotine stained teeth.
I've arrived expecting a showdown with her, but she simply eyes me up and down and laughs. I remain civil in tone and try not to sound like the jealous wife when I ask whether my husband is inside with her. The Bitch doesn't answer one way or the other and invites me inside.
In the lounge room I see two half finished glasses of wine sitting on a wooden coffee table in front of a large sofa. There's an ashtray as well with the butt of a cigarette hastily stubbed out still smoldering in it. A television screen opposite flickers with what looks to be a porn film, but the sound is turned down and music is quietly playing on the stereo.
The inside of The Bitch's house is not quite as I imagined it would be. Instead of a shabby, untidy hovel it's decorated with expensive looking furnishings. The wallpaper is a subdued floral print; the carpet a cream colored thick pile. The champagne colored sofa's fabric is embroidered with pattern that contrasts but blends with the wallpaper; the brass wall fixtures of the lighting glows softly in harmony with the light refracted through etched glass shades. There is a paneled glass bookshelf at one end of the room, filled with hard cover books. None look like they've ever been opened. On the walls are dozens of black and white photographs framed in elegant, modern frames made of polished silver. I'm not surprised that they all appear to be pictures of The Bitch with most that aren't recent 'glamour shots' looking like there were taken of her many years ago.
The Bitch's face has a smug expression when I finally turn to face her. She casually strolls past me and flops onto the sofa. I ask again, this time sounding more determined for an answer, whether my husband is there. The Bitch laughs to herself and idly lights herself a cigarette from the flame of a gold cigarette lighter.
"He's not here," she says as she draws a deep lungful of smoke.
I ignore the irritating cloud of smoke she blows out into the room between us and glance in the direction of a noise I hear come from somewhere at the end of a hallway out of the lounge room. The urge to take control of the situation and march down the hallway in search of my husband is strong, but The Bitch and her indifference to me isn't giving me a strong enough incentive to do so. A brief stalemate ensues while The Bitch reaches for her wine and sips a mouthful.
She has an expression on her face that suggests she regards me as a joke. A curiosity even, like she's a cat and I'm a mouse that strayed too far into its territory.
"He's not here, but you can look for yourself if you like," she says.
I don't believe her and nor do I trust her. My ears try to listen above the music for any more sounds from the hallway. Her invitation for me to search her house has caught me by surprise and I'm momentarily paralyzed with the indecision of what to do next.
"You can look," The Bitch repeats, "but only on my terms."
There's a catch. I knew there would be a catch. I eye her suspiciously as she sits there, casually smoking her cigarette and sipping her wine.
"What are they?" I ask. I'm afraid to hear the answer because I can sense her toying with me.
"Simple, really. In fact, if you find your husband here I'll even let you keep him and never bother you again."
"OK," I agreed. I started to turn on my heel when The Bitch stopped me.
"Not so fast. If I make this promise to you, you'll have to do more than say OK."
"What?" I asked.
The Bitch said nothing and instead continued to finish her cigarette. Her eyes were all over me while I nervously waited for her to speak again.
"I will let you search my house room-by-room, starting with this one," she said.
There was clearly no sign of my husband hiding in her lounge room, unless he was standing behind the drapes, which I imagined would be extremely unlikely. But I agreed and waited for The Bitch to elaborate.
"For each room you search, if you don't find your husband in it, you are to give me a piece of your clothing."
I felt my jaw drop momentarily and had to consciously close my mouth again. My eyes suddenly burned and felt very dry from staring without blinking at The Bitch.
"The choice is yours," The Bitch smiled. "Of course, if you don't agree to my terms I will continue to fuck your husband and there won't be a thing you can do about it."
The Bitch said 'continue to fuck'. The words rang in my ears and confirmed my worst suspicions. I considered walking out there and then, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of winning like that. If I could just keep my marriage together long enough, I was sure The Bitch would eventually grow tired of him and leave us alone.
"OK," I mumbled.
"OK, what?"
"OK!" I said, more emphatically. "You win. I'll play your stupid game if that's what it takes. And you'll leave us alone? For good?"
"That's what I said," The Bitch grinned. "I know you don't like me, and you think you're so much better than me, but I'm not a liar."
I was already convinced she was right on two out of three counts, but it was difficult to openly agree with her last point.
"What?" The Bitch raised one of her pencil-thin, over-plucked eyebrows at me. "You don't believe me, or what?"
"I believe you," I said. The lie would surely have been clear on my face.
"Good. Well, let's begin then."
I watched as The Bitch rose from the sofa and wandered past me. She made a grandly exaggerated bow to look beneath the coffee table and then confirmed to me the obvious. "He's not under here, is he?"
"No," I mumbled. If she was trying to be funny, I had no intention of laughing. Not even to humor her.
"Behind here?" she asked, holding the drapes and then whipping them open.
"No," I mumbled again.
"Well, he's nowhere in this room then, is he?"
I felt a lump of nerves tighten in the back of my throat as The Bitch stood in front of me. She snapped her fingers impatiently and nonchalantly told me to remove my shoes. It occurred to me I was only wearing enough items of clothing to look in five more rooms but I remained confident of finding my husband in one of them.
After I slipped off my shoes, I started to walk in the direction of the hallway.
"Just a minute," The Bitch called me to stop. "You haven't looked over here yet."
There was no dividing wall between the lounge and dining area but The Bitch clearly was going to count it as a separate room. Her dining table was made of solid glass on a marble pedestal bass and I could see from where I was standing there was no sign whatsoever of my husband being over there. The Bitch insisted I continue the charade and by the time I'd followed her through the motions of looking through the dining room and the adjacent kitchen, I was down to my bra and panties.
The Bitch led me over to the hallway and stopped me from marching straight to the door at the end of it which I assumed would be the master bedroom.
"This room first," she said.
The first bedroom on the right hand side of the hallway was completely empty except an ironing board and a small sewing desk. I didn't even need to look in the clothes cupboard because its door was open and there wasn't anything in it except for a few black dresses and leather jackets suspended there on thick wooden hangers.
Things started to feel decidedly grim after I surrendered my bra to The Bitch. I felt especially embarrassed by her crude comments about my breasts and the way my nipples had visibly swollen to become tense and erect.
