4 comments/ 32461 views/ 12 favorites Lynne’s Story 01 By: ShyLynne 1: Crook of a Finger Where I grew up it was unthinkable that one would find a partner that was different from the acceptable norms: very white, very Christian, and responsible with a solid future. Growing up, I dressed conservatively, limited my friends to the "good girls" and, I think, acquired a reputation for being strait-laced and plain. My father, this ever-present, stern figure introduced me to Richard – one of father's friend's sons - at church. It was clear that Richard was viewed as an appropriate choice for me, and there was a sense within the family that I should go along. Richard was, frankly, a bit gangly and plain; but to have a boy pay attention to me was novel and exciting: I was hardly the center of attention at school. He was reserved and very serious and there were initially thoughts that he would rise to great heights. But as our relationship progressed into engagement and marriage, and he started building a career it was clear that this was never going to happen – he became progressively more passive as the pressures of career and family grow, including in the bedroom. We had fooled around before we got married, of course – sweaty back seat explorations – but it never seemed to rise much beyond that once we had the privacy of marriage. Within a year we seemed already to have settled into a comfortable pattern; and I was not the kind of person to question, compare or complain. It also meant, though, that we needed more money than he was bringing in – and so after our second child I went out to work in administration roles at small, local companies. None of this was pressured: I would work most mornings, then do the soccer-mom route. I had settled into the pattern that everyone expected and found some pleasure in having found my place. I worked mornings at one company or another, changing as my kids grew up and my daily routine required until, at the age of 42, I no longer had a need to be at home and finally went to work full time – I could not contemplate days at home on my own. And so it was that I finally had the time to establish myself in some way. I loved my job, and administration was never monotonous. At the end of that year I found myself working for a company of about 50 people, having to organize the Christmas function. I had also become, I think, a bit of a mother-figure, and probably the oldest person there. We all relax more as we grow older and I found that role easy to fit into. The company had recently been purchased and the CEO had been replaced with a black man in his early 30s. Robert was the antithesis of the experiences I had, had with management before. He dressed carefully, but not enough to hide his muscularity. He stood taller than anyone on the company and that – combined with a quiet presence and gravelly voice – left us all in no doubt who was in charge. He took charge of everything, and wanted me to report regularly on the Christmas function – he paid close attention to details all the time and I learned quickly to have my answers ready. I had also changed over the years and, although I had never lost my views regarding race, I had grown accustomed to seeing black people in the workplace, even in positions of authority. And so I had an easy but respectful relationship with Robert. I never imagined that a young black man would be watching a 40-something slightly curvy woman - because, of course, two children and a relaxed suburban lifestyle had an effect on me. And as we worked together, often closely, I occasionally pondered what his girlfriends were like. Robert was still single and I was sure there would be many black women interested in his attentions. He was the opposite of Richard in every way imaginable. If he wasn't black, I once joked to myself, and if I was younger I would be showing a lot of attention – especially those days when we sat alongside one another and I became aware of his strength and size. I was also aware how difficult Richard and my father would find this. If they knew I was working under the close supervision of a young black man they would probably have told me to move jobs – yes, they were still that way. Just being in Robert's presence all day had become a secret – actually a small statement of my independence. Of course it was unthinkable that anything could ever happen between us – he was black! – but I could flirt with the idea, even think about it in front of my family and savor the fact that they were unaware that I had, in some small way, freed myself from their values. The Christmas function was held the day that the office closed for the festive season. Robert had allowed us to hire a private venue and set an open bar and by mid afternoon the party was louder than it should have been. The Christmas tree had been bumped over once already, and the mistletoe in the doorway had caused a lot of attention and provoked some private comments: the rumors were sure to flourish about office romances when work commenced again in January. I expected Robert – as polished and restrained as always – to calm things down, but he kept a distance, talking to me about the arrangements through the afternoon, and pressing white wine onto me himself. I kept my behavior restrained, but we so seldom would have wine at home that as the afternoon wore on I knew I was becoming very tipsy, and a little nervous that perhaps people could see it. By late afternoon almost everyone had left. As the organizer I stayed behind to finalize everything, and so it was that we eventually found ourselves alone. Robert congratulated me on the arrangements, but it was a slightly stilted conversation – the one that you have when the year has ended and it seems that there is not much left to say. I thought that my cheeks were glowing from the wine and I said so. Robert laughed. "You're allowed one day a year to let go, Lynne – you behave like such a lady every other day of the year." "I'm not as young as everyone else here, and I have a husband who will be wanting dinner later. He'll be asking why it is I am so tipsy." "There are many reasons for red cheeks, Lynne. I didn't see you under the mistletoe?" I laughed, and I suspect that my cheeks reddened even more. "As I said – I'm not as young as the others. My mistletoe days are long behind me." "That's a shame. One should never lose mistletoe days." We both laughed, embarrassed – I thought – at how the conversation had turned. "Before we go," he said, "come with me." I followed him as he walked to the back of the venue, away from the lights to a dark area near the kitchens. He led me to a corner and as puzzled as I was, I had no concern or question, until he pointed to a sprig of mistletoe hanging on the wall. "See – there is still one left. Nobody saw it here so they left it alone." I covered my mouth with my hand and blushed furiously. Robert was asking for a kiss? A black man? Instinctively I took a step backwards but Robert had grabbed my hand and pulled me into the corner. He was so strong he did it without effort – and yet with no intent to hurt me. It was almost a game. My heart, though, was pounding and I know that my breath was coming in sudden pants. He stood in such a way that I could not escape, close enough for me to feel the heat off his body. So close. His deep voice came from the shadow: "It's only a kiss, Lynne. Only a kiss. And if you don't want me to do it I will understand. I would never do anything you weren't ready for." In the dark I could see very little, just feel the closeness, catch an aroma of scent, sense his vigor. He was not seeming to threaten me – but this was my boss, and we were alone. And more – I knew him; I trusted him; and I was innately vulnerable. I knew I was trembling slightly, that he could feel it. He lifted his hand and placed it on my cheek; and without realizing I covered his hand with my own. And then slowly, slow enough for me