Michael

by Marilize Roos

  “I won’t coerce you into anything,” Michael said softly. “Submission is freely given. As we discussed, I intend to have sexual contact with Judith, now and in future. If you’ve changed your mind, your safeword is ‘red’; your marriage is more important than my feelings. Better to say so now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan said. “I understand.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said. “I also understand that sexual contact between the two of us,“ he wagged a finger between himself and Tristan, “is a hard limit for you; I will respect that. If you feel uncomfortable in any of our interactions, you can say ‘yellow’, and we can discuss and adjust.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Michael nodded. “Then… I am going down to the basement to set a few things up. In ten minutes, I expect you both to come down the stairs. You will be completely naked.”

  Tristan tensed. Why naked?

  Michael’s eyes speared him. “Give me a colour.”

  “Yellow.”

  “I know your hard limits. I can’t beat you over your clothes. Just trust me, or don’t come down the stairs. Up to you, and I won’t hold it against you.”

  Tristan closed his eyes and fought to calm the storm inside him.

  “Tristan?” He opened his eyes when Judith slipped her hand into his. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do this at all if you don’t want to. But won’t you always wonder?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “Ten minutes, undress, come downstairs. Kneel and wait patiently for me,” Michael stood, then left Tristan and Judith alone in the kitchen.

  Judith stood and gathered the breakfast dishes, and after a quick rinse in the sink, stacked them in the dishwasher. She stopped beside Tristan and bent down to kiss him. “I love you.” She took his hand and pulled him gently to his feet, then led him to the den.

  She closed the blinds, and the two of them undressed, folding and leaving their clothes neatly on the couch. Tristan hesitated to remove his underwear. “What is it?” She whispered. She stepped closer to him, and her eyes went down to where he was hardening in his boxer briefs. She cupped his cock through the thin fabric, making it stand at full attention. “Is that for me, Baby?” she murmured and kissed him gently.

  Yes, that must be it. “Yes, Sweetheart.”

  “Well, don’t be shy,” she gave him a kittenish smile. She slipped her fingers in under the waistband of his boxer briefs and pushed them down his hips. His dick sprang free, and he groaned at the sensation. She folded his underwear and tucked them in underneath his folded jeans. “Time to go downstairs,” she whispered.

  She took his hand and headed for the door to the basement that was standing open in invitation. They headed down, still holding hands, and saw that Michael was waiting for them, feet braced shoulder width apart, and arms folded across his chest, watching them silently. He didn’t greet them, or smile, and when they stepped foot on the basement floor, he nodded to two foam yoga mats, one black, one charcoal, that were set out beside each other in the middle of the floor, facing the centre of the room.

  “Each of you, kneel on a yoga mat. From now on, that is your mat, and whenever you come into the playroom for a scene, you will go directly to that mat to wait for me. Do so now.”

  Judith squeezed Tristan’s hand, then released it and headed for the charcoal mat. She lowered herself to her knees, thighs together and after a moment of indecision, she folded her hands in her lap. At a raised eyebrow from Michael, Tristan headed for the other mat and copied her pose.

  A small tap on Tristan’s knee drew his attention. Michael had picked up a crop, and was using it to adjust their position. “Spread your knees wide. Grip your elbows behind your back.” Tristan spread his knees; his cock bobbed, and his balls swayed heavily between his thighs, sending an electric thrill of arousal zinging up his spine. “Wider,” Michael said quietly, tapping again with the crop on the inside of his thigh.

  With his arms crossed behind his back, the posture pushed his chest out. A glance at Judith, who was copying the pose, showed her breasts put on display; he was sure her pussy was as visible as his cock, and the thought excited him further.

  “Eyes down, head bowed. You don’t pay attention to anything else I may do in the rest of the room; You don’t look at each other.” Michael circled around them, his hard boot heels ringing on the hard floor. “This mat is your quiet space. When you’re on this mat, you clear your mind of stress. Worries. Responsibilities. Noise. Shame. You’re no longer in charge of making those decisions. When you’re on this mat, you are to clear your mind of everything; think of it as a form of meditation. This is where you wait for me – physically and mentally.”

