"Mark ... what do you want from me?" he threw up his hands.
"Enjoy my wife. It's that simple."
"She's beautiful, Mark. She's ... incredible."
"You're worshipping her," Mark chided. "Like some kind of goddess. I am revealing her true soul, and I want you to act on it."
"I ... I can't."
"Erin," he commanded. "Position One."
Erin sat up on her heels and unclasped her bra. Her breasts were resilient, firm and proud, remarkably so for a woman her age. Swiftly, she removed the bra. Putting her hands behind her head, she bowed her back, offering herself.
"Explain the marks on your breasts, Erin."
Robert had noticed them immediately. Long red welts over each one, a network of them, like lines on a globe.
"I was whipped, sir, with a cat'o nine tails."
"For what offense?" Mark interrogated.
"None. It was my master's pleasure."
"Position Two, Erin."
Erin leaned her head back and put her palms down on the floor. She made a bridge of herself, stretching her lean, taut belly. She had muscles in her inner thighs and lovely calf muscles.
"She's in excellent shape, isn't she, Robert?"
"Yes."
"And she'll stay that way, won't you, Erin?"
"Yes, Master."
"Tell Robert why you stay in good shape."
Erin maintained her position with perfect precision. He could see the outline of her ribs. She was just thin enough. The way she was bent, the thong panties were riding down. Just above the waistband, he could make out a thin line of pale yellow, the top of her trimmed pelt. "My Master keeps me in training. My diet and exercise are regulated."
"Erin eats what I give her. No more, no less. If she wants a treat, she begs for it, like any pet. If she's a good girl, she gets special rewards. If she displeases me, she'll get a can of hash, in a bowl on the floor. I like watching my wife eat like a dog, Robert. Naked on her hands and knees. It makes me hard as a rock. I make her clean the entire bowl out with her tongue, then I fuck her from behind."
Robert pictured sexy Erin, humiliated, gobbling food from a dog bowl. He wanted to be the one standing over her, stroking his cock, waiting to stick it deep into that sex hole, right in the middle of those twitching buttocks.
"What's the matter, Robert, cat got your tongue?" Mark laughed. "Erin, Position Three."
Erin slid her hands down, flipping them so she was supporting herself on her elbows. Her ass still off the floor, she pulled down the panties, sliding them just below the apex of her thighs. Her sex lips were thick and puffy. Robert could see the tell tale drops, the signs of her passion.
"Self Punishment One," Mark said as soon as Erin had exposed herself.
Erin braced herself on her feet. Rob drew a breath, stunned, as Erin slapped her own pussy.
"Again," Mark ordered.
Erin whimpered as her hand came down, a well-placed sting.
"Amazing isn't it," Mark said. "The things you can do with a slave. And this is only the tip of the iceberg."
Rob could see Erin shaking. Sweat dripped off her body. Still, she held her palm ready, to continue the punishment. "You're hurting her," Rob argued. "Stop it."
"Do you want me to stop, Erin?"
"I'm yours, Master."
"Position Four."
Erin rolled to her belly. Lifting up her head, she puckered her lips.
"I have her trained, Robert, like a dog. Tell me you don't want that with your wife. Tell me you don't want Miranda at your beck and call."
"Miranda isn't like this."
"Bullshit. All women are like this. Erin – Self Punishment Two."
Erin reached back and found her own ass, delivering a loud blow with her palm.
"Count to five," he said.
"One," Erin called out, reddening her ass with a fresh spank. "Two."
She was panting at five, her cheeks flaming an angry shade of red.
"Binding Position One," Mark called out, clearly determined to show just how well trained his wife was.
Erin sat on her raw behind and took off her panties. Twisting them again and again about her wrists, she managed to bind her hands together in front of her. She was officially naked now, and in bondage, even if was just a light, frilly sort of tie.
Personally, Rob found it pretty damned hot, seeing how Erin's thong, such a sexy little piece of clothing, could be turned around and used to imprison its wearer.
"Binding Position One," she whispered, reclining onto her back, bound arms overhead, legs appropriately spaced.
"Well, Robert, what's it going to be?"
The naked slave was at his feet. He had the husband's permission and the slave's own obvious approval. There would never be an easier chance to cheat again.
But he couldn't do it.
"If it's Miranda you want," Mark read his mind. "Why aren't you doing something about it?"
Good question. He could only play that anti-BDSM morality card so long. Mark knew he'd taken the magazine – he couldn't hide that he had interest.
"Things are fine," he said, feeling pretty damned brittle at the moment. "I'll just be leaving."
"I won't stop you going, Rob, and I certainly won't force you to fuck my wife. But there is something I would like you to have."
"What's that?"
"It's there, on the table in the foyer. In the envelope."
Rob had noticed the Manila envelope on the way in. He'd never guessed it could be for him. "So you planned on my walking out," Rob deduced.
"I had hoped you wouldn't. Had you stayed, the contents would have been a moot point. Just take it and go. Don't look until you're home, or you'll bring all sorts of bad luck."
"Okay." Rob didn't believe that part about the luck for a second, but he was relieved to have his exit mapped out at last. "No problem, Mark, and I hope there won't be any hard feelings?"
