Sleeping Out

By Brewt.Blacklist

December 2010

Husband

THE TRIP had been an unmitigated disaster, costing a lot more than I could again afford to lose. None of the contracts got signed, and serious hell will definitely call for payment come Monday morning at the office, not to mention at the hovel for once again failing to provide. The heap scarcely got me across state lines as it sputtered to the dive I'd managed to squeeze into at the last waypoint before I got to the household. A cheap-ass disgusting cubbyhole, complete with cockroaches and stains I didn't want to contemplate in the bathroom. I requested and got additional sheets with a scowl which went right over the original once I got in the vestibule that didn't present a challenge to the key; it wasn't locked to start with. I should travel with my private bedding, solving at least some of the 'yuck' problems I encounter in places like this. Of course, supporting the means to burn and replace them every month I was on the road was right out; what's a body to do.

My ulcers rebelled at bearing another meal of fried highway food, so I staggered to the shitty local grocery that lacked extravagance and snagged some sourdough, cheese and crackers, and a chintzy bottle of Chianti. For later. I swallowed as little as I braved, according to the jostling of the ride my intestines were still feeling; I tramped a path to the hole in the wall across the main drag from the hotel notwithstanding my stomach's complaints that it wasn't altogether safe, where I made a hasty acquaintance of a needy character that bought the plan about the joke and consented to be my tool for a Jefferson, and waited to be pleasantly amazed a scant thirty minutes in when the dish flurried by and ordered a martini I knew she, you'd not drink. I authorized four drafts at happy hour to nurse for the eventide, full well appreciating my underbudgeted antacids would be called on to mix with the vino in a near anticipated future.

YOU LOOKED up across the crowded seedy bar I knew you'd be uncomfortable in, as you positively spied the marker we'd concurred on enter the drinkery, right on cue. The young have no duty to be late.

"Holy crapweasel, no wonder he has to cheat on his poor spouse. I'd say no to that ass-face, too. What the hell was I thinking?" Your face betrayed your thoughts of my lackey as obvious; you dropped your version of the marker on the table, and tried to sneak away without the pigeon noticing someone was ducking out in a hurry. I tittered at how shallow you turned out to be, given the layers of crap we'd gone through across the net to gain control over your silly fears of predators and villains; you caved in and finally risked a meeting: "your" idea. As I advanced past your stool on my journey out to chase you, I picked the flower up, and gave it to one of the wallflowers, electing not to stay to watch the results of my fall guy hit on her, and to have me not be where we'd agreed he'd furlough you, uh, her, on to me.

The expedition across the lot was as uneventful as I hoped with the twilight giving me advantage. I caught up to you as you were undertaking to snake amid the vehicles, inducing the expected revelation with the unanticipated suffering---ouch---of human contact just as you thought you were reaching to open the car.

"What the fuck?!? Let me go!"

"It's me. Ditchin', eh?" You, she relaxed with annoyance; a recognition of idiocy catching up a close second.

"Moron. I'm not her. She's been watching you in the lounge since you stumbled in; wanted to see what you'd do. See if you'd try to be fucking clever. Congratulations. I'm vamoosing. Rotsa ruck, there, dickhead."

I let the dime go, finding the story believable, slouching like a dope, suddenly isolated in a parking lot sans what I came for. It should have been raining. I trudged inside with my tail underneath my legs wishing for crutches and firmer foundations to discover my, repeat, my furniture had been taken over by college students debating philosophers that shalt not amount. I spotted marker boy and the girl I'd planted with the flower I'd been duped over whooping their asses off, rollicking in a booth in the corner with a woman I didn't recognize as one I'd seen previously. They waved me over.

"Ha! Ha! Gotcha!" Once I got over the initial humiliation of the sting, yes, yes, weren't you astute, we sat and had more beers, you're buying, and told some crappy relentless puns that inevitably eventually led to the debit of my dignity, as my self-esteem wondered what I had gotten myself into.

You were prettier than you compelled me to believe, thank god for bonuses. All the concerns over self-image and being shy were, from where I was sitting, for naught. Perhaps it's just a matter of having your presumptions lowered sufficiently that almost anyone would be an improvement; I prayed I had succeeded in satisfactorily lowering your expectations to skate by.

"Do you want to go?"

"Sure. Your place?"

"No. Are you nearby?"

"Motel hell across the street. You really want to set foot in that dump?"

YOUR BARE-faced re-evaluation of the price-benefit analysis we'd gone over and over in advance of this arrangement had the dismal look of clients that said 'no' all week. The inhabitants from both next doors were providing a squeaky out-of-synch then in-synch entertainment the movie channels were unsuccessful at matching---not cheering me up even a smidge---as I dreaded the verdict that I just knew was not leaning in my favor; the toilet I didn't want to envisage settling on at no instant stopped flushing.

"Did you fetch something to do this with?"

The apartment slowly rotated and re-oriented itself to the bright and shiny paradise standing at the bright and shiny lavatory portal, completing the ravishing dreams of ravishing I had been building on for ages. My lips unzipped; even white boys got to shout. Smoke rings puffed out from where your feet contemplated touching the floor as you played with gravity across the flat that had a surplus of the stuff Newton theorized on that adheres us to the planet, as was evidenced by the sagging pictures on the paneling, obligatorily acknowledging when aviators enforce their technology or plain old magic is in the air; the jury was still out on you as I'm still uninformed as to what you do for a living: my inclination was toward the supernatural. I was short for the first time in years; you stood higher to me, trivializing my existence, wafting the perfume we're not allowed to talk about that women generate when their passions overwhelm their decorum, and your fingers disarranged my hair in ways I hadn't perceived it longed to be rumpled in. The bed indented with an intimate slow creak that wasn't muffled by wallpaper as we exchanged altitudes; I rose in awe a moment before it occurred to me to move to match your state of dress, pulling on your fantasy that traditionally holds pants up before I got the boxers and ludicrous socks off.

"Bring the noise, baby."

I MISSED. You ridiculed. I avenged.

"Uhh!"

"Take it!"

"Arrgh! HHH! Do it!"

Artistic stripes were raised. Sex was had. Relief washed us over. Redo.

I WAS oblivious to the pounding on the wood; I had better things to do than worry about the opinions of others. You screamed as beautifully as you promised while I wished I had more excellent devices to attack you with. You arpeggiated anguish like a virtuoso flits off scales rendering one speechless at the artistry of such a deceptively simple sonority.

