Sinful Submissions

by Ed Bemand

  “The other girls didn’t have photos like that.”

  Bochakov lowered the camera and looked at her.

  “Exactly. Which is why it will be you that gets a rich man rather than them. Doesn’t that make sense, little one? Now, get on with it and we will be done shortly.” She undid the clasp on the bra and slipped it off. He kept taking photos as she did so. “Now, tell me, just how rich a man are you hoping to catch?” She shrugged, feeling very self-conscious. It was quite cold in the room and her nipples were standing up. “I think that if you do your part we will be able to get you a millionaire. Wouldn’t that be nice? Now, remove your panties. We should give your lover a glimpse of what lies in wait for him.” When she hesitated he prompted her. “Remember, you agreed not to waste my time, didn’t you?” She slid them down her thighs, letting them fall to the ground and leaving her completely naked. He took a couple more photos. “Of course, you’ll have to do something about that unruly thatch of yours. Rich men prefer girls who are better groomed. Maybe next time.” He took a final photo and then stepped away from the camera.

  “Now I have a final task for you, little one. Seeing you looking so pretty has made me rather excited. I want you to help me with that.” He started to unzip the fly of his trousers and drew out his cock. She could see it was quite stiff and it hardened more as he played with it idly. She moved away from him unconsciously. “Don’t be shy. You’ll find yourself doing this often when you are a rich man’s wife. Anyway, aren’t you grateful to me for the opportunity I’ve given you? Don’t you want to thank me?” He walked towards her, stroking his cock lightly, the head aimed at her.

  Eleven: The betrayals of Alan and Susan

  Betrayal. Just think about the word for a second. It sounds strong, dark and powerful. You can't betray something you don't love. Sins against those you love are surely the worst that can be committed.

  Alan still loved his wife, Susan. He told her so regularly, carefully omitting the "still" when he said it to her, fearful of the implicit guilt that such a simple, little word somehow seemed to carry with it. They still had sex too, just with much less regularity than he would have wanted. They had been married for about five years when he started visiting prostitutes regularly.

  Invariably the sex they had was terribly straightforward, formulaic even. They would be in bed. They would kiss. The kissing would become more passionate and he would start to touch her. He would gently manipulate her breasts and caress her body. He would pay close attention to her, feeling and watching for the subtle changes that signalled her growing arousal. When her nipples hardened, it was time to squeeze them more directly. Then, it was time to move his attention lower. Stroking the outside of her pussy would cause it to get wetter, to the point where she was open enough for him to introduce a finger into it. When it could easily accommodate two fingers she was ready for him to penetrate her. She always started out feeling very tight around his cock. This forced him to move slowly inside her for both their benefit. As their passion heightened, his strokes could hasten and intensify, until inevitable climax. He invariably came when inside her pussy. She, less often, but not so rarely that he believed it was impossible. He admitted to himself privately that it was possible that his haste towards his own end was probably what led to her falling short of climax, but what did she expect from him? He was usually so frustrated by the time that they actually had sex that it was hard for him to stop himself. He was so eager to experience an orgasm that he could barely control himself. When it was over they would slowly detach from each other, and probably cuddle a bit, then one or both of them would fall asleep. She never spoke to him during sex and she made very little effort to touch either him or herself. The whole thing had a monotony about it, it felt like they were endlessly repeating the same acts that they had begun when they had first courted, but with ever decreasing frequency and variance of performance. He could see them sinking down to some base level where only the bare minimum of contact and action occurred and then only at best annually.

  To be happy, Alan wanted to have sex pretty regularly. Maybe not daily, but at least a few times a week. Was that wrong in some way? Admittedly, what in his head was classed as having sex really boiled down to ejaculating. If he had to he could probably compromise on the depth and level of the sex just to get to cum regularly.

  For the first couple of years of their relationship, Alan made a strong effort to not masturbate. It seemed somehow inappropriate, wrong even, that he should ever want or need to when he was sharing a bad with a woman every night. Surely he shouldn't need to deal with himself, that's what she was there for. They still had sex at least a couple of times a week then, menstrual periods aside, but Alan didn't feel like he was getting quite what he needed out of it.

  The first time he masturbated since he had been married he felt embarrassed and guilty. She had gone out for the evening and he had been left to his own devices. All he wanted to do was have sex. He found himself watching rubbish soft-core porn on the TV and desperately playing with himself. His climax almost took him by surprise when it happened, he could feel it building in him but then the waves of it took over him and left him unable to do anything about the jets of cum erupting from him that splattered onto his clothes and the cover of the settee he was sat on. The pleasure he had felt faded rapidly as he hurriedly tried to clean up the mess. There was no sense of the afterglow that usually pervaded him after sex, just guilt. He was horrified by the idea that Susan might realise what he had done. He cleaned up as best he could, frantically trying to remove every trace of what he had done. He was more cautious the next time, making sure that he had tissues on hand to catch every trace of his cum.

