First and foremost, I would like to thank all of you who appreciate my stories. It is very seldom that one finds a forum open toward subjects that most others consider taboo, and for that alone, it feels like a whiff of fresh air. Let me assure my followers and readers that like my writing, all my stories are based on real experiences. I never lie or embellish-maybe a little poetic license here, there-but the core, the raw throbbing heart of every tale is as real as the pulse in your throat when you read them.
And not very long after, Martin and I both knew that for the electric current running between us, honesty and openness about our lifestyle were the only ways to keep that current humming. It was never easy-most especially with the whispers and furtive glances that followed us in and around our community-but it was a cross we both resolved to carry. The young couple that we were, we liked extreme sports: the adrenaline high, the kick of the unknown, and the heat of the moment left us heaving with lungs starving for air. Ours was a dance of power and submission, a balance that we craved but were always afraid to lose.
As the whispers got loud, we lost the few friends who could not handle the reality of our desires. They were those friends that had known us from high school days-the ones who still imagined us as the sweet couple that held hands during the pep rallies. It was kink, and then growth into that, as people would work out shared appetites deeper with more like-minded acceptance and celebration for our union. They were friends-not those that would nod and smile when talking of your weekends but those leaning in a bit more, ready to hear juicy details from your latest escapade.
Some of those seemingly tight-assed women leaned in, eyes aglow with curiosity as they whispered their own secret fantasies. They were PTA moms, church choir singers, librarians who'd check your books out with a knowing smile. They had always been rule-abiding, but in the depth of their hearts, they wanted the kind of passion that could only be found in the shadows of societal norms. They share their darkest desires in hushed tones, as if even the walls of their immaculate homes may judge them for what they thought.
One such woman was Mrs. Thompson, a well-known figure in our community and a devoted wife. She had always been so put together, her blonde hair in a neat bun, her clothes as prim as a porcelain doll's. But beneath the conservative façade, there was an ember of desire burning that she had kept hidden from the world. There was something in her eyes as she approached me at the community bake sale that sent a shiver down my spine.
Is it really you who wrote the stories on Literotika?" she whispered, looking around to make sure nobody was listening in. I nodded, a smirk playing on my lips as I held her gaze. She looked surprised, but not disgusted, and her cheeks started to flush a delicious shade of pink as I wondered how much she had read and enjoyed my tales.
Of all people, Mrs. Thompson was the last I would have thought capable of appreciating my work. The rumors that finally reached her ears and pierced her bland existence stirred a curiosity in her which plunged her deep into the dark pool of my imagination. I could see the inner battle playing on her face, stretched between herself as she had been and the woman she was finding she could be. I felt a strange affinity with her, a bond that went beyond the words on the stories she had secretly devoured. I invited her for coffee the following Tuesday, and she gladly accepted.
We met at a quaint little cafe on the outskirts of town, the kind that served organic brews and had a nondescript clientele that wouldn't bat an eyelash at our conversation. She was nervous, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan, and she ordered a cup of herbal tea that she barely touched. But the more she spoke, I knew that she was not after scandals or rumors but for understanding and a partner who could assure her that this, too, is all right, and this is all fine.
I listened as she spoke, her voice growing stronger with each word, sharing her deepest, darkest fantasies. They were like the whispers of a siren, luring me in with their allure and intensity. Her eyes searched mine for approval, for a sign that I was one of those who truly knew the thrill of giving in to one's darkest impulses. I nodded, sipping my coffee, my heart racing as I recognized the same hunger in her that Martin and I shared.
The conversation grew bolder, our voices dropping to conspiratorial murmurs as we discussed the intricacies of our shared kinks. It had been her innocence, but like a veneer, it masked an inner fire of passion. Cracks in this veneer had begun to show, and she was talking about being submissive and the desires to be ruled and dominated by a capable and firm decision-maker as her partner. She clearly had never acted on such promptings with her husband-the solemn minister everybody loved and who probably never had seen this creature in passion's thrall.
