by Trent Evans
“Head of Household?”
Sharon nodded. In one of the most surreal lunch conversations Kirsten could ever remember having, Sharon had boldly suggested Kirsten broach the subject with her husband. At the time, she remembered the shock — and the arousal — she’d felt. But she hadn’t really understood why, the larger context.
The woman seemed to know Kirsten better than she knew herself.
“Yes, I think”—Kirsten flipped a lock of hair out of her eyes—”he’s open to it. Very open to it, judging by how things have gone since. Still…”
“It’s not enough, is it?”
“No,” Kirsten said, her voice soft. “I don’t know why. But no.”
Sharon pursed her lips, twirling the huge sparkling diamond around and around on her slender finger.
“What, um, brought you down here, Sharon?”
It wasn’t as if there was a problem with Sharon visiting her at work, more it was a case of the beautiful woman catching Kirsten… off guard.
Oh so you think she’s beautiful now?
Hormones couldn’t turn a girl bisexual. Could they?
Sharon sat higher in her chair, pulling the gray suit coat she wore a little straighter, white lace just visible underneath. Charming dishabille, was the description that came to mind.
Get a hold of yourself, you horny slut.
“I think you should come have dinner with us. Tom and me.” Sharon locked her gaze with Kirsten. “Both of you.”
“Why — I mean, what would you...?” Kirsten shook her head, putting a hand to her face. “Apparently, even speech is tough for me lately. Does horniness shut down the speech regions of the brain? If it does, I’m in deep shit.”
“There are things you can do about that, you know.” Sharon’s hand stroked down her gleaming leg, adjusting the strap of her heel. “Second trimester for all its pleasures, can be, well, trying. Sometimes when a girl’s man is, ah, indisposed — measures need to be taken.”
Shit.
“Sharon, you’re hot — I’m secure enough to say it.” The words just tumbled out, seemingly of their own volition, consequences be damned. Kirsten swallowed against the dryness of her mouth. “But that’s not me. I like… men.”
Jesus, did she ever like men. Lately, she seemed to “like” every fucking man she laid eyes on.
“I know, I know,” Sharon said, lifting a hand, palm out. “I think you’re missing out, but I respect it. That wasn’t what I was getting at though. I think Keihl would feel less… constrained. If everything is out in the open, between all of us, then maybe he can relax a little bit more. If he’s not worried about — things — then I think he might give you more of what you want. A lot more.”
“I’m not sure he needs any help in that department.”
Sharon lifted a shoulder. “Not saying he does. What I am saying is, given the green light… you might find yourself with more of a tiger than you ever imagined.”
The thought had crossed Kirsten’s mind. What exactly was he thinking about all this? Was it simply indulging his wife’s sexual fantasies? A healthy sharing of intimacy? Or was this tapping into his needs too?
You know the answer to this, Kirsten. He wants this as much as you do.
Did he really know how far, how intense her fantasies went though? She still wasn’t sure. Hell, she didn’t even know how deep those waters ran.
“I don’t think — I don’t think he’s ready for that. Not right now anyway.” Kirsten leaned back in her chair, blowing out a long breath. “Something happened between him and Tom. I don’t know the details, but he — yeah, I’m not sure they’re even talking anymore.”
It was Sharon’s turn for a pretty blush. “That was… my fault. I — I pushed things a little faster than they should’ve gone.”
“He told me about it.” Kirsten fixed the woman with a direct look. “I trust him. I always have. Are you saying I shouldn’t have?”
“Oh, God no.” Sharon shook her head, giving her a sheepish smile. “That’s a good man you have there. Loyal and true. Practically a Boy Scout.”
Boy scouts don’t do to their wives what Keihl’s been doing to me.
“Honestly?” Kirsten sighed. “I think he was worried I thought he’d been — up to something.”
“Man doesn’t know how deep the well goes with his dirty, dirty wife, does he?”
Sharon flashed her a toothsome grin.