  It became an increasingly regular act, in inverse proportion to the frequency of their actual sex. As an accountant, Alan was used to balancing the books. In his head there was a mental equation that he found himself rationalising his actions by. If he wanted four orgasms in a week, and they had sex three times, he would wank once. If two, then twice. It seemed a fair internal justification to him of what he was doing. He was just making sure that he actually received as much as he had decided he needed. If she wanted to be involved, then so much the better, but when she didn't, he was just making up the shortfall on his account. What could be wrong with this? His justification didn’t stop him from feeling ashamed in the moments immediately afterwards, when he had returned his secret stash of porn to its hiding place behind the cistern in the loo.

  It was when they hadn't had any sex at all for more than a month, after five years of marriage, that he found himself resorting to more desperate measures. He had always been oddly fascinated by the idea of using prostitutes. Surely they would be the ultimate connoisseurs of sexual gratification, women who had made supplying it their livelihood? He knew the reality was likely to be different and that most streetwalkers were just desperate people driven to do desperate things to stay alive. He had visited them a couple of times when he had been younger and single. The experiences had been pleasurable, in an efficient kind of way. He rather liked the fact that, unlike with sex with other women in his experience, you could just say what you wanted and mostly it would happen. His wants were not so outré as to offend, but being able to pick between a hand job, blowjob or regular sex and knowing that you would get to cum out of it without having to put any effort in to please them seemed almost like the perfect approach to sex for him.

  He knew that there was an area in the city where they lived that was notorious for its "massage parlours". They were usually quite discrete establishments, some in converted shops with the windows covered, others in private houses. He felt like he was being very brave the first time that he approached one and rang the doorbell. He was greeted by a young women who seemed to immediately understand what he wanted from his uncertain mutterings, and ushered him into a dimly lit room and bade him sit on the settee. She answered his enquiry as to the costs involved with brisk efficiency, as if disclosing information that he should already h
ave if he had any place being there. His desire for economy left him trying to deduce whether thirty minutes would be sufficient for his needs, or if he should go for the whole hour.

  A selection of girls was brought in and he was given their names. The room was lit too dimly for him to be able to see any of them very clearly and he was too nervous to remember each of their names. The hostess enquired as to his preference and he opted for the last girl offered, simply because her name, Sofia, had registered in his mind. The other girls departed and Sofia led him upstairs. She was wearing some kind of filmy diaphanous garment, and in the greater light levels on the staircase he could see that she was a slender brunette. She led him into a bedroom and asked him for the money. He fumbled with his wallet as he took it from his pocket and extracted the required notes for half an hour. She told him to get ready on the bed and left the room with his money, shutting the door behind her.

  By the time that she had returned his clothes were neatly piled on the chair close to the bed that was the only other furniture. She glanced at his still flaccid cock with mild irritation then suggested he "warm himself up enough to get this on", offering him a condom. She sat down on the edge of the bed, still wearing the gauzy slip. She let its straps fall down her shoulders, guessing that her breasts might offer him additional stimulus to complete his task.

  This room was slightly more brightly lit than the first and he could see her better. She had pert, pretty features and large eyes but her skin looked a little rough and she seemed to be struggling to appear younger than she was. He guessed that she was from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Her breasts were small and firm and didn't seem to need any support. The nipples were pert with pale areolas. He asked her to remove the slip and she did so, with more efficiency than eroticism in her actions. His cock was hard enough now for him to put the condom on but it had been rather a long time since he had used one and it took longer to achieve than it should. She looked at it and checked that it was properly in place with almost clinical dexterity, then asked him what he wanted. He asked her to suck his cock and she did so, holding her hair out of the way with one hand, grasping his shaft with the other. Her lips opened to encircle it easily as if with regular practise and she started to slide her fingers in a circular motion up and down his shaft as her lips moved further down it. The latex between him and her lips reduced the sensation somewhat, but there was none of the tentativeness in her actions that defined Susan on the few occasions when she had reluctantly attempted to perform a similar action upon him. Sofia seemed quite able to take the bulk of his shaft into her mouth and the motions of her fingers acted in synchrony to work him towards orgasm.

