don_jetman
Moderator
HUSBAND (sequel to The Wager, by Alcibade)
(Part 1)
by Alcibade
My name is Linda. You don't know me except through a little
story that my husband told you about a kinky sexual adventure we both
had a little while ago. Peter, my husband, lost a game of scrabble and
had to anty up by agreeing to let me act out any fantasy I wanted. Ever
gracious, I agreed to let him have a turn. (If you don't play fair
occasionally, they get so EXCITED. It's like there are thousands of
these little tiny scales that need to be balanced every minute of every
day, and if one isn't, my god, the male ego simply goes bananas!)
Well, Peter got what he wanted. In retrospect, I think he got a
whole lot more than he wanted. He's been a good sport about it,
though, and I think he's recovered from the experience. One of the
many reasons that I married him was because of his openness to new
things, and his willingness to keep learning and growing throughout
life.
About a week after enacting my fantasy, on a Saturday afternoon,
we were returning home, via a long sight-seeing detour, from shopping
for some new backpacking equipment. Along a deserted stretch of
winding, hilly road, Peter suddenly pulled off next to a stand of large
pine trees. He put the car in park and turned to look at me.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
His blue eyes were sparkling. I knew the look. It meant he was
terribly excited about something, was having a hard time expressing it,
but had finally found the intestinal fortitude to speak his mind.
"No, no. Nothing's wrong, Linda." His right hand dropped to my
leg and began to distractedly toy with the hem of my skirt, and to
scratch gently at my nylons. He looked out over my shoulder into the
distance. "I've decided what I want. For my fantasy, I mean."
There was silence for a few moments.
"It's okay. You can tell me," I prompted him.
He took a deep breath and looked back at me. Peter is a handsome
man and very sexy. I've always been attracted to the "intellectual"
type. I suppose they remind me of my father, who taught at the
university level for many years. Throughout my high-school and college
years, I had a tendency to throw myself at these kinds of men, men who
had some depth below the surface, but whose surface god or nature chose
to create as something less than perfect. I've been told I'm very
attractive, and I suppose I am. So when these young men found
themselves in my arms, their "gratitude," and sometimes even, I think,
amazement that someone like me would find them attractive, manifested
itself in ways that only complicated matters and usually drove me away.
I guess it's a question of personal confidence. I know
firsthand, of course, the problems that women face in a world that puts
such premiums on looks and on unimportant surface things. I have no
doubt that men, too, struggle with this. It's regrettable that so many
men with beautiful and deep souls are often lonely because the world
has made it so difficult for them to acquire enough confidence in
themselves to make them truly attractive to another person. So when
someone like me approaches them, even sleeps with them, self-doubts
keep them from opening up or, even worse, make them cling to and stifle
the other person for fear of losing something they feel they might
never find again.
When I found Peter my senior year in graduate school, though,
everything clicked. Good conversation at a meaningful level (not just
football and basketball statistics), a sharp sense of humor, hot sex,
fun times, you name it. And he's good-looking to boot (he does look
like a college professor. The daddy-syndrome strikes again). He's
tall (6'2") and lanky, and reminds me of a cowboy. While he's very
masculine, he has a strong feminine side that he would deny. His
movements are graceful and self-assured. Blonde hair, gorgeous blue
eyes, well-trimmed beard (I LOVE beards, especially when they're where
they belong, tickling the insides of my thighs and crotch), hairy
chest, long sexy fingers with well-trimmed nails, tight little buns,
and a perfectly sized, proud cock capped with the cutest glans you ever
saw. (I remember, the first time we made love, that he even called it
a "cock." Women, watch out for men who call it their "dick!")
Peter reached over and killed the engine. He took a deep breath
and finally started talking.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking about your fantasy. I guess
I've been struggling to understand and come to terms with why I get so
excited by the idea of you with other men."
I nodded and took his hand. He took a second breath and went on.