“He has no idea. None at all.” Kirsten looked at the shelf next to her desk, reaching out, her finger tracing his picture, caressing the photo of him. “I’m afraid he’d probably call me a whore if I pushed things too far, too fast. You know?”
There were far worse things than her husband simply not touching his pregnant wife. Far worse.
“I do.” Sharon stood, tucking a lock of platinum hair behind an ear, the charming gold hoop dangling from the earlobe catching the light. “I’ve seen it before. But most men? They just need to be… introduced the right way to it. Once they get a taste? Most of them dive right in.”
She turned for the door, opening it.
Kirsten tried to ignore the lithe legs, the way the enviable curves of Sharon’s ass were enhanced by the snug grip of the black skirt.
The blonde beauty stopped in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “Convince him to come to dinner at our place. No pressure — but let him know you’re cool with… whatever happens.” She turned, giving Kirsten a mischievous look, laying a long, slender hand along the door jamb.
“Trust me. He won’t be able to resist.”
Chapter Twenty One
It was even better than he’d imagined. He’d told her months ago he’d have her down there one day, naked, sweating for him.
She still looked back at him every few minutes, her eyes wide, her fetching blush rising.
He loved every second of this.
“Faster, girl.” He raised his palm up. “No slacking.”
The whine of the treadmill increased as the beeps sounded, her no doubt trembling finger upping the speed of the motor.
Keihl had to remember to breathe as he sat there, his cock painfully hard, watching her work. For him.
Her buttocks flexed and jiggled, tightened and wobbled, as she walked on. At first, she walked in a sort of hunched over position, the exposure of her charms too much for her. But after a few minutes, once she’d acclimated to it, she straightened, occasionally flicking the ponytail of her dark hair free just as she would at any normal gym.
But this gym was far, far from normal. More ideas flooded in as he scanned the rest of the basement, his eyes always coming back to that gorgeous naked bottom that fairly cried out to him for caresses and spanks, kisses and lashes. Between bouts of hypnotic perusal of her round, bouncing buttocks, he looked over at the frame for the squat rack, the chrome finish gleaming even under the dull brightness of the fluorescents. He had an idea for that, but he needed to research it further, make sure it was safe. It was the sweetest form of research, a perverted scholarship he enjoyed just as much as the acts that resulted from it.
The arousal from simply watching her, in silence, was more than he’d ever anticipated. Certainly, her gorgeous, naked body always got him going, but there was something more than that here. It was the simple obedience she’d shown. He’d ordered her down here, onto the treadmill, and with a loud slap to her ass, he’d said a simple: “Get going.”
Not one word in retort from her, nor any hesitation. The motor had started up before he’d even sat down in the chair he’d placed behind the treadmill, resting his foot on the dark plastic of the frame.
It didn’t take long though before his arousal rose to the boiling point, the temptation of that vulnerable, now sweating, obedient female too much to resist.
He rose and made his way over to the tall white cabinet they used to store the small equipment — dumbbells, jump rope, Swiss balls, it was all a jumble in there.
Or it had been.
He opened the cabinet, look
ing back at her. She watched him, rapt, bright color high in her cheeks, a glimmer of sweat in the soft well just above her red upper lip.
Keihl threw the door wide, Kirsten’s gasp just loud enough to be heard above the whine of the treadmill’s motor. He’d sunk several hooks into the inside plane of the cabinet door. There were some new items inside the cabinet now, and they were certainly not what one would term “exercise” equipment. His fingers caressed the lengths of black and red leather hanging from hooks. He looked back at her as he lifted the length of the thick phallus on his palm.
“I made some improvements to the accessories in this gym. Do you like them?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her voice was almost a croak, and she cleared her throat. “I-I don’t think those are going help melt the fat from my thighs though.”
Keihl smiled. “Your thighs aren’t fat, my dear, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
He pulled the flogger out, the red and black leather of the falls, swaying back and forth. Before he closed the door, he slipped the riding crop from its hook too.