to stop him if I had wished, he leaned forward and placed his lips against mine. The first kiss was no more than you would expect under the mistletoe – a brushing of closed lips, cheeks touching briefly; but he stayed close, and I let him stay close, and those were the changing moments when I knew, suddenly, that I was cheating, that this man with his one hand on my back had taken something away from Richard that was precious and could never be returned – and more, that I had allowed him to do so. And so the second kiss was different; Robert leaned forward now with his whole body pushing against mine and the pounding in my ears was now about my compliance and not from fear. He opened his mouth and bit my lower lip gently, prying my mouth open, his thumb still on my cheek, slipping in between my lips. I pressed my tongue forward into his mouth, not thinking, just experiencing – perhaps for the first time in my life – that first rush of lust that comes from want, not duty. And then I realized with a sudden shock of horror what I was doing and tried to pull my head away; but I was against the corner walls and while I had pulled away from his lip his thumb was still in my mouth. Deliberately, he held it there. We stood long moments in the dark – there was a light in my eyes and while I am sure he could see my face, he remained a dark presence. And then slowly, imperceptibly, he started moving his thumb in and out of my mouth, pushing it deeper and withdrawing progressively more with each stroke until his entire thumb was moist with my saliva, my mouth felt dry and, shamefully, I realized I was responding, drawing him in, holding him in my mouth, softly biting, sucking. At first I was so caught in the moment that I didn't realize he was speaking: "Everyone tells you what you must be, Lynne. But some women, in their hearts, just want a strong man to hold them, to own them ... to control them. And we both know that describes you, don't we?" How does one respond to that? Yes I was tipsy and caught up in the moment; and yes he was my boss and attractive; but he was BLACK and I am WHITE and a wife. And yet ... and yet ... those moments with him so close, so strong, those moments that I was realizing were unlike any I had experienced before; that sudden, first sense of wanting to be a woman, not a wife or mother, not a daughter – a desired woman. He broke in again, pulling his thumb away and noticing how I pushed forward to hold it, saying again, "You want this don't you, Lynne?" Still I wouldn't answer and now there was a sudden sense of annoyance, a harder edge to his voice. His thumb was resting against my cheek, moving slowly, tantalizingly out of my reach. "It's an easy question, Lynne. It's a yes or no. You can say no and we'll leave now and this will never happen again. But you and I both know that you will never have this again. And I don't think you ever have." He spoke slowly, not unkindly, but with steel in his voice. "Again – you want this, don't you?" And incredibly, not fully understanding what he meant, I nodded. I nodded. I nodded and he moved his thumb back to my mouth. "You need to say it to me Lynne. Say that you want me." I whispered, so torn that I knew there were tears in my eyes. "I want you." I didn't realize that it wasn't Robert I wanted at all; that it was this expression of lust and submission and desire that had been missing my entire life; this innate essence of my womanhood that had been taken away through disregard by the weak men in my life. He used my mouth with his thumb for a short while again as he spoke. "I know that you want me. And you will want me, even when it is not my finger, and even when it is not your mouth." The shock ran through me at the words. Robert kissed me again but now he put the full weight of his body against me and I felt suddenly the unmistakable hardness pressing against my belly – more forceful than anything I had ever felt with Richard. I murmured in ... lust? Shock? Fear? Want? He heard the unmistakable sound of my desire and as his other hand moved down my back, resting on the mature flare of my hips he spoke again: "Every white woman needs a strong black man at least once in her life. You have waited a very long time. I think you need this more than you know." When the kiss ended we were in a different world to when it started. In those minutes we had moved from a professional work relationship into a world I barely understood, except to know that this must be kept secret, that I would have to take time to understand what had happened here. His hand had moved down over the curve of my bottom, taking the time for a soft squeeze as he did. I moved my hand to stop him but he slapped it away. "If you want me to stop I will, but if you prevent me ever from doing what I want this will be over." He lowered his other hand and grasped my wrist behind me so I could not move, then started to hitch up the back of my skirt, pulling it up then grabbing it lower down, until his hand had access to my pantied bottom, which he fondled and squeezed gently. "Big mature panties," he murmured, as I buried my face in shame in his shoulder. "I bet they're white or beige. Am I right?" I nodded and whispered: "Beige." "Mature wives and mommy panties are so right for each other. You can keep wearing them, but when you are with me you either have white mommy panties or no panties at all. Do you understand me?" I nodded, still grappling to understand what I was allowing to happen to me. "How many white mommy panties do you have?" The question left my mind racing – my black boss was querying the most intimate details of my wardrobe, details that Richard would never have known. He waited as I hesitated, then squeezed my bottom as he asked again: "How many white mommy panties, Lynne?" I spoke into his jacket, still hiding my face: "I think four. I'm not sure." "So unless you wash you panties daily, you should be panty-less at least one work day a week. When do you wash your panties, Lynne?" All the while he was fondling, squeezing, occasionally pinching or running his hand lower down to let his fingertips trail across the bottom hem of the panty legs. "I wash weekly," I said, without thinking. "Good. Then one day a week you'll go without. I'll be understanding enough to let you choose the day. If you go buy extra panties without me being present to choose, you will not be allowed to wear them. Do you understand?" I shook my head. "No," I said, and even I could hear a tremor in my voice. I tried to pull my hand free but he held it firmly. "Your husband thinks he still owns your body, Lynne. You think you still own your body. But in truth, so long as you stay in this relationship, I do. Including deciding what you wear." His hand was now pushing down the back of my panties. I twisted but he was too strong and within moments I felt it fall until the positioning of my legs caused it to hang at my knees, and his hand gently caressed the naked flesh of my bottom. I tried to turn away from his caress, but I was held so tightly that it was ineffectual. "You only have to ask me to stop and I will, Lynne. It only takes a word." With my face hiding in the material covering his shoulder I said nothing. He squeezed again. "I thought not," then slowly trailed his hand around, over my hip until one firm finger drew a line up my vaginal slit. I pulled my hips back and squeezed my legs together, causing my panties to fall to my ankles; but the wall made it impossible to pull away, and he whispered, "Never, ever close your legs on me unless I tell you to. Do you understand?" I remained silent, slowly opening my legs as he pushed against my thigh to make me do so. He cupped me, then slipped an exploratory finger inside my lips, teasing, finding moistness, as I murmured and moved my hips involuntarily against his hand. "You're wet Lynne. Moist plump mommy pussy." I gasped at the words, so he continued: "I'm not Richard, or any