A Widow's Tale

The sound of a man in the house again was sweet, and I pretended to sleep just to savor it. Eric had gotten out of bed and padded to the bathroom quietly, trying not to awaken me. Urine splashed into the toilet bowl and he sighed with relief. Mentally, I told my own bladder to hush for now. He left the bathroom and went downstairs. Paniced that he was leaving my eyes flew open; his clothes were still on the floor where he had left them the night before. Footfalls on the stairs vanquished my short-lived fear and I closed my eyes again, playing possum. The shower hissed to life and gradually the smell of men's soap crept into the bedroom. I dozed on and off while Eric tended to his hygiene. At length he finished and I sensed his presence in the bedroom. I opened my eyes but stayed quiet, watching him. Clad only in pajama bottoms he was a feast for the eyes, every bit as handsome as I had had remembered from the previous night. He strolled about the room, stopping from time to time to examine the photos and art that hung on the walls. Most of them had sexual themes, some more explicit than others. A few were of my own creation, culled from various sources and flavored with my own imaginings. Extending his arms over his head, he stretched from side to side, muscles rippling. He turned toward the bed and saw that I was awake. He smiled comfortably and sat on the bedside, touching my leg.

"Good morning, beautiful Lady."

I giggled. "Good morning, Eric."

"Been awake long?"

"Long enough to admire what I enjoyed last night."

"That's good news. Are you hungry?"

"Some. You?"

"I'm starving. If you don't mind a strange man in your kitchen, I'd love to cook some breakfast for us."

"I would never turn down a meal I don't have to make myself."

"Excellent. Besides -- if I sit here any longer, I'm going to have to fuck you again. I'm getting hard already."

"My. That's quite a dilemma for you. But, I'm sure I'd rather have you weak from desire and not hunger." The front of his pajamas were bulging. Eyelids fluttering, he tipped his head back and inhaled sharply.

"God damn." He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Meet you downstairs?"

"Mm-hmm," I replied, nodding and blowing a kiss. As soon as he headed downstairs, I made a dash for the bathroom. A torrent of urine and cum passed out of me. My God how he had fucked me! I expected to be well satisfied and maybe a little sore, but instead I was wanting even more and my openings were well ready for anything he could give them. The thought of him in my kitchen, half-naked, sporting wood, and cooking for me gave me strong motivation to make short work of my shower. I chose my deep blue silk robe, deciding against wearing the chemise that matched. As I towel-dried my hair, I heard my young lover whistling happily.

Eric was standing at the stove juggling four eggs when I walked into the kitchen. I was glad I hadn't tried to sneak up on him to steal a kiss as I had considered doing. He'd pitch the eggs high in the air -- almost to the ceiling -- and catch them effortlessly, taunting gravity at every moment.

"That's impressive," I said as he continued to juggle. "Can you walk the tightrope, too?"

"Nope. But I have swung from the chandeliers now and then." He grinned and winked and brought the eggs safely to rest on the countertop. I applauded heartily and he bowed with a theatrical flourish. Moving through the kitchen with ease, Eric located dishes and foodstuffs as though he'd lived there forever. In no time at all we were at the table, sharing yet another meal together.

"How long can you stay?"

"I have someplace to be at nine tonight."

"A client?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask?"

"Ask what?"

"What's it like? What will you do with him?"

He shook his head. "Maggie, I don't ... you wouldn't want ... "

I looked at him imploringly. I did want to know, I really did. "Please? I'm dying of curiosity. It's not like the thought of men touching each other puts me off."

"I know it doesn't. You're paintings are very good, by the way. But Maggie, this isn't like your paintings. This client is a guy who has a very particular fetish and ... and I've never actually talked about this before. About what I do. Even with Todd I don't ... not in detail anyway."

I continued staring at him. "I thought you weren't ashamed."

Eric sighed heavily. "I'm not."

"So tell me."

He stared at my face for a few seconds. I succeeded at my efforts not to blink.

"You're sure you don't want to leave this alone?"

"Positive."

"Ok. All right. Against my better judgement I'll tell you about my client. But you have to tell me about this secret double life business you mentioned at dinner last night. I'm curious too."