"This is hard to say. Years of macho upbringing and all.... Anyway,
part of the turn on was the idea that, by giving you up to someone
else, I'd become submissive to you and to the other man. Look, I know
we've played around with our ropes and the handcuffs and things,
but.... well, I've always been the one in control, Linda. In my
family, you know I was the oldest when my father died. I was in
control then; I felt I had to be. I've been in control in our sex
life, I'm in control at work, I'm always "in control." Don't get me
wrong. I enjoy it very much. There's a part of me that's so damn
competitive.....I've never given that up, or thought of giving it up."
"I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like to explore my
submissive side a little more. I mean, I don't think I'll ever want to
make it a permanent part of my life. But I'm fascinated now, at least
since your fantasy, with that part of sexuality."
As he spoke, his eyes had wandered down to our hands resting in
his lap.
"You want me to be dominant? To take control? I can do that,
darling."
"Yes. Or rather yes and no," he said. He pulled his hands away
and started the engine. "Look, I'm expecting a phone call in a few
hours and we have to be there. I'll tell you more on the way home." He
was so excited he could hardly sit still in his seat.
As we drove, Peter told me more. The phone call was to be from a
man, a stranger. I was to answer the phone. At the point at which I
picked up the phone, Peter's fantasy would begin.
He was speaking in choppy sentences, and hurrying his words. I
noticed he was shivering. I've never seen him so nervous before, even
when he talks, on occasion, before large audiences.
He told me that I was to do whatever was asked of me by the man.
That I would submit totally to this man. That Peter trusted this man.
And that Peter, in turn, would submit totally to the two of us.
Finally, he told me that this fantasy was going to be much more
complex, involved, and prolonged than mine had been.
"Think you're up to it, sweetheart?" he asked.
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes." I looked over at him and put my hand on his warm
shoulder. "I'll do anything you or he asks. I love you, Peter. I've
promised you this and, if this is what you want, I'll make it good for
you. This IS what you want? Are you absolutely sure about it?"
He nodded and smiled. "Yes. I've thought it all out and it's
what I want." There was a brief pause. "At least I think so...."
He turned and gave me a shit-eating grin. I hit him on the
shoulder.
HARD.
(Part 1)
by Alcibade
My name is Linda. You don't know me except through a little
story that my husband told you about a kinky sexual adventure we both
had a little while ago. Peter, my husband, lost a game of scrabble and
had to anty up by agreeing to let me act out any fantasy I wanted. Ever
gracious, I agreed to let him have a turn. (If you don't play fair
occasionally, they get so EXCITED. It's like there are thousands of
these little tiny scales that need to be balanced every minute of every
day, and if one isn't, my god, the male ego simply goes bananas!)
Well, Peter got what he wanted. In retrospect, I think he got a
whole lot more than he wanted. He's been a good sport about it,
though, and I think he's recovered from the experience. One of the
many reasons that I married him was because of his openness to new
things, and his willingness to keep learning and growing throughout
life.
About a week after enacting my fantasy, on a Saturday afternoon,
we were returning home, via a long sight-seeing detour, from shopping
for some new backpacking equipment. Along a deserted stretch of
winding, hilly road, Peter suddenly pulled off next to a stand of large
pine trees. He put the car in park and turned to look at me.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
His blue eyes were sparkling. I knew the look. It meant he was
terribly excited about something, was having a hard time expressing it,
but had finally found the intestinal fortitude to speak his mind.
"No, no. Nothing's wrong, Linda." His right hand dropped to my
leg and began to distractedly toy with the hem of my skirt, and to
scratch gently at my nylons. He looked out over my shoulder into the
distance. "I've decided what I want. For my fantasy, I mean."
There was silence for a few moments.
"It's okay. You can tell me," I prompted him.
He took a deep breath and looked back at me. Peter is a handsome
man and very sexy. I've always been attracted to the "intellectual"
type. I suppose they remind me of my father, who taught at the
university level for many years. Throughout my high-school and college
years, I had a tendency to throw myself at these kinds of men, men who
had some depth below the surface, but whose surface god or nature chose
to create as something less than perfect. I've been told I'm very
attractive, and I suppose I am. So when these young men found
themselves in my arms, their "gratitude," and sometimes even, I think,
amazement that someone like me would find them attractive, manifested
itself in ways that only complicated matters and usually drove me away.