other man you've ever had. I don't have to court you or romance you – I'm here to own you." He leaned close to whisper in my ear: "You have a moist white plump mommy pussy that needs attention," as his index finger started to circle against that softest, hardest, sensitive spot that I would touch, sometimes in the privacy of the bathtub. My hips were twitching, jerking at his touch, gasping, murmuring, heart pounding, mouth dry. "God you're sensitive. You need a hard cock for this white wife pussy and nice plump ass, don't you?" Stiffening, straightening his finger and now sliding it up into me, achingly slowly. "Say it Lynne. Say that you need a hard cock." "Yes," I gasped. And now he started sliding into me, and out again, as his thumb had done with my mouth. "No Lynne. You don't answer in one word. Say that you need a hard black cock for your white wife pussy. Say it now." I whispered it into his jacket, hiding away, but he stopped his slow fingering and pulled his hand away, causing my skirt to fall and suddenly hide my nakedness again. He raised the moist finger and ran it across my lips, then pressed it into my mouth and onto my tongue. "You can taste how much you need it Lynne. Look me in the eye and say it." For the first time ever I tasted the sweet, salty, sharp, pungent taste of my womanhood, as he spread it across my tongue. I swallowed involuntarily, more confused, more captured by the barrage of new sensations with each passing moment. "Look me in the eye. Say it Lynne." I took my head away from his shoulder, but struggled to hold his eyes. I knew that my face was flushed and I felt both shame and want in every pore. I slowly, ponderously whispered: "I need a hard cock for my white wife pussy." "A hard black cock Lynne." "I need a hard black cock for my white wife pussy." "Because Richard doesn't fuck me enough." I looked away, not wanting to draw Richard into any of this. I had betrayed him enough. Robert grasped my chin in his hands, forcing me to purse my lips. I wanted to scream at him, make him stop, make this all go away – and yet there was something happening that I had been longing for, without realizing it, all my life. "Say it Lynne. Look me in the eye and say it." I had never used that word in anything but anger before; certainly not during the act of sex. I had never used it in front of anyone but Richard or some very close friends – it was indicative, to me, of poor upbringing and low morals. I raised my eyes to his, in shame. "Because Richard doesn't fuck me enough." My hips were pressing forward against Robert, in want, slowly moving in aching circles. He could feel me trying to find relief against his hardness as he whispered: "Go onto your knees, unzip my trousers and take me out." I slid down slowly against him, the wall against my back, kicking the panties off my ankles and carefully resting my knees on the uneven wooden floor. His hips at my face, his hands resting in my hair I glanced up at him as I undid his belt and then his zipper. I reached in, and pulled his manhood out, but in the dark I couldn't see anything. But I could feel it, and my heart pounded – he was at least twice as long and wide as Richard if not more, and he was not yet fully hard. I was almost afraid to touch it at first – I ran my hands softly up it's length, finding the circumcised head, trembling at what I was doing. Robert looked down and whispered: "Kiss me. Kiss my black cock." I could almost have wept in shame and fear, but this presence, inches away from my mouth, wanting attention, drew me forward until I opened my lips and let the head slip into me. I closed my eyes and drew him in, hearing his breathing change, feeling it go hard in my mouth, concentrating now, lost, lost, lost in the moment as he started moving his hips forwards and back. His hands were tightening in my hair as he murmured dark thoughts, sexual innuendo: "I'm going to give black cock to your mouth and your married cunny." He was so large that as he pulled me forward, the head of his manhood ran against the top of my mouth, back until I started to choke slightly, but he held me there – letting me know that I was being used, making me listen to his words. "You've been looking at my pants, Lynne – thinking about sucking my cock, haven't you? Married white wife touching her cunny under the desk." Lynne’s Story 01 And then, incredibly, a door banged at the entrance to the venue. We stopped, hearts pounding. A voice and footsteps: "Hello? I saw your cars outside and I'll get the keys from you now!" Frantic, we jerked apart, Robert turning away to zip himself, tuck in his shirt, then walk away to meet the owner; me adjusting my skirt, trying to find my panties on the floor in the dark. Too late – the owner walked around the corner and Robert and I, trying to breathe normally, trying to discreetly pull my hair straight and away from my face, walked out to hand him the keys and leave. Moments later we stopped in the car park, watching the owner drive away, now locked out of the venue and in open sunshine. Robert's belt was buckled differently, and there was dust on my skirt from when I had been on my knees. I found it hard to look him in the eyes – exposed to the light of day, the events of the past half hour seemed surreal. "Maybe," I said, "we should pretend that it didn't happen. Maybe this is the wrong thing." In the bright light of the day he looked me in the eyes. "I regret nothing. I told you – you can walk away whenever you choose." He stepped closer, and his words were the more shocking for the banality of the setting. "You have a plump married cunny that needs me. And you may be turning this over in your mind, feeling some shame and guilt – but when you're alone you're going to remember every moment. And you're going to want every moment again." I stood in the car park, aware that my panties were somewhere inside the venue, feeling the strangeness of nakedness beneath my skirt. He leaned forward and kissed me, not soft, pressing a point, while his hand cupped me through my skirt, finding my slit against the material and rubbing across it while, again, I allowed him to. "Wet camel toe. Lynne's wet camel toe." He stepped back and suddenly there seemed to be nothing left to say. My mind was racing, I was exhausted with the alcohol, the sexual discovery, the near exposure, and I had the beginnings of the guilt that was to haunt me forever. "Remember – when we meet again you either wear white mommy panties, or this will never happen again. You accept every step of the way, or we don't do this at all." There was a brief strained pause. "I have to make Richard's dinner," I said. "I have to go." "I know," he smiled. "It's time for Lynne to go back to Richard." Lynne’s Story 02 2: Picture Perfect I drove home, into the dwindling sunset, with my thoughts in turmoil: the sexual tension of the past hour had dwindled and left me with an overwhelming sense of panic and guilt. The marriage vows which had been unquestioned before lay in ruins – as I drove my trembling hands and state of mind caused me to drive so erratically that I pulled into a parking lot, stopped the car and just tried to contain my racing thoughts. I would previously have rejected any woman that had behaved this way. Robert was BLACK! BLACK! My God! I sat with my face in my hands for long minutes, slowing the trembling, and finally, irrationally decided that I had to go make Richard his dinner, as if that would make it all OK. I would make his dinner and we would talk and relax and maybe watch TV; and in January I would tell Robert that I didn't want to continue. It would be over and I could go back to my safe life again, even if I had to change jobs – nobody would have to know why. I found a hairbrush in my handbag and tidied my hair and makeup in the mirror; it wouldn't do to arrive at home in a disheveled state. My heart sank as I arrived at home: my parents's car stood in the driveway. On