Infidelity Read online

  “Delia,” I interrupt. “If the whole world knew my sexual inclinations I wouldn’t care.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “I don’t shout them from the rooftops, but I’m not going to be embarrassed by them.”

  “It always seems like a deep secret to me,” she begins to blush as I’ve seen her blush before. I find it charming. I worry only that she’s too much like Anna when I first met her.

  “Don’t worry, I intend to keep your activities a secret.” She seems relieved, but her anxiety doesn’t go away and as she fidgets with her coffee cup, I’m afraid she’s going to spill it. “Tell me what fascinates you about S&M?”

  She stares away, eyeing the crowd around us, then turns back. “You’re purposely making this hard.” I can see her lip trembling.

  “Am I?” I reply. If I’ve been kind so far, it’s only to keep her from panic. But turning aloof now, I put some distance between us as master and initiate, and keep her apprehensions fresh. “Just answer the question, Delia. Focus on me, look at me. Forget who’s around you. Trust me, they’re lost in their worlds and don’t care about ours. What you say they could hardly hear, and if they strain that much, perhaps they should know. They’ll get an education. Now part your thighs for me and answer the question.”

  Her eyes grow wide as she hears her first real command, but I sense her exalting in her surrender as she follows my instruction.

  She starts reluctantly. “It—S&M—has been in my thoughts for some years. At first, it was just a simple little fantasy of being tied. Then these other things began to appear. And when I…” She pauses and the blush on her face expands. “When I masturbate, these scenes start popping up out of nowhere. I imagine all sorts of things happening to me.” Her eyes are glued to mine as though we swim in our own world. I keep my distance in attitude but all that I desire for myself begins to creep into my system arousing what fascinates me most. For a time I couldn’t keep my mind from Anna when my darker impulses began to appear, but now I’m imagining Delia in bondage, and I’m satisfied that I’m turning the last corner in distancing myself from my wife.

  “What does “all sorts of things” mean?”

  The energy between us intensifies. Her body is ablaze—her eyes steamy, her lips wet. She’s panting softly as her ass starts to sway against her seat. Perhaps she doesn’t realize how this turns her on as she wiggles her cunt into the red vinyl chair.

  “There are,” she hesitates, “whips, long slender ones. I imagine they bite, but I don’t know exactly because I’ve never felt one against my skin. And… you want me to go on?” She perspires a bit on her upper lip.

  “In detail, and unbutton your jacket.”

  She sighs, her chest heaving so her breasts jiggle again and the silk shimmies over the top. She wears no bra; so as she unbuttons her jacket, I see her nipples begin to tighten into knots underneath the delicate chemise. “Sometimes I have ropes tied across my chest, my breasts strangely contorted. I lie on a rack, strung to four corners, I bow at the feet of a man who stands over me. Sometimes he wears black riding boots and jodhpurs, other times the clothes of an old English Baron, sometimes the leather pants of a biker. There’s incense in the air—except the times I’m in a forest. And then recently I’m in a high-rise—like the office—in fact…” she falters with her voice no more than a whisper, “your office, tied over a chair or to bolts in the wall. Last night… I was stretched to the four corners of your desk, on the marble top. The cold of it climbed inside me, while you heated my ass with a strap.” She sighs. “This is so embarrassing.” Her concentration wavers, and she stares around again, suspecting that the eyes of all the patrons are fixed on her.

  “Take off your jacket, and open your legs a littler wider. And please go on.”

  She jogs her coffee cup just enough so some spills into the saucer. She pushes it away hardly having drunk much.

  “Your stomach unsettled?” I ask.

  “Yes, it is.” She struggles to remove her jacket aware how obvious her breasts become with nothing but the silk to cover them. Each move to comply with my orders makes her more jittery and me more aroused. These first moments with a submissive are some of the most divine I can create. Delia is as natural as any young woman I know. She parts her legs and her skirt rises while she worries if anyone in the room will notice. “I… um…” each word becomes a struggle. She has no idea how exhilarating this will feel when she’s done. Confessions like these are good for the soul. “I have so many thoughts that just swim through me, but no experience.”