It took both neighbors to assuredly crash the entrance I had ignored locking solidly with the ineffective key, to convince me to see the occasion from their perspective, at least this lifetime, and quit granting wishes to the blithe lady writhing on the double bedclothes from what I had understood to be fulfilling for her, albeit noisy. It became very gratingly clamourous once I ceased swinging and got conclusively forced into a chair, what with all the invectives spouted about right and wrong and honor and nobility, as strange wenches were endeavoring to comfort my victim, you, and offer cover that I didn't understand you craved. It took some head-tipping to catch the glimpse of your eyebrow motions mirroring your grin curling up, in the forest of the crowd-legs vying for my attention from their canopies, to deliver what all felt was a well-deserved lecture, that confirmed the meaning I foolishly obligated from you as a quick reassurance of our intent before I denounced the invaders with the best line I could cripple them with in the few clock-ticks I had to come up with it in.

"So, what are you children gathering, that a change of semen'll do her good? Are you proposing to pollute the damsel to assure yourselves you've saved the day?"

The suite cleared of the astonished embarrassed hanging heads before the echoes of your laughing and clapping finished dying out, to which I credit our revised state of togetherness to, far and above over my clumsy arrogant-at-best speech. Hatches slammed all around us, and miscellaneous suppressed curse words stretched the permeable vertical dividers as circumstances cooled enough to consider interpersonal tensions to have acceptably passed to celebrate our victory.

"Alone at last. Er, again. Where were we?"

"Do you have anything for parched nymphs in here? Not to mention that I'm starving. That isn't, um, mouse poison? If I were an exterminator, I'd make a fortune on this spot."

Luckily, I had the forethought to have a loaf of wine and a jug of bread for just this eventuality to get thee to sing again; I was proud of that. We returned to the arias subsequent to slaking our appetites in preparation to the duets kicking in that the TVs in the other chambers foundered at drowning out: inadequate to the need. Amateur screwing night at the flophouse had some new champions.

THE EXPENSE account barely got me out of the lobby I had been warned to never ever return to again; we limped along the avenue to the breakfast shack in each other's delirious arms, where surprise, surprise, the flower-marker couple were giggling over pancakes, hardly taking up a half a seat in the nook.

"Hi! Did you two have as much fun last night as we did?" The frolic restarted right where it left off the previous evening.

Eventually, they vacated in good spirits, ah, romance, presumably to tackle the competition we had already triumphed at; no chance we were to be deprived of the trophy. I decided over a split plate of waffles and a smoky pair of eyes to submerge into that were abundantly more desirable in person than any of the dirty poetry you had written to me in days gone by that the heap required a bit of a breakdown before it hurtled a route up the asphalt.

"WHAT DO you mean, 'extraordinarily bad idea'?"

"Let's put it this way: It's at least as stupid as doing this at, say, your house. For, uh, remarkably similar reasons."

"Ah. Is this one of those truths that we've neglected to divulge, by "careless" omission, say, like, that piece of junk I drive?"

"Apparently. Yeah, correct. Or when your birthday is. And I'm not to sit in that rat trap. There's nowhere I have to be that warrants that kind of risk. I'd rather walk."

We took Shank's Mare over most of the sunlit portions of the town, flirting, toying with each other's affections, tinkering with each other's garments wherever we assumed getting away with it was possible, like the library, which was incredibly sparse on the kinds of books that normally bounced eternal illumination for what we were up to, until we got thrown out of there, too, for being a public nuisance; the coffee shop for being an evil influence on the youth of society, even the empty church threw us out for being a general corruption of morality that historically was burned at the stake. We got off easy, there.

I hated to mooch, but I was relieved you were comparatively jocular despite the necessity of you picking up the tab for the dinner we swore we'd go dutch on because the damn company card was maxed out. I insisted you take a break to relinquish your underwear as the dessert pie arrived at the 24-hour diner that was vastly overrated at one star. You countered that I should bring you mine; it was a fine swap.

"So, how will you explain the marks?" I asked, licking your fingernails; this was exceptionally amusing, as I reflected the embittered stares I was racking up from the bitties in the restaurant amidst the giggling.

"I trust it won't come up. Think you can do worse?"

Your wedding ring that had come out of hiding was in my mouth, trailing the manicure. "Woh, wyeah, wawy." Slllurrrrp. "But we may want to find objects with more heft to it. Any inspiration?" The birch grove in the city park had some branches that'd work; we were both lucky I didn't tumble out of the tree breaking important difficult-to-justify bones attempting to whittle off a handful of sticks with my insufficient-for-the-job pocket knife that still I can't to remember to sharpen.

"That one, too."

"You are aware we're not doing this right."

"I know nothing of the sort."

"Primarly, why aren't you preparing this instead of me? And these are too skinny; the 'Rule of Thumb' says, 'a man can strike his wife with a cane no thicker than his thumb'. Miles to go here, sweetie."

"Except, I remind you, you're not my husband. And, we're not going to have a fortnight to soak these in salt water, as is proper. Please strip the bark."

"No rest for the wicked."

I was absorbed by the reverence you held the instruments of your impending destruction with, during my chore. "Is this adequate?"

"Only if you use them all at once." Producing string to bind them together, you licked your lips, reminding me we'd be thirsty later as was familiar, not to mention hungry, detouring us nonstop to the ma'n'pa convenience store for the inevitable items to relieve such later pangs that you also got to spring for.

AFTER ANOTHER night of wrecking more sleep for the weak at an alternate inn with my own personal Whore of Babylon bellowing Armageddon's wrath on all who dared keep you from your destiny as you mercilessly drained me of precious bodily fluids with ingenious crafty application of various orifices intermingled with real tears and begging and exertion of muscles I predicted would be sore before recovering, I had forecasted the knock. "Mmmm, let me answer it." I enjoyed your naked levitation tricks again; the blemishes I induced on your heretofore pristine parts of skin produced a physical effect on me I displayed with pride and glory like an infidel, prior to the sound I had learned meant sudden violent connection between hand and cheek. It startled me, especially since my digits weren't involved.

"Slut!"

"Honey, what . . .” Another snapping accent cut you off.

"Cunt!" Slap. A hard one, as it was followed by the reverberation of you crumpling. "Stand up. We're leaving, bitch. Now."

A Cro-Magnon tower entered our nest, filling it beyond capacity, awakening me as another member of his family did earlier to the notion that I was indeed just a speck in their universe, their galaxy, but for an entirely different rationale. This one seemed to have some fury enmeshed in it; no lust in sight: I was grateful to the lord for small conflicted favors. "If she ever sees your cock again, for any reason whatsoever, I will in fact kill you." You were still squealing in the hall he had drug you into by the hair after the door unhinged from the abuse it took. He forgot your clothes.