occasion they would drop in, without warning, for dinner. As I pulled up the car I took a long breath – I didn't need this today, of all days. My mother in law was, as usual, smoking in the house, my father in law drinking what would be the first of many beers. They had barely greeted me when she started: "I would always have Donald's dinner ready when he walked in the door. Things have certainly changed." I bristled, of course, but all that was on my mind was to get upstairs and put on panties. Could anyone see? I knew Donald would be looking me over when he thought nobody was watching. With his wandering eye, and too long hugs, blessing everyone all the time – these church groupies are all the same. He would be looking for a panty line. Richard, of course, never saw fault in his father at all. I put down my handbag and was about to go upstairs when Donald stood up and walked over to greet me. "So glad to see you Lynne. God bless you." He hugged me for too long, as usual, with his one hand slowly moving across my back so he could feel my bra strap. I rolled my eyes at Richard. "That's enough, Donald." cut in Agnes. He let go and stepped back with an angelic look on his face. I called them Mom and Dad to their faces, of course; but their irritating idiosyncrasies had reduced them to a first name basis in my mind. "The Lord's blessings are here to be shared," he beamed. The beer was already loosening him up. "Come to the kitchen, Lynne – I have something to show you." He waited, of course, for me to walk in front so he could watch my bottom. God I needed to put those panties on! I walked through to the kitchen with my father just behind. "Richard mentioned that your cupboard door was loose so I tightened it up. I just thought I'd show you." I had been through this before, showing gratitude that Donald had done yet another thing that Richard had neglected. He showed me the cupboard door, high up, then stepped back so I could test it. "Thank you dad, just what I needed," I praised, reaching up, aware that he was watching my every move. As I was at the worst point, stretched out, skirt riding up on the back of my legs, my mobile phone beeped that a message was here. I pulled back, relieved that this gave me an opportunity to expose myself less to Donald, and walked back to the lounge to get my cellphone out of my handbag. Richard was talking to his mother about some inanity, when I looked down at the message for the first time. I've been thinking about your cunny. Have you been thinking about my cock? The blood left my face and that hard ball of fear settled in my stomach for the first time. This was my home. This was out of control. I had to stop this thing. I realized that I was looking at the phone in shock when Richard asked if I was alright. I smiled. Lying is not my forte – I had never really had cause to do so before. "It's fine – just someone trying to sell me insurance. I'll be here now – just going to the bathroom after all that wine." As I turned to walk upstairs I heard Agnes asking Richard why I was drinking wine during the day. I slipped into the bathroom and closed the door, then started sending the first of the many SMS dialogues that were to so fill my life in the future. Lynne: I can't talk now! Robert: Have you been thinking about my cock? Lynne: This is my home! My family is here! We'll talk later There was a brief pause, and I breathed deeply, my heart racing. Robert: We'll talk now. Have you been thinking about my cock? Lynne: For God sake, no! I can't do this now! Robert: I want to talk now. I began to feel a sense of desperation. Lynne: I'm going to put my phone off. I CAN'T DO THIS! This was out of control. I had to stop this now. I should never have allowed any of this to start. And then the full depth of my situation presented itself: Robert sent me, firstly, my home telephone number, and then Richard's. I stared at them, suddenly cold, in disbelief. Robert: If we don't talk here, I'll call your home and we can talk there. I wanted to scream in desperation. He had the numbers. Of course he had the numbers: he ran the company. I considered, desperately, just turning off my phone. But what if he called? What if he called every day? Lynne: You said that you would stop if I wanted to! Robert: I changed my mind. The days of whites discarding blacks when they get tired of them are over. You could have stopped when I suggested it, but you wanted to kiss my cock. I want to talk now. I know that I wept, briefly, at that point. A day ago my life had been ordered and safe – now I stood to lose everything, to be humiliated, to be exposed, to suffer shame. Lynne: Please don't do this. I'm asking nicely. Please. Robert: If we don't talk now, how are you going to make it up to me? Lynne: What do you want from me? He paused. Each moment, each delay, I knew my family would be wondering what was happening. Oh God, all I wanted to do was go downstairs and start dinner and have my normal life back. Robert: Have you been thinking about my cock? This again. Again. What to say? I didn't want to anger him – I would just have to say what he wanted to hear for long enough for me to work out what to do. Lynne: Yes. Robert: What have you been thinking about my cock? Oh God. What was I doing? What was I doing? Lynne: How big you are. Robert: You like it? Have you ever kissed a cock that big? Lynne: I did like it. I have never kissed anyone that size. That was true of course. Even without having seen Robert in normal light I had felt that he was so much bigger than Richard. And Richard was the only man I had ever touched. Robert: I touch lots of white cunny. You felt very plump. I could imagine him, relaxing, deliberately sending me messages that he knew would humiliate me. Each message was more demeaning, more controlling. Lynne: I have to go! There was a knock on the bathroom door, and Richard calling: "Hon, are you OK? Is everything alright?" Robert: I want a pic of your cunny. I want to see it. A pic with your face and your cunny. I struggled to keep my voice normal for Richard. "I'm fine, baby – I think I just ate something bad at the party. I may be a little while." "Should I phone out for something?" Robert: A pic of your cunny and your face. Skirt up, no panties. "No baby – give me ten minutes and I'll be down." "We're all a bit worried. You didn't look well downstairs." Robert: Where the fuck are you? Do I have to phone your house? Lynne: DON'T PHONE "I'm fine baby. I'll be down in a little while and prepare us some food." Robert: Then SEND ME THE FUCKING PIC NOW Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Lynne: I WILL "OK Lynne. But if you're not fine I can organize the food." The tension caused me to snap out: "You know what your mother will say if I don't make dinner!" There was a brief silence then, as always, Richard backed away. "I'll be downstairs hon." I looked across at the mirror. I had heard of these women, sending pictures of themselves that then got circulated. But God, what could I do? Robert: I'm waiting Lynne: I'm BUSY DOING IT I stepped back against the wall. My hands were trembling as I switched the phone over to the camera application. Like every mother I had taken hundreds of pictures, but never like this. I reached down and pulled up the front of my skirt. It was full enough that I had to bustle it under my elbow, and now my naked hips, my womanhood could clearly be seen. I had so little time to do this: I adjusted the phone grappling to get the angle correct, then pressed the button. The photograph was embarrassing: a 42 year old wife exposing herself in the mirror, wide hips, shy, nervous eyes with mascara that had run from the tears. I could see, with shame, why he had said my womanhood was plump: it nestled between my legs, fleshy, slightly parted, it would be opening itself to his gaze. Robert: I'm waiting Lynne: [image:01487] A long, long moment of silence. Lynne: You have your pic now. I need to