When Clark first told me that he wanted to watch his wife Kate get raped, the words escaped his drunken lips like the squeak of a mouse. I was simultaneously amused by his meekness and impressed by his candor. Despite the way he said it, it took guts to say what he did. He knew who I was and what I did. Confiding this to me was a testament to his courage and his desire to make his fantasy a reality.
In case you were wondering, Clark did not hate his wife. She was not an insufferable, nagging shrew. He did not want to see her hurt. Although it might not seem intuitive, he cared for her deeply. The motivations for his desires did not stem from anger, but out of a longing to feel the same level of lust for her that he did when he first met her. Like many husbands, time had dampened his attraction to his wife.
Clark might not have understood the origins of his new fantasies about his wife, but I did. You would be surprised how common this fantasy is among married men. Clark wanted was to see Kate sexualized. Put another way, he wanted her reduced to her sexuality. He wanted to see her as a sex object stripped of all the trappings that caused him to view her with feelings other than lust. Only then could he rekindle the earliest feelings he had for her.
Clark needed my help with this transformation. He didn't need my help because he was weak, or a beta male, or any other such label. He needed my help because it wasn't feasible for him to take this first step himself. He needed someone else to take responsibility for violating his wife. He didn't know how to avoid getting caught, and he needed to have someone else to blame if he felt guilty after the fact. Regrets seemed unlikely though, as I have seen this enough times to know that husbands typically relish memories of the experience.
About a month after his confession, Clark sat in a hotel room in a distant city fixated on his laptop screen. He was watching a live stream of my approach to the back of his house. He wasn't the only one watching online. Hundreds of men from all over the world were watching as well. These were men who had either previously shared a live stream of their own exploits with the rest of us, or who had paid a bit of cryptocurrency in lieu of contributing their own content to the group.
When I had advised Clark that many others would be viewing online as well, he confessed that the idea of so many people watching and enjoying his wife's rape was a major turn on. The moment the live stream started, he had introduced himself as Kate's husband to the group in chat. He asked me to make sure that their chat reactions to the video would be captured in addition to the recording itself. I assured him that I would put together a professional video package and send it out to the group so that he, and everyone else, could relive the experience any time they wanted.
After reaching the back of Clark's house, I retrieved the fake rock from the flower garden that Kate and Clark used to conceal a spare key. After collecting it, I crept to the backdoor and peeked inside through the adjacent window. It was about midnight, and there were a few lights still on in the house. However, Kate was nowhere to be seen. I inserted the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door. I paused for a second and stepped inside.
Kate had obviously decorated the place as it was painted in pastel colors, smelled gently of potpourri, and was adorned with extremely plush furniture. The femininity of the place turned me on. This was Kate's inner sanctum, her home, and the perfect place for a stranger to force himself on her.
As I proceeded through the kitchen toward the living room, I was briefly startled by noise from down in the basement. A light at the bottom of the door where the sound originated was on, and I heard what sounded like a washer door close. Kate must have been doing laundry. The stairs creaked slightly, and light footfalls became louder as she approached the door that opened up to the kitchen. I ducked down behind the kitchen cabinets as Kate emerged from the basement.
Clark's wife was wearing an over-sized sleeper shirt. Through the fabric, I could see that she wasn't wearing a bra as the shapely curves of her breasts pushed up against the fabric and her nipples, probably cold from the basement, hardened into visible points. Her legs weren't covered by anything and were smooth, tan, and taught. They disappeared under her over-sized shirt into what appeared to be a well-shaped, perky ass.
I felt myself get hard as I watched her for a few moments. I waited until she had walked into the living room and began reading some mail with her back to me before I quietly rose from my position. I crept toward her without so much as making a sound. As I got within about five feet of her, she paused, lifted her head, and began to turn in my direction. I don't know if it was something with the shadows, a brief fanning of air from my movement, or just a sixth sense, but she was now aware that she wasn't alone. The reason didn't matter in the end. The important thing was that I was close enough to grab her before she got to the front door.
When Clark's wife finished turning in my direction and saw me, I was rewarded with that uniquely feminine look of simultaneous fear and understanding. Her eyes got wide, her mouth gaped, she turned sheet white, and she let out a terrified scream. I have to confess that I never get tired of that reaction, and I made sure to stand still for as long as I could to film it as completely as possible.