Or he didn't. The room bill appeared to have been paid, which was a good thing, since my dollars had verily evaporated outside of the gas card to finish my junket.

I had an email waiting for me after the heap faltered its way back home to its driveway where it actually did desire some mechanical love, don't mind the cosmetics, asking when we are doing this again. The pilgrimage was maybe not a total loss, even if the boss or the boss back home or not even your boss back home might not see it that way. I smiled as I pressed 'reply' in the night after it had accomplished quiet.

Mistress

WHAT CONTINUES to strike me as odd is the idea that I really believed I cared about him. The whole thing was wrong. Just wrong.

Don't care about that anymore.

We met at a chat room in January. I have scowled at chatrooms for the sake of the kids their entire lives: "Chatrooms are dangerous, nobody is telling the truth there," was the wallpaper and screensaver on their computers. My husband had monitoring software and had to confront them more than once about what they were looking at on the internet, and by the time they left high school and home, they were pretty good. Well, either they were actually good, or they were actually good at hiding it from us. Not like it would be hard to hide things on a computer from me, devil's instruments that they are.

And yet, there I was. I was prowling around the bondage rooms in the deep dark night when I couldn't sleep, just looking, you know, because I found it fascinating that some of these people might actually be telling the truth. There was so much of it; the evidence was overwhelming. They love each other, they hit each other. That is so alien to how I was brought up. The woman is precious, revered, a delicate flower that if you even look at her funny, she'll, I'll wilt. These women, my god, the things they say they're willing to do for love. They are so much stronger than anyone I've ever known, anything I've ever been, being willing to throw their pain in as an offering to love. It was like watching a train wreck. A horrible sexy train wreck that made me have to attend to some needs by myself that were being neglected. Yes, it's wrong to gape, but how could I stop?

"He", you, said "Hello" to me, and I had typed the word "Hi" before I even knew I had done it. I liked your name. Other people had tried to engage me before, but with names like "BabyButtWhacker37", or "TakeItHarderBitch", or "1L0v3YerPa1n", it was always easy to ignore them and be rude and just move to another room. Too risky. Something about this guy made me think "What the hell. It's all fake anyway, no harm can come of this."

You: I've seen you lurking around here before.

Me: Yeah, just lookin'.

You: Window shopping?

Me: Just trying to understand.

You: Oh, me too! This is a terrible place to understand things. Meet me at Room 337.

And he left the chatroom.

I was bewildered for only a moment, and decided the one thing I shouldn't have. Stupid hindsight.

I found Room 337, and there was only one occupant.

You: Hi. Again.

Me: Hello! So. What are you learning today?

You: Are you for real?

Me: What, you think I'm an algorithm?

You: No, I just don't understand how anyone can let themselves get hit and call it love and not abuse.

Me: Yeah, it's weird, huh. It's not like a light switch. I think you work your way into it.

You: Well, I got nowhere to start. I don't believe in hitting women.

Me: How about men?

You: Uh, no.

Me: Pacifist, eh?

You: Yeah, commie, too. Why can't we all just get along.

Me: If a girl was standing in front of you, and said 'hit me, it's okay, I want you to', could you do it?

You: No, I wouldn't.

Me: That's not what I asked you.

You: ???

Me: I didn't ask you if you would do it, I asked you if you could. 'Can' and 'Will' are different.

You: What are you, an English teacher?

Me: Don't ask me that. Look 'em up. I'll wait.

After an interminable wait that I used to ask myself what the fuck I was doing, he found what I told him to look for.

You: Alright. Can: To be able to. Will: about to do.

You: Fine, you win; You made your point.

You: Would I hit a woman? No. Could I hit a woman? Maybe. Haven't had the opportunity. Don't expect it.

Me: What if she's naked?

In for a penny, in for a pound.

You: Huh?

Me: And pretty.

Me: No wait. Beautiful. And filled with lust. Could you hit her then?

You: You want to know if I am capable of hitting a defenseless woman without consequence?

Me: No, I want to find out if you want to. And you forgot beautiful.

We sat for a while, confoundment was in the air. Is that a word? I wasn't altogether sure what he was specifically confounded about, but I was finding that my little role-play had stopped being that, and I wanted to know the answer, for both of us. For real.

Me: C'mon. Be honest. Hot naked woman available, confirming to you to hit her.

You: I don't . . . I don't know.

Me: You're here, aren't you? If you can't admit to being able to do it for your own sake, how 'bout for hers?

You: If I take myself out of the picture, could I hit her for her sake?

Me: Yes.

You: Uhh . . . Sure.

Me: There. That's the first honest step toward finding your own needs. Now we have things we can talk about.

His needs, my needs. Whatever.

And talk we did. Er, chat. I got to bed late that night. And the next. He sent me a chat and email client that shielded itself from the firewalls at work, and my productivity went down as we divulged things to each other. Dark things I had never said to another human being. What is it they say doesn't knock at a time of our own choosing? I woke up many a night from dreams the likes of which I had never had before, and my opinion of this man rose considerably. Dreams of finally getting to feel something again. I was hooked.

MY NEW boyfriend isn't your typical internetian. Or, maybe he is, I really don't have a good reference on it. See, it turns out he's a porn star.

Not your typical one. He doesn't act (claims he can't act his way out of a paper bag, as if acting mattered in porn), he insists he's not photogenic (but some dream tells me he's just shy about being so gorgeous), no, what he does is write. Yes, he writes pornography.

Run-of-the-mill chick porn, and he has a following. "Jack and Jill went up the Hill and Screwed Each Other's Brains Out in the Beautiful Beautiful Sunset" was all him all the time. With a couple dozen of those under my belt, yeah, yeah, ha, ha, I discovered it wasn't enough for me; I actually developed a taste for things more along the lines of "Jack whipped Jill up the hill, naked, with his belt, beat the snot out of her and then screwed her brains out and pissed on her, to which Jill replied 'Same time tomorrow?'." So yes, hardcore bondage and torture porn. The stuff that doesn't actually happen. One can see the draw, can't they? It's a nice safe rebellion against everything in the marriage vows; an outlet for all the frustrations of 'no' in the conjugal bed that the HoneyHubby just wouldn't understand or condone or allow to go on living without a good stoning.

We tried cybersex; it was dull. You telling me to masturbate and me telling you to masturbate just seemed like a few too many twice removed's for me to want to do it more than once.

After further chats about movies, a couple authors I'd never heard about that seemed to mean something to him, and the only sport he liked (hockey---yuck), we switched to email. More room to carry on, and the damn truths finally started coming out. He had secrets, and so did I.

