Bitch. Cunt. Whore. Asshat. Whorecuntbitch. He couldn't come up with enough words to describe her. Spending years – years! – on this complete moron online, to the point where the guy sent her his phone number? Had they hooked up? Jennifer attacked him yesterday out of the blue; was this some sort of goodbye in her twisted way? Was he being punked?
Pull it together, dude, he reminded himself. A few deep breaths and he felt better. What pained him, what really touched the little, hurt part of him deep inside, was the hope. This morning he had awoken with such hope, such love for Jen. The guy who fell for her completely back in college felt like he could come out once again, and now – oh, hell no. Here he was, humiliated beyond belief sexually (and loving it), yet humiliated to his core for being cuckolded (and hating that).
Meanwhile, his very own professional Dom was downstairs talking to his wife and preparing a session for them both that he expected would be titillating. The last thing he wanted to do right now, though, was fuck his own wife.
He'd rather talk to her.
Because she had a lot of explaining to do.
“Declan!” The voice was annoyed, insistent.
“Yes, Dear!” he shouted, a little too loud, a little too fake. Pad pad pad, he heard her steps as she went downstairs.
And now to face his two Doms. Oh, joy.
"First order of business, then: the rules." Miss Sally, with characteristic precision,took three quick steps towards Jennifer, stiletto heels tapping like the beat of a riding crop against a wall. "I've already told you my primary rule: I do not touch clients, and they do not touch me."
Jennifer nodded. Miss Sally started at her and just blinked. Twice.
"Good. We are understood. Second rule: I am in command while on the clock. Always." She looked at her watch and said, "Three hours and seventeen minutes remain." A decidedly uncharacteristic wink followed. "Plenty of time." The effect was chilling, for her mouth did not move one millimeter. A wink without a smile made Jennifer feel dirty. Ashamed.
Out of control.
She found herself listening with half an ear as Miss Sally continued. Her mind couldn't push back the images that raced through her head, of her lips on Miss Sally's torso, of dining at the Y, of making Miss Sally's implacable face twist in pleasure-filled agony.
Of whips, ball gags, swings and...
"Third. When I talk," she enunciated, as if Jennifer were half deaf, her breath a tease, a scent of clove and rosemary and something musky, "you listen." Though her face was neutral, Miss Sally's eyes showed anger at Jennifer's transgression.
"I was listening," Jennifer squirmed. Surely the dominatrix knew exactly what Jennifer was thinking. The rush of pictures wouldn't leave her mind, and she feared she would blurt out some completely inappropriate comment, like "let me go down on you!" or "teach me how to rim!" The words stood on the tip of her tongue, like an impulse she couldn't control, the need to shout them as great as the need to urinate or vomit, an uncontrollable contraction in the birth of a completely different Jennifer, one who wanted to make love to this incredible woman who her husband had spent six figures on.
She was curious.
She needed to know.
Eyes gleaming, face slack, Miss Sally did seem to read Jennifer's mind. "Fourth: I am teaching you how to dominate your husband. He is a natural sub -- you can see it in his arousal whenever he is humiliated. But I am not a cuckoldrix. My lessons will only take you so far."
"A cuckoldrix?"
Miss Sally smiled gently. "Ah, you're so innocent." She swallowed, the nodded. "A cuckoldrix is a Dom who helps to cuckold a husband."
Jennifer stared back blankly. Miss Sally sighed. "You do know what a cuckold is?"
"It's, well...isn't that when a wife cheats on her husband? The husband is a cuckold?"
Like a teacher praising a good student, Miss Sally clapped once. "Good! So what do you think a cuckoldrix is?"
"Uh, a dominatrix who makes a man into a cuckold?"
"Excellent. You'll be a fast student mentally, I see." Miss Sally gave Jennifer a once over with eyes that evaluated her with a detachment that was sensual. As if Jennifer were a piece of meat at a sex slave auction, and Sally a gentle, humane owner. All pretense of social grace went out the window. This was a new paradigm, a different set of social rules, and Jennifer found herself nearly begging to be taught everything, to be allowed to give Miss Sally pleasure, to extract it and wrap it in a neat little tongue-tied bow.
