don_jetman
Moderator
Thoughts On Her Surrender
by Don Jetman
~Day One~
It's always like this now when we visit him. L sits beside him when he picks us up at the airport. I sit in the back of his car and listen to them flirt. It's been a long time between visits, and I can sense the heat between them.
There are rules now, made so many visits ago I can't remember when. She stops and undresses without being told, just inside his front door, handing each piece of clothing to him as she gets naked. A while ago it was her blouse and jeans, or shorts in the summer. Then her bra and panties. Lately, before we leave home, we go shopping for a light summer dress, something innocent and housewifey but thin enough to show off her figure when the sunlight shines through it. If only the men at the airport who stare knew who and what we were flying to meet.
Watching her shed the dress is somehow sexier than anything I've seen. After undoing just a few buttons or a zipper, it falls to the floor and she's suddenly standing in her underwear just feet from him. She stoops to pick it up and hands it over like a wife peeling away any pretense that she's shy about it. She does it like it's her duty now, never pausing to show a second of modesty.
Her arms go behind her back and her bra falls away as she shrugs it down her bare arms, perfect breasts jostling as she places it in his waiting hand. She slides her panties down her thighs and off her feet. A simply routine task now. But her nipples are hard, and at that instant I know how much she's missed him, how much she wants him. Her face tilts up to stare into his eyes.
He smiles, takes her by the shoulders, and kisses her. She kisses back. I see their mouths open, their tongues wrestling and stabbing at each other. She rises up on her toes and puts her arms around his neck, and I wait for them to finish. It seems like forever. Just like he's planned.
He takes her hand and leads her upstairs. He'll shave her, bare as the day she was born. I go to my usual guest room, downstairs in the finished basement, just down the hall from the wine cellar and liquor closet. I unpack and listen, but the two floors between us might as well be miles that insulate me from what he does to my wife. She arrives with nothing but the clothes she wears. He's filled a closet with clothes her size, and his bath with lotions, soaps, and cosmetics. Remaking her is what he does. Letting him do it is what she's there for.
He'll fuck her then, if it's too early for dinner. If not, we'll go out, the three of us, them as a couple and me as the third wheel. He dresses her so men stare - sly but uncompromising reveals of cleavage and thighs. Always naked underneath. Always available for him, his hand under the table, fingers wet from her juicy pussy while we sit and dine.
He looks across the table at me and tells me in a voice someone might hear, "She's so easy - so wet for me." He turns to look at her and asks, "Aren't you? Tell your husband you're wet for me." Glancing around the dining room, she pauses, then meets my eyes and nods. Our waiter arrives a few seconds later, and I'm frozen, dissecting the last few minutes, afraid he might have discovered us, what we are - what I am. Or at least what I may look like. As familiar as I am with the game, in public it's always humiliating, always edgy, and always cock-hardening.
He stops to play with her as we eat, fondling her neck and shoulder, stroking her hair, always trailing his fingers over the swell of her breast as he returns to his meal. She smiles, practically glowing, blushing, nipples stabbing against the thin fabric of her blouse or dress. He makes love to her at our table. Subtle. Daring. Honestly starving for her flesh. I watch my wife respond. I'm certain she's equally ravenous for the warm meat of his cock.
At times she's wary of my role as a helpless spectator - careful, thoughtful of my concerns and feelings. But I know when she's beyond that, having ventured away from the safe ground of her marriage toward a cliff where a perfect lover is sure to lead her over it to danger and excitement. He brings his hand from below the table and gestures with an outstretched finger. It's wet, glistening, accusing. She closes her legs, looks at me, and smiles. I'm sure everyone sees. Don't they?
His hand on the small of her back, then sliding down over her ass as we leave. I follow, watching him claim her, knowing the flesh under her dress was his all along. People see them and smile. Every single person in the room knows he'll fuck her tonight. I can just feel it. Do they know she's my wife? How could they? But somehow I convince myself some do, and it makes me hard.
It's the end of a typical first day, and I know what's coming. Well, not exactly. But first days with him are the tease. His reclaiming her. His subtle but firm reminder that she's his woman now, not mine. It's not that I don't know or don't expect it, but nevertheless the little stab to my ego always hits its mark.
