by Trent Evans
Holy shit…
“Instructions? For what?”
He planted a soft, lingering kiss on each of her now aching hard nipples, and stood. The bulge between his legs made her look up at him, giving him a wink.
“I really could at least take care of that for you.” She reached for his fly. “Definitely time for that.”
His hand caught her by the wrist, holding her hand away from him. She frowned at him.
“What — why not?”
“Did I say you could do that?” He gave her wrist a little squeeze. “Put your hands on your lap.”
She pulled at his grasp, but his expression cooled immediately, and she thought better of it.
“Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” She clasped her own thighs, her desire to touch him so strong that she dug her fingers into the flesh of her legs. This was something new, totally unexpected. And though it should’ve pissed her off, the hot, heavy weight of arousal she felt between her thighs told her something entirely different.
“Good girl,” he said, the words making her stomach flutter. Somehow those words held more weight, more meaning now. She felt an odd sort of … pride, when he said those words to her. And though the very concept of it was like an uppercut right in the feminism — she wanted to hear him say them again.
What in God’s name has happened to you, Kirsten? This is crazytown.
He’d made her sit there and watch him finish getting ready, heat simmering between her thighs, every ounce of her wanting to jump him, to convince him — the way only she could — that it was better to stay. Much better.
Finally, he stood in the open doorway, the black strap from one bag slung over his broad shoulder, a suitcase in his hand. The cab waited in the driveway.
She went up on her toes, kissing his ear. “Come back soon. I’ll miss you. Sir.”
His eyes sparkled as he looked down upon her. Then he bent over her, his hand giving her throat a proprietary stroke, the soft press of his lips to her forehead making her sigh.
“I love you, Kirsten. Be good.”
Her stomach did another of those strange flips flops at the words. She watched him stride to the cab, then disappear inside it with a wave and his knowing grin.
Sixteen days?
She missed him already.
* * *
The snow fell outside so hard he’d stopped watching it, the endless, brilliant white a mesmerizing pattern that threatened to hypnotize. The sting of the coffee against his lips was a welcome, bracing wake up, the time zone difference already taking its toll on him. The dining area was packed as he’d expected on a Tuesday morning. Wall to wall business; suits, ties, and a purpose.
The phone came to life suddenly, its vibrating drifting it across the tabletop. He snatched it up just before the phone toppled over the edge.
She’d done it! His cock stirred immediately to life behind the navy slacks he’d chosen that morning, his erection quickly swollen and aching. He’d forbidden himself to masturbate last night, falling asleep to the vision of his wife’s breasts in his hands, her bright liquid eyes gazing up at him as her perfect teeth worried her lip.
Now, as he opened the picture she’d sent him, his cock throbbed even worse. She’d snapped the picture in their bathroom, the same robe she’d worn the morning he’d left, draped loosely over her shoulders. Her heavy breasts were exposed, the gentle curve of her belly leading down to the bare, plump lips of her pussy.
He typed in a reply.
Then he hit send, smiling with anticipation.
He knew it was very early there, just after six in the morning, her time. He hoped she wasn’t worshiping the porcelain god again. Her morning sickness seemed to be totally unpredictable; she’d go almost a week with nary a symptom, then suddenly she’d be laid out, not even able to keep water down. She still insisted on toughing it out, and going to work on those days, but more than once she’d texted him from the bathroom at her office, insisting that this time, this time, she really was going to die.
But early or not, he intended to hold her accountable to him. It didn’t make any sense on its face; he’d simply issued an order for no other reason than he could. Crazy. But it made his cock just as hard as if he’d had her kneeling right there before him, her freshly spanked bottom spread upon her heels.
The pleasure of petty despotism.
she replied.
He took a deep breath, his pulse pounding, loving every second of the anticipation.
He could just imagine her face, her frown, her chin firm even as her lip trembled ever so slightly.
Her reply took two very long minutes to pop up on the screen.
Shit.