He wasn’t sure if Kirsten’s sharp intake of breath was from exertion — or fright.
Keihl still wasn’t completely used to the feel of the heavy, braided handle of the flogger — but it definitely felt right, the weight of it perfectly balanced. He remembered the day he’d opened the box in the quiet shadows of their living room, pleased to see Kirsten hadn’t made it home before he had. He’d tested the flogger out on the seat cushion of their recliner, the sound of it startling, the waves of thin crazy lines the falls left on the upholstery instantly getting him hard. He’d never think to strike her that hard with them — at least not now — but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to try giving her a really hard stroke with it one day. The crop had been much easier, all the weight in the handle, the small flapper at the end so light that it didn’t spoil his aim at all. The flex of it was surprising — he could bend it literally double, and it would spring right back to its straight, lethal form. Remarkable. When he’d pulled it from the packaging, he’d impulsively tested the crop on his leg, hitting harder than he’d intended, and even through the fabric of his slacks, leaving a swelling, throbbing weal along his calf so painful, he’d almost cried out.
It was a lesson he was glad he’d learned on himself, rather than on his beautiful wife.
Her big brown eyes followed him as he sauntered back from the cabinet, the flogger tucked under an arm, the crop slicing through the air in front of him, a dramatic gesture that had her drawing a quick, breast heaving breath.
“You didn’t know?”
He suspected she hadn’t seen them in there before, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to hide the new implements either.
The slow shake of her head and her frightened liquid gaze sent a new surge of lust through him, his balls tingling with it, the muscles of his body tense with arousal.
Be careful, Keihl.
Standing behind her once again, not saying a word, he drank in her trepidation, looking up to meet her eyes each time she looked back at him. He could smell her scent now, a combination of her clean feminine sweat, and the sharper, earthier note of her arousal. He took a step toward her, bending close, running a finger down the inside of one pumping thigh, touching a stretch of skin bright with slickness. She jerked, startled, then found her pace once more. He ran a fingertip through the clear liquid that was thicker than her sweat, and far more fragrant.
“Scared or not, you like this, don’t you?”
Her whole body tensed, her feet almost stamping the spinning belt of the treadmill.
“Answer me.”
Her voice broke a little. “I don’t… know.”
Keihl moved to the front of the machine, holding up the gleaming fingertip, wet with the proof of her shame. “Do you think this is sweat?”
Her eyes stared forward defiantly.
Yes.
“Look at me, girl.”
She met his gaze, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
He held the finger to her lips. “You know what to do.”
The wet tongue flicked out, tasting, pausing, then taking his finger into her mouth, her bright eyes upon him the whole time.
“Now tell me, bad girl. Does that taste like sweat to you?”
Her blush flamed red, spreading up into her hair and down her neck, her eyes squeezing tight for a moment, her tongue working along him.
“I didn’t think so.” He pulled his finger from her lips. “Your cunt is dripping, girl.”
Her head drooped for a moment, then she took a deep, shuddering breath, lifted her chin, staring straight ahead once more.
Keihl moved to her side, taking in the bounce of her breasts, the way the long muscles of her thighs worked as she walked. His hand stroked the curve of her belly, and Kirsten sighed, her hand covering his. She looked down at him, her teeth worrying her lower lip. He pressed a kiss to her warm hip, giving her a wink. She smiled then, bringing the back of his hand to her lips, her soft kiss making his cock throb.
“My beautiful girl,” he murmured, stroking the curve of her hip with the loose falls of the flogger. She tensed, her gaze snapping forward once more. “You fear this, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.” She grasped the bar ahead of her with both hands as if to steady herself for what might come next. “You’ve never… used something like that. On me.”
“No time like the present, right?”
Kirsten shuddered.
“But not while you’re on this thing.” He stroked the handle of the flogger across the underside of her bottom. She drew in a sharp breath as he lifted each plump buttock in turn on the braided leather, glorying in the wobble of her flesh as he let each cheek drop. “Too dangerous to flog this pretty ass while you’re walking.” He gave her a light smack with the handle. “I’m a patient man though.”