"Mentally?"
"You get concepts. You pick them up fast. You're smart. Clearly -- you figured out Declan's little secret once you bothered to break out of the zombie life you've been living for years." Miss Sally's lip pursed in disapproval.
That hurt. "Hey! You don't know anything about my life!"
"Really, Jennifer? I know quite a bit. Declan talks."
"So you get to know everything about me from Declan, but you tell me nothing about what he did or said with you? Not fair."
"It's not about fairness. It's about control."
"Fuck control." That got a burst of laughter from the dominatrix, who walked over to the couch and sat down, right in front of the boxes the movers had delivered.
"No, not 'fuck control.' Control is the heart of everything." She pointed upstairs, where Declan still showered. "Control made him become a CEO. Turned you into a little wimp. Made him seek me out. Forces you to turn to the fridge instead of your husband for satisfaction. Drives men to power, and makes them fall too."
Jennifer opened her mouth to reply, her palms suddenly sweating, but Miss Sally added, "And control is why you hog-tied your husband and just hired me to teach you how to save your marriage, my dear. Control. And the longer you deny it, the more you're just wasting my time." Miss Sally spread her arms against the back of the couch in a surprisingly masculine gesture, her knees opening, her skirt riding up those creamy thighs, making Jennifer's mouth water on one side.
"So we have one more rule: You do what I tell you, but if you need to stop, you tell me your safeword."
"Safeword?"
"Didn't you actually read the contract?"
"No." She waved her hand like swatting a fly. "I never read those." Jennifer barely choked out the last word as Miss Sally reached into a small bag next to the wooden box. The box was the size of an ottoman, and the bag a large, leather satchel. She extracted an enormous vibrator, the kind with little extensions that reached up to the clit and back to the ass. Then a tube of Astroglide.
What was Miss Sally going to make Jennifer do with that?
"Pick a safeword. A word that will make me stop everything."
"But...why? If you're just teaching me to be a Dom to Declan, why do I need a safeword?"
Miss Sally poured lube all over the tip of the vibrator, then kicked off her shoes. She slid her skirt up and propped one foot on the wooden box, positioning the vibrator right on her clit. Jennifer stared, wide-eyed, her own hand eager to help. Or to touch herself. She wasn't sure which.
"You didn't read the contract." Miss Sally's singsong voice filled Jennifer's veins with ice water. Something about the lilt made her fear more than any implacable expression.
"No, but..."
"I am both your Doms, dear. I may be teaching you," her voice hitched as the now-turned-on toy vibrated her clit, making her reach up to her mouth and lube up two fingers, her manicured, red nails sliding over a pink clit, "but I am also your Dom. it's a daisy chain. Me to you, you to Declan."
Jennifer was about to explode from need.
"And right now you are going to watch me. No touching, no groaning, nothing. All you can do is watch and learn."
Jennifer's face was as red as her clit. “But what about Declan?”
“Safeword!” Miss Sally said in that same sing-songy voice, her eyes glinting with mischief, face steeled and serious.
“OK, OK, uh...'sewer pipe'!” It was the least sexual thing she could imagine. Perfect to utter if she wanted everything to end in the middle of some
complicated, painful sex performance.
“'Sewer pipe' it is, then.”
Transfixed, Jennifer watched Miss Sally slide the vibe into her pink, hairless pussy, the lips giving way for the enormous plastic member to fit into her passage. Her face was a mask of complete control. She could have been reading the Wall Street Journal or waiting to have her car detailed, versus shoving a huge dildo up her clam right here in front of Jennifer.
The effect was enchantingly erotic.
As if she weren't spread-eagle before Jennifer, Miss Sally calmly ordered her. “Go get him. Now.”
Jennifer obeyed.
“We're in the family room!” He heard Jen's voice as he descended the stairs. Stopping, he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, glanced down as his limp cock and pulled at the dog collar. The wet leather made him smell like a musky cow. Ah, well. Maybe it would turn Jen off.
Opening the door led to a scene he really, truly would never have imagined in a million years.