Another long pause, each second ramping up his uncertainty. Maybe this was too much, too soon? Was this something that left her cold? He’d thought about that, but it didn’t seem to fit. She loved to be dominated physically — both her words and her body’s responses made that as plain as day. But perhaps this separation broke that spell. Could she play The Game from thousands of miles away? Would it be the same when he wasn’t there to enforce his demands?
Or maybe he just wasn’t up to the task.
Fucking pussy. Sac up and give her what she needs.
A pause.
God, yes.
He was so hard now he was almost groaning with it, laying a concealing section of the paper over his lap, just in case. It really could work, the psychological side of things. Getting into her head, bending her will to his; it held a unique appeal he’d never considered before. It was something he knew he wanted more of, even as he didn’t know why he wanted it, what particular need within him it satisfied. Or maybe that was simply too close to a brutal truth about him, a door to a part of his dark soul he hadn’t yet had the courage to open? He had his hand on the knob, and he was turning it — and it simply wasn’t yet time.
But he couldn’t be afraid of it forever.
He was curious about something though.
He wasn’t sure what she’d say — or what he hoped she’d say — but her response had him leaning back in his chair, stunned.
Should he tell her? Really tell her?
Be careful here.
He actually felt the blush flaming as he hit send. It was as brutally honest as he could be, but the fact that it w
as about him, about deep-seated desires he seemed to be uncovering daily, made it even more difficult. It felt like he’d stripped himself bare. Showing another person — even your own wife — who you really were was never easy. Especially for someone who was apparently a twisted, kinky sonofabitch like him.
The phone vibrated again. For a moment he didn’t want to read it, a split second of terror so strong it nearly paralyzed him. What had he done? He should never have told her that. Never in a million fucking years. He picked up the phone with a visibly shaking hand, and read the text.
Oh, how he wanted to reach across those countless miles and hug her now, to hold her close, to never let her go. His joy and his possessive lust filling him to bursting as he read those two words.
His pulse pounded in his throat as he waited. To him it felt as if the room had hushed, everyone around him eager for her next message, as if a giant spotlight had pinned him in place, a spectacle for all around to watch.
Keihl burst out laughing, the two men at the table next to him looking back at him with raised eyebrows. How on God’s green Earth had he gotten so lucky to have a woman like this, a wife so wonderful it felt like a grand injustice for all the other poor bastards who didn’t get to have her? How was this possible?
The tears in his eyes blurred his vision as he typed the last text.
Chapter Eighteen
“Oh my God,” Kirsten murmured, looking at her phone.
She pulled in to the garage, sheepishly setting the phone down until she put the car in Park, imagining the third degree she’d get from Keihl if he knew she’d been using the phone while driving. Part of her considered telling him for that very reason. For the consequences.
Taking a deep breath, she waited through the deafening noise of the motor lowering the door behind her, shrouding the garage in hushed shadow, the faint smell of the exhaust tinging the still air.
He had been gone for a week, and every day she’d wanted him back even more. His nightly orders didn’t make things any easier, either. Not one bit.
True to his word, he’d sent her a text every evening at six, instructing her on what he wanted to see the following morning. That first one had been relatively simple:
She’d felt like an awkward, sexting teenager as she’d used her mirror to shoot the photo of her ass, making sure this time she was entirely naked as he’d instructed. She didn’t want to add to the punishment she knew Keihl would have for her once he came home — a prospect that both sent her heart pounding, and her pussy clenching.
The picture of her bottom had apparently met with his approval. He’d called her the afternoon of that first day, growling into her ear, telling her all the ways he’d be taking care of that ass when he made it home. By the end of the conversation, her skirt was hiked up, the gusset of her panties yanked aside, and her fingers working her clit as she gasped into the phone. Then he’d done something that both infuriated her and turned her on even more. He’d forbidden her to come that day — and on any day until he gave her permission.
It only stoked the fires of her lust that much higher.
For the rest of that week, it was more of the same. One day it was a photo of her with her body covered in baby oil, another with her on her knees, naked, the photo shot from above so he’d have the perfect view of her naked breasts, of the nipples her fingers had squeezed to aching hardness at his specific order.
