The Unexpected Dom 2

by Meghan Boehners

  And then he screamed, grabbing the Sybian's base and cramming it so deep she thought the end of the dibdo would pop out one of his eyeballs and come through the socket, his knees up and ass filled and sweat pouring down his chest and abs, chin tipped up, cum squirting in small dribbles, holding his breath and turning a pale shade of pinkish blue.

  “Aaaaah, Jennifer!” he screamed, until Miss Sally suddenly lifted one leg and planted the end of her Blahnik on his chest, kicking him off the ottoman, the thick dildo wedged in and coming out of his rectum with an audible puck sound, Declan lying between the device and the couch in the fetal position, now moaning and rocking.

  “We told you not to come,” she chided. Jenifer admired her brutality, her complete hedonism in the face of Declan's obvious pain.

  Declan did, too, for he stopped moaning and just smiled, eyes closed, the expression so angelic and innocent. Looking around the room, Jennifer felt grounded enough for the first time in – she looked at the clock – three hours and forty-five minutes – to have a wise mind perspective. She was naked. Declan was naked, save for the dog collar. Miss Sally had a cum-stained skirt. The Sybian was slick with some brown froth, Santorum that they could deal with later. The professional Dom looked bored, her husband was in the prone position on the floor, and she had just been fucked three ways to Sunday.

  With thirty minutes remaining on Miss Sally's clock.

  “I am done,” Jennifer sighed, turning away from them both.

  “We have thirty minutes remaining on the contract, Jennifer,” the dominatrix said icily, as if about to give an unyielding order.

  “Sewer pipe!” were the next words out of Jennifer's mouth as she walked through the family room's twin doors and into the bright, open foyer, the walk upstairs to her bedroom feeling like a thousand miles, like being liberated from something she didn't know was a prison.

  Miss Sally fished her phone out of her pocket, sent a text, and ten seconds later two burly men walked through the very doors his wife had just walked out of moments ago. No longer caring that he was naked (much less concerned about the dog collar), he only wanted a few more minutes with Miss Sally.

  “Excuse me, Mistress?” That made the Dom smile. She raised her eyebrows and nodded that he could continue. One of the movers handed her a dry cleaning bag with a suit in it. Unabashed, she took the plastic covering off and slipped out of her current suit and into the new one, one that lacked Declan's DNA.

  “Could you come back tomorrow morning, please?” he asked.

  “You want to contract with me?” she said, buttoning her jacket, the suit identical to the one she'd just worn He wondered if her closet were an endless series of clones for the clothing. At the club she wore this same suit each time he saw her. Money wasn't the reason. He wondered what was?

  “I, er,” he struggled to stay on track. “I want you to teach me to be a Dom,” he whispered.

  She laughed. “Oh, Honey, you are a natural, 100 percent purebred sub.” Snickering, she gathered her satchel and started for the door.

  “She's been cheating on me,” he explained. That made the Dom halt, her otherwise impassive face showing a flicker of feeling. “I found her emails. They stretch back to right after I started seeing you.” Miss Sally's shoulders slumped; he felt a rush of hope. Then she turned around, shaking her head.

  “You two,” she sighed. “What makes you think that re-establishing dominance will make her stay, Declan?” The words hurt him, for he knew they were true. Getting Jen to try to repair their very, very broken marriage wouldn't be easy.

  “She liked it, Mistress. Loved it when you beat her. I think there's a sub in there and I want to explore that.”

  “Miss Sally cleared her throat and said, “If she's a sub, then you're doomed. You know two true subs can't be happy together.” Blinking, she added softly, with a compassionate tone, “That might be precisely why you haven't been getting along these last few years.”

  He hadn't considered that. “Maybe, though, we could find a way to switch? I think she might be more of a Dom, but one who hasn't experienced good sub time – ever. This was a lot for her to take in. Our sex life – her sex life – has always been very vanilla.”

  “If she's cheating on you, that might not be true.”

  Ugh. Her words knocked a bit of the wind out of him. “Fair enough,” he choked out. “But I have to at least try this. Please?” he pleaded.