It's his castle, his decision. How much, how soon does he want to feel her tight pussy grasp his cock? If his patience holds, we'll watch a film in a darkened room while they kiss and fondle each other. I sit and watch them. Images from the TV flicker over their faces and her open blouse. I no longer expect her to care whether her passion upsets me. She opens his pants and sucks him - indecent, sloppy sounds, her tongue wetting his shaft in endless, slow trails of slobbering worship.
She strips off her dress like she's angry that it's in the way, then straddles him where he sits, her hand between her legs, guiding him in. He's smiling, grinning, at her, at me. No attempt to hide his victory over us, his satisfaction from my helplessness, his amusement from her greed for his cock.
It's real and not real. For all the planning, the willingness to participate, the script that always writes a new chapter on its own, her passion becomes real. His Alpha reaches its stride and revels in its control. My sense of her, my vision of my loving wife, blurs and turns upside-down. Her soft, writhing body quickens my pulse and at the same time delivers pinpricks to my manhood. Lies agreed upon by all. Yet not certain lies as they ripen. A game. Isn't it?
If his patience fails, he takes her right to bed. He leads her up the stairs where she's disappeared so many times before. Strips her. Ties her(?) Fucks her long and slow, or fast and hard. I know how long it's been and how much she wants him, but I still wonder who she is, what she is, in his bed then. Does she fall to his slow fuck like a virgin on her wedding night, or respond with viciousness and greed to his fastest, hardest fucking? If I could, would I hear the quiet, whimpering encouragement of a little girl, or the curses and demands of a whore I haven't yet heard or can imagine throughout all our years of marriage?
My mind races, imagination swirls, two floors below in the room where I sleep. Well appointed, almost luxurious, it's not a dungeon by any means. Except it's a room where the cuckold sleeps. A room occupied by one who gives his beautiful wife to the master of the house. There are virtual bars and chains, but only of my own making. It's the ideas that haunt me. Ideas of class and position stripped away, segregated and robbed of the flesh of my own wife, flesh given to someone else. Then again, only the drama in my own mind makes those ideas real, the willing surrender to the erotic fantasies of the game. Knowing that, I sleep well, welcoming what comes tomorrow.
~Day 2~
I know his kitchen by now. I'm up first, toasting a bagel, making the coffee, sizzling eggs and bacon from his fridge. Maybe the smell will wake them. But it's another hour until they appear.
She follows him down the stairs. He's in his boxers, with just enough heft to his cock to show it off, its tip peeking through the buttoned fly or falling free along his bare leg. She's naked - his unquestioned rule inside his home. It stirs me to see them like this - a couple, lovers, with no shame or regard of how they look to me. Maybe they'll stop there in front of me and kiss, my wife up on her toes again, her belly pushing against his boxer-covered cock until he's raging hard. I'm sure she does that on purpose. "See how hard I make him? See how big he is?" Or maybe it's only the raw, primal attraction between them. Maybe she doesn't think of me at all - only his cock, only the anticipation of fucking him for as long as we stay, for as long as she needs him. Still, I can't take my eyes off them.
They show up bleary-eyed, his hair uncombed, hers a thick, wild tangle. Did they just fuck? I look for the signs and find them. She's red and swollen between her legs. I see stray spots and strings of his semen on her inner thighs which then spread into glossy, wet patches as she moves about the kitchen. Are they flaunting their morning fuck, or do they just not care that I notice?
Other times they appear freshly showered and groomed. He's in his robe, every damp hair in place, shaved, showered, and ready to meet the day. She's naked, but showered as well, her hair shining and soft and smelling like coconut and lemon. I imagine them together in his shower like two slippery eels. He puts a soapy finger in her ass and plays with her clit until she comes for him. He lets her wash his cock, bringing it back to life, and she goes to her knees and sucks him. I can see him spurt as she milks him with both hands. I imagine his cum swirling at their feet, little by little snaking down the drain, her pride showing with a quiet smile. He lathers her hair with shampoo and rinses it clean, stopping to cradle her face in his hands and kiss her. He towels her dry as though her skin is fragile porcelain, never forgetting his plan to use her body as the meat his appetite requires. She knows his mind, and suddenly feels the cool wetness between her legs again. She muses, eyes wide, a racing pulse, and a satisfied smile. "I'm his toy - I belong to him."
He takes her shopping. I stay and amuse myself, exploring his house, swimming in his pool. I stand at the foot of his king-size bed and imagine her under him, thrusting her hips at him, milking him with her tight pussy. He leaves the wet spot for me to find. Two or three spots, one drenched, the others crusty with the cum he plants in her from the night before. Condoms are nowhere in sight. He used them, per our agreement. Didn't he?