  “None?”

  “Little.”

  “Tell me about what little experience you’ve had.”

  She bites her lip so hard I wonder if it will bleed. Exposure is a mean sword.

  “A boyfriend—a few months ago. I asked if he’d bind my hands to the headboard of my bed.”

  “And did he?”

  She smiles, “Yes.”

  “What did that feel like?”

  “Like I wasn’t getting enough. All he did was make love to me like a school kid and we ended up laughing.”

  “What was missing?”

  “Oh, the fantasy, Mr. Keller,” she turns serious.

  “The whips, the chains, the leather—the ruthlessness of a controlling man?”

  “You know my heart now,” she says.

  “I knew it long before we began, Delia.”

  The first signs of relief appear on her frightened face as she sees that our conversation is coming to an end.

  “Are you wearing panties?” I ask, as I reach for my wallet.

  “Yes.”

  “Then before you leave the restaurant, take them off here at the table. When I think you’re ready for more we’ll talk again.”

  “That’s all?” she looks aghast.

  “No, it’s not all. But you’ve had enough for one day. No expectations, Delia. What might happen is likely to be far different that you imagine.”

  After paying the bill I get up and walk away, knowing that she stares at me, brooding silently as she thinks of how this relationship will proceed. She’ll be agitated about it all day, masturbate about it all night, and eventually, in a week or so, just before I make my next move, her despair will eat away any confidence I’ve given her today.

  As I walk out on Delia Rose, I am supremely happy to be moving away from the unpleasant past of Anna Keller.

  Chapter Three

  Ian grabs me from behind and I jump three feet—at least that’s the way it feels. I stop chopping celery for the chowder. This kind of surprise is dangerous with a knife in my hand. With his lips at my neck, his breath tickles my skin, shivers run up and down my spine. I didn’t realize how horny I was, or how much I’ve been holding back.

  “Ooo, yes, you can do that more,” I breathe out softly.

  “Like that, huh?”

  I turn in his arms, my body sort of oozing into his warmth. I run my hand through his dark hair, and watch his lips turn into a smile. Pressing his groin into mine we tango as we kiss. I feel his erection against my thigh. Hot. His throbbing makes my insides throb. The ache begins to burn in me. I want it there, the thrust, the pounding, relentless good sex. I want my mind far from my restless thoughts.

  My hands move to clasp Ian’s swelling pouch, while his cover my breasts and gently squeeze. More avidly, we’re beginning to strip away clothes—pants, panties, bra, and shirts drop to the kitchen floor, where they’ll remain while we awkwardly make our way into the living room. He sinks to the couch and I drop between his knees. His prick taunts me and I can’t jack it fast enough to suit either of us, so I push him down and climb on, crotch covering the swollen thing.

  “Yes, do it!” Ah. Wiggling in I want it tighter, harder, the rhythm faster, his hands on me demandingly. He’s too easy on me, I need him slapping. “Ian, fuck me,” my voice lowers as my cunt burrows harder into him.

  He begins to abuse my flesh and the pain from his clutching hands descends to my cunt.
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br />   “Ooo, darling more.” My ravenous need drives me. Moving so frantically, we fall to the rug below, Ian on top, the prickly fabric roughing up my skin as we go like animals on each other. He slaps me sparingly, and I want more, but his kisses prevent me from voicing that desire.

  He groans with me. My cunt clenches tightly, and as he thrusts I feel the head of his prick reach the end of my cunt. When he turns me over, I press my head to the carpet as he kneels between my splayed thighs. His dick has more room to work me as he fucks me like a bitch hound. We seem to howl more profusely as though the position alters the mood just that much more. I grab the carpet, my knees feeling the hardness of the wood floor underneath. Ian parts my cheeks and starts to play with my asshole.

  “Oh, yessssss,” I urge him on. But he’s too timid there. Must have burned some other woman going forcefully in her reluctant ass. But not mine, how many times have I told him that mine loves the abuse. “Yesssssss.”