  Grabbing her phone again, she made her way through the touch screen to what looked like a calendar app. “Tomorrow morning? I have two hours. Eight to ten.”

  “Awesome!” he hissed, pumping a clenched fist in the air. She rolled her eyes and looked at her watch.

  “We'll have to do the paperwork right before we start tomorrow. I have,” she watched the guys remove the Sybian, “a pressing appointment right now.”

  The clock showed one minute remained before the hour. Jennifer had made it nearly four hours, a record in his mind. He normally lasted two.

  “I'll see myself out,” the Dom announced. He watched her walk out the front door, ass finer than Pippa Middleton's, like an upside-down heart made of flesh and bone. God, she was so hot.

  Someone hotter awaited him upstairs, though. He climbed the flight of stairs two at a time, bounding into the bedroom to find Jennifer snoring lightly. He pulled the down comforter over her body and smiled.

  There was time. Lots of unexpected time for more.

  Dark. The room was dark, with just a faint light pouring in under the door frame. Sitting up, she found herself still naked, body sticky and sore. The clock read 2:41 a.m. Damn – had she really slept most of the day and night away?

  And where was Declan?

  The memory of the past day and a half flooded her. She'd hog tied him. Turned him into a slave. Made him fuck a dildo. Hired his Dom. Who made her fuck a Sybian. Been beaten. Made Declan fuck the Syian. Beat Declan. And she'd ended it all with her safeword, thank God.

  If she never, ever saw Miss Sally again, she would be a very happy woman.

  A shower would help. She flipped on the light, stood, padded into the bathroom and turned on the sprays. Never before had she appreciated the four-head shower Declan insisted they install when they remodeled a few years ago, after he'd been made Senior Vice President. But now, as she stepped into the water and felt her muscles liquify, her knots relax, she found herself giving in to the calm, the gentle push of water against her skin, the renewing feeling of soap and cleanliness, like a baptism that took her back to where she was two days ago.

  Like that could happen. As she soaped her belly she imagined Declan, not so much remembering him on the Sybian (though it flashed through her thoughts more than once), but remembering him before, when they made love so intimately. What had just transpired was sensual and explosive and hot as fuck, but right now she craved intimacy. Sharing. Connection.

  Instead, though, she felt like the batteries on their marriage were misfiring, a cell dead.

  And no jumper cables.

  Steam filled the bathroom as she cranked up the water temperature. Closing her eyes, she rinsed her hair, waves of hot water taking the residue of the day away. A funny sound filled the stall and then – hands on her ribs. Hands on her hips, the familiar feel of Declan's muscled, nude body behind her, the slick of wet leg hair against her ass, his hardness in her cleft, his stubbled chin on her shoulder, his splayed palms filling with her skin, rubbing and touching and loving.

  “Hi, “ he whispered, nuzzling her.

  “Hi,” she said back, too comfortable to argue. This – this was what she needed. The hypersexual husband in the scene with Miss Sally had been a gorgeous, explorative, astounding man she hadn't known was there under the surface of the raging jerk Declan had become in recent years. Finding him again, under very different circumstances – and now, having him cradle her so tenderly under the hot shower jets – felt like a tentative beginning.

  A sharp scraping feeling caught her offguard and made her flinch
. “Ah,” he said, pulling back, his dark hair slick, sticking to his face, making his eyes gleam with a look that made him seem more vulnerable, closer to twenty than thirty. “Sorry.” He pointed to the dog collar, still attached to his neck.

  She motioned for him to turn around and she rubbed her hips against his ass as she undid the collar freeing it and letting it fall. “Thank you!” he groaned, then grunted, something between a sigh and a moan, as her hands wandered down to his heavy member, thick with wet hair and a ball sac that hung nice and low, relaxed and luxurious.

  He turned abruptly and kissed her, so sensitive and tender that tears sprang to her eyes, the day's brutality washed away for this moment, a juxtaposition she appreciated even more, both experiences balanced nicely in her pantheon of sexuality.

  His fingers sought out her arousal, discovering how drenched she was. "I want you, Jennifer. I never should have let you go." She thought she was through, but desire crested and renewed within. She needed to envelop him, to ride him, to lose control, to be on top of him, to feel him pound her from behind.

