My neighbor, Tom, stood next to me at the window looking out on the gathering below in the garden. "She's pretty. Your wife, I mean. She's very sexy," He said.
"You mean for a guy like me?" I asked half jokingly. He put is large hand on my shoulder and laughed. "You scored with her Paul," he said. "Don't know how you did it, but she's a looker."
My wife, Jemma, was scurrying around the garden attending to her guests at the barbeque. She wore a pair of lime green shorts that emphasized her curved ass and a thin white cotton t-shirt that didn't quite reach the waistband of her shorts. Although Jemma was not the sporting type she was blessed with long, muscled legs that tapered to finely boned ankles. Her hair was in a shaggy dirty blond style that seemed to draw you into her deep blue eyes. Tom was right she was a "looker" but she was also a shy and very private person. She took her religious faith seriously and applied the same commitment to our marriage. She worked as an administrator in a local charity.
She noticed us standing at the window and tossed off one her perfect smiles before returning to her conversation with an elderly woman who lived several doors down. It was typical of her to find the most lonely and needy person and to offer a moment of happiness or understanding. I sometimes wondered whether marrying me had also been one of her acts of charity.
"Some guys like to imagine someone else fucking their wife." He paused, and then continued, "But if the guy's actually serious it usually turns out the wife's a dog."
"Oh," I said, recalling the thrill and shame of my own imaginings. "Jemma wouldn't do anything like that," I added quickly.
"But you would. Is that what you mean?" He asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. "It's theoretical. She wouldn't dream of it."
Tom turned on his heels and walked away, stopping at the doorway. "She's a stunning piece of pussy. Let me know if you persuade her."
The plan occurred to me that night. Jemma was curled up on the sofa, immersed in one of her endless mystery novels. I was watching a baseball game and daydreaming. The air was heavy and the crickets chorused outside. She had showered and changed into light cotton skirt that she tugged down occasionally to cover her exposed panties. Her hair was wet and she smelled freshly soaped. Her eyes drifted above the page and she smiled at me. It was a smile of innocence and trust. It was an innocence and trust I planned to abuse in the most extreme way. All that was needed was to persuade Jemma to "try something kinky" and the rest would be simple. The plan was, as far as I could tell, full-proof. I would get to watch another man fuck Jemma and Jemma herself would never know. First though I had to engineer an argument.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her eyes widening in hurt surprise.
"I just think our love-making is boring. It's just the same every time."
"You've never said anything before," Jemma said. "I thought you liked it."
"Liked what?" I said irritably.
"What we do in bed," she said.
"'It', 'what we do in bed' – you're not talking to your priest Jemma. How about using the word 'fuck' occasionally? Sometimes I just want to fuck. Nothing romantic, no bullshit, a straight fuck."
"OK, OK," Jemma said, the first tears rolling down her cheek. "I honestly didn't know sweetie. Please don't be angry."
"Maybe you could be a bit more adventurous."
"Just tell me what you want," she said, "I didn't know you were so unhappy."
A few days later Jemma walked into the TV room with a look of apprehension. She was dressed exactly as she had been that afternoon when Tom first saw her. The TV room opened out onto a small patio; the patio doors were wide open allowing a warm breeze to fill the room. Her eyes fell on the blindfold and rope lying on the couch.
"Tell me you love me," she said in a small voice.
"I love you," I replied, although somehow I couldn't quite meet her eye.
She stood in the middle of the room, her hands hanging loosely at her side while I knotted the blindfold tightly. I led her over to the bench I had dragged in from the garage. I placed a cushion under her tummy and bent her over the bench tying her wrists to the legs of the bench.
"Are you comfortable?" I asked softly, leaning down close to her.
"It's ok," she replied. "What are you going to do?"
I stepped back. "For fuck's sake, Jemma, either you're going to do this or not. I'm sick of your prissiness and your boring fucking conventionality. You're supposed to be my fucking wife. Do you want me to go satisfy myself with a whore?"
"No. I'm sorry, I really am. I'm just nervous," she spluttered, taken back by my sudden anger.
"Good. Trust me and everything will be okay."
I put on a top-forty radio station to cover any accidental noises and flipped the patio light twice, signaling to Tom that I was ready. While I waited I set up the tripod for the video camera and sound recording.
Tom stood next to me and smiled. He walked slowly across the room towards Jemma, first placing his hand gently on her waist. She jumped and quickly apologized. Then Tom slid his hand beneath her t-shirt running it along her flank and across her back.
"Mmm, your hands are warm," she said thinking it was my hand.
He reached under her and snapped open the button of her shorts. Jemma wriggled her ass a little to help him pull them down past her thighs. He slipped his fingers under her white cotton French-cut panties and slid them down a little way exposing her ass. Walking around the bench he pulled her t-shirt up. As instructed, Jemma was braless, and he cupped one of her firm 36c tits in his hand. She jumped again when he pinched her nipple hard.
Next he kneeled down behind her, his face level with her ass. I could see her mouth open as she felt his breath against her skin. He pulled open her ass cheeks, exposing her pink anus and the sublime slope leading to her pussy.
"What are you doing", Jemma asked, a note of concern, perhaps protest in her voice.
Tom immediately stood up and spanked her sharply across ass cheeks.
"Ow!" She protested. Tom spanked her again and again until she kept quiet.
