Persephone in Winter

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

 

                                Prologue

 

Elyse waited patiently by the open trunk of the car as the boy placed

the last bag of groceries inside. She found herself smiling, for no

particular reason.  The sun was warm on her face, and a slight breeze

played with her hair, tickling her cheek, teasing her in and out of her

daydream.

 

The soft knit of the light sweater fell away from the firm swell of her

breasts as she reached to close the trunk lid, then settled smoothly

over them again as she turned to the boy to tip him.  She caught him

staring and blushed, almost having forgotten how a boy might be

distracted by the slight sway of a woman's bare breasts and nipples

beneath the ordinary white turtleneck.

 

Looking over the boy's shoulder, her smile widened, and she waved.

Steven had disappeared at the last minute, and now came bounding across

the parking lot clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers.

 

"For you, my lady," he announced as he bowed, raising the offering as

though she was royalty.  "You!" she said, giggling.

 

The boy watched them play.  He saw the sparkle of happiness in her eyes,

and the kiss that Steven planted on her lips, then turned away to give

them their privacy.  There would be a day in his future as well, he

thought as he walked back to his eight hour shift, a day when he would

see the same sparkle in the eyes of the perfect girl, the girl of his

dreams.

 

They drove with the top down.  The immaculately restored Triumph

convertible took each turn as if it had just come off the production

line, hugging the road with familiar security as they left the highway

behind, traveling the winding lane that led them home.

 

Elyse stretched her arms upward, the fall air rushing through the

spaces between spread fingers.  Weeks ago the leaves had changed from

summer green to blazing yellows and reds.  Now a fresh layer of red and

brown covered the roadside as the last of the forest harvest fluttered

reluctantly to earth.

 

Steven glanced at her as he drove, smiling at her playful gesture.  He

could see where the sweater revealed the soft skin of her belly as she

stretched, and the shape of her breasts and nipples under the white

knit.

 

"I've never seen you leave the house like that," Steven said, breaking

a long silence.  Elyse grinned at him with satisfaction and stretched

higher, relieved that he had finally noticed.

 

"I thought you might like it," she said, her face now tilted upward

into the wind.

 

"I'm sure the boy at the market liked it," he answered with a hint of

irritation.

 

"Mmmm, I didn't think about that.  I suppose it's harmless enough.  I

doubt that I've corrupted him for life."  She laughed and turned to look

at him.  As she lowered her arms, a falling leaf met her outstretched

hand and tangled itself in her fingers.

 

He kept his eyes on the road ahead, refusing to return her look.  "What

I'd really like is that my wife not expose her breasts to every

teenager in town."

 

Suddenly the joy of the crisp air and fall colors was drained from her.

She sat next to him, hands in her lap, shocked into silence.  "I - I did

it for you..." she said quietly.  She stared at the leaf, turning it

over and over in her lap.  It was perfectly shaped, but brittle and

brown, without color or life.

 

Hidden away in the woods at the end of a gravel lane, the sprawling

house's presence was surprisingly overwhelming to anyone who might come

upon it by chance.  A wedding present from Elyse's father, the summer

"cabin" as he called it had belonged to his father as well.  Though

made of large logs taken generations ago from deep within the same

forest, its sheer size and modern interior made it anything but the

diminutive description her father was so fond of.

 

"I'm sorry," Steven said as he turned the key and the car's engine

died.  "I love the way you look; I love everything about you.  You know

that.  It's just that I don't want everyone in town staring at your

body.  I know you did it for me, but it's a small town.  Someone may take

it the wrong way.  If everyone thinks you're flirting, well, who knows

what might happen?  It's embarrassing."

 

Elyse stared at the leaf, now turned to hard branching veins as its

petrified flesh crumbled into her lap.  "I know," she told him.  "It was

silly - I just didn't think about the consequences.  I'm sorry."

 

Steven leaned over and kissed her.  "Don't be sorry.  Besides, you can

show me your nipples, at home, any time, in fact, all the time, if you

want."  He grinned, hoping to get the same response from her.

 

She did her best to show him the grin he wanted.  As she returned his

kiss, she felt his hand on her breast, his fingers teasing her nipple

beneath the thin knit sweater.  She kissed him harder, the sounds of the

woods bringing her alive again, making her wet for him then and there.

