Lynne’s Story 03

3: Self Exploration

I lay awake through long periods that night, as Richard slept alongside me, feeling restless and alone. The terrors of the night engulfed me - fear of Richard finding out, my parents, my children. Robert, who had seemed such an organized, rational man had shown a new side to himself. He had said that we could stop at any time, and now he was – openly – blackmailing me.

I turned the events of the party over in my mind a thousand times. The kiss, that kiss where I had suddenly felt an unexpected longing for strength, a man pressing against me, an overpowering presence. I looked across at Richard in the dark, hearing his breathing. I had felt a longing for everything that Richard was incapable of representing – and I now experienced a strange and new resentment at the realisation that I had been missing something different to the satisfaction of security and family, without consciously having seemed to be aware. When Robert had hiked up my skirt, fondled me, lowered my panties, instructed me to kiss his manhood in the dark, I had acquiesced, ignoring every opportunity to stop. Yes, he had been pressing wine onto me during the day and I was very tipsy, but I had meekly allowed it because I had wanted that desire, a man lusting after me, and me longing for him. If we had not been interrupted, would we have ... consummated the act? The emotions had been so intense that I didn't know – the woman on her knees kissing his hardness, taking him into her mouth, was not me. I had lived a life of respect, honor, integrity, everything my family had expected.

But in the early hours of the morning, in that feverish heat and fear of the moment I imagined him in the bed, above me, his manhood erect, touching my belly; and I closed my eyes, shamelessly, secretly opened my legs, curved my back to present myself and lay there, feeling restless and ashamed, remembering his obscene whisperings, aware of a deeper desire than I could remember feeling for Richard .... ever. Lying next to my husband, in that half asleep, half afraid state I lowered my panties down, over the curve of my bottom, slipped them secretly off so I could lie with the bedclothes touching my lips, nightdress hiked up, hearing Richard's breaths as I thought of another man pressing himself into me in the dark.

As I finally drifted off to sleep I realized the ambivalence and contradiction of my actions – desperate to protect the security of my family life and reputation, yet anxious to explore this new longing. I finally awoke with Richard standing above me.

"Wake up hon. You were very restless last night. Made you some coffee." He had a gentle Richard-smile, ever kind and affectionate.

I turned over and sat up. "I was very restless; might have been the wine from the party."

"It's OK – first day of holiday; you can sleep it away if you want. I'm going to be out for the morning at my folks, though, remember – so you have all the time in the world to relax."

I felt a surge of relief – if he was out of the house it would be easier for me to manage any potential contact from Robert. He leaned over and kissed my cheek as if I was an older aunt, then smiled and walked out of the room. I could hear him turn left and walk down the steps, then enter the garage, open the automated door and drive away. I sat still in bed all that time, just sipping coffee, my mind a blank, not wanting to deal with the circumstance I had to face. At one point I glanced down and saw my panties lying on the floor next to my bed. Had Richard noticed? Did it matter – unlike Robert, his interest in my panties, or lack of panties had dwindled years ago. I pondered that thought as a justification for the choices I had made yesterday. A woman should have a man intrigued by her underwear.

I fell asleep again from exhaustion, then woke an hour later, aware that my phone had vibrated against the glass top of my bedside table. I knew immediately that it would be Robert, and I was correct.

Robert: Morning kitten.

I waited, unclear how to answer and averted the stress of the dialogue for as long as I could. I was to learn, still, that this was Robert's approach – speak affectionately while controlling me absolutely. He would always apply the silk glove of tenderness over the steel fist of authority.

Robert: Hello?

Lynne: I'm here. Good morning.

Robert: Mmm .... been thinking about you. Looking at your pictures.

I remained silent for a while, unsure how to respond.

Robert: you been thinking about me, kitten?

I felt that I needed to keep him happy and not annoy him.

Lynne: Yes.

Robert: been thinking about my cock, haven't you, kitten?

Lynne: Yes.

Robert: I know you enjoyed kissing it. I could see it. How did you feel having it in your mouth?

His vulgarity no longer surprised me. I resolved to walk that line between satisfying him and sinking into vulgarity myself.

Lynne: It was ... intimate.

Robert: Intimate. I like that. How many cocks have you sucked?

It was an impertinent question and I felt a stab of anger. But I also felt embarrassed, for some reason, at the truthful answer. Two days ago I would have been proud to say I had always been a faithful wife, but now I felt naive and somehow inferior.

Lynne: Just two

I knew I was, stupidly, blushing as I responded.

Robert: Richard and I?

Lynne: Yes.

Robert: You really have been the good wife all your life, haven't you?

Lynne: I have. I never wanted anything else.

Robert: And now you sit at home thinking about my cock. That's quite a change, isn't it?