"None at all. Erin, get Robert's coat."
The slave struggled to her feet. No longer fresh and pristine, no longer clothed at all, she ran for Rob's suit coat.
He took it from her, where she'd rested it over her bound hands.
"Thank you," said Rob.
"Erin, say thank you."
Erin stood on tiptoes, offering him up her mouth for plunder. Rob made a small moan in mild protest, but did not resist the woman's pliant, highly sexed body. She was rubbing her tits, even as she placed her bound wrists behind his neck. Time collapsed as the kiss rolled on. Was it a second or an hour? At last, their lips parted.
"Thank you," she breathed. "Master Robert."
He wanted to throw her over the dining room table for calling him that. He wanted to take his belt to her ass and brand, from the inside with his enormous erection, all the way up her anal cavity.
Master Robert.
Who was she kidding?
Better still, who was he kidding, pretending this evening had affected him to his core, changing his whole view of the world?
Mark didn't look inside the envelope until he had pulled into his own driveway. Making sure Miranda was not yet home, he emptied the contents onto the passenger seat of his sedan. There were pictures, eight and a half by elevens, and a note. The pictures landed bottom side up. He read the note first.
"If you're looking at this, Robert, it means you chickened out on using my slave. Please accept these photos, as a reminder of what she represents, and what can be yours, if you put through the effort in your own marriage."
It was handwritten, signed by Mark.
How interesting.
Rob turned the pictures over. The fist thing he saw was a shapely breast, the nipple bit by a clamp, with sharp teeth. The woman wasn't bleeding, but she must have been feeling some pain. His eyes scanned across, to the other breast. The view was all too familiar. There was a collar on the woman's throat and a gag, but he could recognize Erin easily enough.
Rob flipped to the second photo. Erin was on her stomach, on a bed, her face
contorted as she rammed a big, black dildo into herself from underneath.
Quickly, he turned to the third. Erin, handcuffed in a shower, the water needling down onto her welt-covered body.
The fourth had her squatting, naked, pussy lips gaping as she dripped something that looked like syrup over her head. The amber colored fluid was running down her cheeks and breasts and over her thighs.
The fifth was worst of all, though. Mark had managed to hog tie Erin on her stomach. Right in the middle of the photo, plain as day, were words, written on Erin's ass in what looked like grease pencil.
Fuck me, Rob.
Rob stuffed the photos back in the envelope. Was Mark insane? He backed down the driveway to the garbage can. He was about to throw it in when he considered the implications of having the trash man find them. In this day and age, they'd be thrown out of the neighborhood association for something like that.
He'd burn them, that's what he would do. Or tear them up and flush them.
But that could leave him with a mess, too. Like a stuffed toilet or a house filled with chemical fumes.
Maybe the garbage would be okay. He could stuff them in a paper bag after tearing them up real small first. No one would ever know what they were. He could stuff them, down deep in the can.
Feeling confident, Rob got the bag and disposed of the photos. It wasn't until he was back inside the front door and looked down at his pants that he realized he had a much bigger piece of evidence to hire. Namely the erection he was still sporting after the drive home.
There were only two things he could do. One would be a cold shower, which he was not in the mood for. He opted for the second.
A nice long session in the bedroom with the lubricating gel and an adult movie off the cable. Something safe, without bondage or domination.
Or slave girls...
* * * *
Miranda drove all the way home with the windows open. She was trying to get herself sobered up, and get the smell of alcohol off her breath, too. So far, it wasn't working. She tried a mint, and even sprayed her perfume onto her tongue.
Gross.
Talk about stupid things to do. It had been a while since she'd gotten this loopy. Stopping for drinks at Margarita Junction was Cammie's idea, but she had no one else but herself to blame for having so many. Cammie had hardly held a gun to her head or dragged her there in chains.
Chains. Now there was an intriguing concept. Cammie had looked so very good in them, those metal cuffs holding her hands helpless behind her back for as long as John, the wicked buyer wanted to have his way with her.
The whole thing had seemed so dark and real, but in the end, after the toys were put away, John and Cammie were laughing and teasing like old friends. They both complimented Miranda for playing along. She was a sexy addition, they said, and a natural "sales person."
Miranda didn't care. As far as she was concerned, she was a bad person, and she had come way too close to cheating on Rob. If anything, the alcohol had made her more resolved to share her heart with him.
While she could not see exactly how to fix their marriage and stop their drifting apart, she did know she wanted to try, and if he felt the same, well, wouldn't that be half the battle?
Miranda was never so happy to see her street. Miraculously, no cops had pulled her over. Turning into her own driveway, a little slower and a lot wider than usual, she pulled up alongside Rob's car.
She was hoping he wasn't home yet, so she would have a little chance to get ready. Oh, well, she could wing it. She would be honest about going out with Cammie, though she would never tell him about what happened in the canyon.
That was a one shot deal, anyway, and there was no reason it had to impact their lives together. So she had masturbated in front of another couple, and said some kinky things. That wasn't a crime, was it?
Miranda reached over for her purse, fiddling on the passenger seat. She had to bend down, because it had fallen on the floor. It was when she sat back up, the purse in hand, that she ran into the panties.
