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 ante 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.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
We were both in the den, I was reading and Peter was sitting on the floor fooling around with his new toy we had just purchased, a Swiss-made camp stove for high-altitude hiking, when the phone rang. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows and pointed to the kitchen phone. I put my book down and quickly made my way into the kitchen. My heart was racing and my throat suddenly dry. I counted to 5 to calm myself, then picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
There was an unnerving silence. I waited, tapping my toe. Just as I was about to hang up, he spoke.
"Who is this?" he asked.
I almost asked him who the hell HE was, but I just barely caught myself and bit my tongue.
"This is Linda. May I ask who's calling?"
"You're husband told you I would be calling. He did talk to you, didn't he, Linda? What did he tell you?"
The voice was smooth and almost unnaturally modulated, like a well-trained actor's.
"He told me a little bit. I really don't know that much. What was he supposed to tell me?"
There was more of that unnerving silence. I got the strange feeling that he could almost see me through the phone and was sizing me up somehow. A shiver ran down my back.
"Tell me EXACTLY what he told you, Linda. And be polite to me when you speak. I'm being polite to you."
I rolled my eyes. I was getting fed up with his tone already. I let out a long sigh and told him exactly what Peter had said.
Softly: "Yes. I see. I see. Where are you, Linda?"
What did he mean, 'where are you?' In relation to what? I shifted the phone to my other ear, ran my hand up over my forehead and into my hair and held it out and away from the back of my head.
"Look," I began. "I'm trying to cooperate here, but I don't see what the fuck...."
When the voice interrupted me, it came with the power and clarity of a 6 foot churchbell laid flush against my ear. I had never heard anything like it in my entire life. It wasn't "loud," just pure and resonating with potential....what? I could feel it in the marrow of my bones.
"JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU'RE STANDING. Describe it to me simply and clearly. Do it now."
I answered immediately, fighting to keep my voice steady.
"I'm standing in the middle of our kitchen next to the phone which is attached to the food-prep island."
Silky smooth now, like the gentle caress of a lullaby:
"Yes. That's better. And where is Peter?"
I turned and looked through the dining room and into Peter's den. I could see that he was still sitting on the floor and tinkering with the new camp-stove. He looked up briefly and tilted his head in a questioning gesture. I frowned and shook my head. He looked back down.
"Sitting on the floor in our den."
"Linda, describe to me what you are wearing. Be specific and leave nothing out."
My ears started to burn just slightly. "I'm wearing a grey sweatshirt that says "St. John's College, Annapolis," bluejeans with no belt, white sox, a pair of white underpants, a wristwatch and my wedding ring."
"No bra?"
"No."
"Can your husband see you from where you stand?"
I looked up again at Peter.
"Yes."
"Take the sweatshirt off."
"Take it off?" I asked stupidly.
"I know you heard me, Linda. And believe me, when I tell you something, I mean it. Don't ever repeat anything I've said as if I might be mistaken. When you've done as I've told you, turn and face your husband."
I set the phone down and pulled off the sweatshirt, tossing it on the counter. I took a deep breath and faced Peter. I almost hated to look: yup, he'd noticed and was staring intently at me. I shrugged and pointed at the phone. A gentle smile came to his lips. I picked the phone back up.
"Okay," I said.
"Is there an extension that Peter can pick up and still see you?"
"Yes. There's one in the dining room."
"Have him pick it up."
Peter was still watching me. I pointed to the phone in my hand and then in the direction of the dining-room extension. He stood up and moved to the phone. There was a soft click as he picked it up.
"Hello, Peter."
"Hello," Peter said.
"Linda, my name is Charles. Forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself sooner. Tell me, Linda, when was the last time you and Peter fucked?"
I looked at Peter. He was looking down at his feet, ignoring me.
"Last night."
"Beginning now, and until I say otherwise, no more sex between the two of you. Peter has told me you have a two-week vacation planned beginning next weekend. Mountain-climbing or some such dangerous activity. You are going to cancel the first week of that vacation and the three of us will be spending it together. Do the two of you have a guest room of some kind?"
Peter was still staring at his feet as if they were the most interesting things in the world.
"Yes," I answered.
"Good. Starting Saturday, a week from today, Peter will move out of your bedroom and into the guest room. Move all of his things out. The bedroom will be shared by only you and I, Linda, at least on most nights. When was your last period?"
"A week ago."
"That won't be a concern, then. A letter will arrive mid-week addressed to you, Linda. It will contain a list of articles you are to purchase and the address of the establishment where you will find them. Nothing too expensive. Make sure you have them before next Sunday. I will arrive at 5:00 p.m., Sunday evening. I am very punctual. One more thing before I go. Linda, grasp one of your nipples and hold it out, away from you, until it begins to hurt."
I did as he asked and waited.
"Peter, you can see your wife, can't you?"
I glanced at Peter and he returned my gaze.
"Yes."
"Good. Which nipple is your wife pulling for me?"
"The left nipple."
"I see. Linda, this will only be temporary, but I want you to release your nipple, remove your wedding band, and hand it to your husband when this call is finished. Peter, I suggest you don't lose it. I will see the two of you in a week. Remember, no sex. Goodbye, Peter."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Linda."
"Goodbye."
The line went dead. I hung up the receiver, released my now stinging nipple, and put my sweatshirt back on. I happened to notice that I was very aroused. I removed my wedding ring, walked to Peter and handed it to him. He sheepishly accepted it, then stuffed it into his pocket.
Suddenly grabbing me, he hugged me tightly to him. I returned the hug, then kissed him passionately. He was shivering. God, I love this man. I know that I can do and endure the things that will make him happy in this. But I'm not so sure about Peter. Does he know what he's in for? Well, it's too late now for second-guessing. He's made his choice, come what will......
