A Three Trilogy BDSM Bundle

Excerpt

“Rob! Quiet!” my wife hissed, her face a mask of anxiety. “She’ll hear you!”

I tried to lower my voice but—never mind anxiety—I was genuinely frightened; having lost control of my life, the fact that I couldn’t control my voice seemed more like an ironic detail: slightly funny, slightly sad.

Able to tamp down the volume, if only a little, there was no way I could erase the tremble.

“We have to do something,” I warbled. “This is getting out of control.”

“Getting?”

Now whose voice was too loud?

“Jayce, we have to do something,” I repeated lamely.

Here’s the fantasy: You’re happily married, both you and your wife professionally successful, your family unit financially well-off; with the birth of your first child, you both take a couple of months off work; in addition—triple coverage is always better than double coverage—you hire an au pair; she’s Scandinavian, young, smart, and gorgeous; you start a discrete affair with her; then your wife merrily joins in and you share a few months of threesomes and other debauchery; then the au pair leaves, you go back to work, the kid goes into daycare.

You live happily ever after.

That’s not how it happened.

My wife looked good—she almost always looked good to me—but she was in a bit of disarray, hair loose and a little wild, eyes frantic, the top of her short white nightie becoming blotchy and transparent with the milk leaking from her breasts.

In stark comparison: I was completely nude.

What she wore and what I didn’t?

Neither of those had been our own choices.

“We need a plan!” she said to me urgently.

Yes.

We did.

And then I heard the door open—and knew, without a hint of a doubt, that things were about to get so much worse.

I knew what I would see before I turned to look; it was hard to make my neck move.

Governess Svar was standing in the doorway to our bedroom, hairbrush in one hand—her “weapon of choice,” always at the ready—and, for reasons that wouldn’t be clear for a quick minute, a cell phone in the other.

Her expression was bland.

I had learned to fear “bland” more than “angry.”

When she was angry, she worked to tether herself; when she looked bland, it meant that she had already mapped out a cascade of actions and consequences—to be meted out with precision and intensity.

“So,” she said flatly.

Not an au pair.

Not a young woman—although she was very attractive—had perhaps thirty years on my wife and me.

She was Swedish though, something we had initially found somehow reassuring.

She’d “come to us” via my mother-in-law, Helene, a high-powered academic researcher in biochemistry: efficient in everything that she did; scary to me, in too many ways to list just now.

“You will be wondering about my name,” Svar had said crisply, her first words on entering the house. “It is Swedish—” she began.

“Well, I rather assumed—” I started to joke.

My apologies for the cliché: She froze me in an instant with her ice-blue gaze.

Maybe that’s when it really started?

In the first forty seconds of our interaction?

I felt the panic of an adolescent boy who has made some sort of terrible etiquette error in the presence of a powerful and beautiful older woman.

Knowing that there was no “taking back” the words, I felt first a frantic desire to apologize, then—given the utter inadequacy of that response—I felt a shudder of masochistic desire ripple through my body: I wanted her to punish me.

She spoke slowly, holding my gaze.

“It is a word,” she said, “my name. In Swedish, it means ‘answer.’”

I felt certain, without looking, that my wife was feeling something oddly similar to what I was feeling.

“You are the answer,” she said, voice a little breathy.

“You will call me Governess Svar,” she said, shifting to gaze at my wife, who looked—apologies for cliché #2—like a deer caught in the headlights.

Not, “can.”

Not, “may.”

Will.

We’d both nodded in immediate acquiescence.

And now, in our bedroom, caught, we stood before her, silent and guilty, waiting.

“You were not, perhaps, plot-ting, were you? That would be most unseemly,” she said dryly.

“No! We just came in here to—”

Looking absolutely terrified, my wife couldn’t even quite bring herself to come up with a reasonable lie.

Governess Svar cut her off.

Holding the cell phone up, screen pointing toward us, she thumbed a button, showed us a grainy video clip of … ourselves, just moments before.

“Out. Of. Control?” she said slowly, pursing her lips as if tasting something sour. “You will go get her bowl,” she said, cutting her eyes to me for a moment. Turning her attention back to my wife, she simply pointed to our bed. “Your position,” she said crisply, then, not looking at me again, “Go!”

I heard my wife swallow a sob as I scurried to the kitchen to comply.