Lynne: I don't just sit around thinking about you.

Robert: Not all the time. But sometimes you do. You admitted it.

Lynne: Yes. Sometimes.

Robert: Where are you?

Lynne: At home.

Robert: Where is Richard?

Lynne: He's gone out.

Robert: And left you all alone?

Lynne: Yes. Just for the morning.

Robert: Are you still in bed?

Lynne: Yes.

Robert: Such a lazy kitten. I'm going to phone you.

Within a moment my phone vibrated and when I responded I heard his unmistakable deep voice.

"Morning kitten."

"Morning Robert."

"What does kitten wear to bed?"

The question, once again, was invasive – but even though I had no choice but to answer, the experience was titillating. His voice had softened, lowered a tone. There was an intimacy in the question which had been lost in the text messages.

When I spoke my voice was less confident than I expected and I had to swallow to get the words out: "A nightdress."

You mean a nightie?"

"Yes."

"Panties? Bra?"

I had to lie – he could not know I had removed my panties during the night.

"Every girl has to wear panties."

He paused, then slowly said the words for the effect he knew it would have: "Not when she's talking to her black lover ... take them off."

I enjoyed the small deception I had passed off, making him believe I was wearing panties. I made the sounds as if I was following his instruction, then whispered back, feeling as if I had gained something: "They're off."

"Good. Now lie back in bed and put the soles of your feet together."

I lay back, relaxed, legs outstretched, aware that he could not know that I was deceiving him.

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"I can hear that you're lying." There was a real anger in his voice. "Don't fucking lie to me! Put the soles of your feet together!"

I sat in shock. How could he know I was lying? For a moment I stared at the phone incredulously, then tried to lie my way out of it. "They are together! I'm not lying."

He paused. "I will always know when you are lying Lynne. I can hear it in your voice. This is your last chance before I get angry and make your life difficult. Are the soles of your feet together?"

His insistence on acquiescence to even this small thing shocked me. And it was impossible: he could not know that they my soles were not together – but at this point I was prepared to believe anything. I lay back, and did as he instructed. The position stripped me of any modesty: my nightie had ridden up my thighs, exposing my womanhood to the room. The position, also, opened the lips slightly – if Richard had walked back into the room he would be looking straight up my legs into me.

"They're together," I said – and clearly he could hear the resignation in my voice because his tone softened.

"Good. Your cunny is a little bit open."

I could barely get the word out: "Yes."

"Don't cover yourself with bedclothes – I want you fully exposed. You are exposed, aren't you?"

There was both shyness and frustration in my response: "Yes. Yes I am."

"Good. Is there anyone else in the house?"

"No."

"Good. So you can do anything I want you to."

I remained silent for a moment, aware that he was waiting for my agreement. Finally I snapped back, but not too loudly: "I don't just do anything."

He paused, and I could imagine him smiling briefly. "A real woman gives her man everything he desires."

I spoke, perhaps without thinking: "You are not my man."

He would always seem so superior: "I don't think you understand what's happening here. Already you do every sexual thing that I want ... that means I am the dominant sexual figure in your life. Aren't I?"

I paused: "I suppose you are."

"And as much as you protest, you like it."

I didn't answer, and he gave me time, I suspect, to think about it. My first reaction was to dismiss it – I had never felt as humiliated or resentful as yesterday in the bathroom. But at this moment, legs splayed, the morning cool of the room embracing my skin, my thighs and yes, my womanhood, I could not recall Richard ever displaying such focused interest in my sexual state. Despite everything, I was aroused, aware of Robert on the other end of the line. There was an irrational madness to this: I should feel no more than disdain, distaste. My skin should be crawling but it ... wasn't. Rather, I found myself turning my head to look at myself in the full length wall mirror, wanton, like a slut offering herself.

"Have you ever done anything like this for Richard?"

"No."

"Not all women need this, but all women should submit completely to at least one man in her life. The right man making her feel submissive and feminine."

I felt unsure and irritable: "That's nonsense!"

"Really? Can you honestly say that your cunny isn't a little bit moist, Lynne?" He was almost whispering now. "That you haven't thought of my cock sliding into you? Opening you slowly? Filling you?"

I murmured unintentionally and he heard it.

"You've been waiting your whole life for the right man, and now you have to come down from your position of white privilege and deal with a black cock, and you don't know how to handle it, do you?"

There was nothing to say. It was true that dealing with a black man made this all the more humiliating. But I was recognizing that on some level I was enjoying this ... this humiliation, this submission. It struck a chord. It not only aroused me, it felt inconceivably right.

"Your cunny is open for me, Lynne. Imagine me up close, kissing you, pressing my cock inside you." My murmur became the softest whimper. He heard it. He knew. "What do you have on your bedside table?"