  He didn't require anything else from her on that occasion and came in little spurts with soft moans into the condom. She had moved her mouth away from it when she had felt the motions of his cock that hinted that he was close to orgasm. Her fingers alone had taken him over the crest. As he started to cum she gradually slowed her motions, pumping until she was satisfied that he was fully drained. She withdrew her hand from him and indicated a bin in the corner of the room for him to dispose of the condom into, then smiled professionally, pulled on her slip and said goodbye to him, telling him to head back downstairs when he was dressed. He was left alone and spent. He redressed hurriedly, wanting to leave this place as soon as he could.

  His sex life with Susan didn't get any better, so he kept going back to the brothel. He got braver as his visits got more frequent, more able to express himself and ask for what he wanted. He felt quite smug about what he was doing, it was just illicit enough to be exciting, but it also made perfect sense to him. This way he was getting what he needed in ways he couldn't at home, but without it needing to have a negative impact on the rest of his life.

  Once a week seemed an acceptable frequency for paying for sex. More than that would perhaps have been too much, but less than that would have left him feeling very tense. He had to become increasingly ingenious about finding opportunities to be out of the house. He couldn't rely on Susan to have her own plans anywhere near often enough. He started to make up stories about taking an evening course, or of going for drinks with work colleagues, something that he had before done only rarely, or of having to stay late in the office to complete some vitally important piece of work or other. Did she believe it? He wasn't sure, but it wasn't like he was cheating on her. She should be happy that he was dealing with it this way really. Fortunately, Susan had herself decided that she needed to find more occupations to fill her time with and had started to attend an increasing amount of meetings for the charitable societies that she had previously only been involved in sporadically. He was relieved that she didn't expect him to attend. The few that he had gone along with her to in the past had been incredibly tedious and he couldn't have borne them becoming a regular fixture on his calendar, especially when he had much more important things to do with his free time.

  He had started to opt for an hour session with the girl every time he went there now. He was much less nervous and more critical of the girl's. He knew a few of the names now. Sofia was very brisk and efficient, what she lacked in eroticism she made up for with her exceptional dexterity. Anna had a lovely bottom and was very enjoyable to fuck, but she didn't seem to know how to handle a cock. Any stimulation that he wanted from her he had to get for himself. Her pussy felt lovely, but she was basically static and made it feel a bit like he was wanking himself into her. Helena did a wonderful line in dirty patter that gave him warm feelings just thinking about it. Lena liked it rough and would swear very enthusiastically when he slipped his cock into her bottom, but she was a bit fat and not as pretty as the other girls. Juliette was rare in that she wasn't a foreign girl. There was something a bit weird about her but she was the only one that would give him blowjobs without expecting him to wear a condom which almost made it worthwhile. He was used to the other girls being rather forthright so her seeming passivity was a little uncomfortable at first but he grew to enjoy it. When he felt confident enough to be a bit more assertive she responded in very enjoyable ways.

  Somehow what he was doing made him feel special, cooler. He felt like a more important person knowing that in the last couple of months he had fucked at least half a dozen different girls, most of them at least ten years younger than him. He felt almost dashing when he went there. The hostess treated him with courtesy and clearly recognised him now. He got in the habit of calling to book his appointments in advance, so that he could enjoy the prolonged pleasure of anticipation of what was to come. He was finding it increasingly hard to keep to one visit per week. He was too much of an accountant to not have a strong perception of how much money he was spending on his new habit, but it wasn't enough to discourage him from going. He could afford it. It's not like he spent all his money on expensive cars or clothes or other fripperies. This was his only indulgence and surely he was entitled to that, wasn't he?

  When the inevitable confrontation with Susan came, it wasn't what he had expected. One evening when they were eating dinner, she rather nervously told him that she had decided that they had gone as far as they could together and that it was time for them to get a divorce. Alan was taken aback by this. What exactly was it that she felt was missing from their marriage that was making her want to end it? He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed a mouthful of food.

  "Is something the matter?"

  "I just don't think it's working. Surely you can't disagree with that?" The subject broached, she seemed to become more confident in saying what she had to.

  "What do you mean, 'don't think it's working'?"

  "Don't be awkward Alan. Can't we just be mature about this and accept that we've tried and it's over. Would you rather make it unpleasant?"

  "No... I'm just a little surprised that you've reached this decision. Shouldn't you have said something earlier?"

  "There's someone else, Alan. I want to be with them now. It's as simple as that."

  "Someone else?"

  "Yes. Don't tr
y and pretend to be superior about this. It's not like I really believe all those half-baked excuses you've been coming up with for disappearing off. I wouldn't be surprised if you've got some bit on the side yourself."

  He wasn’t sure what to say. She took his hesitance as affirmation.