From: Me

To: You

Yeah, so, just why is it you want to beat up girls?

From: You

To: Me

I don't. But the idea that you originally sparked on has gotten my attention: A willing woman, a woman willing to have, uh, "things" done to her that we've all been taught are just pure-a-dee wrong. Things she wants done. Maybe I should let go of some of my notions of valiance.

Letting go. God that would be nice, to escape the weight of my life, even if only for a little while. I committed with things I had never even told my HoneyHubby.

From: Me

To: You

I'm a 40 year old woman. I have a great body and nice sized breasts.

I am masochistic, but not truly submissive. I am not into being dominated, but would love being whipped and tortured while making love. I would prefer extreme pain with a loving man. I haven't suffered many brutal, vicious tortures, but want to. The stuff of dreams. And yes, I'll say it: wet dreams.

My problem is, that I am actually lonely. I have been unable to find someone that is willing to share my desires; maybe I just don't know how to ask. I am looking for a long term relationship.

If you are interested, please tell me. I would like to know your intentions, and what kind of tortures you would like to inflict on me. Feel free to be graphic, I am not inhibited.

Yes, there were lies. And omissions. As I'm sure was his case, too. But it was what I thought I wanted.

From You

To: Me:

I am impressed by your sincerity. So you're not inhibited or offended by details? Then I would begin by tying you tightly, so you are helpless. I might exact promises and favors while tying your tits tight---maybe too tight. I would take delight in watching your tits bulge and your face tighten as the sensation increases---in watching your fingers try in vain to release your breasts. Of course, you can't. I will not release your tits, but make you beg for pleasure instead, which begins nicely but becomes too much as you are now too sensitive to truly enjoy it. If you can't come, I place a clothespin on one nipple. Others follow with each minute that passes. Do not fake orgasm---I will know and the consequences will be severe. Other delights will follow.

Liar. Given his initial timidity to now this? Liar. But I didn't think it mattered.

I thought I was coming along with the whole figuring out my needs thing. But he had me. I knew he was manipulating me, and I let him. The notes got more and more outrageous.

From: You

To: Me

Forgive me if I offend you: I must wonder aloud (or at least in bytes) if your earlier note is not contrived. I have often wondered what it would be like to 'possess' a woman such as the one you describe here, as much as any one person can possess another in this world we live in. I have fantasized about the bdsm lifestyle for most of my life, all of my adult life in fact. I want to find sexual release in my partner's pain. Typically the more intense her pain, the more tears, screams, facial contortions and muscle spasms, the more intense I envision my own orgasm. But there are so many other platforms that a relationship must exist on. I have found (the hard way) that common ground, shared interests, must be in place before the sexual side of a relationship can flourish. Else you have just another series of one night stands. Have you given thought to the rest of your waking day, or is this just your way of getting off? Or, once again have I found myself caught in the dragnet of a college student studying the depravity of America? <weg>

If I haven't squicked you already, and you are sincere in your desires, I would be interested in seeing where this leads. The concept intrigues me greatly. For me there has to be other mutual interests. BTW, I deplore old country music. Dixie Chicks are tolerable.

I am 47, look 35, feel like 19 with the right woman. I am in sales, could stand to buff up again, but need the right motivation to do that. (I don't need to spend hours in the gym to feel good about myself.) 5'11", 200#, brown hair and eyes with no addictions, unless kinky to the core counts as one.

I am an inexperienced single-tail whip apprentice. Fisting would be a required form of sex play. Tit torture is important to me also. Electrical tape wound tightly at the base of an ample tit traps the blood, causing the entire breast to become highly sensitized. Then out come the clamps, which are difficult to apply as the breast flesh is so very taut and in time turning purplish red. Imagine the pop of the single tail or a belt on the nipples of such tormented tits! With each crack of the whip another clamp goes flying, adding to your agony.

It would be an incredible experience. And after the bruises clear up, I would do it again.

I masturbated to his notes, damn the lies, full steam ahead. I had to look up "squick". I liked it.

From: Me

To: You

But you're married. Am I to be only a mistress?

It had to come up.

From: You

To: Me

How else do we start?

And that was when I knew I was going to do this.

I wasn't scared of him; I had read everything he'd ever written and posted to the internet and knew he wasn't going to be a real threat, but I let him think he was talking me into something I had already decided. Lies, damn lies, and women looking to get laid. Since I wasn't going to play the submissive slave girl routine which was what he really wanted, I threw him a bone, yeah, yeah, ha, ha.

We decided to meet at a tourist trap that was on one of his routes for his job. It was actually a good idea (mine, by the way); no one either of us knew would be caught dead frequenting this place. I got there before he did, and spotted him right away. Okay, so he wasn't gorgeous; at least he wasn't too fat or too bald. I made a deal with my waitress for a ten to play a trick on him as she was getting off work. She was pretty enough.

She pretended to be me, and I'll be darned if he didn't do the same thing! I could not believe that we both tried the observe-and-report trick on each other. This was going to be fun.

After he ran out after my girl, the guy he had set up was approaching a girl who had somehow ended up with my carnation, stupid identifier that is, and I waved them both over. They were a little young to be in here, I thought, but the staff seemed to know them and even brought them drinks on the house; something about coming of age. I didn't know bars still did that. It had been a long time since I'd even been to one, and this place was generally awful.

He took it pretty well when he trudged back in, after we waived him over. The young couple had known of each other a long time, but had never spent any time together. They were cute, and it was obvious what was next on their agenda when they left. It was time to further our own.

The room he'd gotten was the worst place I'd ever been in. It was almost enough to scotch the whole deal and go home. But as I stood in the bathroom, if you could call that disgusting hole a "bathroom", I could hear the sex happening in the rooms to either side of us, and what lead me here wouldn't let me stop now, even if I wanted to. I took off my clothes, and waited at the door until he turned to look at me.

He stood as I sat, and he pulled his belt. "I brought something for you."

I kissed his hands and the instrument I knew was about to change my life. "I'm not gonna be quiet."

Who cares?

I GRUNTED with the first swing, and the second. By the third, my mouth fell open, and I said "Aaahhhh." I started panting, and he didn't relent. I lost interest in counting; I only cared what I felt as the belt aroused my nerve endings. And arouse them he did.

"Aahhhh!"

He may have been talking to me; I couldn't hear anything. Busy.

"AArrraAAGH!!"

He varied things, sometimes hitting where he already had, sometimes breaking new ground. If that was sloppy, I totally didn't care.

Over "AARRGH!" and over "MMAAA!!" and over "AAHHHHHHHH!?!?" again; this was what I came here for, and I loved it. All that crap I made up about liking this turned out to be true. I was alive, and it hurt, but it didn't.