  That sounds like heaven, Tristan thought. Well, except for the ‘naked’ part.

  “Yes, sir,” Judith said.

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan said, and strangely, he did feel better.

  Michael walked away, leaving them on their own. Tristan had the urge to hold Judith’s hand, but resisted. Instead, he cast his eyes downward, and finding even the floor too distracting to look at, he closed his eyes.

  Michael’s uneven footsteps as he moved around the room, even the scrape of a chair on the cement floor, faded into background noise.

  How wonderful would it be to let go of his stresses? One by one he catalogued the stressors in his life, and one by one he carried them up the stairs in his imagination and left them with his clothes in the den. Next time, now that he knew what to expect, he’d leave them there before coming downstairs. Even being naked brought an unexpected kind of freedom.

  Dimly, he became aware of Michael’s footsteps coming closer until they stood before him. He resisted the urge to look up at him, but he subtly shifted his focus. Tristan felt Michael’s hand gently threading his fingers through his hair and he nearly groaned with pleasure. Michael stepped back.

  “You may look at me.”

  Tristan blinked his eyes open and saw Michael standing one step away, between him and Judith. He’d put down the crop, and was instead standing with his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

  “You’re both doing so well,” he murmured. Michael looked at him. “You’re not to move or break position. Your job is to watch until I release you. When Judith’s scene is done, and we’ve done our aftercare, I’ll attend to your beating.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan said. His mouth felt dry, his tongue slightly swollen.

  “Good boy,” Michael said, and even if logically, Tristan knew he should be outraged at how condescending it sounded to be called a boy, he felt a rush of pleasure at the praise.

  Michael turned to Judith, and Tristan turned his head slightly to see her. Her face looked calm and serene. With a last caress of her scalp, Michael turned and walked to a ladder-back chair he’d put down five paces away.

  He sat down, and spreading his knees slightly for balance, resting his hands on his thighs, Michael fixed his stare on Judith. “Come, Judith.”

  Tristan watched, transfixed, as his wife rose gracefully and walked to their Dom. Before she could sink back to her knees, he took her hand and guided her to lay face-down over his lap, her hips over his right thigh, and her toes and hands on the ground.

  Michael wrapped his left arm around her waist, holding her secure, then proceeded to rub her exposed buttocks slowly with the palm of his right. Crack! His palm slapped her left buttock, then slowly, sensuously rubbed the sting out. Crack! The right cheek rippled.

  None of the smacks were hard. They weren’t anywhere near the intensity Tristan craved. The focus seemed to be more on the rubbing than the spanking, and by the fourth or fifth spank, Judith was moaning.

  Tristan’s cock bobbed heavy and hard between his thighs at the sight of his wife over Michael’s thighs.

  “Does that feel good, little one?” Michael murmured. Judith moaned, and Michael reached down to caress up the inside of her thighs to her pussy. His fingers came away glistening. “You’re wet, Princess.”

  Tristan slipped out of his sub
missive trance and tensed. He and Judith had both been virgins on their wedding day. No other man had ever been inside his wife, and possessiveness roared through him at the sight of his wife moaning while another man fingered her. His arousal fled.

  This is your fault! He berated himself.

  You agreed to this.

  So what if he’s doing it with your permission? She’s your wife, dammit!

  Too late to back out now; you’ve practically given her away.

  Perhaps, if you’d been able to satisfy your wife, she wouldn’t have had to turn to another man to see to her needs.

  She doesn’t want you anymore; she wants the Dom with the magic fingers.

  How long till she’ll serve you with divorce papers? You deserve it.

  For the next twenty minutes, Tristan endured watching Judith moan and writhe for Michael, the Dom’s right hand alternately fingering and spanking her, until she came, shrieking and shaking with his fingers deep inside her pussy. Tristan’s hands were fisted by his sides, instead of gripping his elbows behind his back. He thought he’d chip a tooth, his jaw was so tense.