There sat Miss Sally on his Bauhaus couch, legs spread wide and propped on a coffee table that cost about as much as a full day of her services, her Blahnik heels gouging scratches in the teal. Scratches that came from her squirming and twisting to insert as much of the ginormous dildo in her hand into her dripping cunt as she locked eyes with Jennifer, willing his wife to stare and react.
Jennifer was gaping openly, a thin line of drool trickling down the right side of her face. He bit his lips, trying desperately not to laugh. Watching Miss Sally pleasure herself had almost become passe for him, but not quite. What had been limp moments ago now sprang to life. The Dom's eyes found his and she gave him a half grin, tipping her chin up as she angled her pelvis just right, altering the vibration level on her toy, her body curling in on itself and then stretching out, like a cat.
She maintained utter control over her orgasm. He saw Jennifer's hand move to her own clit and now he did grin.
Oh, Miss Sally wouldn't like that.
Wouldn't like that at all.
Jennifer was about to get a taste of Miss Sally's punishment. The thought made Declan grin like a Cheshire cat.
“What are you smiling at?” Miss Sally demanded. Shit – she'd been watching him. Like a one-room schoolmarm, Miss Sally saw everything. Nothing escaped her. Her omniscience was part of what made her so attractive, so appealing, so commanding.
She pulled out a bottle of Astroglide and set it next to her. “Pour!” she ordered. Declan ran to comply, grabbing the bottle off the couch, where it left a small stain, and opening the flip top. Jennifer seemed to barely know he was there.
He centered the bottle over Miss Sally's now-red, hard little clit, and squeezed, the clear fluid viscous enough not to spray, roping in a long line over her skin. Man, he was hard. He looked at Jen and for a second forgot about her betrayal. Wanting her, and – of course! – wanting Miss Sally drove out his anger and doubts for three whole seconds.
But they returned. He stared at his wife as if she were a stranger. Which she was, essentially. How had they spent nearly a decade together, only to reach a point where he was spending time at a BDSM club and she was chatting online with strangers, describing intimate sexual fantasies to some guy named John, who wanted to tie her up and shove a vibrator up her ass while fucking her.
His wife.
His wife. Who now watched Miss Sally fuck herself with a vibrator.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Jennifer. No touching!” Miss Sally scolded.
“I'm not touching you!” Jennifer said, blushing, her hand snatched away from her snatch quickly. Declan suppressed a smile.
“Of course you weren't.” Her voice hitched slightly, a rare show of emotion, and then a torrent of fluid poured out of her red, shining vagina, the gush the only real tip off that she had just orgasmed. He longed to lap it up, and then had a better thought, a little fantasy of his own.
What if Jennifer were forced to drink it? Ah, damn it, his cock literally twitched, flailing a bit, before settling down. If Miss Sally saw that...
“Of course you weren't,” Miss Sally repeated, “because you know the rules. You know that no one touches me, and I touch no one.” Gush. More fluid poured out as she strumed her clit, swirling in circles, her hand in a steady pattern as she masterfully stroked that red nerve center, her face so poised it made him want to fuck her just to see if he could get her to crack.
She never, ever did. It was part of the game, part of the charm, the reason why so many men – and not a few women – paid for her services. She had helped him so much, yet now he could see how little, really, the past eighteen months had helped him. For here he stood, watching his wife watch his dominatrix masturbate in front of them, and all he could think about was making his wife lick his Dom's juices off the couch.
He laughed. Miss Sally glared at him. “Something funny, Declan?”
Oh, no. He knew that voice. He was in deep shit. A tingle of thrill started in his solar plexus. She looked at him, then Jennifer, and shook her head, disappointed. Gush. Then she removed the vibrator, turned it off, smoothed her skirt over her knees and acted like she had not just been beating off with a sex toy.
“You two have so much to learn. You, Jennifer – your broke rules. Rules in the contract. And you, Declan – I know that look. That laugh. Eighteen months and you still can't follow my rules.” She stood and walked over to a small box, about the size of an ottoman, which had what looked like a dick poking out of it. Declan knew exactly what it was, but Jennifer squinted, brow furrowed, puzzling over it. He almost laughed again.