"Fair enough." I sipped from my coffee mug. I had no idea how I would ever be able to put into words what Gerald and I had lived all those years. "I'm listening"

Eric leaned back in his chair. "Ok. Here goes. This guy has been calling me for, I don't know, more than a year. About every six weeks. It's always the same -- like a ritual. Same sequence, same words, same time and place. He leaves the motel room door unlocked. I come in and he's waiting for me. He's naked and he's on his hands and knees except that he's got a bunch of pillows under his chest that he's hanging on to. My fee is on the table, along with a pair of exam gloves and a can of Crisco. Sometimes there's a tip, sometimes not. I put the money in my wallet, take off my shirt, and then I make sure he can hear me putting on the gloves. That's part of what trips him out -- hearing the gloves snap. As soon as he hears that he starts whimpering, 'please don't stick your fist up my ass; it hurts so bad, please don't do that to me anymore.' Word for word, every time."

Eric watched my face closely as he spoke. I knew that my ears felt hot, but I must have had that far away look. In my mind I could see the scene so clearly. I knew the game, knew how badly the man both wanted and dreaded what was about to happen. Eric paused.

"Maggie? You ok?"

"Yeah. Fine. Go on."

"You're chewing on your lip."

"Oh? Am I?"

Eric raised an eyebrow and continued. "So then I say, 'too bad, You should have cancelled.' I sit down behind him -- well, I'm behind him the whole time. He never looks at my face. Anyway, I start packing Crisco up his ass. He clenches down real hard and I have to tell him to stop it if he knows what is good for him. I work three or four big handfuls of grease up him. By that time his cock's hard again. He jerks off in the pillows right before I get there. I ask him why he's got a boner if he hates my fist so much. That's when he starts to cry. I just ignore it and keep working in until I get to where I'm ready to start to over my knuckles. I stop and I tell him, 'I dunno. It looks like your asshole's starting to tear already.' He buries his face down in the pillows and starts screaming 'don't tear me open!' over and over. That's my cue to push in the rest of the way -- and believe me, he's not resisting. I mean, my hands are big and I know it burns, but he lets me right in. I make a fist and start moving it inside him. The more I move it, the more he screams about how bad I'm hurting him. Once I've got him good and sweaty, I tell him it's ok to stroke off if he wants. He pulls on his cock a few times and blows another load on the pillows. I pull my hand out after he stops twitching. He likes me to stand up before I take the gloves off so I can drop them on his back. While I'm putting my shirt back on he begs me not to tell his wife. If there was a tip, I spit on him before I leave. He always calls back."

I was breathless. Eric's candor was more than I expected. His vivid narrative had lit a fire between my legs. I didn't say anything. I couldn't. He started to look apprehensive, his eyes darting around my face uncomfortably. He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and turned his head away. I rested a hand on his forearm.

"Eric, no."

He turned back toward me. "I'm sorry Maggie. I shouldn't have -- "

I cut off his words with a kiss. I was aggressive, probing deeply with my tongue. I could feel his anxiety falling away as I ran my hands over his chest and shoulders. He was kissing me back then, pushing dishes aside, maneuvering me on to the table. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my ass poised on the edge of the table as he stood before me. His rigid shaft pressed against my inner thigh. He nuzzled my damp hair and my neck, murmuring sweet words.

"You are so amazing, Maggie. So amazing." He slipped his hands under my robe, running them over my full breasts. "I never expected any of this this. Never expected your acceptance. Not in my wildest dreams."

"How wild are your dreams?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you should come downstairs with me, Eric."

"I want to fuck you right here. On your dining room table. In front of the window."

"If you come downstairs with me, I promise you won't be disappointed. Something I've kept hidden for many years is down there."

"Ah, yes. Your secret. You know I know already." Eric traced his fingers up my neck and grasped firmly. Our eyes locked, he pressed my throat just tight enough to stir old memories deep inside my body. My hips rocked.

I led him back through the kitchen and down the basement stairs. The door was locked, although I had hung the key on a hook in the door frame after Gerald had gone. I had never been allowed to touch it until then. It still felt odd. Swinging the door open, I turned on the light and motioned Eric to enter. Three steps behind, I followed him in and knelt on the floor out of habit.

"My God," he muttered, wide-eyed.