go! Robert: I can't see your cunny properly. Put your foot on the counter and do it again. Lynne: NO! I HAVE TO GO! Robert: Take the fucking pic again! I almost sobbed in shame. It was, I think, the closest I came to just going downstairs and switching off my phone and praying that Robert would not call. But instead, I leaned against the wall to steady myself, raised one foot to place it on the counter, lifted my skirt, and incredibly, managed to find the angle that would show it all. This picture was different – it was less composed, with my womanhood close to the camera and my face in the background. But whereas the first picture had been shy and withdrawn, this could not: the position of my legs had opened my womanhood up – the pink folds, even the opening of the passage were clear. It was humiliating. I could not send it. It was impossible. Nobody should ever see this. Ever. Ever. Lynne: [image:01488] Robert: Good. Very good. I sat down on the side of the bathtub and placed my head in my hands for the second time that day. I finally sobbed with all the frustration, anger and shame that I had. No man had ever humiliated me so; nothing I had ever done had left me feeling this used or afraid. No man had ever held such a strong grip on me so quickly. I realized that I would now, always, have to place my phone on silent. No – on vibrate, so I knew when messages were coming in; and keep it on me so I could feel the messages as they came in, deal with them and then delete them. Oh God, Oh God – what had I got myself into? Robert: You have to go make dinner for Richard? Lynne: Yes. Robert: You better clean up your face before you do. Lynne: I know. Robert: We'll talk tomorrow. I think I want photographs of your panties. I was so resigned, now, so committed to only saying what he wanted to hear. Lynne: Of course. Robert: What size bra do you wear? Lynne: What? Why do you want to know that? 34C Robert: OK. Go away now ... we'll talk in the morning. Lynne: Bye. Relief swept through me. It was over for now. For today. For today. I could pretend for the next hours that I was a normal wife and mother and daughter. I started washing my face, wondering how much longer I could take upstairs to make my appearance look normal. Oh God, I thought, I had better find some panties. Lynne’s Story 03 3: Self Exploration I lay awake through long periods that night, as Richard slept alongside me, feeling restless and alone. The terrors of the night engulfed me - fear of Richard finding out, my parents, my children. Robert, who had seemed such an organized, rational man had shown a new side to himself. He had said that we could stop at any time, and now he was – openly – blackmailing me. I turned the events of the party over in my mind a thousand times. The kiss, that kiss where I had suddenly felt an unexpected longing for strength, a man pressing against me, an overpowering presence. I looked across at Richard in the dark, hearing his breathing. I had felt a longing for everything that Richard was incapable of representing – and I now experienced a strange and new resentment at the realisation that I had been missing something different to the satisfaction of security and family, without consciously having seemed to be aware. When Robert had hiked up my skirt, fondled me, lowered my panties, instructed me to kiss his manhood in the dark, I had acquiesced, ignoring every opportunity to stop. Yes, he had been pressing wine onto me during the day and I was very tipsy, but I had meekly allowed it because I had wanted that desire, a man lusting after me, and me longing for him. If we had not been interrupted, would we have ... consummated the act? The emotions had been so intense that I didn't know – the woman on her knees kissing his hardness, taking him into her mouth, was not me. I had lived a life of respect, honor, integrity, everything my family had expected. But in the early hours of the morning, in that feverish heat and fear of the moment I imagined him in the bed, above me, his manhood erect, touching my belly; and I closed my eyes, shamelessly, secretly opened my legs, curved my back to present myself and lay there, feeling restless and ashamed, remembering his obscene whisperings, aware of a deeper desire than I could remember feeling for Richard .... ever. Lying next to my husband, in that half asleep, half afraid state I lowered my panties down, over the curve of my bottom, slipped them secretly off so I could lie with the bedclothes touching my lips, nightdress hiked up, hearing Richard's breaths as I thought of another man pressing himself into me in the dark. As I finally drifted off to sleep I realized the ambivalence and contradiction of my actions – desperate to protect the security of my family life and reputation, yet anxious to explore this new longing. I finally awoke with Richard standing above me. "Wake up hon. You were very restless last night. Made you some coffee." He had a gentle Richard-smile, ever kind and affectionate. I turned over and sat up. "I was very restless; might have been the wine from the party." "It's OK – first day of holiday; you can sleep it away if you want. I'm going to be out for the morning at my folks, though, remember – so you have all the time in the world to relax." I felt a surge of relief – if he was out of the house it would be easier for me to manage any potential contact from Robert. He leaned over and kissed my cheek as if I was an older aunt, then smiled and walked out of the room. I could hear him turn left and walk down the steps, then enter the garage, open the automated door and drive away. I sat still in bed all that time, just sipping coffee, my mind a blank, not wanting to deal with the circumstance I had to face. At one point I glanced down and saw my panties lying on the floor next to my bed. Had Richard noticed? Did it matter – unlike Robert, his interest in my panties, or lack of panties had dwindled years ago. I pondered that thought as a justification for the choices I had made yesterday. A woman should have a man intrigued by her underwear. I fell asleep again from exhaustion, then woke an hour later, aware that my phone had vibrated against the glass top of my bedside table. I knew immediately that it would be Robert, and I was correct. Robert: Morning kitten. I waited, unclear how to answer and averted the stress of the dialogue for as long as I could. I was to learn, still, that this was Robert's approach – speak affectionately while controlling me absolutely. He would always apply the silk glove of tenderness over the steel fist of authority. Robert: Hello? Lynne: I'm here. Good morning. Robert: Mmm .... been thinking about you. Looking at your pictures. I remained silent for a while, unsure how to respond. Robert: you been thinking about me, kitten? I felt that I needed to keep him happy and not annoy him. Lynne: Yes. Robert: been thinking about my cock, haven't you, kitten? Lynne: Yes. Robert: I know you enjoyed kissing it. I could see it. How did you feel having it in your mouth? His vulgarity no longer surprised me. I resolved to walk that line between satisfying him and sinking into vulgarity myself. Lynne: It was ... intimate. Robert: Intimate. I like that. How many cocks have you sucked? It was an impertinent question and I felt a stab of anger. But I also felt embarrassed, for some reason, at the truthful answer. Two days ago I would have been proud to say I had always been a faithful wife, but now I felt naive and somehow inferior. Lynne: Just two I knew I was, stupidly, blushing as I responded. Robert: Richard and I? Lynne: Yes. Robert: You really have been the good wife all your life, haven't you? Lynne: I have. I never wanted anything else. Robert: And now you sit at home thinking about my cock. That's quite a change, isn't it? Lynne: I don't just sit around thinking about you. Robert: Not all the time. But sometimes you do. You admitted it. Lynne: Yes. Sometimes. Robert: Where are you? Lynne: At home. Robert: Where is Richard? Lynne: He's gone out. Robert: And left you all alone? Lynne: Yes. Just for the morning. Robert: Are you still in bed? Lynne: Yes. Robert: Such a lazy kitten. I'm going to phone you. Within a moment my phone vibrated and when I responded I heard his unmistakable deep voice. "Morning kitten." "Morning Robert." "What does kitten wear to bed?" The question, once again, was invasive – but even though I had no choice but to answer, the experience was titillating. His voice had softened, lowered a tone. There was an intimacy in the question which had been lost in the text messages. When I spoke my voice was less confident than I expected and I had to swallow to get the words out: "A nightdress." You mean a nightie?" "Yes." "Panties? Bra?" I had to lie – he could not know I had removed my panties during the night. "Every girl has to wear panties." He paused, then slowly said the words for the effect he knew it would have: "Not when she's talking to her black lover ... take them off." I enjoyed the small deception I had passed off, making him believe I was wearing panties. I made the sounds as if I was following his instruction, then whispered back, feeling as if I had gained something: "They're off." "Good. Now lie back in bed and put the soles of your feet together." I lay back, relaxed, legs outstretched, aware that he could not know that I was deceiving him. "Are you doing it?" "Yes." "I can hear that you're lying." There was a real anger in his voice. "Don't fucking lie to me! Put the soles of your feet together!" I sat in shock. How could he know I was lying? For a moment I stared at the phone incredulously, then tried to lie my way out of it. "They are together! I'm not lying." He paused. "I will always know when you are lying Lynne. I can hear it in your voice. This is your last chance before I get angry and make your life difficult. Are the soles of your feet together?" His insistence on acquiescence to even this small thing shocked me. And it was impossible: he could not know that they my soles were not together – but at this point I was prepared to believe anything. I lay back, and did as he instructed. The position stripped me of any modesty: my nightie had ridden up my thighs, exposing my womanhood to the room. The position, also, opened the lips slightly – if Richard had walked back into the room he would be looking straight up my legs into me. "They're together," I said – and clearly he could hear the resignation in my voice because his tone softened. "Good. Your cunny is a little bit open." I could barely get the word out: "Yes." "Don't cover yourself with bedclothes – I want you fully exposed. You are exposed, aren't you?" There was both shyness and frustration in my response: "Yes. Yes I am." "Good. Is there anyone else in the house?" "No." "Good. So you can do anything I want you to." I remained silent for a moment, aware that he was waiting for my agreement. Finally I snapped back, but not too loudly: "I don't just do anything." He paused, and I could imagine him smiling briefly. "A real woman gives her man everything he desires." I spoke, perhaps without thinking: "You are not my man." He would always seem so superior: "I don't think you understand what's happening here. Already you do every sexual thing that I want ... that means I am the dominant sexual figure in your life. Aren't I?" I paused: "I suppose you are." "And as much as you protest, you like it." I didn't answer, and he gave me time, I suspect, to think about it. My first reaction was to dismiss it – I had never felt as humiliated or resentful as yesterday in the bathroom. But at this moment, legs splayed, the morning cool of the room embracing my skin, my thighs and yes, my womanhood, I could not recall Richard ever displaying such focused interest in my sexual state. Despite everything, I was aroused, aware of Robert on the other end of the line. There was an irrational madness to this: I should feel no more than disdain, distaste. My skin should be crawling but it ... wasn't. Rather, I found myself turning my head to look at myself in the full length wall mirror, wanton, like a slut offering herself. "Have you ever done anything like this for Richard?" "No." "Not all women need this, but all women should submit completely to at least one man in her life. The right man making her feel submissive and feminine." I felt unsure and irritable: "That's nonsense!" "Really? Can you honestly say that your cunny isn't a little bit moist, Lynne?" He was almost whispering now. "That you haven't thought of my cock sliding into you? Opening you slowly? Filling you?" I murmured unintentionally and he heard it. "You've been waiting your whole life for the right man, and now you have to come down from your position of white privilege and deal with a black cock, and you don't know how to handle it, do you?" There was nothing to say. It was true that dealing with a black man made this all the more humiliating. But I was recognizing that on some level I was enjoying this ... this humiliation, this submission. It struck a chord. It not only aroused me, it felt inconceivably right. "Your cunny is open for me, Lynne. Imagine me up close, kissing you, pressing my cock inside you." My murmur became the softest whimper. He heard it. He knew. "What do you have on your bedside table?" My mouth was dry, my voice strangled: "A book, the light, my hairbrush, a coffee cup. Why?" "Good. Take the hairbrush and run the bristles between your cunny lips, over your clitty. I want to hear it." It was an outrageous instruction; but I already knew it was futile. He would demand that I do it, and know if I hadn't. And worse, I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it. I didn't think about it – I just recognized it was true, placed the phone against my shoulder and reached across for the hairbrush. I had grown up so conservative and naive that I had never used an object on myself before; the first stroke of the hairbrush was like a bolt of lightning, heat, bristles pulling, softly tearing into my nerve endings – my legs jerked, I cried out in shock twisting my hips, heart pounding as I gasped for breath. "Good. Pleasure and pain ... it's all the same sensation for the submissive white wife. Keep stroking softly. I want to hear it." With each movement I had to catch my breath, moaning softly, my voice jerking if a bristle stretched me, flicked against me. I drew the hairbrush up and down, slowly, each moment a revelation of joy and pain. "Talk to me Lynne. Tell me what your cunny is feeling." My words came in short breaths. "It's intense. I'm twitching. I'm twitching. I'm twitching." "Keep stroking. I suspect your little cunny has needed attention for longer than you will admit, hasn't it?" I whispered, with short breaths: "Yes..." "I want another ten strokes, not too hard, don't hurt yourself, just keep yourself poised. Count them for me. Do it now." "One ... two .. oh God ..." "Keep going. I want you to remember this long after it's over; your cunny to be tender when you're with Richard." "Three ... four ... five ..." "Yes. Good girl. Now the last five harder. Spread yourself open and stroke as hard as you can." I was gasping now ... each breath timed to match a stroke of the hairbrush: "Six ... seven ... eight ..." "Now very slow for the last two ... " "Nine ....." I drew it achingly slowly up my lips, heart pounding, perspiration on my brow: "Ten!" I fell back, panting, legs still twitching, humiliated and alive, every nerve ending in my ... womanhood ... sensitive even to the movement of the cool air in the room. I lay prostate for a moment, letting my breathing slow, my legs closed now, defensive, hiding myself, soothing my senses down there. "Good girl Lynne. I think your cunny has never been abused before, has it?" "No," I responded, aware of the heat of shame in my face. "But you did it. And you liked it. I could