Maybe she was as naïve as he always thought. Then he remembered the emails and a dull simmer filled him. For all he knew, she was a Sybian saleswoman on the side, with a secret life of parties and clubs for suburban housewives, like something out of a Selena Kitt novel.
“Lick it,” she said to Jennifer, pointing to the spot on the couch. A dull gray spot the size of two buttocks covered the formerly-cream-colored upholstery. Jennifer cocked her head to the left and just frowned.
“Lick it.” Miss Sally's words were more emphatic.
“You want me to lick...that?” Jennifer's tone was a mixture of incredulity and marvel. Holy shit, he thought. She's actually turned on by this. Maybe she was more of a sub after all.
“When a client defies a Dom, you must lick it. When a client is wicked, you must lick it.” Miss Sally seemed a bit, er...unhinged as she chanted what sounded like her own version of the very popular Devo song. Jennifer recoiled as the Dom taunted her. Declan, much more seasoned in the BDSM mistress's ways, just closed himself off to emotional reactions and awaited his own fate. His skin began to prickle with the gooseflesh he had come to develop whenever Miss Sally was in this kind of mood.
It meant kink.
And he loved kink.
Jennifer, on the other hand...well, this would be a delight to watch. If she thought that calling Miss Sally after snooping on his phone was going to be some sort of humiliation for him, or a kind of wake up call that could erase everything that had gone wrong, then she was in for one hell of an ironic surprise.
Because Miss Sally had a preternatural ability to read people. And, he suspected, she already knew damn well that Jennifer was no victim here.
“You lick that,” Miss Sally ordered, pointing to her own wet spot, “while Declan licks your feet.” Obeying immediately, he dropped to his knees with a painful thump and bent over, his tongue spreading over her toes, tight to a point at the webbing and them laving more. Jennifer jumped back, out of reach, and giggled.
“NOW!” The dominatrix's voice changed, deepening, the command impossible to defy. Jennifer bent over, kneeling down, and tentatively licked the spot on the couch. Declan found the toes of her right foot an sucked on them in succession, starting with her littlest toe, her groan telling him all he needed to know. She was one or two clit strokes away from a full-on orgasm.
One Miss Sally would deny her.
He slid his hand up her thigh, careful not to give
her any release. Just enough touch to drive her up one level of madness. Then he removed his hand, poking his tongue between her big toe and the next, slathering and nipping as her hips squirmed.
Unable to see her, he imagined her face right now, imagined how confused and turned on she must be, but then an image of her Internet lover hit him full blast and he found himself biting her toe, hard enough to make her squeak, his mind awash with pictures of “John” licking her cunt, fucking her from behind, and doing so many intimate acts that Declan – and, God dammit, only Declan – should do with and to her.
“Unh! Unh!” Jennifer moaned, her own hand going to her clit as she now sucked the thin fabric of the couch seat.
“No, no!” Miss Sally exclaimed, smacking Jennifer's hand with the riding crop, like she was correcting a small child. “None of that!”
Jennifer pulled back, sending Declan to his haunches, his dick standing tall as he crossed his legs and looked up at the two women, eager for what came next. “Wait just a minute! What do you mean?” Jennifer breathlessly demanded. Her face was nearly purple from arousal and the effort not to come. Declan knew that look. Knew that feeling.
She had better get used to it. At least for the next – he looked at a clock – two hours and forty-five minutes.
“You come when I tell you you can come. And not before.” Miss Sally pointed at Declan. “And now you will use that magic tongue to make her come so close – achingly close! – but not tip over.” She stared intently into his eyes, the severe cut of her bangs making her seem almost alien, so intimidating and sexual that he nearly came from that gaze alone.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied, pulling on Jennifer's ass and turning her over, her hips now propped up on the edge of the couch, her body on fire, her skin pink and rosy and ready for him.
What in the everloving hell was this woman doing to them? Never, ever had Jennifer ached to come so badly. Visceral pain mixed with a pending, pregnant need to just flow over and scream and clench and get this orgasm out!
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