His belt opened easily, and in seconds her hand closed around his

erection, stroking it, pulling it free into the wilderness she loved.

 

"Not here," he said finally.  "Let's go inside."

 

"Here," she moaned, as she lowered her face to his lap, reaching for

the hard tip of his sex with her tongue.

 

"Elyse," he said abruptly.  "What's gotten into you today?  What if

someone should come by?"  She took an inch of him, then another, into

her mouth. She knew he wouldn't resist; she was sure he couldn't, once

she began to move her lips and tongue over him.  When he cradled her

head in his hands, she melted inside, and closed her mouth even more

tightly around him.  "Please," she thought, "show me, show me what you

want me to do to you, show me how you want me to suck you, how you want

to fuck my mouth, oh god, please show me..."  But he pulled her face

away from his lap, her soft hair tangled in his fingers, her eyes

pleading for something he didn't understand.

 

"Inside," he whispered.  They sat, trembling, staring into each others

eyes.  Elyse nodded, and, with a smile Steven didn't recognize as one of

consolation, felt his hands slip from her hair.  The air had taken on a

sudden chill as she helped carry the groceries to the house.  Winter was

coming.  If only she had worn her jacket.

 

That evening Elyse sat curled up in a big overstuffed recliner by the

fire, her nose buried in a book.  Her robe had worked its way open,

revealing a delicious, smooth expanse of thigh, as well as the deep V

between her breasts.  Steven sat across from her on the sofa, his papers

scattered over the wide, rustic coffee table. Now and then she glanced

up at him, checking to see whether he noticed each time she shifted

positions, letting her robe open another inch.

 

"Damn it!" he muttered.  "Where in the hell - Elyse, have you seen part

of my manuscript?  A loose page maybe?  Something with a lot of

calculations on it?"  He still hadn't looked at her.

 

She knew how important his paper was to his future - at least she

thought she understood.  His explanation was always a little cryptic to

her, all that math and those strange symbols.  She did understand that a

college professor would always be just a college professor if he didn't

distinguish himself in his field.  Publish or perish.  She had heard him

say it so many times, as though she might have somehow forgotten the

clich‚.

 

"You're tired," she told him, her voice as silky and inviting as she

could make it.  "Why don't you come to bed? We'll look tomorrow."

 

"But it was just here!" he insisted.  "Maybe I left it in my office."  He

rose and left the room, never glancing at her open robe.  "For Christ

sake!  Damn it, damn it, damn it!"  His curses echoed from the open

doorway down the hall.

 

Elyse sighed, put her book on the floor beside the chair, gathered her

robe around her, and went to help.  She stood at his office door,

listening to him rant and watching him tear though stacks of papers.

"It must be here!  It has to be!"  He still hadn't looked at her.

 

"I'm going to bed," she told him finally.  "You coming?"

 

"Soon," he told her, finally looking up at her.  She had let her robe

fall open again.  She was naked under it, and smiled when she saw him

staring at her body.  Steven paused and sighed, as though he was annoyed

at being caught ogling her.  "I'll be up soon," he said evenly, still

shuffling through a chaos of white paper.

 

An hour had passed before he woke her from a light sleep as he slipped

into bed beside her.  She felt his hand cup her breast, then move slowly

down her belly, finally probing between her legs.  Pushing away the numb

calm of an hour's sleep, she turned toward him and placed her hand

along the side of his face.  Another minute, and he would kiss her, then

move closer, working his hips forward tentatively, as if asking

permission to enter her.  She would find his penis and hold him, playing

with him lightly, coaxing him nearer, assuring him with her pounding

heart and loving touches that she wanted him inside her.

 

He made love to her with tenderness and precision.  She knew every move

so well.  He would wait hours for her to cum.  On the rare occasion when

an orgasm eluded her, times when merely enjoying the closeness of being

one with him was enough, he seemed relentless.  It shamed her to think

of the times she had pretended, offering up a quiet sigh of a climax so

he could finally enjoy his own release.

 

She stroked his chest and shoulders as he worked, his erection reliable

and tireless, pushing into her with machine-like predictability.  He

would lean closer to nibble on her neck soon, then find her ear with

the tip of his tongue.  So loving.  So caring.  So careful.