  Taking control, needing to be the mistress for this one time, to have him in her power, she pulled him down to the shower floor. Taking aim, she plunged herself directly over his filling cock. He pulsated and she groaned when he went all the way in, the four shower heads pounding on her back and over her legs, the need for him greater than the desire for a nice, soft bed.

  "I fucking love this, you're so big," she cried out. The feeling was incredible, a completion, everything wrapped into one. Like an abyss of everything taking every aspect of her, more than she'd felt even earlier today on the Sybian, for it was Declan's flesh in her hands, Declan's thighs spread against hers, his mouth pressed into her..

  As she rocketed herself up to the mushroom cap, the sliding like a prayer, seeking out a coming more supernova than any other. Kneading her breasts, he was sending little electric shocks directly to her G-spot. She moved her knees, changing the position, slid enough to make him beg, clamped her pussy, hard, then impaled herself.

  "Ohhhhhhhhh... Jesus! I love you so much," he moaned. She joined him, reciting the words as well, meaning them. Oh, how she loved this man – so much she'd risked everything yesterday. And now, now she had no idea what tomorrow might bring, but she needed this moment to last forever.

  He made her get off, pulled her, dripping wet, into the bedroom, and soon they were standing by the side of the bed. He gently guided her on the bed, ass up. One hand took his cock took her this way, the other hand tweaked and pinched, hard, as she rolled his palm over her red breasts. She reached for her clit as he took her, face buried in the bed.

  Thrusting, thrusting, she shoved her ass back in rhythm with his hot cock, the pleasure so insane, pounding beautifully into her cervix. Grabbing a pillow, she bit it, fists so tight, two fingers and a cock her tools for orgasm.

  “Declan!” She screamed until she was hoarse and rutted and jerked, hot cream and sex as their juices flowed, exploding, felt him coming giving her a cream pie, her pussy holding the product of their lust, as he spurted.

  "Jennifer! Oh, God, I am coming in you!" His voice faded, she couldn't concentrate and as her entire body struggled to handle these multiple waves, simple flesh too inept to know how to work with the magnitude of climax.

  As he fucked her, she slammed back as he pulled her hair and pinched, the pain mixing with the thrusting and the explosion to make her scream an animal sound and then it was just a sense of exhaustion, all cock and slick and mouth.

  "What the hell was that? He groaned into her back, stroking her hair.

  She turned around and pressed her naked front against his. “Sewer pipe?”

  His confused laughter made her throat ache as she faded off to sleep, wet and wrung free of all sexual need, curled up in the arms of the Declan she'd fallen in love with. Had they rescued their marriage in time? Was this intimacy the real Jennifer and Declan, or was it too late? Too tired to think anymore, she drifted away, safe in his arms.

  Her gently, rhythmic breaths told him she was out, finally. Staring at the ceiling, his pulse racing, Declan couldn't stop thinking about the implication of the day's events.

  One more email:

  ...your inner thigh. But I remain there only for a moment. You open your mouth to moan and you feel a silk stocking stretch across the opening of your mouth. I quickly wrap it around the back of your head. Becoming more fearful now, you wonder if this was such a good idea. You feel the knot tighten against your head – you are now bound and gagged!

  I lower my warm, naked body onto yours, and then you hear a “click” and then a humming sound. Next, you feel the sensation of ice-cold vibrating plastic against the tip of your right nipple. First your right breast, then your left – it seems like hours to you, feeling these vibrations shoot through your charged body. You try to scream “Fuck me!” but the restraint in your mouth won't allow it. Just as you think you can't take it any more, you feel my fingers against your dripping wet, thoroughly swollen pussy lips. Your body begins to buck and grind with a mind of its own.

  Then, without warning, you feel my fingers replaced with the head of my cock. The hardened head of my manhood presses directly against your throbbing clit. A tidal wave of orgasms rips all shreds of awareness from you as your body convulses uncontrollably with multiple, mind-blowing climaxes. You feel my cock slide down the drenched outer lips of your burning cunt, faster and harder – I fuck you with increasing authority. You feel my hand behind your head, unfastening the restraint that forces your silence. As the silk fals from your lips I whisper in your ear, “What do you want, Baby?”