Ghosts of their night pass through me. A wave of uncertainty. Anxiety. Fending off images of her gaping pussy filled and overflowing with his semen. Millions of wriggling invaders fighting to win the race. Coating the mouth of her cervix. Little Alphas, soldering on with one destination and purpose. "Drama queen," I can hear her tell me. And I find the torn wrappers in the bathroom trash. One, two, three, or four? I never know, but the number always impresses. I imagine how much she loved taking his cock, over and over through the night and again in the early morning, and smile.
I find photos of her in his office desk drawer, taken over so many visits. I'm sure he puts them there for me to find. He'd never share all of her willingly. They're razor sharp and lifelike. Naked, legs spread, head thrown back like she does when he fucks her. One on her knees, cheek resting on the pillow, both hands clasping her perfect ass, pulling open her pussy for the world to see. Another with her hands lifting her breasts up and out, nipples angrily pouting toward the camera, a wicked assurance in her eyes they could easily be had by a lover of her choice. I wonder if there are more. But refusing to share the best part of her is what he does best.
It's the rope he gives me when they're out together. A day alone to ruminate. Their day. Him driving home that my wife is now his lover, his girlfriend, his property. Everyone sees them as a couple. Everyone sees he owns her, and that she adores being owned by him. He denies her nothing, and prides himself in how easily he makes her his willing toy. Affectionate touches become deep, sloppy kisses by the end of the day. She eagerly accepts clothing and shoes she would otherwise never wear. Slutty little tops, micro skirts with matching crotchless panties, strappy six-inch hooker heels, and sometimes even a new hair style and color. It's both frightening and arousing that he can remake her into someone I never could.
She comes back wearing one of the outfits he buys her. It's something she'd never want to be seen in before today. Something she'd tell me was too slutty if I chose it for her. She models it for me with a smile, knowing I get it. She's wearing it for him, not me. The little hint of a smirk tells me he owns her, and she's proud of it. She knows how hot that is to me and plays it like she loves it. No doubt she does in those moments. She'll wear the clothes while we're there and take them home with her. I always wonder if she'll be brave enough to wear them later. Sometimes she surprises me. But not often.
by Don Jetman
~Day One~
It's always like this now when we visit him. L sits beside him when he picks us up at the airport. I sit in the back of his car and listen to them flirt. It's been a long time between visits, and I can sense the heat between them.
There are rules now, made so many visits ago I can't remember when. She stops and undresses without being told, just inside his front door, handing each piece of clothing to him as she gets naked. A while ago it was her blouse and jeans, or shorts in the summer. Then her bra and panties. Lately, before we leave home, we go shopping for a light summer dress, something innocent and housewifey but thin enough to show off her figure when the sunlight shines through it. If only the men at the airport who stare knew who and what we were flying to meet.
Watching her shed the dress is somehow sexier than anything I've seen. After undoing just a few buttons or a zipper, it falls to the floor and she's suddenly standing in her underwear just feet from him. She stoops to pick it up and hands it over like a wife peeling away any pretense that she's shy about it. She does it like it's her duty now, never pausing to show a second of modesty.
Her arms go behind her back and her bra falls away as she shrugs it down her bare arms, perfect breasts jostling as she places it in his waiting hand. She slides her panties down her thighs and off her feet. A simply routine task now. But her nipples are hard, and at that instant I know how much she's missed him, how much she wants him. Her face tilts up to stare into his eyes.
He smiles, takes her by the shoulders, and kisses her. She kisses back. I see their mouths open, their tongues wrestling and stabbing at each other. She rises up on her toes and puts her arms around his neck, and I wait for them to finish. It seems like forever. Just like he's planned.
He takes her hand and leads her upstairs. He'll shave her, bare as the day she was born. I go to my usual guest room, downstairs in the finished basement, just down the hall from the wine cellar and liquor closet. I unpack and listen, but the two floors between us might as well be miles that insulate me from what he does to my wife. She arrives with nothing but the clothes she wears. He's filled a closet with clothes her size, and his bath with lotions, soaps, and cosmetics. Remaking her is what he does. Letting him do it is what she's there for.
He'll fuck her then, if it's too early for dinner. If not, we'll go out, the three of us, them as a couple and me as the third wheel. He dresses her so men stare - sly but uncompromising reveals of cleavage and thighs. Always naked underneath. Always available for him, his hand under the table, fingers wet from her juicy pussy while we sit and dine.