 

Elyse studied his face until his eyes closed.  Concentrating, she

thought.  Trying to please me.  Trying to make me cum.  As time passed,

she stared past Steven, into the darkness of their bedroom.  He loves

me.  He loves me.  He loves me.  She would make the practiced sigh, tense

her body, then give up a crescendo of moans, her sign to him that he

had satisfied her, and all was right with the world.  Elyse wondered if

he counted her moans, analyzed them with the precision of the mathematics

that had become his life.

 

He loves me.  He loves me.  He loves me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                               Chapter 1

 

 

It wasn't quite as though she was cheating.  He had known for some

time.  And she knew he knew.  She couldn't help crying out a bit louder

when she came.  She had always been quiet, her small throaty moan

rising on those few special occasions when she seemed especially wet.

 

Now she came with mouth wide open, filling the darkened bedroom with

unfamiliar words, telling him over and over how she wanted him, how she

loved his cock inside her.  When she straddled him and played with her

breasts, or rose on her knees offering him entry from behind, he knew

another man took her that way.  Yet, they went on, week after week,

knowing but not admitting, too fearful to let the words pass between

them.

 

She was the first to break the silence.

 

"I have to tell you about him."

 

He couldn't look at her.  He wouldn't.

 

She watched him look away, then glanced at the phone.

 

"I don't love him.  I just can't say no to him."

 

His spine turned to stone at her words.  His hands trembled, breath

coming in thin packets that racked his chest.

 

"I want to stop.  But when he wants me - "

 

Steven jumped when the phone rang.  His eyes went to it, then to Elyse.

She ignored the insistent warble, now pale and oddly neutral as she

searched for his reaction.

 

She was slim and fragile in the cotton sundress.  Enough light poured

through it from behind her to reveal the outline of her breasts and

waist.  He guessed she was naked beneath it, then was sure of it as

she approached the phone.  She pressed it to her ear, listening,

motionless, familiar lines of bare thigh revealed through the

translucent cotton.

 

Elyse held the receiver out to him, knowing he would take it.

 

He listened, still frozen in place, while the voice delivered options

and ultimatums.

 

"She still loves you, you know.  She comes to me for something else, a

sense of possession, an unresolved sensual necessity. You can choose

to allow her this, or flee, freeing yourself of the pain and her love.

The decision is yours."

 

The voice was precise and confident.  He could see she knew it well.

Her eyes were wide with anticipation and excitement.  The voice told

him everything, what was, and what was to be.  And Steven knew that a

part of her already belonged to the voice, but not the part that loved

him. Could he share her flesh to keep her shining eyes?

 

"Your decision is one that's easier to agree to than to live with.  But

then, agreeing is only the first step, is it not?  Can you take the

second?  Only time will tell. And time is growing short.  So, to test

your stride, the second step, if you're up to it.  Simon says ..."

 

At sundown, Steven followed his wife into the warm rain of the shower.

Elyse offered herself to him, head back, erect nipples waiting for the

soap in his hand against them, then down her belly, smooth slippery

skin made fresh for her late-night lover.  Her thighs tightened at his

touch as a soapy river raced over them, swirling into the drain below.

She turned her back to him, and he studied the lines and valleys of her

shoulders, filled now with frothy white as he passed the soapy cloth

over them.  Finally, gliding down the deep crevice of her back, his

hands now free of everything except the scented soap, he cupped and

lifted the soft but firm globes of her ass, circling over them, feeling

the weight of them in his hands.  Her legs opened.  She leaned against

the shower wall, her open slit reminding him of his duty.

 

Simon says...

 

The soap made her slick and wet between her legs.  Had it been that way

before he touched her there?  Did her back arch a little when his soapy

fingers drifted into the space between fleshy cunt-lips?

 

After a quiet moan, her words - bitter, breathless, agonizing.

 

"Will you give me to him?  Will you clean me, dress me, take me to him?

Will you love me after I take another man inside me and cum,

screaming under him, knowing I love you more each day?"

 

His answer was not with words, but with actions.  He dried her with the

large towel, careful not to dwell where more questions would come.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                              Chapter 2

 

 

The house was one of many hidden behind dense hedges and wide iron

gates along the endless avenue. Finding it was painfully slow. The

camera's cold, glass eye found them, internal elements shifting with

precision, then stared unblinking at them through the windshield for

what seemed like hours.