hear it." I barely answered: "Yes, I did do it." "And you didn't just like the feel of the hairbrush ... you liked being instructed. You enjoyed the submission. Didn't you, Lynne?" My heart was slowing to a normal pace and I had caught my breath. I couldn't bring myself to answer the question. "Didn't you Lynne? Say it." I remained silent. "White wife obeying a black cock. Not what you expected, is it?" "No," I softly murmured, the confusion of the past moments washing over me. "Masturbating in your marriage bed over my voice, Lynne. Put the hairbrush handle into your pussy, Lynne. Now." I slowly, wearily parted my knees and carefully slipped the wooden handle into myself. My lips were tender, but it slipped up into me, sliding over the wetness that had filled me. "Is it in?" "Yes." "Good. In and out now, slowly." Holding the brush by the bristles, I did as I was told, caught up in the moment as if in a reverie. I had never done this before, not even on my own, not even in the bath when I sometimes ... touched. As Robert whispered filthy suggestions into the phone I started to feel that welling inside me, and suddenly my hips were jerking against the brush, I was moaning as I had never done before, I exploded as all the pent up lust from a lifetime of conservative want. I think I called out, but it was beyond my control; everything in those moments was about Robert's voice, vague imaginings of his manhood, and that feeling, that squeezing explosion between my legs and deep into me. Later I wondered whether I had ever really had an orgasm with Richard. Nothing had prepared me for the intensity of those moments, alone with Robert's voice controlling me. I lay on my side, face buried in the pillow, hairbrush still inside, still moving slightly in that after-lust, softly moaning as I came down from the passion of the last moments. Robert had listened, and now spoke for the last time: "I wish I could have seen that. I want to fuck you, Lynne. Before we go back to work. Find a time, work out how you going to escape your husband. And then let me know and I will work out the place. Do you understand?" "Yes," I murmured. "Let me know by the end of the day. I'll be waiting." And the phone went dead. I lay immobile, strangely restless and content simultaneously. My life had undergone a sea-change in the past 48 hours; I would still grapple with my conscience and what this all meant – but I suddenly felt that the essence of my femininity had changed. The act of submission, which I would have decried before, had been more erotic than I could describe. I felt the contradiction of shame and lust had driven me to unthinkable behavior and unexpected excitement. I looked across at the mirror, Lynne still lying like a wanton ... slut. And part of me approved of the sight. Lynne’s Story 04 I realize, when looking back over what I have written, that it sounds as if Robert was single-mindedly pursuing my humiliation. While there were times that I believed that, it was not true: rather, his demeanor would change from day to day -- being, at times demanding, at times even affectionate. I came to suspect that he had far less experience than he intimated; that he was finding his way as much as I was and played out a role to prevent this from slipping away. As much as he became an object of desire to me, I eventually understood that he prized the control he exerted -- not just because he wanted to control a woman, but because dominating my matronly, white conformity represented something aspirational for him -- either for political or personal satisfaction. He certainly was not the demon he pretended to be, even though I doubt that he understood it himself. I also recognize that my behavior warrants some examination: for as much as I was afraid of all of this becoming public, I had emotionally succumbed very quickly. More than that -- my initial reluctance would repeatedly slip away into desire. I had grown up believing in core conservative values; the idea that a white wife would stray, would allow a man to control her, would -- worst of all -- cross the color line was unthinkable. It troubled me; I remember sitting alongside Richard in church vowing to find a way out of this predicament, only to willingly yield to Robert's will when next he demanded. I don't pretend that what I did was acceptable, or -- as Robert would claim -- that all women want this kind of relationship. But I do acknowledge that it very quickly became part of my psyche. I would never publicly admit to my desires; but I came to admit them to myself with an emotional response that varied from lust to distaste. I started this journey distrusting Robert -- I would come to understand that he only held a mirror to the longings in my own life; that as much as I would submit to his will physically, ultimately he became the unwitting provider of my own satisfaction. I would ache for the struggle, the reluctant submission, the exploration, crossing my emotional and sexual boundaries, "forced" to perform the acts I openly decried -- and privately desired. I remembered an old quote: "A man wants a woman to be a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom." But for me, I realized, it was I that wanted to play those roles. All of that was still to become apparent; the first time that I drove to Robert's house I still had little self-awareness about the journey I had embarked upon. I was frankly afraid. I had made an excuse that would give me an afternoon on my own, and Robert had given me his address. His home had not been easy to find; he lived in one of those semi-rural areas, his house set apart from anything else. I entered through a gate that swung open with a weighted preponderance. That gate would acquire a meaning for me; each time I passed through it I left my ordinary life behind; and each time I would be unprepared for the new experience that awaited me. Robert opened his door, looking cool and relaxed in chinos and a cotton shirt, greeting me with assurance and bidding me into his home. I should tell you about his house because it reflected his personality and would have a bearing on the events that occurred there. Firstly, there were no hints of the feminine: the decor was stark, heavy and utilitarian, with large chairs, tables and television screens. It was simultaneously more stylish and expensive than I would have expected -- and I still believe that it had been decorated by a professional. The lounge area, where he now led me had two large loungers surrounding a coffee table, facing a clearly expensive array of technology dwarfed by a huge screen which was silently playing music videos. His home gleamed and sparkled; I would learn eventually that he had two domestic workers attending to the house and the kitchen. The sun reflecting off the pool, just outside of the window, projected calming waves of light into the room. He beckoned me to sit alongside him, where a tumbler of whisky (I assumed) awaited him, and a bottle of white wine breathed in an ice bucket, one glass already filled and waiting for me. I sat as demurely as I could, crossing my ankles away from him, sitting in the corner of the lounger with a clear space between us. He smiled. "Thank you for coming Lynne." "I hardly had a choice, did I?" He took a slow sip of whisky. "We always have a choice. Have some wine -- I selected it quite carefully." I shook my head and responded with some deference: "No thank you. This time I stay sober." He pursed his lips, the lips I would eventually come to watch, imagining them running so softly across mine. "You wouldn't want to offend me, would you?" Bending forward, he handed me the wine glass. I took it carefully then, as he watched, took the first slow sip. Placing his hand on my elbow he pressed upwards, forcing me to swallow more, holding it there until most of the glass was empty. There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he finally released me. I took