  “Shh, Princess,” Michael cooed at her, helping her to stand. When she was off his lap, he rose as well, then led her to the couch where he pulled her to sit on his lap. He’d left a throw folded over the arm of the couch, and he wrapped it around her shoulders before tucking her in under his chin. “I’ve got you, Princess,” he crooned.

  Michael looked at Tristan. Michael must have seen the signs of Tristan’s agitation. “Tristan, would you like to join us on the couch?”

  “No, I don’t,” Tristan bit out. Michael’s brows came down in a frown. Judith flinched in Michael’s arm, the spell broken by Tristan’s outburst. “I like how you’re inviting me to join in my wife’s aftercare, as if I need an invitation.”

  “Tristan…” Michael warned. “Keep it together. We’ll discuss this later.”

  Tristan gave a bitter chuckle and shook his head. “I can’t do this.” He lurched to his feet and stumbled from the basement. He didn’t have a destination in mind; all he knew, was he had to get out of here.

  “Tristan!” Judith’s distressed cry halted him. He glanced over his shoulder to see her struggling to free herself of the blanket wrapped around her. Michael fought to hold her on his lap; even in his furious state, Tristan recognized that Judith would have fallen if not for the Dom’s hold on her, and some of his fury dissolved into sadness and a profound sense of loss. He turned and fled, pulling on his trousers as quickly as possible as soon as he reached the den, not even bothering with shirt or shoes.

  His keys were still in his jeans pocket, and he fled out the door for his car.

  ~*~

  Michael didn’t swear often, but… “’Fuck!”

  He’d throttle Tristan. Tan hide off his ass in long strips, for what he’d done to Judith.

  Outwardly, he had to maintain a calm demeanour. For Judith. His sub, who was devastated by her husband’s reaction. It was an impossible situation. He needed to go after Tristan, but Judith needed him more. She was feeling vulnerable after the intimate over-the-knee spanking, and Tristan had hit an unintended bull’s eye straight to Judith’s heart. He’d have to deal with Tristan later; for now, he had to console a crying sub.

  Michael banded his arms tightly around Judith’s body, trapping her arms and holding her tight to his chest. “Shh,” He crooned. “Shh, calm down, Princess.”

  “I have to go to him!” Judith wailed. “What have I done? Dear God, did I just destroy my marriage?”

  “Shh, no, you didn’t,” Michael rocked her gently on his lap. His thigh ached, but he ignored it. He tucked her head in under his chin and kept the blanket wrapped tightly around her arms, swaddling her in fleece all the way up to her ears. The front door slammed, echoing through the basement like a pistol shot.

  She sobbed in his arms, and Michael’s fury grew by the minute. The ungrateful jackass had everything Michael wanted, and he was fucking it up.

  Eventually, Judith’s sobbing calmed. Michael fed her chocolate, even when she said she didn’t feel like it. He just pressed it to her lips, and punctuated it with a ‘doctor’s orders’, which made her smile and open her mouth like a baby bird so he could put a square in her mouth.

  She drank the water obediently, and when she’d cried herself out to exhaustion, he’d roused her enough to stand and head up the stairs. He dressed her, then followed her up to the guest room. He tucked her in like a child, pulling the duvet up to her ears and kissing her gently on her forehead. “Sleep, Princess,” he said.

  “It’s still early,” she protested.

  “I know – nap anyway.”

  “But what if Tristan comes home?”

  Michael felt a pang when Judith called his house ‘home’. He sat on the edge of the bed beside Judith, and bracing one hand on the bed, he ran his hands gently through her hair. “I’ll wait for him,” Michael promised.

  “Okay,” she said. She closed her eyes, and minutes later her breaths evened out. Michael kept carding his fingers through her hair for several more minutes, then left her room quietly.

  ~*~

  Tristan had driven almost all the way home before his conscience caught up to him. What’s your plan, Genius? You left Judith behind. After you promised both of them you wouldn’t freak out again.

  You have no-one to blame but yourself.

  You agreed to everything that happened in that basement.

