Looking down at the form letter from the BDSM camp, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment. It had been difficult to keep Frank, my husband, from seeing this document. It contains the safe-words for the camp. Without these words, Frank was powerless to halt the camp's harsh treatment of him.
The camp staff believed that their actions toward Frank were not only consensual, but also sexually gratifying for him. In other words, the staff was clueless about him being an unwilling participant. Of course, they also had no idea that we had switched places. They were unknowingly brutalizing a man in a woman's body.
I had provided the camp's leader, Lady Helen, with a supply of the gypsy's aphrodisiac. She gave them to Frank unknowingly, as part of his morning enemas. She assumed the potions were a garden variety stimulant. She had no idea just how these magical elixirs really affected him.
Moreover, I had increased the dose for Frank by a factor of tenfold over what I had taken. Within the first several days, I saw Frank become a casebook nymphomaniac. His initial disgust with men fuck him quickly morphed into a deep, constant craving.
By day five, Frank was eagerly competing to suck cock with the other women at the camp. When any man came close, Frank would drop to his knees, open his mouth wide, and stick out his tongue. He even started begging to take it up the ass. He had become the very definition of a slut. I loved it.
However, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that this was for Frank's own good, deep down, I knew I had done this out of revenge for his mistreatment of me. I enjoyed watching him suffer every imaginable indignity, humiliation, and sexual torment. We were even now, and my almost mission complete. I felt a deep since of satisfaction, and a sincere hope that Frank would come back a changed man.
The experience had been overpowering for Frank. It broke him. The once macho man was now a docile fuck doll.
This whole nasty business had begun almost a year ago, when I accidentally stumbled across Frank's porn collection on his laptop. My laptop had frozen. So, I went to his study to borrow his machine. He was at the store.
I hadn't known his password, but guessing it proved easy. He loved the Seattle Seahawks, so it took only a few tries before I got it. My eyes were immediately drawn to a folder named, "Sick Shit." Frank could be cruel, but his sizable collection of pain-related porn shocked me.
This stuff wasn't the light consensual clips you see on popular porn sites. It was truly horrific videos, showing women being whipped until bleeding, staked out over anthills, with speculums exposing their vaginas and asses to the biting insects. In addition, female genitalia was electrocuted, with metal dildos, alligator clips, and cattle prods.
Perhaps the most disturbing were the enema punishment videos. Most featured naked women tied down or suspended, with long inflatable enema nozzles deeply embedded in their asses. They were forced to take huge quantities of cramp-inducing liquids, like milk and molasses.
They were given far too fast, with too much liquid, and for too long. Stomachs became so distended that they look nine-months pregnant. In several of the clips, the women were ass-fucked while still retaining the enemas! The screams were unsettling, and clearly authentic.
I was incredibly confused and upset, and unsure what do with this discovery. I had known Frank had a dark side. However, I had never imagined that he was this brutal and perverted.
Leaving him was probably the smart thing to do; however, we had shared a reasonably happy married life, and I just wasn't ready for such a radical step. Another obvious option was to confront him with the evidence. I saw no value in doing that. If this sick obsession was really a part of him, it was unlikely he would be able to change without help.
So, I remained silent. Despite trying to conceal my growing contempt for him, he knew something was wrong. For one thing, our sex life slowly vanished. I couldn't keep myself from thinking about what was really going through his mind, when we fucked. So, I stopped having sex with him.
After almost a year, I was ready to leave him. I had fervently hoped that he would somehow grow out of his gruesome and perverse obsession. However, my covert inspections of his laptop revealed that not only was he continuing to accrue videos, his tastes were getting sicker and more vicious.
The latest clip was the final straw. It featured a woman having her vagina painfully sewn shut! a This poor girl was bound spread-eagle and naked on bed. Using a speculum, a fat man shoved nettles into her pussy. Then, he took a large needle and thick thread, and stitched up labia!
The woman bleed, and screamed, which seemed to anger the man. He untied her, and then gave a brutal spanking. It was clear that each swat caused her to clinch, which resulted in the nettles buried inside her to inject more venom. I had never seen anyone cry so much. It was ghastly.
Obviously, Frank's sexual sadism was getting worse. I went to work that morning, and asked a colleague to draw up divorce papers. Frank and I were both attorneys. I worked for a highly successful criminal defense firm, while his career had been spent in the prosecutor's office.
By lunch time, I had become depressed and melancholy. So, I took a walk in the park to clear my head. Several boys on skateboards almost ran me down, and then knocked over an old lady, causing her groceries to spill on the ground. She got to her knees, and began gathering them up.
I yelled after the kids, and then rushed over to help her. She seemed genuinely surprised by my assistance. As I knelt next to her, and retrieved a can of beans, as I glanced at her face. It was laced with deep weather lines. Her clothing was old, and shabby. She grabbed my arm to steady herself.
"Are you okay?" I said.
Staring directly into her iron grey eyes sent chills down my spine. She smiled.
"Yes, my dear," she said, in a gravelly voice.
Once we had all the groceries back in her bag, I helped her up. She still looked unsteady, so I carried her bag. She thanked me. We made our way through the park, chatting.
For some strange reason, I began describing my life with Frank, even disclosing his sexual addictions, and my plan to leave him. She didn't speak for a long time. Finally, she stopped, turned, and held both my hands.
"What if I could offer you a solution?" she said.
"I don't understand. You mean sex therapy?" I said.
She didn't look like a therapist, or even someone that knew one. She seemed to sense my confusion.