OK, SO, someone cared.

He had suddenly stopped, much to my disappointment, and there were other people---couples?---in the room I don't remember as being invited. People were yelling some shit about honor, of all things, until I finally stood up, letting the blanket, I had no idea how it got around me, fall before I started some shouting of my own.

"Get the fuck out! Right god damn now! We listened to you little pricks, you can listen to us! Go home! NOW!"

I was gasping, and he was laughing and clapping, and the intruders finally left. The embarrassed girls drug the guys out and we could hear bellowing where we had heard sounds of passion before.

I stepped across the room. "You need to learn how to lock a door," I said, as I showed him how it was done. "I could stand a snack before we continue, if you don't mind."

He didn't. He produced some excellent wine and bread, and prattled off some love poetry that didn't mean anything to me. I took the sound of the porn being played in the other rooms as the green light from our nosy neighbors to get back to what we were doing.

"I don't know about you, but I'm having a ball."

"There's something I really want to do."

I was hoping for the tape and the rope we'd talked about, but he surprised me with something better: The man had the gift of tongues, something else I've missed for a long time at home. I registered my excitement at this loudly. I am terrible at fellatio---it was hard not to say "I suck", there---but it didn't seem to bother him. Apparently, it was something he missed, too; at least enough to cover for my lack of skill in that department.

We did not sleep much at all, much to the chagrin of our fellow travelers at the inn. Screw 'em. Yeah, yeah, ha, ha.

AT THE breakfast place the next morning where we ran into the couple from the bar the night before, I discovered that my waitress, the one who helped me with my little prank, moonlighted. As a waitress. I was not perceiving a lot of ambition from this girl until my new boyfriend stepped out to make a call after the young couple had left.

"Did things work out for you?"

"Yes, they did. Thank you for your help."

"It was my pleasure, Mistress."

"What did you call me?"

She smiled. "Mistress." Her head lowered. "I am at your service."

I had no idea what to do, so I just sat and stared for a moment. The last thing she whispered to me was "Please" as she handed me something when my lover came back in.

"Who's your friend?"

"She's, uh, the gal from last night. That you chased into the parking lot."

"Ah. I've got another day here. Let's go to your place."

That was when I had to break it to him that I was also married, had kids, and we couldn't continue this at my house. He took it better than I expected, and we set out on a day that was romantic and childish and just what the doctor ordered. We frolicked about the town like lovers do. I forgot about the note I'd tucked away in my purse.

AT ANOTHER hotel that I sprung for, he caned me with some branches we'd stolen from the park. It was incredible, and I howled the torments of the damned all night long, thank you god, no, don't stop. Somehow, I was going to have to get my husband to do this to me. Little did I know that the opportunity was about to present itself the next morning when I opened the door, foolishly brazenly naked, to find my HoneyHubby standing there. He struck me, hard enough to put me on my knees, and I didn't mind, not one little bit. Relieved, actually.

He whirled through the room, barking ominous threats before he drug me out to the truck.

"Honey, I . . .”

"Shut up, you cunt."

There was a pause for road noise to set in as we roared down the road.

"Blow me, bitch."

At least I was dressed, er undressed for that kind of occasion. He tasted terrible, and despite my retching, I didn't mind that, either.

THERE WAS an email waiting for me when I got home, after the beating that I was assured would become a regular occurrence now, thank the lord, asking when we could do this again. I deleted it.

I spent a few days tied up, confessing my sins, and paying for them loudly. I was happy to be married again.

I was surprised to find my purse had found its way home, and eventually pulled out the note the waitress had given me. It was the ten I had given her the week before, with a phone number and an email address, and the word "please" written at least a half a dozen times on it.

Now I had something else to try.

Wife

"PHONE!"

"I got it. Hello?"

“. . .”

"Hello . . . ?"

"Your husband is having an affair with my wife."

"What?" Click.

"Who was it?"

"Uh . . . no one. Wrong number. Crank call. I don't know."

"Ah. What's on the boob tube?"

"HELLO?"

"Right now. Cybersex is happening between your husband and my wife. If you were to walk in, you'd catch him masturbating. Right now."

"God damn it, who it this?" Click.

"BYE, HONEY. Drive safe. Oop, there's the phone. Love you."

"Is he gone?"

"Who the fuck is this?"

"Is. He. Gone."

"Yes, now god damn it, who are you?"

"I'll be there in a minute."

"What? No! I'll call . . .” Click.

Oh, crap. Wish we had a gun.

THE DOORBELL rang before I had collected enough wits to call the police, and like a fool, I answered it. Before me stood a mountain with feet. I mean, my husband is fairly big, at least, compared to me, but this guy was imposing. Frightening, as it were. He sneered as he brushed me aside.

"Coffee."

What? "I beg your pardon? Get out!"

"Make us some fuckin' coffee. Now." He strolled right into the living room like he owned it and plopped down on the couch. He looked determined to stay, so I made off to the kitchen to start the coffee, and tried to remember where I had dropped the phone. He sounded Australian; might be important to remember when the cops get here.

He called out, "So. He's off to yakka now, is he?"

"Sorry?"

"Work. He's going to work."

"Uh, yeah."

"Hurry along, then. We've got lots to yabber about."

The brew was brewing. I came into my own living room like it wasn't mine. "I don't think I understand you very well."

"Not stoked to see me, are ya? Well, the feelin's mu'ual. I'm not exahctly rapt, here, eithah. If it wadn't fer our two rorts, we woudn't be here now."

"What's a 'rort'?"

"A cheatah, ya littl' kindie." His eyes bored right through me.

"How did you find out?"

"My cook is a bloody computer dill. No worries. I'll get the caps." He stood and got into the kitchen by moving the dining room table out of his considerable way. Where's that damn phone? I just had it. A moment later he returned with two cups in hand, offering me one.

"How long has it been going on?" Not a lot of choice but to go along for now.

"First of the year. I only started callin' you when they had decided to actu'lly get togethuh. I got yer numbuh from the trackin' software on our compute'. They been plannin' this fer weeks."

My initial assessment of the threat this man imposed diminished as he held his head with the hand that wasn't holding the coffee. Shit. We were both in the same boat; our spouses were cheating on both of us, and it hurt him as much as it hurt me. I started to relax, then I started to relax some more. The last thing I remember was him smiling the smile one gets when you can see how to put someone in check that you know is going to beat you in chess anyway . . .