My mouth was dry, my voice strangled: "A book, the light, my hairbrush, a coffee cup. Why?"

"Good. Take the hairbrush and run the bristles between your cunny lips, over your clitty. I want

to hear it."

It was an outrageous instruction; but I already knew it was futile. He would demand that I do it, and know if I hadn't. And worse, I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it. I didn't think about it – I just recognized it was true, placed the phone against my shoulder and reached across for the hairbrush.

I had grown up so conservative and naive that I had never used an object on myself before; the first stroke of the hairbrush was like a bolt of lightning, heat, bristles pulling, softly tearing into my nerve endings – my legs jerked, I cried out in shock twisting my hips, heart pounding as I gasped for breath.

"Good. Pleasure and pain ... it's all the same sensation for the submissive white wife. Keep stroking softly. I want to hear it."

With each movement I had to catch my breath, moaning softly, my voice jerking if a bristle stretched me, flicked against me. I drew the hairbrush up and down, slowly, each moment a revelation of joy and pain.

"Talk to me Lynne. Tell me what your cunny is feeling."

My words came in short breaths. "It's intense. I'm twitching. I'm twitching. I'm twitching."

"Keep stroking. I suspect your little cunny has needed attention for longer than you will admit, hasn't it?"

I whispered, with short breaths: "Yes..."

"I want another ten strokes, not too hard, don't hurt yourself, just keep yourself poised. Count them for me. Do it now."

"One ... two .. oh God ..."

"Keep going. I want you to remember this long after it's over; your cunny to be tender when you're with Richard."

"Three ... four ... five ..."

"Yes. Good girl. Now the last five harder. Spread yourself open and stroke as hard as you can."

I was gasping now ... each breath timed to match a stroke of the hairbrush: "Six ... seven ... eight ..."

"Now very slow for the last two ... "

"Nine ....." I drew it achingly slowly up my lips, heart pounding, perspiration on my brow: "Ten!"

I fell back, panting, legs still twitching, humiliated and alive, every nerve ending in my ... womanhood ... sensitive even to the movement of the cool air in the room. I lay prostate for a moment, letting my breathing slow, my legs closed now, defensive, hiding myself, soothing my senses down there.

"Good girl Lynne. I think your cunny has never been abused before, has it?"

"No," I responded, aware of the heat of shame in my face.

"But you did it. And you liked it. I could hear it."

I barely answered: "Yes, I did do it."

"And you didn't just like the feel of the hairbrush ... you liked being instructed. You enjoyed the submission. Didn't you, Lynne?"

My heart was slowing to a normal pace and I had caught my breath. I couldn't bring myself to answer the question.

"Didn't you Lynne? Say it."

I remained silent.

"White wife obeying a black cock. Not what you expected, is it?"

"No," I softly murmured, the confusion of the past moments washing over me.

"Masturbating in your marriage bed over my voice, Lynne. Put the hairbrush handle into your pussy, Lynne. Now."

I slowly, wearily parted my knees and carefully slipped the wooden handle into myself. My lips were tender, but it slipped up into me, sliding over the wetness that had filled me.

"Is it in?"

"Yes."

"Good. In and out now, slowly."

Holding the brush by the bristles, I did as I was told, caught up in the moment as if in a reverie. I had never done this before, not even on my own, not even in the bath when I sometimes ... touched. As Robert whispered filthy suggestions into the phone I started to feel that welling inside me, and suddenly my hips were jerking against the brush, I was moaning as I had never done before, I exploded as all the pent up lust from a lifetime of conservative want. I think I called out, but it was beyond my control; everything in those moments was about Robert's voice, vague imaginings of his manhood, and that feeling, that squeezing explosion between my legs and deep into me.

Later I wondered whether I had ever really had an orgasm with Richard. Nothing had prepared me for the intensity of those moments, alone with Robert's voice controlling me. I lay on my side, face buried in the pillow, hairbrush still inside, still moving slightly in that after-lust, softly moaning as I came down from the passion of the last moments.

Robert had listened, and now spoke for the last time: "I wish I could have seen that. I want to fuck you, Lynne. Before we go back to work. Find a time, work out how you going to escape your husband. And then let me know and I will work out the place. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"Let me know by the end of the day. I'll be waiting." And the phone went dead.

I lay immobile, strangely restless and content simultaneously. My life had undergone a sea-change in the past 48 hours; I would still grapple with my conscience and what this all meant – but I suddenly felt that the essence of my femininity had changed. The act of submission, which I would have decried before, had been more erotic than I could describe. I felt the contradiction of shame and lust had driven me to unthinkable behavior and unexpected excitement.

I looked across at the mirror, Lynne still lying like a wanton ... slut. And part of me approved of the sight.