  “I want you to fill me with your hot cum!” you hiss, and just as the sentence escapes your lips you are taken by surprise as I place the vibrator head at the edge of your tight asshole, which is wet from your own juices. “Do you want to be fucked like never before?” I ask. You pause, considering the act, and then plead, “God, yes! Fuck my asshole, too! I want that vibrating cock deep in my ass while you fuck my cunt!”

  I continue to pump your sweet, saturated pussy, the vibrator slowly making its way inside you until its eight inches are completely buried within your burning asshole. “Oh, God!” you scream repeatedly, and with one final bed-shaking thrust I slam my twitching tool deep inside your aching slit, simultaneously pumping the vibrator in your ass with short, quick thrusts. As I explode steaming cum inside you, your body shakes with an unspeakable, silent dance of sensory pleasure.

  And with that monumental release, my sweat-covered body collapses on top of yours. I untie the stockings from your wrists and ankle and we lie together, kissing each other, gently fading.

  I want you! Call me at 212-555-1212.

  Love,

  John

  Declan just stared at the words, stunned into a creepy silence that made him feel like a character in a horror movie, ready to kill everyone within sight for the sake of plot development. Except he wasn't in a movie, and he wasn't psychopathically insane. He was, however, stuck in an unreal situation as his wife snored behind him, blissfully unaware that she not only had broken his heart into a million pieces, but she was grinding it into his skin while wearing seven inch stilettos.

  So this is how it ends, he thought to himself, taking deep breaths full of nothing and letting them out. If he breathed in evil and breathed out good, perhaps he could counteract the whole mess, neutralize what had gone wrong and help rightness to flourish.

  Reading about some guy who wanted to shove a vibrator up his wife's ass made him want to go eat a raw burger in front of vegans, or provide health care to people in front of Republicans. Using taxes. It sent him into a counterdependent rage that had no victim.

  She seemed too innocent, sleeping like this, her face pressed into the pillow, sleeping on her stomach, plump ass staring up at the ceiling. Her lips were just the tiniest bit pouty in slumber and for a brief second he could imagine their daughter's face, like Jennifer's but cherubically younger. Kids? They ha
d talked about it, and now that he was hitting thirty he wondered if it could happen.

  Or was the bond simply broken?

  Wake her up. Ask her about the emails, his conscience urged him.

  Fuck that shit. Throw the ho out on her fat ass, his little internal devil advised.

  Both sounded good, but in the end he did neither. The clock read 3:45 a.m. Now and he needed a few hours of sleep before Miss Sally would help him. She could work with him on the right approach. If they were both subs, he'd know that within hours and would know that they both needed to walk away, chalk the decade up to a lesson learned, and to find the right person after all.

  She was his person, his heart cried out. What had he done? Had he driven her into a desperation so great she sought out sex chats and emails to meet her needs?

  Miss Sally would help him untangle this tomorrow.

  Only after he tangled Jen.

  Light. Bright, blinding light. As one eye cracked open, slowly, the lid peeling back to reveal the window, Jennifer stretched, willing blood to go back into her extremities.

  But she couldn't. What the fuck? Her hands wouldn't move. Her feel were spread out, rendering her unable to bend her knees. Turning on her side was impossible, and she opened both eyes in panic, finding herself completely immobile.

  A quick look at her feet, then her wrists showed she was tied, quite securely, to the four bed posters, limbs in complicated mechanisms she'd never seen before, but that she knew she could not defeat. Struggle was useless. What was Declan up to, now?

  “OK, so sign here,” she heard a familiar voice whisper. Craning her head, she looked down at the end of the bed, her eyes focusing on two people about seven or eight feet from the bottom of the bed. She was slightly nearsighted, so it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

  Declan, dressed neatly in jeans and a polo shirt, and...Miss Sally? He signed something, handed back a leather portfolio, and Miss Sally took it, snapping it shut with great authority.