I DECIDED to run. I wanted to run. I couldn't bring myself to look back, but I had to get away, put some distance down. It felt like a swimming pool, and my legs could simply not move fast enough, but it felt like I wasn't exerting myself. Shit, I'm overdressed. My clothes started falling away and the swimming pool got hotter and thank god I could feel myself breathe and not drown and I dove and missed the floor and I was swimming in the air and jesus it's noisy and where did all these spikes come from and a parade float balloon, some damn clown, was crushing down from above and I could hear shouting but I didn't understand anything and I was being pushed back down to the ground and the balloon was getting skewered on the spikes and I was underneath it and I couldn't get out . . .

I startle awake, in the dark, in my room, in my bed, and I can't get up. Why can't I get up? My, my arms, my feet, wait, am I tied to the damn bed? Shit. Shit. Shit. I open my mouth to scream but it's already open---there's something in it---I try to make noise and it's muffled. I could feel something large in my mouth and I tried to push it out and the straps dug into the side of my face around the back of my head.

Fuck. I can feel a sheet, but I don't think I'm wearing anything. I make more muffled desperate noises as I try to struggle and can't move very far. The sheet starts to slip away a bit, which really gets my attention as I force myself to try to hold still to keep it from falling off. More incoherence from me.

"Ah. Yer fin'lly awake."

I scream as hard as I can, and it feels loud in my head, but I know it's just funny to the soda machine standing over me. His face makes it obvious.

I can feel the sheet slipping further off me, and I struggle out what should have sounded like "no, no" but it cames out "uh uh". I turn away from the monstrosity doing this to me, fearing, knowing what was inevitable. My eyes squeeze shut as hard as they could and I made more feeble attempts to communicate my displeasure. The cool of the room covered me, and I knew I was naked. Naked before someone who wasn't my doctor, wasn't my husband, damn him all to hell for getting me here.

He didn't touch me, but I knew he would. Sooner or later. I could just die.

"A woman," he drawled out---in, wait, is that, Southern? I thought he was Australian---"is God's most accomplished creation. Enticingly beautiful, altogether unlike the endlessly funny-looking man, supple, smoooth curves in awll the right places, vain, greedy, but utterly forgivable for awll her faults because of what she can do that men have the worst time keepin' up with."

Fuck. A lecture. From a hick.

"A woman can make anything intuh sey-yex. Man's only hope is to make everythin' about sey-yex, so men are havin' to keep themselves constantly aroused to be at the disposal for when the woman's interests arise. Hard on us, ya know, because you toy with us constantly. You think it's funny to see the man tryin' to keep himself ready for you."

"But the woman can turn the worst things there are into sex. Pain, humiliation, fear, dread, all these things, never mind the kittens 'n' rainbows 'n' cutesy shit you amuse yourselves with when you want to annoy us, and be turned into absolutely focused lust by the woman whenever she wants it to. Like right now."

"Here you are, awll tied up, gagged, naked, in front of a man who frightens you, 'n' yer only thought is 'bout what is goin' on between yo-ur lehgs. Do you think Ah can't smell it? That Ah can't feel how wet yew are?"

And he finally touched me, and found what he wanted to find. It's wet because I'm terrified you are about to rape me, you moron. His finger stayed, and moved so slightly. I froze solid; I wasn't about to confirm his little fantasy. Seething loathing and contempt coursed through my veins. You can't make me feel what I don't want to.

"Yes, I can." He whispered the response to the thought he obviously had just read.

I could see his other shoulder move a little, and something else replaced his finger. Something I was intimately acquainted with on those long dark nights when my fucking husband was on the road, failing at his job. I could hate this little machine as much as I hate you; it doesn't matter.

"Yes, it does." As soon as his Svengali trick was over, the oscillating started. He held it, the accursed thing that was the last thing I wanted: what I wanted was the sheet, what I wanted was the keys to the locks, a phone, a gun, lots of bullets.

I shook my head and made more ineffective protests. When he would cross my path from my squirming, his eyes were again boring right through me, making me feel more naked that I actually was, and he nodded with the same fucking smile he had over the drugged coffee, the bastard.

And it buzzed.

And I squirmed.

And he misinterpreted it all.

And it vibrated.

And I slowed the thrashing.

And he continued to falsify what he saw.

And it quivered.

And I panted through my nose, whimpering.

And he knew he was going to triumph. Motherfucker.

And it trembled, and I started to tremble with it, I couldn't stop, try as I might, try harder, please, no, not like this, no no no nooooooaarrrgghhhhh.

I was defeated.

I didn't like it. It didn't feel good. It was embarrassing. I turned my head toward the pillow, and wanted to cry. I thought I was going to get to, but he pulled my face around toward his, too close, too close, and the next thing he said made me scream with all my might right through the gag; even he had to have heard it for the sheer horror that it was.

"That's one."

AND WE did it again. And again. And again, would you please just rape me and get it over with and leave me alone?

And again.

The whole damn day, the whole damn night. He kept me going with that infernal device that couldn't run out of power, no, that would be too easy, now wouldn't it. Stupid electric company, playing such an evil hand in my ruin.

I MANAGED to doze a little between what he was forcing me to do; I don't know when or even if he slept. By the next morning, I was utterly exhausted, and had some other needs begin to rear their ugly heads. Messy ones. I started making "ee ee" sounds, looking down, to try to get across what was going to become more inevitable than what he was imposing onto me.

"Ah. Took ya long enough. Need to use the loo, do ya?" He had morphed into a Brit. No, Irish?

I nodded my head, enthusiastically as I thought I knew how. Then the floor fell away, when he produced a handgun, and placed it on my belly. I couldn't look away from it; the answer to my prayers was actually on me.

"Not that ready to go, yet, are ya?" He removed the weapon and I eeked and squirmed and shook my head as hard as my fatigue let me.

"Ya see, I jus' showed ya what was more impohrtant to ya, than any fear of yer po'ty trainin' goin' bahd."

And he turned the vibrator up a notch. And I anguished my way through another session, faster this time.

Twice more did my sex humiliate me before this fiend before I tried again.

"Which idea is more important to ya, luv? Getting' off this bed to do yer business? Or shootin' me in the face?" The gun was again on me. I didn't dare look at it. I pled with my eyes as hard as I knew how. No don't look down, no don't look down.

"Let's see if you're ready to give in yet, to get what you want." He stood up, and the weight lifted off my stomach. I saw a flash I didn't understand, and suddenly felt a weight in my hand as he wrapped my fingers . . . around . . . the grip. I had the gun. I had the gun. I looked up at it, and wiggled my hand around, trying to figure out angles and . . . and . . .

"I thought so."

I felt the vibrator move away from where it had been cursing me, and it landed slightly higher, oh my god, it's on my bladder and he's putting weight on it and no no no no I can't no please . . .