It was now obvious as the afternoon's failing light proved it: our time for words was at an end. She was pressed up against my face, warm breath washing up and sending shivers down my cheeks: "Would you. help me?" And in her voice, shaken and mixing excitement with fear, there sounded to me a jolt of pure electric current.
It wasn't merely a question of imparting our secrets but of bringing them to life-of giving her an experience of that other world which had forever altered Martin and me. "I think I can do that," I said-my voice steady, tranquil, while inside the tempest was raging. A plan was now crystallizing in my head, something to introduce her to the great and liberating sex, to introduce her to dancing with power and pleasure, that I knew very well she lacked. Of course, I should be careful not to get herself spotted gallivanting around with a known perv like me.
But the spice of the secrecy, the danger of being exposed, made it all that more alluring.
We had agreed to meet again, this time disguised as an innocuous book club, where, in security, we would delve into the specifics of our chosen lifestyle. The mere thought of adventure about to be undertaken glazed over Mrs. Thompson's eyes as she bubbled over in her gratitude toward me, hurrying back home to her unsuspecting husband. Days have passed, minutes of restless slowness, every moment eternity, while he gave Martin a chance to bring into our world a new creation-one which has, for so long, had to relate to the repressed confinements of her own creations. A chance, finally, he felt, was offering itself wherein something beautiful was about to be brought to him and he need no longer be ashamed of his skin.
We talked for hours about limits and boundaries that would make her safe yet give her the freedom to explore.
It was an afternoon that finally offered the moment for our clandestine meeting, and Martin and I dressed with care, donning attire that could make statements yet not be too overwhelming for a novice like Mrs. Thompson. We set the scene in our entertainment area-a space we had so carefully crafted to be both inviting and intimidating, walls which could tell of the many moments of pleasures and pains that had happened within them.
She came in wide-eyed at the room, mixing nervousness and excitement; she had changed into a more revealing outfit than any I have ever seen her wear-a sure sign that she was prepared to shed her inhibitions.
Then it was Martin who took the lead, his deep commanding voice setting the tone for the evening. He explained consent and the use of safe words to her, his eyes never leaving hers. She nodded, and I could see her pulse racing visibly in her neck; the desire in her eyes-the need for this release that she had held back for so long.
Hettie - Mrs. Thompson said we had to call her now - sat between Martin on the couch, reclining leather. Her hand, trembling a bit, reached for a glass of the wine offered; as hers touched mine to serve it to her, softness of luminescence came from wall-installed candelabras casting warm shadows that crawled upwards from the dim outlines of our little cozy dining room; somewhere in the vicinity, one was playing Nora Jones. The end.
We chatted for a while, easing the tension with small talk about books and the weather, but it was clear that our true intentions lay elsewhere. Finally, Martin leaned in, placing his hand gently on Hettie's knee. She looked at him with a mix of surprise and anticipation.
He leaned forward, pressing his fingers against her lips without a word. He traced the line of her mouth, his gesture silent, sensuous, and speaking volumes. The room was still as I watched her reaction, electricity heavy in the air, the storm about to break. Her eyes searched his for a sign, some kind of cue about what she should do next. Martin rose and reached his hand toward her. She gave it, and he lifted her to her feet. Hettie's breath stuck as his arms encircled her-the fierce clasp of security and novelty enfolding and framing her, turning her this way and then that.
The dark eyes looked down to his for reassurance; he obliged her with a knowing smile, even with his other hand stroking across her own to reassure the hold.
He kissed her lightly, the softness of his lips in such contrast to the firmness of his grip. Hettie just melted into that kiss as her body answered with a hunger she had never allowed herself to feel before. The tip of his tongue traced across the seal of her mouth, asking for entrance, and she opened for him, a whimper escaping her throat. I could have wished for no finer sight as passion began to rear its head with more intent in their kiss. I was watching from my seclusion, the sexual urge rising, the way of announcing just an introductory act into long night explorations. Hettie's hand sprang up and clutched Martin's shirt at the shoulder as though aiming to absorb him in her being.