I returned quickly with the specified large metal bowl, to find Jayce where I knew she would be: on her hands and knees on our bed, arms at full extension, head hanging loosely between her shoulders, hair curtaining off her face.

Governess Svar made an indication with her chin.

Placing the metal bowl beneath her swollen and swaying breasts, I tore Jayce’s nightie down the back, from neck to hem, then tore the arm holes as well, rendering it a rag, fully exposing her.

Another gesture of Svar’s chin and I immediately went to the nearest corner of the room and positioned myself facing it, my leaky erection dabbing the wall with a small sticky stain, mortifying evidence, to myself, first and foremost, of how exciting I—how exciting we—found both our larger predicament and the now-familiar ritual in which we were obediently participating: employers subservient to our nominal employee; children in thrall to their governess.

I heard the sound of medical exam gloves being snapped on.

My wife was tearily crooning an incoherent babble of apology, fear, and passion; not permitted to look, I knew that the tremble in her voice wracked her entire body.

I heard the slow, soft, sound of Governess Svar approaching the bed.

“And so?” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

I heard Jayce murmur the required plea for “relief.”

Then I began to hear the sound of milk, first dripping, then squirting, into the bowl.

I’d only seen her do this a few times, but the image had been burned into my consciousness: Governess Svar’s powerful hands, milking my wife; one breast at a time, methodical, relentless; she would start by encircling each breast at the base, squeezing tightly and pulling downward, toward the areolae, where she switched her grip to use only her thumb and index finger; when she got to the nipples—which seemed, in recent weeks, to be elongating—she used only the tips of finger and thumb, pinching hard as she pulled.

I don’t—

I can’t—

There is no … explaining: How? Why?

I don’t know; I haven’t been able to explain any of this to myself.

I “left my body” for some period of time, “returning” to hear the last few drops of milk extracted.

And the familiar sound of Velcro.

My erection throbbed painfully.

Governess Svar’s strap-on wasn’t too-too big—though she made a regular point of underscoring that it was bigger than my cock—and she wore it outside her clothing, over her skirt, at least in that context: exposing us completely; exposing herself not at all.

There was the sound of hairbrush on flesh, as she slapped my wife’s ass briskly to re-position her; there was the creak of the bed; and then the only sounds in the world were those of my wife being fucked through several orgasms: her yelping, moaning, eventually screaming herself hoarse; Governess Svar’s skirt-covered hips slamming into the backs of Jayce’s naked thighs; the slick music of pistoning; finally, the transformation of my wife’s breathing into an agonized, rhythmic, forced, wheezing, as—pounded until she collapsed onto her belly—the air was driven from her lungs with every thrust, until Governess Svar gave her own triumphant shriek of passion and pleasure.

Her head would be thrown back at that moment, I knew: a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead; tightly braided blonde hair, coiled, pinned up, and perfect; eyes and mouth fully open, her face a rictus of angry pleasure and triumph, a Viking Queen relishing her conquest; an iron grip on Jayce’s hips not yet loosened.

For a few moments, there was quiet, just people trying to recover and control their breathing.

The bed creaked again; I heard the gloves removed; there was a crisp finger snap. Turning as I fell to my knees, I closed my eyes and dutifully licked the strap-on clean of my wife’s juices.

I remained in that position after she’d withdrawn from my mouth.

There was the swish of skirts and Governess Svar, along with the bowl of milk, was gone.

“I will go feed the baby,” she murmured, as she swept from the room.

Opening my eyes, I arose slowly, took in the ravaged figure on the bed: her pale buttocks blotched pink, where the hairbrush had landed—the blows accompanied by Governess Svar’s disdainful biting off of the words “plot-ting” and “dis-hones-ty!”—a new overlay of finger-shaped bruises beginning to bloom on her hips.

Jayce looked unspeakably beautiful to me, and I was painfully hard, dizzy with excitement—with the amalgamated feelings of confusion and humiliation.

This shouldn’t turn me on!

This shouldn’t turn her on!

Taking the few steps it took to get to the bed, I reached out my hand, lightly traced my fingers over her sweaty back.

She flinched, head jerking up, looking directly at the digital clock on the nightstand.

“Noooo,” she whined weakly.

I nodded.

“Right,” I said glumly. “Smile: You’re on Candid Camera!”

Video.

Of course there was video.

After all: That was part of how the whole thing had really started.