A longer beep sounded from the treadmill, the belt slowing to a crawl. Kirsten looked over at him, sweat beading on her forehead, one eyebrow raised.
“Do what you’d normally do,” he said, giving her a grin. “I’ll just watch you for now. I’ll let you know if I want something different.” He slapped her thigh with the flogger. “Now move.”
She moved immediately to the elliptical, the motion of the machine exposing her sex in a way that had her blushing anew, made worse when he squatted down in front of her to get a better look. He imagined the way her slick labia must have felt sliding together that way. He loved how dark and swollen her pussy was now, the hue of her lips making him want to press his hand to them to feel their heat.
What are you waiting for?
Kirsten sighed, her thighs opening ever so slightly as his palm cupped the burning lips of her sex. He worked the heel of his hand against her clit as he looked up at her.
“I think I’ll flog this sometime, too,” he said. “Would you like that, girl?”
The shake of her head send a drop of sweat onto the metal housing of the machine’s motor.
“But you’d let me do it anyway, wouldn’t you?”
Her cheeks paled. “You wouldn’t…”
“If I thought you needed it, you bet your sweet, round ass I would.” He held up the flogger, running his fingers through the deceptively soft leather of the falls. “It’s amazing what this thing can do. Especially for a wet, needy pussy like the one I see right now.”
Her face paled, her gaze meeting his, then snapping forward once more.
“Are you saying you won’t let me? That I have no right?”
Her head drooped, reluctance seeping from every pore. “No, Sir.”
“Good.” He patted the seething heat of her sex. “Something to look forward to then.”
Keihl wasn’t even sure he’d do it, but he’d watched it done. More online research. The video he’d found was riveting; he’d lost track of how many times he’d replayed the damned thing.
Now as he stared at the dusky swollen lips of her sex, her moisture glistening along th
e seam, he imagined how she’d cry out when those leather falls licked fire across that soft, vulnerable pussy. Would her cries be pleasure? Pain? Or confusing mixture of both? He had to be careful of course — especially in her state of heightened sensitivity — but that was what made the flogger so suited to it. It could be anything from a soft caress to tines of fire.
And sweetest of all, it was all up to him, all within his control. Just where he wanted her to be.
By the time she quit the elliptical, she poured with sweat, her scent strong now. He inhaled of it deeply, loving it — and making sure she saw him do it, knowing how much it made her self-conscious. It was one of the little things that were so much sweeter now that they’d explored The Game deeper. The pleasures of her mortification, the joys of his submissive wife’s embarrassment. Perhaps one might think him evil, twisted, that he enjoyed her distress. There was a time when he’d have thought the same thing too, but they’d come too far, discovered too much about themselves — and accepted the truth of what they were.
She wanted, needed, his control, even his punishment. And he wanted, needed to control her, to punish her. Two halves of a dark, twisted whole to be sure, but it didn’t make any of it any less true, any less real. The hardest part of this journey — for both of them — had been accepting that truth, that acknowledgment of desires, or urges, that some would label twisted, even deviant.
Now, neither one of them cared what others thought. The only thing that mattered was the journey they were still on, the path they still walked — and what lay at the end of it. Neither of them knew what lay at the end, of course, but he knew both of them needed, hungered, to find out what it was.
Sitting on his chair, Keihl had to remind himself to breathe as he watched his beautiful wife pull the padded mat over to the middle of the floor, her glance sliding toward him every now and then. He had to bite his fist as she began her yoga, first sitting cross-legged with her back toward him, her pale buttocks pressed to the mat, her lush thighs spread to either side, her ribcage expanding as she inhaled deeply. She held that for a minute or two, then stood, her wet sex and the cleft of her buttocks yawning open for a moment as she moved. She stretched toward the ceiling, her bottom still turned toward him, the glorious, slim muscles of her back moving, the cords of her hamstrings taut.