Then came the request for the first video. He’d sent detailed instructions for how to set up the camera on the tripod. That morning he’d awoken to a five minute video of her doing stretching and calisthenics — naked, of course — her breasts bouncing as she ran in place, her face burning as she touched her toes with her bottom facing the camera.
Now, still sitting in the car, she looked at the phone again.
Was that all for today? No orders? She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
You’re not fooling anyone, slut. Your panties are already soaked.
She got out of the car, two bags of groceries teetering in her arms, and used her ass to close the door. For a moment, her head swam, her stomach flip-flopping with a sudden wave of nausea.
Shit, not now. Please.
Fortunately, it quickly passed — this time — unlike so many other bouts of nausea she had contended with early in the pregnancy. She’d remembered what her mother had told her, years ago:
“I never had morning sickness with any of my kids. I had all-damned-day sickness!”
Like mother, like daughter, apparently.
She was in the kitchen already putting the food away, battling hunger and the entirely contradictory urge to never touch food again, when her phone chimed. She picked it up, reading the text as she opened the fridge, searching for last night’s leftovers.
Dr. Fisher was efficient, kind, and best of all, gentle. But as she pictured the OB’s prim bearing, thin lips and somewhat formal bedside manner, Kirsten thought the chances were slim to none that it would go well if she were to relay some of the questions Keihl likely had. Kirsten thought she’d be the kind of doctor that would refer her without thinking, to a battered women’s shelter if she arrived at a check-up with so much as a bruise on her ass.
His reply was almost instant, making her gulp even as it sent a frisson of pleasure straight to her sex.
She still wondered why he wasn’t calling her for this, but she put that aside for now. Somehow, it should’ve mattered, but it didn’t. It was almost … easier. Perhaps the enforced “remoteness” of the texting helped her in an odd way. Or maybe she was going insane.
She almost typed back a hot-tempered retort, but deleted it. That reaction in her was so ingrained, that defiance, that steel that she used, needed, at work. Here though? With him? It didn’t seem to fit anymore. Now she was more concerned with why her husband issuing orders to her, making her obey him, was making her pussy wet. Even now, her tingling nipples had hardened into stony points at the mere mention of it, of obedience, of the prospect of submitting to his will.
Did that fact comport with, well, anything she’d been raised to think? To feel? Absolutely not. On its face, it seemed diametrically opposed. As she’d looked deeper within herself though, at the needs, the urges, her upbringing had practically trained her to gloss over, even ignore, it was a startling discovery indeed.
She didn’t give a shit anymore about what the “right” thing to do was. She didn’t give a shit about what she was supposed to feel and do. To her mind, feminism was about the choice, the freedom, to be whom — and what — she was.
And apparently that was a woman who practically went into heat every time her husband ordered her around.
What did that really mean though? What did that say about her?
Was this — like so much else she’d been questioning of late — just the pregnancy hormones talking, or was it something else, something more profound? She’d always assumed she’d have a nesting instinct when she got pregnant. Instead, she seemed to have an instinct to curl up at her husband’s feet, her ass raised for both his caresses and his slaps.
“Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered, making the plate of white rice and chicken — one of the few things she hoped wouldn’t trigger her nausea again. She put it in the microwave, set it, and picked up her phone again.
She leaned against the counter, rubbing her neck as she waited for her food to heat, for her husband to reply. For this to all start making some sense.
Of course, he was right, but she wasn’t about to let him know he’d been reading her like a goddamned book.
Her mouth suddenly went dry, heat flashing in her cheeks. He was so quick — and devastatingly effective — at redirecting her attention, at focusing her.
At making sure she behaved.
Behaved? What the fuck?
Her thighs clenched together, hard, the wet heat between them flaring. She either needed to masturbate really, really badly — or Keihl needed to somehow time-warp his ass back across the country and fuck her brains out. Like now.
She froze, reading the words again. How did he know? And why did she like it so much? She still couldn’t answer it. She kept coming back to the whys of it, even as part of her was starting to conclude that it was a question impossible to answer, as if basic instinct, primal urges passed down through the eons, could be explained in concrete terms.