 

At first they sat in silence in the waiting car - her heart racing with

forbidden surrender to another, his with apprehension, and finally

terror. She was delicious in the cool evening light. He had never

seen her so radiant - the creamy white skin of her neck gracefully

arched over a tempting hint of heaving breast revealed at the border of

the modest neckline.

 

The dress was delivered earlier that day, a plain black box with a

single red rose attached.  Steven was curious but quiet upon its

arrival. She placed it on the bed unopened, smiled, and put her arms

around his waist.

 

"He always dresses me.  Oh, it's not what you think.  No garter belts

or lingerie, none of that.  He puts me in the most tasteful clothes,

something different each time.  Very chic.  Very expensive.  Afterwards

he takes them from me and destroys them."

 

"He thinks that little of you?"

 

She smiled, resting her head on his chest against a bounding heart.

 

"No - he thinks that much of me. Each time, I'm what he wants

me to be.  Each time is special.  And after, it's gone forever.  Me, the

place, the time, the dress - it's his creation, unspoiled, and forever

unshared by anyone."

 

Her words still echoed in his head as they waited in the dark car.  The

dress fit her like a glove, a black, velvet glove. He marveled at how

the fabric could be so thin, and yet so opaque.  It moved as though it

was a part of her, revealing fleeting lines of breast, hip, and thigh

with the slightest motion of her body.  Down the front, a single row of

soft, tiny, black buttons, an inch apart, ran from neckline to ankle.

He had watched her button each one, an agonizingly slow process.  She

had taken her time, smiling up at him after every two or three, as if

to say, "Imagine how long it will take him to get to me, to open me up,

to peel me like a piece of wet, juicy fruit."

 

The heavy gates swung inward on smooth, silent hinges.  He hesitated,

his foot hovering above the pedal, now uncertain whether he could guide

the car through the entrance, then along the densely wooded drive that

would take her to him.  She sensed his reluctance and turned to him.

He fought for breath as she leaned closer, her trembling body draped in

exquisite ebony.  The fine, delicate swirl of her ear bore sparkling

clusters of emeralds that flirted with the light between perfectly

placed strands of hair.  She took his hand.  Her smile was weak but

genuine.

 

"Now that we're here, I can't ask you for this.  I can't bring myself

to utter the words, to sound so selfish, or to hurt you."

 

Her eyes were liquid and wide with sympathy.  But was there a fleeting

hint of excitement in the flicker of her dark lashes?

 

"I can only tell you that it's happened, that it's something I can't

escape.  Something in me needs this, something so powerful I feel I'll

self-destruct if I don't see it through.  I don't understand it. I

can't answer your questions.  But I can love you. Is that enough?"

 

He flinched when she squeezed his hand lightly, then took the wheel and

drove through the open gates without a word.  She turned away without

apology, looking straight ahead as he drove on.  The tear he waited for

never came. He knew the road ahead was the only way to keep her.

 

The gates vanished into darkness behind them as the car crept along a

broad curve, lit only by muted lamps hugging the driveway at regular

intervals.  He heard her small sigh as she settled back into the seat,

her eyes now staring miles into the night.  Guessing her thoughts

tortured him as he peered ahead into the blackness.  Was she already

with him? Did she know his plan?  Was she eager to escape his costume

for the night, to be naked and used in a game of their making?  Or was

it the anticipation of the unknown - something that would push her far

past boundaries not yet crossed?

 

The house rose like a glowing fortress, awash in the blue-white of

countless lights spread over the sprawling grounds.  The hulking

Georgian manor, spacious entry court, and winding drive were carved out

of the surrounding dense vegetation that contained the light within it,

keeping the property in near-daylight long after sunset.  A wide portico

supporting six massive ionic columns dropped to the level of the

circular driveway through a series of gleaming white marble steps that

sparkled under the intense light.  He stopped the car in front of them,

peering into the rows of tall, arched windows lining the front of the

massive two-story structure.  Taking his hand again, she looked as

though she belonged there - elegant, beautiful, a precious gift to

be enjoyed, treasured, possessed.

 

"Wait for me?"

 

"I'd rather not.  I - I don't think I can..."

 

"No, my love.  I'm not asking.  He is."