He looks across the table at me and tells me in a voice someone might hear, "She's so easy - so wet for me." He turns to look at her and asks, "Aren't you? Tell your husband you're wet for me." Glancing around the dining room, she pauses, then meets my eyes and nods. Our waiter arrives a few seconds later, and I'm frozen, dissecting the last few minutes, afraid he might have discovered us, what we are - what I am. Or at least what I may look like. As familiar as I am with the game, in public it's always humiliating, always edgy, and always cock-hardening.
He stops to play with her as we eat, fondling her neck and shoulder, stroking her hair, always trailing his fingers over the swell of her breast as he returns to his meal. She smiles, practically glowing, blushing, nipples stabbing against the thin fabric of her blouse or dress. He makes love to her at our table. Subtle. Daring. Honestly starving for her flesh. I watch my wife respond. I'm certain she's equally ravenous for the warm meat of his cock.
At times she's wary of my role as a helpless spectator - careful, thoughtful of my concerns and feelings. But I know when she's beyond that, having ventured away from the safe ground of her marriage toward a cliff where a perfect lover is sure to lead her over it to danger and excitement. He brings his hand from below the table and gestures with an outstretched finger. It's wet, glistening, accusing. She closes her legs, looks at me, and smiles. I'm sure everyone sees. Don't they?
His hand on the small of her back, then sliding down over her ass as we leave. I follow, watching him claim her, knowing the flesh under her dress was his all along. People see them and smile. Every single person in the room knows he'll fuck her tonight. I can just feel it. Do they know she's my wife? How could they? But somehow I convince myself some do, and it makes me hard.
It's the end of a typical first day, and I know what's coming. Well, not exactly. But first days with him are the tease. His reclaiming her. His subtle but firm reminder that she's his woman now, not mine. It's not that I don't know or don't expect it, but nevertheless the little stab to my ego always hits its mark.
It's his castle, his decision. How much, how soon does he want to feel her tight pussy grasp his cock? If his patience holds, we'll watch a film in a darkened room while they kiss and fondle each other. I sit and watch them. Images from the TV flicker over their faces and her open blouse. I no longer expect her to care whether her passion upsets me. She opens his pants and sucks him - indecent, sloppy sounds, her tongue wetting his shaft in endless, slow trails of slobbering worship.
She strips off her dress like she's angry that it's in the way, then straddles him where he sits, her hand between her legs, guiding him in. He's smiling, grinning, at her, at me. No attempt to hide his victory over us, his satisfaction from my helplessness, his amusement from her greed for his cock.
It's real and not real. For all the planning, the willingness to participate, the script that always writes a new chapter on its own, her passion becomes real. His Alpha reaches its stride and revels in its control. My sense of her, my vision of my loving wife, blurs and turns upside-down. Her soft, writhing body quickens my pulse and at the same time delivers pinpricks to my manhood. Lies agreed upon by all. Yet not certain lies as they ripen. A game. Isn't it?
If his patience fails, he takes her right to bed. He leads her up the stairs where she's disappeared so many times before. Strips her. Ties her(?) Fucks her long and slow, or fast and hard. I know how long it's been and how much she wants him, but I still wonder who she is, what she is, in his bed then. Does she fall to his slow fuck like a virgin on her wedding night, or respond with viciousness and greed to his fastest, hardest fucking? If I could, would I hear the quiet, whimpering encouragement of a little girl, or the curses and demands of a whore I haven't yet heard or can imagine throughout all our years of marriage?
My mind races, imagination swirls, two floors below in the room where I sleep. Well appointed, almost luxurious, it's not a dungeon by any means. Except it's a room where the cuckold sleeps. A room occupied by one who gives his beautiful wife to the master of the house. There are virtual bars and chains, but only of my own making. It's the ideas that haunt me. Ideas of class and position stripped away, segregated and robbed of the flesh of my own wife, flesh given to someone else. Then again, only the drama in my own mind makes those ideas real, the willing surrender to the erotic fantasies of the game. Knowing that, I sleep well, welcoming what comes tomorrow.
~Day 2~
I know his kitchen by now. I'm up first, toasting a bagel, making the coffee, sizzling eggs and bacon from his fridge. Maybe the smell will wake them. But it's another hour until they appear.