  I can feel him move away from any hint of foreplay. His prick can’t stand more, while my cunt could take a dozen orgasms tonight. Where did this need come from?

  I’m cumming, spasms ripping at me as I milk his ejaculating prick. “Yesssssss,” he seems as crazy as I am. I can’t contain it or control it. This should linger for minutes, but the climax abruptly jerks and falls away and Ian’s dick withdraws as his erection dwindles.

  Oh, yes, how sweet of him to put his hand there, to pinch my clit and run his fingers inside the wet hole.

  Collapsing forward, I’m half on the prickly carpet, half on cold wood, my nipples feel a smooth surface, my crotch the oriental rug Ian bought in Paris—we’ve just stained it with cum for the second time.

  “I hope you want more tonight because I can’t be finished,” I tell him anxiously.

  “You are a bottomless pit, my dear.”

  “And don’t you like that?”

  “Oh, yes.” We’re on our backs, uncomfortably so, but too languid to move, we pull a pillow from the couch and remain where we are. His fingers run along my bare side, ticklishly. I feel it in my groin and turn on my side to nestle my crotch on his thigh.

  “Oh, not so fast,” he tells me, “Lie back.” It sounds like an order to me, so I settle back against the carpet, while Ian takes his own sweet time being playful. Running circles around my nipple, it begins to swell and tighten, and then dipping a finger in a glass of yesterday’s wine still sitting on the coffee table, he makes it wet and blows on the forming knob until it chills erect. Repeating the measures with the other nipple, I have these two silly mountains on my chest, hovering over the soft flesh underneath—that flesh jiggles with Ian spanking it softly. I want to tell him to do more, and start to speak, but he gives me this commanding sort of look—uncommon for my gentle professor—so I relax letting him do all the work and all the deciding. This is a good thing for me and I think for him as well. Maybe we can carve out new territory here because I hate getting bored with sex.

  I adore his smile because it looks as though he adores me and I adore people admiring me—like Heinrich never did.

  “Arms above you,” Ian orders.

  I’m getting that dreamy feeling of being brutally cared for. I slowly close my eyes and listen only to the sound of his voice. His deep baritone resonates in me so I feel it all the way to my toes.

  Ian grabs my cunt and holds on tightly. Moving over me his tongue and teeth graze these erect mounds on my breasts. I shudder, anxious for his passion to explode but I must think faster than he does.

  He begins to massage me slowly, and I’m muttering “more,” only to have his hand covering my mouth as he whispers, “Quiet.” He should gag me if he feels that way, but I can’t even suggest that. This becomes more difficult as my energy begins to flag and all that sweet eroticism strangely fades away. When he grows more bold, the sensation returns and my body screams even though my voice is silent. My frustration mounts with my inner fires so raw. With too much tenderness the arousal dissipates, revived only when he does something brutal, then falls off more completely as his touch turns sweet.

  Descending from this bondage fantasy, I bring Ian to me and kiss his face. “Not so horny as you were?” he wonders.

  “Oh, you are terrific, love, but I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

  “Then we’ll go to bed.”

  He’s right. It’s late. We’re both tired, and maybe if I sleep, I won’t worry that I’m missing anything. Though, as soon as he’s asleep, I masturbate to the thought of being bound again.

  I’ve been thinking about Bernard for weeks now, since I saw him at the hearing, taking Heinrich’s place because Heinrich was too damned busy to attend his own divorce. I know it was just a simple matter, but I wanted him to see how extraordinarily happy I am now—not so he would fret, but so he’d be jealous. I bought all new clothes, things he’d never seen, and he has the gall not to appear. To hell with him!

  But then, there is Bernard.

  Black men like him intrigue me because they seem different from me, like foreigners from other places, and exploring their bodies makes me feel as though I’m exploring other lands. Bernard has always fascinated me, but because I belonged to Heinrich, he’s never laid his hands on me. I would think about him topping me in a bondage scene. I’ve seen him work, whisper things in the ear of his submissive, and felt her jolt with arousal. His thick lips would be adoring as they kissed me, even if it is a delicate kiss. I want to slavishly massage his body, stroke his hands, run my fingers tenderly along his palm as though I’m reading his future.