 

"But, he never said anything about having to watch you with him.  I

couldn't take that. Isn't this enough?"

 

"He doesn't want you watch us.  In fact, he won't allow it.  I'm his

and his alone when we're together.  But you must show that you're

willing to share me, to give me to him whenever he wants.  Bringing me

 

here to him, and later returning me to our bed is the only gesture he

demands.  You have to give me willingly.  It's sex, not love.  I love

you.  I always will.  Please show him you'll wait."

 

She was out of the car before he could answer, making her way up the

rows of steps.  As she turned just briefly to glance back at him, he

noticed the flush across her face, and her hardened nipples straining

against the delicate fabric.

 

She rang the bell at the door.  He watched her as she waited patiently,

hands at her sides, the slim curves of her body on display in the

finest detail under the intense light.  Even so, the black dress clung

to her body in ways that would have made her unrecognizable to him from

the back, had she not just left her place beside him minutes ago.

 

The door opened.  She took a step forward.  His arms encircled her, one

at the waist, the other moving up her back until his fingers dug into

chestnut curls, pulling her closer.  She lifted her chin and opened her

mouth to him.  He covered it with his, suddenly pleased that her

response was so eager, that she would so savagely invade his mouth

while her husband watched.  His hand moved lower, palm now gliding over

the hard flesh of her ass, naked under the wisp of black cloth.  She

moved close against him, her legs closing around the muscle of his

thigh.  Her hips tilted into him, then again, and again, as the kiss

became more frenzied.

 

Steven watched them from the car, the kiss, his caresses, her thighs

clutching the stranger's leg, hips grinding against him in heat.  And

when he thought he could watch no longer, they stopped.  Two large

hands appeared on her shoulders.  He was speaking to her. She was

nodding, slowly, mechanically.  His hands disappeared again, retreating

down the front of her dress, busy, doing what? From the back it was

difficult to tell.  His hands reappeared on her shoulders, this time

pulling the dark material to the sides, then down, over her arms, until

her bare back glistened in the floodlights.  Elyse stood before him,

naked to the waist, her hands now busy below his belt, her actions also

hidden from her husband's sight.

 

She knelt, now on her knees below him, her hands still busy, still

hidden from her husband by waves of shining hair.  Her small fingers

closed around his cock, smoothly running the length of it as the tip

grew wet before her eyes.  She closed her lips around it, the ball of

flesh hard and warm against her tongue.  She welcomed the familiar

taste of him, and let him know with eager but careful teasing, sucking

and licking just as he had taught her.  But this time it was different.

She was wet, and loved the feel of him in her mouth as she had on each

occasion, but now she felt her husband's eyes upon her.  Would he allow

her this one passion?  Was he strong enough to accept her physical need

for another and be party to it as well?  She loved Steven desperately.

He nourished her soul.  But Simon fed her cunt, and her mind refused to

consider having to choose, should it come to that.

 

Steven watched them from the car, stomach tied in knots, glancing away

each time doubt began to overcome him.  Although he saw nothing but his

wife on her knees in front of him, her flexing back naked in the night

air, agonizing images filled his head - her lips sucking greedily at

the stranger's cock, her hands busy, milking, coaxing the semen from

his body into her waiting mouth.  He fought the temptation to escape,

to turn the key and drive away.  But he knew her well enough by now to

recognize the genuineness of her love for him and her need for this

stranger's hold on her.

 

At that distance, it was difficult to make out the man's features.  The

skin of deep bronze against the crisp white shirt, shining jet-black

hair pulled back, bound into a short tail, all suggested a man of Latin

descent.  And the voice on the phone; he thought he detected a slight

accent beneath the intimidating, articulate voice.  His display of

total control as Elyse knelt before him, her naked breasts offered to

him as Steven imagined her caressing a stranger's cock with her lips

and tongue, all against the backdrop of the brilliantly lit mansion

presented a surreal and painfully erotic scene that mesmerized him. As

much as he needed to look away, he found he could not.