It was indeed awe-inspiring. To say that Gerald had been an afficionado of bondage equipment would have been terribly understated. The room was large, taking up about a third of the basement. One of the long walls supported shelving, floor to ceiling, filled with any conceivable device -- cuffs, collars, gags, blindfolds, hoods, bars, irons, dildoes, plugs, belts, crops, even medical instruments -- the collection was immense. The opposing wall was lined with various pieces of larger equipment and hardware. The ceiling joists were peppered with heavy rings and pulleys. The far wall was tiled, as was the floor, with a locker room style shower, a deep laundry sink, and a toilet. The nearby drain was over-sized and covered with a heavy grate that I'd been chained to more than once. The last wall was covered with cork and plastered with photos of me, none of them "nice" but pinned up nevertheless. I counted 317 of them once. Silently, Eric wandered around the room, stopping at the photographs.

"My God," he whispered this time. He looked back to see me kneeling on the cold floor. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward and his eyes gleamed devilishly. He rubbed at his solid cock, beckoning me to him with a wag of his finger.

"Get over here."

I started toward him on hands and knees.

"Walk."

I stood and approached him, my head swimming with expectation and arousal. My mouth went dry but my pussy was hot and wet.

"Kneel ... no, don't look away. Your face is too pretty to hide." He tugged the front of his pajamas down exposing his engorged shaft, a drop of pre-cum sparkling at its tip. I leaned forward just a little. "Not until I tell you, my dear. Not until I tell you."

Eric began his lecture.

"I won't be taking you as far as you'd probably like to go today. I'm being selfish to some extent. I can't leave without an excuse to come back, now can I? There are a couple of other things, though. Self-control, Maggie. Really good soup needs to simmer for a long time. Now, I have been accused of being too distant, too quiet in the sack. At least that's what my brother seems to think. He doesn't get the beauty of self-control. I prefer to take my time, to keep my focus. We'll get there. Eventually. Truth to tell, I'm working with something of a handicap on this one. You'll have to tolerate my learning curve. As I said, all of my clients are men. When it comes to women, I'm more a wine-and-roses kind of guy. I've dabbled here and there, but nothing of this ... magnitude." He looked around at the room as he searched for his word, then focused again on my face. "So far, so good?"

"Yes, Sir."

He groaned. "Ah, how did I know you were going to call me that? The only place I ever want to hear that word is here, in this room. No place else. My name is Eric. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Wonderful." His cock bobbed in front of my face. "You can have that one drop you've been wanting, but that's all."

Eric grasped his cock at its base and stroked it firmly, increasing that one precious drop to at least three. It spilled past the cleft of his glans, running down the underside of his shaft. I wasn't sure what to do. He'd said 'one drop' but offered much more. Could he be testing me? Or was this just one very large drop? His face gave nothing away. There was only one way to find out. Boldly, I licked along the underside of his prick from about the middle and up over the top. I wanted so badly to take the head of it in my mouth, but left it at wanting. His fluid was warm and slick and tasted like more. I swirled my tongue around the roof of my mouth, distributing the flavor of him throughout my mouth. He pulled his pajamas back over his hips.

"We'll get back to that later. Next issue: these photos. Most of them are fine. Some of them are going to have to go. Do you have a paper shredder?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good." Eric picked a few of the photographs off the wall and fanned them out in his hand as if they were playing cards. "Take a look at these and tell me what they have in common."

Scaning over the photos, I remembered each session vividly. Every one of them had been taken at the end of punishments to help me learn from my mistakes. Learn I did, for there was nothing I dreaded more than a caning. Angry red welts criss-crossed my bottom. Still, there were plenty of other pictures that were essentially the same. Some of them had even been taken during the same sessions. I puzzled back and forth, looking for the answer. When I figured it out, I gasped, realizing for the first time just how far away my submission could carry me. It had never felt the way it suddenly looked from this perspective.

"Blood." Indeed, my skin was broken in each of the pictures Eric held in his hand. It wasn't a gore-fest by any means, but it was inarguable. Even if by only the littlest bit, Gerald had opened my skin in each example.

"Blood. Yes. And, more importantly, a terrible lapse in self-control on several occasions. That won't be happening anymore. While I would never presume to speak ill of the dead, he wasn't paying attention like he should have been. Besides, there are much more devious ways of making an impression on someone without resorting to a beating."