. . . no

. . . no

I dropped the gun. And I couldn't stop. I broke the first lesson of civilization, and I hated it.

Before the machine of my torment had finished its next round on me, I broke the second lesson. The smell was horrible, and I threw up behind the gag. It didn't go very far.

This time, I cried.

"WELL, WE can't have this."

I was still sobbing.

"You made a mess. Now you're going to clean it up."

"You need to understand that your sense of dignity really doesn't matter. What matters is that I don't want it to stink this bad. So here's what's going to happen. I'm going let you up, and you're going take these dirty sheets someplace else, and you're going to come back in here, make the bed, and lie back down on it. Do you understand?"

I laid still and wept some more, ignoring the Bostonian.

"Do you understand?"

I found his eyes, and nodded slowly. He reached my hand and put a manacle on it before he released it from the top of the bed. I started to sit up, with more things being sore than not. He crawled around behind me, and repeated the action with my other hand, binding them behind me. He got off the bed, and undid my feet. I rolled back down and bunched up, trying to make it all stop hurting; I was in what I was to clean up, and I didn't care.

"Come on. We're burning daylight." I eventually righted myself, and tried to wipe myself off as well as I could with the dirty sheets, which were hard to get off the bed, doing it behind myself like that, but I eventually got it and drug them off to the laundry room. I thought hard about trying to run out of the house, but convinced myself he'd deadbolted the doors, which I couldn't reach with my hands bound behind my back.

I trudged back into the bedroom where another set of sheets had been laid out on it . . .

. . . and the gun. The gun was there on the bed next to them. I didn't even snap a decision; I dove onto the bed, trying to get the gun into my hands, and to pull them down toward my knees. I was laying on my back with my manacled hands out from behind my hips; my feet were in the air, and the gun was working its way up the back of my thighs when he appeared at the doorway. I moved my hand around, one chance, tried to aim as best as I could, and . . .

. . . click.

Shit.

Click.

Oh, god, no, please.

Click click click click . . .

I started screaming again, crying, gasping, rolling, firing to no effect, the floor gave way, the ceiling blew off, and . . .

I fainted.

Fuck.

DEJA VU. Deja vu all over again. Right back where I started. I was still naked in my dreams, I was still naked on the bed, I still couldn't get away in either case, my arms and legs were ineffectual in both worlds, I despaired, I was scared.

I had a new sore spot. Where the angle is that is just an angle on women; men have something else in there. Why hasn't he raped me yet?

"Welcome back. Did you have a nice time? Hmmm?" I couldn't identify the accent this time. Brokaw?

"We can't have you trying that for a while again, so I've relieved one of your difficulties." I felt a twitching and a pain where I had never felt one before. "It's a catheter. Solves at least one of your problems, which I need to induce. Now, I want to take your gag out, but I can't have you yelling or screaming or being rude, or making any noise whatsoever. Can you do that? Can you be quiet if I take it out?"

"Eehhhhh."

"I think that was a 'yes', but that's not a very convincing answer to demonstrate your willingness for silence. Try again."

I closed my eyes, and bobbed my head.

"Better." He pulled my head up, and reached behind it to unbuckle the awful thing. I couldn't push it out fast enough.

"Hhhh." My mouth moved in funny ways, well, they would have been funny if it wasn't me having to move it like this. I panted with my mouth open, but minded my p's and q's, and didn't say anything, much as I wanted to.

"Thirsty?"

"Uhh . . .” caught myself. Head moved appropriately. He offered a straw that I sucked on like I needed to. Which I did. Didn't care what was on the other end.

"Now, I gonna answer one question. It's the important one, and it has nothing to do with how are you going to get away, because it should be obvious to you by now, that you can't. You don't know what I sound like, I'm a bit of a closet impressionist, and you can't accurately describe me to anyone."

I couldn't look at him. But he was right---except it was impersonator, not impressionist. Imbecile; smart imbecile. His accent kept changing, and I couldn't remember what color his hair was. He was big, I got that much.

"All my life, I've been taught one thing: that the woman is special, important, to be on the pedestal, and don't let her break. And it is this teaching that is the reason we both are here."

Okay, now I could look at him, because I really didn't understand what he was talking about. He had on a wig.

"Your husband and my wife are going to get together because they want to break that rule. And if either of us want to keep them, we're going to have to break it, too."

What?

"My job is easier; I just have to do hard things to her. Your job is harder; you have to let hard things be done to you. Now I know your marriage sucks and is in serious trouble, else he wouldn'ta nibbled. Besides, he's said so. To her."

Stupid tears. My lips quivered.

"I can see you want to say something. Be polite."

"There," I coughed, "there has to be another way."

"Couple years ago, maybe, sure. Counseling, whatever. But not any more. This is happening right now; it's already almost too late. I can walk away from here and practice on her until she's happy. But you'd have nothing but fight for him, and he'll leave you. You know it's true."

I didn't want it to be, but the part of me that had already given into the feelings that had been forced onto me in the last couple days knew it was, and it's voice, I knew, was going to be the one that won out. Much as I didn't want it to. I liked my pedestal.

"I . . . I . . .”

"What we have here, is a last ditch opportunity to save both our marriages. I love my wife, and I believe you love your husband, or you'da been screaming at me by now. I will help you as much as I can, but you have to decide now. We're running out of time."

I tried to sit up a moment, and fell back onto the bed. I turned my head away from him. "What do I have to do?"

"Can you still pronounce the word 'no'?"

I misunderstood him. "No."

"That's gotta go."

HE RELEASED me from the bed, and my hands couldn't keep from trying to cover me up. Why wasn't I fighting him?

"Stop that."

My hands left my breasts and fell to where the foreign object was sticking out of me. I felt it, and didn't like it.

"Stop that, too. Until your husband returns, I will be playing the part of the man in your life. Now rest assured, I am not going to have sex with you. I still think fidelity is important, and I think you do, too, or it woulda been you looking for the affair. But whatever I tell you to do, you do it. Understand?"

I didn't move.

"No matter what. Do. You. Understand."

I felt my head move; it might have been positively.

"Kneel."

Now? Oh, god, I haven't ever done this for anyone, anywhere, ever. Not even in church.

"I won't say it again."

The feminists bellowed at me, promising me an eternal damnation in a lake of fire. I descended. Vertigo set in. The carpet was scratchy on my lower legs.

"Spread your legs; put your hands behind your head."

My panting was shallow, my eyes were closed.

"Have you ever been whipped before?"

The mouse squeaked, "No," and the fire set in. "Aaaarrrgh!!!"