 

After a minute, maybe two, the man reached for her, pulling her gently

to her feet.  His hands appeared again, this time lifting the dress

back over her shoulders, methodically fastening the open buttons, one

by one.  The demonstration was brief but effective.  Elyse understood

the intent all too well, but wondered whether the show of power was

excessive, considering the emotions her husband must already be

juggling.  She also knew that power was everything to Simon, power and

control.  He would insist on an offering, a sacrifice, from her husband

from the start.  To witness her submission from behind, with few

details, forcing Steven to imagine her mouth on Simon's cock, to ask

himself if her nipples hardened when she touched her lover, to agonize

over what Simon saw as he looked down over her bare shoulders and firm,

young breasts - all this was what he would demand.  Simon took her

hand, and as the mansion swallowed them she warmed inside, knowing she

had not heard the engine rev or the car speed away into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                               Chapter 3

 

 

She sat some ten feet away from Simon in the walnut-paneled library.

Glasses of brandy rested on identical cherry tables beside each richly

upholstered wingback chair.  He was unusually quiet this evening,

taking time to savor the rich, dark drink, allowing her to nearly

finish her own generous portion.  She expected he would talk of her

husband, and was apprehensive about betraying her love for him, even

with unshared thoughts.  Instead, he sat and watched her, his fierce

eyes drinking in her slim body, harboring clues to her fate later in

the night.

 

"Do you love me?"

 

His first words startled her, both with their suddenness and their

content. She hesitated, trying to guess the answer he wanted from her.

 

"Simon - I..."

 

"Do_you_love_me?  A simple question - four words - none more than four

letters."

 

His eyes were locked on hers - dark with savage intensity. Her hand

trembled as she reached for her brandy, only to find the glass empty.

 

"I love my husband.  I love your cock."

 

He stiffened suddenly and leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes

narrowing.

 

"Such language from a pretty wife.  The day will come when I tire

of your hungry, young body.  Poor little thing, hanging on my gate,

used and discarded."

 

He had never spoken to her like this.  Would he turn her away for

giving just one wrong answer?  Should she beg?  Play indignant, or

proud?  What did he want from her?

 

His fierce stare melted into a wide smile.

 

"But how could I possibly discard such a thirsty young woman who knows

so well what she wants, and loves.  Oh, I did very much like the sound

of that - what was it again?"

 

Now she trembled for a different reason.  She felt the coolness between

her legs where her juices pooled, wetting her inner thighs.

 

"I love your cock, Simon."

 

His smile faded a bit, his eyebrows arched, then after a few thoughtful

seconds, he tilted his head to the side with lips pursed.

 

"I love your cock, Simon," she purred slowly, letting her heat warm

every word.

 

He poured another drink, then rose and went to her, half-filling her

glass as well.  She drank it in gulps, not stopping until it was gone.

When he reached for her the empty glass slipped from her hand,

shattering with a pop on the hardwood floor.  Without flinching, he

began to open the dress; one button, then two, three, lingering

deliberately before going to the next, savoring the trail of tender

skin left behind as the front of the dress parted.  It seemed to take

forever, and by the time he had undone the last button, she was

breathless and limp.  She slid lower in the chair over the slick

fabric of the open dress, until her hips passed over the edge of the

seat, supported only by her splayed legs stretched out on either side

of him.

 

"Are you wet?"

 

"God yes, Simon. Can't you see?"

 

The dress had fallen away from her belly and legs.  He studied the

swelling slit between her legs with a puzzled frown.

 

"Show me."

 

She struggled to hold her cunt open to him, her fingers slippery with

the fluids that poured from her.  She had never felt more naked,

more vulnerable.  But that's what Simon did.  Why did it feel so good?

From what dark corner of her imagination had this maddening addiction

Freed itself?  Her husband was just fifty yards away, waiting for her

to return to him, knowing that she would give her body to Simon in ways

that would forever remain her secret.  Was at least a sliver of the

excitement from knowing her husband agreed to surrender her, and would

likely do so in the future?  Was it really his strength, his compromise

to keep them together, or some perverted sense of power over him that

made her dripping wet so quickly tonight?

 

"Play with yourself.  I want to watch your face as you cum."

 

"Please Simon, I -"

 

A sudden ripple of disappointment shot through her.  Her first orgasm

was always the most intense, and riding it out without his cock in her

was something she hadn't expected.

 

"Well, well. You are a spirited little thing tonight.  You've never

hesitated for a second at one of my requests - always eager to play

the slut so unbecoming a prim and proper wife."

 

"I - I want you inside me when I cum."

 

"So.  We regress.  Remember how we play?  Simon says..."