He grinned down at me like the Cheshire cat yet gave away no secrets. My cunt, perhaps for the first time ever in my life, was literally dripping wet. He knew it, too. Exactly how he knew was a deep mystery, but there would never be any way of keeping secrets from this man. I recalled his words from the night before: 'I knew the moment I saw you.' I felt a helplessness that I had never known before, not even during my most intense moments of submission. Shark-like, he circled around me, observing, evaluating, judging. I clasped my hands together in a feeble attempt to hide how they trembled. Eric crossed behind me, closing and locking the door. Everything was moving in slow-motion. The noise of the tumblers was jack-hammer loud and my pulse swooshed in my head. From far away I heard him speak.

"Get up."

I was on my feet. The wetness between my legs was rivaled only by the wetness under my arms. He had yet to lay one finger on me and still I was sweaty hot. Something was running down my leg. Perhaps it was leaking from my cunt. Perhaps it was sweat. Perhaps, even, it was a little dribble of urine. I couldn't have said. Silently I chanted to myself, 'just breathe, just breathe.' He was standing directly behind me. His patience was my agony.

Without warning, my right hand was pinned behind my shoulder blades and we were rushing toward the wall. Fast. Before I could so much as blink, my left cheek was resting on the cold tile. Eric had my left hand over my head, palm to the wall and trapped. My right hand was still pinned to my shoulder blade. He could have hurt me, badly, if he had so wanted. My God he was strong! Ever so slightly he pressed upward on my right arm until, panting, I cried out softly. His bare chest blanketed my back. He let his rigid cock rest against the fullest part of my ass as he bit at my neck. His teeth raked across my skin gently at first, then insistently, then demandingly. He slid his jaw back and forth a few times before releasing the skin he'd clamped between his teeth. He blew on the spot he'd just bitten.

"Do let me know what your friend at work has to say about the mark on your neck, dear one, " he murmured. My throat too thick to speak, I nodded as best I could given my position.

"And make sure you go through all of those photos very carefully. You know which ones offend me. The next time I am in this room, I expect to be satisfied with your attention to detail."

I was all but blind with arousal. Something like my voice made a crackly, breathy noise. Asking for permission was out of the question. It was way too late to stop the orgasm that was about to rip through me. Eric brought a knee up between my legs and planted it firmly against the wall, my seething cunt resting on top of his muscular thigh. Pressing into him, my hips wanted to move. His breath tickled my ear when he spoke.

"No grinding. No moving. Just let it out."

I slid down the wall a little as my legs gave way. Had it not been for straddling Eric's knee I'd have broken my arm, for he still had me pinned. To be sure, his sturdy support was no accident. He was as solid as a mountain beneath me and his cock felt at least as large. 'No moving' and 'just let it out' proved at once to be an impossible contradiction. My orgasm bucked like a wild mare, uncontrollable and defiant. It mocked my obedient intentions and animated my body against my will. I hated it. I never wanted it to stop.

My head was spinning as I lost touch with my surroundings. I was vaguely aware that my robe had been removed and I'd been carried across the room. Eric laid me on my back on what used to be called "the workbench" -- a heavy table that Gerald had constructed to accommodate various restrictions to my movement. It was about the size of a doctor's exam table, but much heavier and bolted to the floor. His strong hands tugged on my hips, urging me downward.

"Scoot down."

I wiggled toward him until I was in the position all women know: knees to my chest, my bottom hung off the end of the table, fully exposing my slick, engorged flesh. Cool air tickled my clit and threatened to trigger another orgasm.

"Knees stay where they are," he said, moving to the head of the table. "Give me your hands." Eric brought my hands over my head, binding my wrists with my bathrobe tie. He secured the other end to the table and briefly tested my mooring. Finding it sufficient, he stood beside me and smoothly pulled off his pajamas. His cock was standing straight up and had flushed a deep shade of red-purple. I was mesmerized by the sight of it, wondering how it must feel for him to be so hard and if it would be like having a thick, long, heavy clit.

"Do you have any idea how much you wet all over my leg, Maggie? Hmm?"

"No. Well, not exactly. Probably a lot?" It was more a question than an answer.

"Oh, yes. It was a lot. Here -- you look a little overheated." Eric mopped my face with the cum-soaked flannel, paying particular attention to my mouth. I licked my lips reflexively. That I relished the taste of my own pussy did not escape Eric's watchfulness.