She follows him down the stairs. He's in his boxers, with just enough heft to his cock to show it off, its tip peeking through the buttoned fly or falling free along his bare leg. She's naked - his unquestioned rule inside his home. It stirs me to see them like this - a couple, lovers, with no shame or regard of how they look to me. Maybe they'll stop there in front of me and kiss, my wife up on her toes again, her belly pushing against his boxer-covered cock until he's raging hard. I'm sure she does that on purpose. "See how hard I make him? See how big he is?" Or maybe it's only the raw, primal attraction between them. Maybe she doesn't think of me at all - only his cock, only the anticipation of fucking him for as long as we stay, for as long as she needs him. Still, I can't take my eyes off them.
They show up bleary-eyed, his hair uncombed, hers a thick, wild tangle. Did they just fuck? I look for the signs and find them. She's red and swollen between her legs. I see stray spots and strings of his semen on her inner thighs which then spread into glossy, wet patches as she moves about the kitchen. Are they flaunting their morning fuck, or do they just not care that I notice?
Other times they appear freshly showered and groomed. He's in his robe, every damp hair in place, shaved, showered, and ready to meet the day. She's naked, but showered as well, her hair shining and soft and smelling like coconut and lemon. I imagine them together in his shower like two slippery eels. He puts a soapy finger in her ass and plays with her clit until she comes for him. He lets her wash his cock, bringing it back to life, and she goes to her knees and sucks him. I can see him spurt as she milks him with both hands. I imagine his cum swirling at their feet, little by little snaking down the drain, her pride showing with a quiet smile. He lathers her hair with shampoo and rinses it clean, stopping to cradle her face in his hands and kiss her. He towels her dry as though her skin is fragile porcelain, never forgetting his plan to use her body as the meat his appetite requires. She knows his mind, and suddenly feels the cool wetness between her legs again. She muses, eyes wide, a racing pulse, and a satisfied smile. "I'm his toy - I belong to him."
He takes her shopping. I stay and amuse myself, exploring his house, swimming in his pool. I stand at the foot of his king-size bed and imagine her under him, thrusting her hips at him, milking him with her tight pussy. He leaves the wet spot for me to find. Two or three spots, one drenched, the others crusty with the cum he plants in her from the night before. Condoms are nowhere in sight. He used them, per our agreement. Didn't he?
Ghosts of their night pass through me. A wave of uncertainty. Anxiety. Fending off images of her gaping pussy filled and overflowing with his semen. Millions of wriggling invaders fighting to win the race. Coating the mouth of her cervix. Little Alphas, soldering on with one destination and purpose. "Drama queen," I can hear her tell me. And I find the torn wrappers in the bathroom trash. One, two, three, or four? I never know, but the number always impresses. I imagine how much she loved taking his cock, over and over through the night and again in the early morning, and smile.
I find photos of her in his office desk drawer, taken over so many visits. I'm sure he puts them there for me to find. He'd never share all of her willingly. They're razor sharp and lifelike. Naked, legs spread, head thrown back like she does when he fucks her. One on her knees, cheek resting on the pillow, both hands clasping her perfect ass, pulling open her pussy for the world to see. Another with her hands lifting her breasts up and out, nipples angrily pouting toward the camera, a wicked assurance in her eyes they could easily be had by a lover of her choice. I wonder if there are more. But refusing to share the best part of her is what he does best.
It's the rope he gives me when they're out together. A day alone to ruminate. Their day. Him driving home that my wife is now his lover, his girlfriend, his property. Everyone sees them as a couple. Everyone sees he owns her, and that she adores being owned by him. He denies her nothing, and prides himself in how easily he makes her his willing toy. Affectionate touches become deep, sloppy kisses by the end of the day. She eagerly accepts clothing and shoes she would otherwise never wear. Slutty little tops, micro skirts with matching crotchless panties, strappy six-inch hooker heels, and sometimes even a new hair style and color. It's both frightening and arousing that he can remake her into someone I never could.
She comes back wearing one of the outfits he buys her. It's something she'd never want to be seen in before today. Something she'd tell me was too slutty if I chose it for her. She models it for me with a smile, knowing I get it. She's wearing it for him, not me. The little hint of a smirk tells me he owns her, and she's proud of it. She knows how hot that is to me and plays it like she loves it. No doubt she does in those moments. She'll wear the clothes while we're there and take them home with her. I always wonder if she'll be brave enough to wear them later. Sometimes she surprises me. But not often.