 

She sank two fingers deep inside, then drew them out slowly, one along

each side of the hard, wet button of flesh.  Cradling it between them,

she eased both fingers along her swollen clit, circling over the

sensitive tip every so often with a trembling swirl.

 

He stood between her outstretched legs and watched with satisfaction,

then raised the half-full glass of brandy in the air over her, tilting

it slightly just above her upturned face.

 

"Simon says, 'Open'."

 

Her mouth fell open just in time to catch the ribbon of burgundy that

fell from the rim of his glass.  He smiled down at her as he kept it

coming, soon filling her mouth faster than she could swallow it.  As it

overflowed across her chin he followed with the glass, pouring a thin,

steady stream over her breasts and belly, until it funneled between her

legs, mixing with her own sticky nectar, finally trickling into a

building puddle on the floor below.

 

"Decisions, decisions.  What should I do with such an anxious young

lady?  Should I grant her her wish and stick my cock in her?  Although,

I haven't really heard her beg convincingly for it this evening.

 

Perhaps I should bring her husband inside.  We could watch her face

together, her body twitching as she fingers herself to orgasm in my library."

 

He turned his back to her and walked slowly toward the door.  Would he

do it - even after he had promised not to push her husband hard enough

to endanger their marriage?  He was going too far - she couldn't allow

it - but she was so wet, now suddenly much closer to the brink, still

without his prick filling her.

 

"Simon, please!  I can't - can't hold out - much - much - longer.  I

need you, Simon.  I need - your - cock in me.  I - need - your - cock -

I need - your - cock - I -"

 

He wore a pleased grin as he turned to face her.

 

"Ahh, you have such a way with words - convincing words indeed."

 

His chair was only a few steps away.  He went to it, sat, unzipped the

front of his pants, and pulled his erection through the opening.  Her

eyes were glued to it - so hard and thick, like a bar of bronze

sculpted into a warm likeness of the perfect cock.

 

"Simon says, 'Over here.'"

 

She slid over the edge of the chair until her knees touched the floor,

allowed the dress to fall from her shoulders, then crawled to him on

hands and knees, slowly, with her head down, the way she knew he would

want her.  Stopping between his parted legs, she waited for the sound

of his voice.  He withheld it until he could see her shiver, knowing

that her need to be filled grew with each agonizing second.  He watched

in silence as the small of her long, smooth back arched, her ass rising

and falling almost imperceptibly in a futile effort to bring relief to

the ache between her shaking thighs.  'How long would she wait?' he

wondered.  Hours? - Days? - this fragile, loving wife, cowering, naked

on the floor below, silently begging to be taken by a stranger...

 

She watched her breasts hanging and quivering, engorged nipples

straining toward the floor, and through the space between them the

small tuft of hair matted and dripping with her juices.  In time she

closed her eyes, knowing that the sight of her body's response to him

would only excite her more.  Soon her eyes were clenched tight as she

struggled to concentrate, to become whatever he wanted that night,

at whatever cost.

 

Her body shook in rhythmic spasms.  Ridges of muscle rose between her

shoulder blades, and her inner thighs flexed and relaxed in an

uncontrollable cadence.  He waited for a sign - something new,

something not easily surrendered.  When her tears fell from within

the tangle of hair that covered her face, landing with tiny splats

between his feet, he spoke.

 

"Look at me."

 

Elyse raised her head slowly. Thick waves of hair parted to reveal her

tear-streaked face.

 

"Interesting.  What brings tears to the eyes of a wife as she sluts for

another man?  Is it shame, an overpowering disgrace born from the

incapacity to control her own desires?  Or is it simply pure lust, her

body's final desperate mechanism for dealing with extended deprivation,

fired by a ravenous carnal appetite? Of course, a true slut could

never feel shame.  A true slut would abandon everything for a good hard

fucking, never stopping to think twice about her future, or the future

of those she loves.  So which is it? Tell me, are these the tears of

a slut or sinner?"

 

She searched his eyes for some small hint that this was just a game,

hoping that he would break into a sympathetic laugh, scoop her up in

his arms, and take her to his bed.  Soon she understood her answer was

required, a necessary part of their evening together. But which

answer?

 

"Both.  I'm both, Simon."

 

Her voice cracked and wavered. She could taste the salt of her own

tears.