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.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
We were both in the den, I was reading and Peter was sitting on the floor fooling around with his new toy we had just purchased, a Swiss-made camp stove for high-altitude hiking, when the phone rang. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows and pointed to the kitchen phone. I put my book down and quickly made my way into the kitchen. My heart was racing and my throat suddenly dry. I counted to 5 to calm myself, then picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
There was an unnerving silence. I waited, tapping my toe. Just as I was about to hang up, he spoke.
"Who is this?" he asked.
I almost asked him who the hell HE was, but I just barely caught myself and bit my tongue.
"This is Linda. May I ask who's calling?"
"You're husband told you I would be calling. He did talk to you, didn't he, Linda? What did he tell you?"
The voice was smooth and almost unnaturally modulated, like a well-trained actor's.
"He told me a little bit. I really don't know that much. What was he supposed to tell me?"
There was more of that unnerving silence. I got the strange feeling that he could almost see me through the phone and was sizing me up somehow. A shiver ran down my back.
"Tell me EXACTLY what he told you, Linda. And be polite to me when you speak. I'm being polite to you."
I rolled my eyes. I was getting fed up with his tone already. I let out a long sigh and told him exactly what Peter had said.
Softly: "Yes. I see. I see. Where are you, Linda?"
What did he mean, 'where are you?' In relation to what? I shifted the phone to my other ear, ran my hand up over my forehead and into my hair and held it out and away from the back of my head.
"Look," I began. "I'm trying to cooperate here, but I don't see what the fuck...."
When the voice interrupted me, it came with the power and clarity of a 6 foot churchbell laid flush against my ear. I had never heard anything like it in my entire life. It wasn't "loud," just pure and resonating with potential....what? I could feel it in the marrow of my bones.
"JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU'RE STANDING. Describe it to me simply and clearly. Do it now."
I answered immediately, fighting to keep my voice steady.
"I'm standing in the middle of our kitchen next to the phone which is attached to the food-prep island."
Silky smooth now, like the gentle caress of a lullaby:
"Yes. That's better. And where is Peter?"
I turned and looked through the dining room and into Peter's den. I could see that he was still sitting on the floor and tinkering with the new camp-stove. He looked up briefly and tilted his head in a questioning gesture. I frowned and shook my head. He looked back down.
"Sitting on the floor in our den."
"Linda, describe to me what you are wearing. Be specific and leave nothing out."
My ears started to burn just slightly. "I'm wearing a grey sweatshirt that says "St. John's College, Annapolis," bluejeans with no belt, white sox, a pair of white underpants, a wristwatch and my wedding ring."
"No bra?"
"No."
"Can your husband see you from where you stand?"
I looked up again at Peter.
"Yes."
"Take the sweatshirt off."
"Take it off?" I asked stupidly.
"I know you heard me, Linda. And believe me, when I tell you something, I mean it. Don't ever repeat anything I've said as if I might be mistaken. When you've done as I've told you, turn and face your husband."
I set the phone down and pulled off the sweatshirt, tossing it on the counter. I took a deep breath and faced Peter. I almost hated to look: yup, he'd noticed and was staring intently at me. I shrugged and pointed at the phone. A gentle smile came to his lips. I picked the phone back up.
"Okay," I said.
"Is there an extension that Peter can pick up and still see you?"
"Yes. There's one in the dining room."
"Have him pick it up."
Peter was still watching me. I pointed to the phone in my hand and then in the direction of the dining-room extension. He stood up and moved to the phone. There was a soft click as he picked it up.
"Hello, Peter."
"Hello," Peter said.
"Linda, my name is Charles. Forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself sooner. Tell me, Linda, when was the last time you and Peter fucked?"
I looked at Peter. He was looking down at his feet, ignoring me.
"Last night."
"Beginning now, and until I say otherwise, no more sex between the two of you. Peter has told me you have a two-week vacation planned beginning next weekend. Mountain-climbing or some such dangerous activity. You are going to cancel the first week of that vacation and the three of us will be spending it together. Do the two of you have a guest room of some kind?"
Peter was still staring at his feet as if they were the most interesting things in the world.
"Yes," I answered.
"Good. Starting Saturday, a week from today, Peter will move out of your bedroom and into the guest room. Move all of his things out. The bedroom will be shared by only you and I, Linda, at least on most nights. When was your last period?"
"A week ago."
"That won't be a concern, then. A letter will arrive mid-week addressed to you, Linda. It will contain a list of articles you are to purchase and the address of the establishment where you will find them. Nothing too expensive. Make sure you have them before next Sunday. I will arrive at 5:00 p.m., Sunday evening. I am very punctual. One more thing before I go. Linda, grasp one of your nipples and hold it out, away from you, until it begins to hurt."
I did as he asked and waited.
"Peter, you can see your wife, can't you?"
I glanced at Peter and he returned my gaze.
"Yes."
"Good. Which nipple is your wife pulling for me?"
"The left nipple."
"I see. Linda, this will only be temporary, but I want you to release your nipple, remove your wedding band, and hand it to your husband when this call is finished. Peter, I suggest you don't lose it. I will see the two of you in a week. Remember, no sex. Goodbye, Peter."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Linda."
"Goodbye."
The line went dead. I hung up the receiver, released my now stinging nipple, and put my sweatshirt back on. I happened to notice that I was very aroused. I removed my wedding ring, walked to Peter and handed it to him. He sheepishly accepted it, then stuffed it into his pocket.
Suddenly grabbing me, he hugged me tightly to him. I returned the hug, then kissed him passionately. He was shivering. God, I love this man. I know that I can do and endure the things that will make him happy in this. But I'm not so sure about Peter. Does he know what he's in for? Well, it's too late now for second-guessing. He's made his choice, come what will......
- Next page: Husband ch. 02
