Lose Your Wife in Three Easy Lessons: The Full Trilogy by Jon Zelig
“I thought I knew what I was doing. I was a practiced ” and well-trained ” a Master. My wife and I had been together for many years ” my personal and treasured property. But this part is rather more difficult for me to confess: I very much thought that I was giving her something that she wanted, perhaps even needed, that I was being considerate in arranging for her to have an affair with another man. Of course, when I say “affair’ that’s a little imprecise in our context. As far as I was concerned, I was “lending her out.’ Clearly I didn’t sufficiently consider the possibility that people don’t always return what they “borrow.'”
“Jill was an open book’ he’d said of his wife. She does as she’s told without hesitation, endures the pain he dishes out, and calls him “Daddy” when she’s scared. She’s his, right? But then there’s Benny. To him “Benny was just an amusement park ride, a crude piece of entertainment machinery: easily started, stopped, calibrated, controlled.’ Only problem, Benny meant something different to Jill.
Includes discipline, domination, bondage, control and M/f graphic sex.
“That would be a little different,” Jill said carefully, appropriately respectful, clearly thinking about the possibility seriously—a little tang of her excitement, however well-tethered, in the air.
I had shared her before.
But that was really quite rare.
I was ambivalent; I thought she had been as well.
And then there were those issues of . . . discretion; we’d always walked the line.
She had absolutely and unconditionally surrendered herself to me.
I had not the faintest doubt that, if I were to give the order, she would walk the length of the local shopping mall nude, save a spiked, black leather, dog collar.
Entirely possible, however, that this would not have been the best career move for a high school guidance counselor.
And—humiliating her?—it will make sense or it won’t but: that was, above all else, personal, private, not a matter of public display, not a show.
That was for in-the-house.
No tattoos; I wasn’t a fan of ink anyway.
No visible piercings.
I had, however, availed myself of the prerogative to decorate her in more intimate places.
And if—as I most certainly did—I pinked or even reddened her on a regular schedule, that was always and only on her back, her buttocks, or her thighs.
I had never caned her until she bled—which I considered barbaric.
I had never bruised her—beyond the day or two it might take her to “un-redden.”
I had never scarred her.
Which is not to say that I had never felt called in that direction—those calls, to be clear, pretty much always coming from her.
Down there in Sub-Space, I knew—I had been trained to understand—it was all too easy to spin out, to let the siren song of submission just completely drown the more rational voices, like: self-preservation.
And then, of course—in addition to In and Out—there was Home and there was Away.
Not quite like sports teams, but . . .
Playing on vacation, on—the Greek island—Mikonos, for example?
Just . . . too much at stake.
She was strapped to our bed: on her back, limbs pulled taut to the corners.
She was nude: sheened in sweat, inner thighs pinked, her breathing almost meditative.
She was so close to cumming that she was beginning to whine—not voluntary, rather a kind of music that I was wringing from her body, a wonderfully sweet sound.
I was stroking her belly, my fingers skipping a little in the sticky perspiration.
I understand: not necessarily where people tend to think most important spousal conversations take place.
I . . . understand; we’re not . . . most couples.
“Would that bring you pleasure?” I asked. “Me giving you to Benny?”
Her buttocks came, ever-so-slightly, off the mattress, as though her pelvis were reaching heavenward, toward some imagined pleasure or paradise—which was its own answer even before she’d said a word.
Her simultaneous moan was piteous and intense—as much with confusion as with either passion or pain.
I kept her shaved, as well as pierced—just the hood, not the clit itself, which I thought potentially dangerous.
Of all the things you would not want to damage . . .
The lips of her cunt were a deep, blood-engorged, red, swollen and parted, a greedy, hungry, little mouth.
I gave her the barest of caresses: just my fingertips on one lip, my thumb on the other.
That was a sweet sound too.
Just something about . . . the music of surrender.
“Do. You. Want. Him?” I asked pointedly.
Her head thrashed back and forth, her mouth slack—the smallest trickles of saliva spilling from the corners—her sounds bordered on disturbing.
That was . . . interesting.
I gave the tiny flicks and strokes and tickles that I knew would reliably put her over the edge.
And those shrieks and sobs and convulsions?
Like a mashup of opera, ballet, and epilepsy.
Just so deeply satisfying . . . to see her satisfied.
The whole point, really.
She was who and what she was, at core, because she knew that she was incapable of attaining that level of pleasure—perhaps even any degree of satisfaction—unless she was . . . forced.
That force was—literally painfully—real.
It took her where she wanted—where she needed—to go.
She went screaming—which was not unusual.
Screaming Benny’s name—over and over and over and over—which was . . . interesting.
I had my answer.