The carpet scratched on my back as I rolled and moaned. Stop, drop, and moan. The feminists were shouting "See? See? Get Up! Fight Back!" I wrenched myself to my feet readying myself for combat I knew I'd lose and I . . .

. . . and I . . .

I stopped. Cold.

Goliath was weeping.

The pain I had never felt the likes of before transformed to a line of warmth, that made the feminists fade with it. The man before me was what he said he was. He loved women, he loved his wife, and was on a crazy adventure to save his marriage, and maybe mine. I knelt beside where he had crumpled, it wasn't hard to do at all this time and put my arms around him. He collapsed into me, and he was as heavy as I expected him to be.

"Tha . . . that was harder than I thought it was going to be. I'm . . . I'm sorry." He was bawling now.

I pulled the stupid wig off his oh, bald head and held him for a few minutes until he settled down enough to hear what I knew I was going to have to say. I pulled his face toward mine, and screwed up my courage. I can do this. I can get through it, but I could only whisper. "I . . . want you to do it again."

The birthday candles lit up his face.

"I WANT you to see something." He produced a laptop and found a plug-in. "Answer me something first. Do you love your husband?"

"Yes." God, yes.

"I love my wife, too. This is probably going to hurt more than what we just did."

He was right. Again, god damn it. All the texts, the emails, the chats, he had transcripts of phone conversations, my god how did he get those, of the entire affair. It was devastating.

"If I had started with this, all that would have happened was us arguing for a week, and then there would have been a divorce. Probably two. That's not what I wanted, and I believed you didn't want it, either." Big sigh. "I couldn't see another way to do this, and I'm sorry it was harder for you."

"I'm not altogether convinced of that. The harder-for-me part."

He smiled. A nice smile that I could see someone falling in love with. "We've at least got a choice, now. We can still go our separate ways, and do what everyone tells us we should do with adulterers, or, or . . .”

"Or we can change."

"Into what they looked to each other for. That they needed that we didn't pick up on, for whatever reason."

Pause. Long-ass pause. Decision time. Shit.

"I'm in."

THE TRANSCRIPTS, he said, told us everything we needed to be able to. Damn, my husband was a bigger pervert than I thought he was. Some of the things I wasn't sure I could bring myself to do. Drinking piss? Oh, my god.

But that was nothing to having to overcome the anti-submissive lessons I had been taught all my life. Be strong, be assertive, don't let a man rule you. Piss drinking, both his and mine, was a walk in the park compared to trying overcome that. I was lost on how to proceed.

"Association."

"Sorry?"

"That's why I started with forced, uh . . .”

"It's okay, you can say it. Hell, I've been naked for three days here, you should be able to say things to me by now."

"Positive reinforcement. If we make you, uh, cum, when something you don't like is happening to you, it'll at least start to change your mind about some things. We don't have enough time to completely alter all the programming you've had done to you your entire life, but we can begin the process. Something you'll uh, have to keep working on. Probably forever."

"Can't be all bad." I swallowed. "Before you tie me back down, can we eat? I'm starving."

The big guy was a pretty good cook, too.

"AARRGH!" PANT pant pant. "Wait, please. Give me a second here." The buzzing hadn't overcome it yet, but it was getting my attention shifted faster and faster each time. "Hit me again." Bang. "Aarrgh!" Pant pant pant, buzz buzz buzz, I know there's a light at the end of this tunnel. I nodded. Bang. He's holding back. "Ahhh!" Pant pant, buzz buzz, there, almost there. "Again! Harder!" Bang. Bang. Bang. I was holding my breath until that last one. Then another bang hit, one that changed the world. Holy God in Heaven.

"That was my husband. He's staying another day."

"Fuck." Yes, he could say that now, too. "They must be having a good time."

"Are you?"

"Not really. I'm not making the connection. It's supposed to be easier for guys to do this. Guess I should go, be there for her when she gets home."

"What if she takes him there? Are you ready for that?"

"No." I could see it; he's staying. "Listen, I'm not getting this to work out for me. Do you want to get dressed, take a day off before he gets back?"

"Don't be silly. We've been granted another day to practice. No rest for us wicked wannabees."

His head hung and he listfully sipped his coffee.

"We need to positively reinforce things for you. Take off your pants."

"No."

I slinked around him, wrapping myself into his shirt, reaching for his pants.

"Stop it. Please."

"Trust isn't earned, it's given. I've trusted you, I want you to trust me. C'mon. Give. Let me help you."

He exhaled hard, and didn't struggle as I found my way to him for the first time. Kinda remarkable, considering what we'd been doing all week. Once he was naked, I took his hand and led him back to the bedroom. He tried to sit on the bed, and I made him stand by it. I laid down, and pulled out the catheter. I hated putting it in, taking it out, it hurt, and I had at least gotten it down to a familiar flinch. But it served for what my husband had said he wanted, and it was something I could endure. I put it aside, and noticed nothing was happening for him.

"Hey. Naked girl before you, and she's going to ask you to hit her. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I'll hit you. But I'm embarrassed here."

I handed him the whip he'd used on me all week, and laid facing up to him, and nudged him forward, until I could reach his cock with my mouth, and got my lips around him.

"I really don't want to do this with you."

I released him, and pulled him a little forward. "I want you to. Trust me; it'll be alright. Hit me where it matters." I spread my legs, and went back to what I was doing. He tapped me couple times. "Woo Iihhh!" And he did it; I focused on what was in my mouth, and something stirred there. "WaWaammn!" Again, again, and I made progress on at least two fronts that morning, until we completed something that some fool politician insisted wasn't adultery.

"I WANT you to do something for me. Don't forget your gun."

He was finishing packing and looked up at me.

"Before you go, I want you to tie me back to the bed, and tie the vibrator to me on high."

"It'll be most of the day before he can get back here. Is this how you want him to find you? How will you explain it?"

"I don't think that'll come up. Give me time to think, between, you know. But before we do that, I want something else. Something kinda weird, something I'm sure will be hard."

"Hard things are what we're all about, now, aren't they? Er, we?"

I waited for him to nod. "This is kinda evil of me, but it's important. I want you to hit her when you first see her, no matter where or what, hard."

"That was the plan anyway."

"Yeah, but then I want you to make her blow you."

"She's no good at that."

"Not gonna matter. Because . . . because, what I really want is to . . . piss on your underwear for your ride home. Sorry, it's gonna smell."

He looked up at me. "A bit of a message, eh? I can approve of that. Want to make it a bit more of one?"

I was happy to commit adultery, real adultery with my friend.

'Bout god damn time.