I never asked for this.
I am by nature a very conservative woman. I developed early physically, but I developed late socially. The combination ensured that I was both terrified of the negative attention my breasts and hips attracted, and unable to really deal with the positive attention. As a redhead, one of my largest problems was that my embarrassment was easy to see; I blushed easily and when insults found their mark everyone could see it. As a result I learned early to downplay my sexuality and deflect attention.
I married out of University to a man with a lot more experience sexually than I had. He was my third man, the second being a rapist who honestly left me frigid and unable to contemplate sexual pleasure at all for the better part of a decade. All credit for any sex life I have now goes to my husband who was so very patient in opening me to new experiences. He awakened a sex drive in me that I didn't understand, and was both mentally and emotionally unequipped to deal with. He opened me to kink, in what I now know is a very suburban white bread sort of way, but so far from what I was aware of until that point he may as well have invented it.
Then we had our first daughter. It turns out what he would do to his girlfriend, what he loved to do to his wife, he could not even contemplate with "the mother of his children". His sexual interest in me waned almost by the day. My sex drive was still coming on line, awake, aware and oh so hungry. Now began the long starving times where I learned once again to go without, and learned once again I was not sexy, was not beautiful, as I could not stir my husband's interest, even though half the men I worked with, and no small number of boys I taught eyed me like the choicest pastry in the bakery.
Then he had "the talk" with me. Telling me how wonderful it was, how it saved so many marriages to have the freedom to have an open marriage. To be just as committed emotionally to each other, but to acknowledge that we could not fulfil each other's sexual needs, and should be allowed to find solace somewhere else.
It took a couple of weeks before he slipped and forgot to edit out the quotes in his speech when he started one of his arguments with " Binta says". Binta runs another department in his company. I asked him outright if he was seeing her. He refused to answer. I asked him if he would unlock his phone and let me look, he did.
Lots of photos of his penis, all nice and hard in his camera. Lots of nudes of an older Indian woman, in his downloads. Other pictures of my husband's face in her privates, giving her the pleasure I have not had from him in years. Another of his kissing her foot. Kissing her bloody foot, when he hasn't even kissed his wife on the lips since Christmas.
Binta is older than me by about ten years. She is in decent shape for her age and profession, but looks more like a well preserved grandmother than movie star. There is absolutely no doubt in those pictures that she has all the confidence, all the sensuality, all the sex appeal to take my husband without any effort at all, and there was nothing I could do about it but accept the crumbs she chose to leave me. Like laundry, cooking, and parenting.
That is how I came to accept our marriage was now "open". If I did that, I didn't lose the rest of him, and he would feel no guilt about doing what he was going to do anyway as long as Binta would have him.
My husband did me the "very great favour" of registering us both on a swingers website, which was not something I would ever agree to as I cannot afford any hint of scandal as a teacher, but Binta helped him set up my profile, complete with pictures of me the few times I dressed up for concerts or graduations, and even a picture of my breasts that he SWORE he deleted from his phone when we both sobered up that New Years eve we had at the Casino.
My husband's Indian lover had set up a profile for me on a swingers site, with my nudes, and had set up a rather shocking list of what I was looking for. Not only had my husband betrayed our marriage bed, he had shared with his mistress every dirty and embarrassing thing I had ever enjoyed or asked about years ago when he still remembered his wife was a woman and not the Virgin fucking Mary.
I was taking all of this about as well as could be expected. I was crying into my wine glass when I went to delete my profile from that damned site. I was looking at the pictures of all the losers who wanted to do a depressing list of things to my breasts, and who were absolutely overjoyed to find a woman who liked to be spanked on bottom and breast, who loved to swallow, and who loved anal, even though the man who taught her that had refused to do any of that with her for a decade before broadcasting her secrets to the world to go off with his Indian tramp.
I went to delete, but as I dragged up the mouse (I can't stand the touch pads, I added a wireless mouse), I passed over a button, and the computer's little moronic heart remembered my husband's choice for this button and highlighted it.
Ethnicity preference, highlighted Indian.
What the hell. I clicked it.
The filter dropped almost all of the one toothed unbathed and inbred losers, the fedora wearing Incels and the pathetic thirty or forty year olds pretending to be high school boys. I was left with a totally different set of Indian men.
I started looking. The Hindu men were objectively more handsome than the Sikh. Oh yes, tell me what a racist I am, but as a redhead who has been watching men prefer blondes her entire life, I will invite you to go blow yourself. People like what they like, get over yourself.
One of the ads caught my attention.
I am not like other men.
Everyone says that, that is part of what makes all men depressingly alike honestly. I read further and maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the utter lack of sex in my life at that point, but I kept reading and I felt my cheeks start to blush and my body start to warm in places that had been almost dead for so long.
His words were not the "I'm going to do x,y,z to you and you will like it" that most of the ads based on the filters Binta had highlighted that made me look like some sort of sexual degenerate not a housewife and teacher who had been with three men in her entire life.
His words were different. They reached me. They were not challenges, they were simple statements of fact. Laws. Truths.
"I will own you. Lesser men will isolate you from competition because they fear to lose you. I am not lesser men. I will own you, I will display you. I will train you until you understand that you are the single most sexual being in any room, that every man and woman in that room would kill or die to possess you even for an hour, but that I will decide if, when and who may have the smallest taste of what is mine.
When I finally take you, you will already understand that no other can please you, and that you will beg for the chance to please me."
His picture was a dark skinned Hindu man, his fine features were as sharp as a European, but his hair and eyes had the raven darkness of the Hindu Kush and his lips the promise of sensuality that you would swear should make his face look soft. He wasn't trying to loom like a predator like the rest of the BDSM posers that filled my inbox. He was not wearing leather or fetish wear.
He was dressed in a turtleneck, strong shoulders and relaxed easy carriage looking like he would be at home teaching a college class, or holding court with his rugby club with a dozen followers competing for his attention. He wasn't trying to dominate, to impress. He simply accepted as a given, and didn't dwell upon it further.
I felt my fingers trail across my breasts, feeling the nipples harden with an urgency I had not felt in some time. I put down the wine glass and took off my top.