 

"I-I'm your slut-your slut, Simon.  And-and sinner-and worse, in my

husband's eyes."

 

Leaning forward, he ran his fingers lightly over her face, then cradled

it in his strong hands.  She welcomed the gentle pressure as he drew

her closer, stopping just inches from his towering erection.

 

"You may be many things in his eyes, but *you've* made this a refuge

from such things, a refuge from all things proper and respectable.

You've asked him to bring you here, and beyond that, to wait in the

wings as I use his wife's body in ways that must test the limits of his

imagination."

 

He paused, his fingers working their way under her hair, circling the

small, delicate contours of her ears, then trailing lower, caressing

cool bare skin at the back of her neck.

 

"I'm not interested in the sinner.  The world is full of sinners. So

don't waste my time with words.  Actions speak with much more

conviction."

 

She sat up, rested her hands on his thighs, and took the solid, golden

head of his cock into her mouth.  Closing her lips tightly just over

the jutting ridge of the glans, she attacked the meat of it with the

tip of her tongue.  She could feel the beat of his pulse as she tested

the hard ball of flesh, pushing hard against it, swirling around the

edges, then gently probing the eye at it's center.  Each precious

droplet teased from him arrived warm and sweet against the back of her

throat.

 

"I don't think I've ever seen you suck me with such abandon, or for

that matter, any wife so willing take another man's cock in her mouth.

Are you as eager to take your husband's in the same way?"

 

She stopped and looked up at him.

 

"We don't - I mean, not like this.  It's different with him."

 

"I see."

 

He sighed, showing his frustration with her evasive answer.

 

"Please, don't..."

 

"Come now.  Whining doesn't become you, my dear.  Tell me.  I insist.

Just how different is this husband of yours?"

 

She lowered her eyes.  Her nipples seemed to reach out to him,

embarrassingly hard.

 

"It's more - more, comfortable with him, I guess.  It's safe, calm,

warm, wrapped around each other in our bed.  I could never - I mean,

it's just not the same.  He'd think - "

 

"You may be surprised what he thinks.  Must a wife who does her whorish

best by night forsake the lady she's become by day?  You think nothing

of offering your body to me for whatever amusement I might invent.  In

fact you flaunt your lust, so desperately, so ravenously, for what you

could easily have at home."

 

"I don't understand it, Simon.  It's not as simple as you make it.  I'm

not proud of this - I know I'm hurting him deeply.  Do you think I enjoy

that?"

 

"Do you?  There is a certain exhilaration in exercising one's

power over another, even if it's someone close to your heart.  The

liberation from feelings of powerlessness can be a stimulating

awakening.  And, as horrifying as you might find it on the surface, the

pain you deliver with a newfound weapon can be both empowering and

arousing."

 

A sudden chill shook her, causing her hands to tremble as she moved

them along his thighs.  When her hands found his erection she closed

them gently around the firm shaft.  She could feel the heat it radiated

before touching him, and imagined it flowing into her fingers, along

her bare arms, then into the core of her body, finally chasing the

chill back from where his words had summoned it.

 

She found herself crying again - suddenly, unexpectedly sobbing,

despite the comforting warmth that poured into her.

 

"Please stop, Simon.  Why can't you leave him out of this?  Why won't

you just fuck me?  I'm begging, Simon - oh God, I'm begging you..."

 

He rose and went to a desk at the far side of the room.  From the wide

center drawer he retrieved a coil of thick, heavy cord.  Her heart

raced when she saw it, partly from fear, partly from excitement.  He

ran a portion of it through his fingers, now careful not to look at

her.  It was woven of black silk, thick as his finger, but hollow at

its center.  Looping it loosely around his hand several times, he

tightened it slowly, feeling it collapse slightly as its suppleness

conformed to the contours of his knuckles and palm.

 

She was on her knees by his chair when he returned.  He reached for her

hand, she gave it, and he helped her to her feet.  Gently but firmly,

he brought her wrists together, circled them three times with the cord,

then once more, passing it between them, finally tying the knot between

her palms.  He again looped the remaining length about his hand and

headed for the wide, open stairs that led to his bedroom.  She

followed, two short steps behind, as much as the rope would allow, her

cunt open, red, and flowing with juices from an hour's torment.