  I’ve seen his cock only once, just before he planted it inside his lover’s ass. The kinky hair, the dark color, the blooming shape that turned into a black spear when it was fully engorged. I saw it just that once when I was tied and otherwise preoccupied, so I couldn’t take the time to focus my desire on it before it disappeared. But I’ve thought about that dark erection a hundred times in the middle of sex with Heinrich and Ian, and other dominant men my generous husband gave me to.

  Bernard and I are friends, before we were forced to be enemies on the other side of legal papers. Though even the day of the divorce, he looked at me with the same inherent kindness that he’s always had for me, and a little sorrow, because he thought he failed to prevent this ending. I think he was more disappointed than either Heinrich or I that we came to this miserable parting. And he made it clear that his serving as opposing counsel had no bearing on our friendship. He is infinitely kinder than most dominant men I know. He goes far beyond a simple “top.” Hate that term—tends to force people into strange sounding roles that seem so very sterile. Bernard is not a sterile man; he breathes so passionately about so many things. I know he has his lady fair, as he sometimes affectionately calls Makaila. She’s an exotic Polynesian woman with long dark hair and amber skin, with tender hands and gentle eyes. She’s been Bernard’s submissive for nearly ten years, and they’re settled with their affections in a way Heinrich and I never were.

  Nights like tonight, I go to bed disappointed, missing something that doesn’t come to me anymore—since Heinrich quit having me. If I could just talk to Bernard, feel the presence of him in me, perhaps that would satisfy my need for this submissive lust; if he would give me one of those infamous parental lectures, treat me like a kid, make me feel just a wee thing, let the energy of him bloom in me, perhaps that would be enough. Though, if he were to take me darkly, run me through the paces my body begs for, that would truly be satisfying. I don’t want another Heinrich. All the pitfalls to finding a good dom—I don’t want to go through the frenetic and tedious process of peeling through the layers of a man to find one that knows who he is. I need a man that dominates instinctively. I have all the affection I need from Ian, but he’s not a dom. I can’t instruct him. He just has to know, and I’m squeamish every time we try to go down those paths. He has no idea how dark I become, how beastly servile my strange need requires.

  Is it a requirement? Is it a need? Every day that passes I
fear it more. I’m sure that Heinrich means nothing to me now. But I’m beginning to recognize the truth nearly three months since my last taste of bondage and abuse—that last night with my husband. I don’t think I can live without it. How to have it and keep Ian is the question. The only thing I seriously consider these days is going to Bernard in secret when the need arises and letting myself unwind slowly in his gentle steel-like hands.

  ***

  It’s been nearly a year since I was at his house. The brownstone in the quiet city neighborhood disguises a good deal with its pleasant exterior facing forward, putting a common façade on an uncommon playground. I’ve been here only three times, this the third. Usually, I’d see Bernard on more neutral territory—at the clubs. And several times he came to the house in the woods. But I think I remember most the scenes in this house. The first time Heinrich brought me here just after we got married, I was put on display as my husband’s new trinket. We were still madly in love with everything about each other—not just our mean sexuality. Heinrich was celebrating his thirty-first birthday, and I was just a nubile innocent at twenty-three with a passion for menacing sexual adventures.

  I could hardly keep my eyes off my husband’s good friend as Heinrich made me strip off my clothes, bring myself to Bernard’s feet and kiss the floor. When I stood again, I almost wilted from his awesome inspection of my body. He was looking for details, his black hands soon moving adroitly over my skin as though I was slave flesh he was considering for purchase.

  His smile was as charming as Heinrich’s, his wit as dazzling, but then his race lured me in as well. I was so wet by the time he finished his examination, the man had only to finger my cunt for several seconds, and I came on his hand right in front of my watching husband. I was sure I’d be punished for being so bold and unstrained, but Heinrich was pleased.