Fuck.
She had completely forgotten that Cammie had put them over her rear view mirror as they left the bar. "A little souvenir," she'd slurred. "From your first real day on the job."
"My first and last," Miranda hastened to add.
But here she was, back home, with the still wet, chewed on, come soaked underpants, dangling in plain sight. What a freaking idiot she was! She might as well take out an ad in the paper. Rob could walk out here any minute and she would be nabbed.
Not only did the underwear have her fluids on it, it had the buyer's, too. Being the thorough sadistic humiliator he was, he had come all over Cammie's perfect golden ass cheeks and made Miranda wipe the thick globs of semen off with her own panties.
Thank god he hadn't made her put them back on.
Miranda had to ditch this underwear before she went inside. Desperately, her marguerita-soaked mind looked for options. She could bury them, or try and get one of the neighborhood stray cats to drag them off out of sight.
The garbage can. That was it. It was right here at the end of the driveway and the trash would be picked up in just a few hours. At dawn. Before Rob ever woke up, the evidence of her indiscretions would be gone. All he would ever know of her late night outing was that it followed upon her first sale – her first piece of a commission, anyway.
"Don't you worry," Cammie had assured her. "You'll get your share. Half of it, and not a penny less."
Miranda didn't think she deserved so much, but she wasn't really a person to argue. She was more the submissive type. Something Rob used to like about her, until he turned from Jekyll to Hyde on her, criticizing her for everything up to and including breathing.
As quietly as possible, she took off the lid of the can. There were plastic bags inside. All she needed to do was tuck the panties down underneath, nice and smooth. But wait. What was this? A crumply, annoying bag. Not part of their regular garbage. Curious, she pulled it out. It must be something of Rob's, she thought.
Miranda opened it and felt inside. There were little pieces of paper, glossy and slick. She pulled one out. It was a little hard to see under the street lamp.
Part of a photograph, that's what it was.
Holy shit, was this what she thought it was? It looked like a girl's boob. Miranda took out another one. This one had a girl's neck, in a collar. The next one was a pussy lip.
Okay, something smelled rotten here, and it wasn't the halibut she'd thrown out two nights ago. Taking the envelope, she snuck back to her car. Driving back off down the street probably wasn't the smartest thing to do at that point, but it made sense in her drunken mind.
Basically, she wanted to get away with her prize, and see what it was. Parking a block away, she dumped out the whole envelope. Like jigsaw pieces, she tried to render them into coherent wholes on her passenger seat. Mostly, she was turning them into Picasso's. Ears matched with elbows, feet with heads.
She did find out two things, however. It was really all she needed to know. One, she saw an ass, with writing on it.
Fuck me, Rob.
Rob, as in her husband Rob.
The second thing she saw was a face. A familiar one.
"That fucking cunt," Miranda snarled, recognizing Erin Wyatt. "That fucking, husband fucking cunt."
What was she doing sending Rob pictures of herself?
That was just so out of character. The woman was a total doormat to her husband. She wouldn't blow her nose without his permission. Unless ... someone had put her up to it.
That son of a bitch. This was Rob's doing. Rob had seduced Mark's wife and now he was fucking her. It all made sense, the late hours, the withdrawn behavior, acting like he was getting it elsewhere.
And that magazine. Oh, Christ, that was part of this, too. Rob was into that BDSM shit, and he was using it on Erin Wyatt.
Rage coursed through Miranda's veins, along with sadness, and a whole lot of panic. There was another thing, too.
> Jealousy.
Not just over losing her husband, but because he was mastering some other woman ... and not her. He could have at least tried. Sure, she would probably have panicked and run like hell, but why didn't she get a chance?
It wasn't like the things she'd witnessed between Cammie and John hadn't blown her circuits and made her come like a fiend. And it wasn't as if she weren't still thinking about it, imagining what it would be like, taking Cammie's place, having to suck a man's dick, and take him up the ass, enduring all his hands on abuse ... just to sell him a house.
Fuck, she was wet between her legs again.
Impulsively, she lifted her skirt, letting her ass stick directly to the upholstery. Her own sex scent quickly filled the car's interior, giving her even more of a feeling of being a dirty little slut, the kind of woman who gets impossibly horny at the most inappropriate times. Like when she has just found out that her husband is cheating on her.
With Erin Wyatt, of all people. Erin was certainly a beautiful woman, but she had to be ten years older than Rob. And she was a mother of two, as well. A son ten years old and a daughter eight years old. What was Rob thinking, breaking up a family like that?
It must be Erin's submissiveness that made her so attractive. She could easily have been one of the women in that magazine,
"Slavery For Her". Smiling in her collar; serving in secret, happy bondage to her husband. Miranda was sure now, that Rob had been lying about Mark giving him the magazine. He had gotten it on his own – or from Erin herself.
Maybe they acted out ideas from it. Recreating the little scenes and pictures. Even a glance at it had given Miranda a pretty good idea. One picture showed how to whip a woman, with her hands chained overhead, naked on tiptoes. Another covered the best sorts of animal cages to purchase and adapt for slave girl use.
OBEDIENTLY EVER AFTER II Page 5