I guess it's a question of personal confidence. I know
firsthand, of course, the problems that women face in a world that puts
such premiums on looks and on unimportant surface things. I have no
doubt that men, too, struggle with this. It's regrettable that so many
men with beautiful and deep souls are often lonely because the world
has made it so difficult for them to acquire enough confidence in
themselves to make them truly attractive to another person. So when
someone like me approaches them, even sleeps with them, self-doubts
keep them from opening up or, even worse, make them cling to and stifle
the other person for fear of losing something they feel they might
never find again.
When I found Peter my senior year in graduate school, though,
everything clicked. Good conversation at a meaningful level (not just
football and basketball statistics), a sharp sense of humor, hot sex,
fun times, you name it. And he's good-looking to boot (he does look
like a college professor. The daddy-syndrome strikes again). He's
tall (6'2") and lanky, and reminds me of a cowboy. While he's very
masculine, he has a strong feminine side that he would deny. His
movements are graceful and self-assured. Blonde hair, gorgeous blue
eyes, well-trimmed beard (I LOVE beards, especially when they're where
they belong, tickling the insides of my thighs and crotch), hairy
chest, long sexy fingers with well-trimmed nails, tight little buns,
and a perfectly sized, proud cock capped with the cutest glans you ever
saw. (I remember, the first time we made love, that he even called it
a "cock." Women, watch out for men who call it their "dick!")
Peter reached over and killed the engine. He took a deep breath
and finally started talking.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking about your fantasy. I guess
I've been struggling to understand and come to terms with why I get so
excited by the idea of you with other men."
I nodded and took his hand. He took a second breath and went on.
"This is hard to say. Years of macho upbringing and all.... Anyway,
part of the turn on was the idea that, by giving you up to someone
else, I'd become submissive to you and to the other man. Look, I know
we've played around with our ropes and the handcuffs and things,
but.... well, I've always been the one in control, Linda. In my
family, you know I was the oldest when my father died. I was in
control then; I felt I had to be. I've been in control in our sex
life, I'm in control at work, I'm always "in control." Don't get me
wrong. I enjoy it very much. There's a part of me that's so damn
competitive.....I've never given that up, or thought of giving it up."
"I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like to explore my
submissive side a little more. I mean, I don't think I'll ever want to
make it a permanent part of my life. But I'm fascinated now, at least
since your fantasy, with that part of sexuality."
As he spoke, his eyes had wandered down to our hands resting in
his lap.
"You want me to be dominant? To take control? I can do that,
darling."
"Yes. Or rather yes and no," he said. He pulled his hands away
and started the engine. "Look, I'm expecting a phone call in a few
hours and we have to be there. I'll tell you more on the way home." He
was so excited he could hardly sit still in his seat.
As we drove, Peter told me more. The phone call was to be from a
man, a stranger. I was to answer the phone. At the point at which I
picked up the phone, Peter's fantasy would begin.
He was speaking in choppy sentences, and hurrying his words. I
noticed he was shivering. I've never seen him so nervous before, even
when he talks, on occasion, before large audiences.
He told me that I was to do whatever was asked of me by the man.
That I would submit totally to this man. That Peter trusted this man.
And that Peter, in turn, would submit totally to the two of us.
Finally, he told me that this fantasy was going to be much more
complex, involved, and prolonged than mine had been.
"Think you're up to it, sweetheart?" he asked.
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes." I looked over at him and put my hand on his warm
shoulder. "I'll do anything you or he asks. I love you, Peter. I've
promised you this and, if this is what you want, I'll make it good for
you. This IS what you want? Are you absolutely sure about it?"
He nodded and smiled. "Yes. I've thought it all out and it's
what I want." There was a brief pause. "At least I think so...."
He turned and gave me a shit-eating grin. I hit him on the
shoulder.
HARD.
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