  It was you who couldn’t handle it.

  Tristan pulled over on the side of the road two blocks from his house, the engine still running.

  Once again, he’d reacted, and hadn’t thought. Only, this time, it wouldn’t be so easy to beg forgiveness; from his wife or his Dom.

  He wasn’t so sure he deserved forgiveness. And it was most likely he’d just ruined his marriage. He’d made promises he couldn’t keep.

  A tap at the window brought him back to the present. A beggar removed his hat, holding out a faded fast-food paper cup. Tristan looked down; he hadn’t taken his wallet in his flight from the house. Hell, he hadn’t even bothered grabbing a shirt or shoes, he didn’t have his phone, and if a traffic officer pulled him over, he’d be fined for driving without a licence. Tristan shook his head ruefully, then flicked on the indicator to make a U-turn and head back in the direction he’d come from.

  He made the trip back to Michael’s house, metaphorical tail between his legs, much slower than his flight from the house had been. He punched in the code at the front gate, and the gates swung open. He rolled down the paved driveway and parked under the blue gums.

  It was several moments before he could bring himself to turn the key in the ignition to kill the engine; when he did, the fan working overtime under the hood to cool the engine whirred for several more minutes, only to leave him in unsettling silence once it also switched off.

  He stared at his knuckles where he gripped the steering wheel. If his marriage really was over, it was time to find out for certain. He climbed out the car and closed the door, not bothering to lock it. He trudged towards the front door, and strangely, it swung open at his touch. He’d been gone less than an hour; surely it’d been enough time to lock him out.

  “I didn’t think you’d come back,” Michael said coldly. Tristan turned to see him leaning a shoulder against the wall at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest. “You certainly couldn’t leave here fast enough.”

  Tristan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He cast his eyes down. “I’m sorry… sir. I was wrong.”

  Michael stayed silent for several uncomfortable seconds, not giving him an inch. “This won’t work. It can’t work. You’re right – you’re not a submissive. You’re a possessive, vanilla male, and you have every right to be; she’s your wife. I should have known it would blow up in our faces; I should never have agreed to any of this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Tristan whispered. “I promised I wouldn’t freak out, and here I did it agai
n.”

  “At this point, that’s irrelevant,” Michael said. “I hereby terminate this arrangement. I’m no longer your Dom; I don’t think you were ever really my sub. Now go comfort your wife; she’s been inconsolable, thinking she did something wrong.”

  Michael turned, heading down the hallway. Before Tristan could reach the top of the stairs, Michael’s bedroom door had shut, and Tristan could hear the key turn in the lock.

  Tristan stared after where Michael had gone. He hadn’t expected the feeling of loss at Michael’s disappointment, and the key in the lock said it all; Tristan was no longer welcome.

  With leaden feet, he knocked softly on the guest room door. When there was no answer, he tried the handle, and the door swung open silently on smooth hinges.

  Judith slept on his side of the bed, facing the door and hugging his pillow to her chest. Her skin was porcelain-pale, her eyes and nose red-rimmed and swollen. Tristan slipped carefully between the sheets so as not to wake her, and wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her to him. He nuzzled her hair and breathed in the scent of her shampoo.

  She stirred. Soon she turned around to face him; when she saw him, she clung to him. Her tears flowed freely, and he couldn’t make out anything she said, except the word ‘sorry’, over and over. He held her to him as she sobbed and cried. He didn’t pry her arms from around his waist, and he didn’t shy away from the tears and snot she leaked on his bare chest.

  “Please don’t leave me?” She gasped in between sobs. “Please, don’t leave me. I’m so sorry – please forgive me. I love you so much.”

  “Shh,” he crooned over and over. “I’m so sorry, Baby. It’s all my fault. You did nothing wrong. No, I won’t leave you. I love you, Sweetheart.”

  When she’d cried herself into exhaustion again and slipped off into sleep, Tristan lay holding her, idly stroking her hair for hours.

  His guilt was gnawing at his gut, whispering condemnation in his ear. Accusations, recriminations, indictments…