a deep breath: "That wasn't very nice!" "Sometimes a lady needs persuading." In any other circumstance I believe I would have stormed out; but I still had not understood my complicity in this relationship and I felt trapped. I sat in frustrated silence. I was to recognize this progression so often during this relationship: in the first stage of any meeting I would feel outraged; although, I did come to realize later that the outrage would be directed as much at my collusion as at Robert. "I meant what I said. Thank you for coming. I am pleased you are here. You do know that I have found you attractive from the beginning." The comment surprised me -- I am nothing if not self-aware; and I am no Venus. Robert was fully ten years younger than me; I was definitively a conservative wife in my appearance; and in a fit of pique I had dressed down for the day: I was in an shapeless and loose patterned skirt that reached past my knees, topped by a plain buttoned blouse. I had worn comfortable ballet flats and the barest of makeup. I retorted with some spite: "You already have me here; you don't have to persuade me." "You think I'm leading you on? I don't have to, do I?" He sipped his whisky slowly. "The world portrays one type of woman as desirable -- but for many men that's not the case. I like many kinds of women -- I think that most men do." It was a strange discussion to be having at this point -- Robert was applauding feminist values like a crusader, and notwithstanding my mistrust he appeared to be sincere. He continued: "There are deeper issues. You must know that a white woman -- particularly a married, slightly older white woman -- is unattainable for most black men. And that makes the idea very desirable." So there it was. I was a token. Robert spoke with a surprising eloquence and clarity; but the primitive undertone to all of this had been laid bare. He lived a life of elegance and ease, clearly; but at heart he still wanted the same thing. "I can see that annoys you. But there is a contrary argument as well: some of those women are equally titillated" -- he lingered on the word -- "by younger black men. The fantasy of ... how shall I describe it ... primal lust? The demanding sexuality that is missing in their comfortable soccer mom lives. The desire for a big, hard ... man." I should have eaten more before I had driven to Robert's home: the wine was already having an effect. I tried to remain in control and coherent: "I would like you to delete the photos I sent you." He barely registered the comment. "That's not happening. They are way too interesting and valuable." He laid his hand softly on my knee, through the skirt. "In fact, I'm going to enjoy seeing what you sent me in the flesh, so to speak." His hand was gently, softly massaging my thigh, with Robert aware that I was in no position to stop him; while I was becoming conscious of how my body was reacting. It was inconceivable that just that touch -- now moving one finger up my thigh slowly, hard enough to raise the skirt slightly -- should palpably be changing my heartbeat. He trailed a line up the length of my thigh, inches away from my panties, the white "mommy" panties he had insisted I wear in his presence. "Your breathing is changing, Lynne. You give yourself away so easily." I reached for the glass of wine and emptied it; the situation was ridiculous; I needed to just get up and leave and let the cards fall where they may. But I didn't move -- I put the glass down and leaned back into the chair, and Robert could see the conflict on my face, knew that I was succumbing already to the demon that he controlled. His finger trailed inwards to the inside of my thigh, and I closed my legs tightly, shutting my eyes. He leaned in close and his voice had reduced to a whisper: "Unbutton your blouse Lynne." I couldn't speak for fear that he would hear the tremor in my voice. After a moment he repeated it: "Unbutton your blouse now." I silently, eyes still shut, heart racing, breath strangled, unbuttoned from the top, almost at the neckline, feeling the blouse loosen, my breasts shifting in the brassiere as it opened, until the last button had capitulated and I opened my eyes as the two sides of the blouse fell apart. Robert opened the blouse, placing each side alongside my breasts so that my brassiere was openly exposed to his view, then cupped my right breast through the bra, squeezed me, and started frankly, openly fondling them in turn. He found an erect nipple and pinched it through the fabric, hard enough for me to moan softly but he didn't stop teasing, torturing, exquisitely controlling my every breath until I could take no more and jerked away, panting. He pulled the material of the bra down, straps pulling into my shoulders, exposing the breast, the tortured nipple finally exposed to the cruel relief of his tongue, the hard blade stroking against me, drawing me in to his suckling, biting grasp. I was gasping now, arms around his shoulders, leaning into him as he used me. He continued for long, sweet, painful moments, then drew back and put his hand along my cheek, fingers in my hair in a gesture that -- at any other time -- would be affectionate. He ran his cheek along mine, smooth, shaven, a fresh scent suddenly apparent when he was that close -- until his teeth found my earlobe, softly bit down, and he murmured again: "Pull up your skirt." This time I did not have the will to hesitate: I raised myself slightly and drew the skirt up under me, until I felt the cool air touching my thighs. Robert pulled himself away, leaning forward so he could see up the skirt, pulling the front up with one hand and suddenly my panties, legs slightly parted, were visible. Robert pushed my legs apart, examining me freely. In our first encounter he had touched but not seen me -- and although I had sent him naked pictures of my womanhood, this was the first time that I sat, legs open, allowing any man other than Richard to look at me. I was aware that the panties had pulled up, as they will when sitting, and I could feel them pressed against my flesh. Although the fabric allowed nothing to be seen, the shape of my lips were clearly visible -- enough to see that the mouth of my womanhood was slightly open against the pressure of the material. Without thinking, I started to cover myself with my hand, but Robert grabbed both my wrists and held them together behind me in one large hand. "Keep your legs open," he growled, turning his attention to examine me at his leisure. I wanted to close my eyes again, but couldn't -- transfixed by the experience of being so openly studied. He trailed fingertips slowly down the line of the opening, that soft touch awakening my senses with a studied delicacy. Glancing briefly at my face, he found the leg-hem of the panties and pulled them to the side, exposing me completely for the first time. I know that I murmured, a sound that failed to express the complex shame and desire that was suffusing my ... lips, everything focused on that small, private, sensitive area that was normally hidden from everyone. At first he was satisfied to run his fingertips along the outside, but within moments he started an intimate exploration, prying the lips open gently, running a fingertip up the length, finding a profusion of moisture, causing my breath to descend into ragged pants. Even now that image is clear in my mind: him holding me helplessly, breasts exposed, my slit openly examined for the first time outside of my marriage. Even now it causes that the same conflict in my heart, leaving me in a state of ignominy and want -- and when I would later relive this experience in my private moments I would often return to this point, for it came to express so much about what this relationship was to be: Robert satisfying himself with the use of my body as I provided obligatory resistance that barely hid my need to be exposed and used. I found myself unconsciously opening my legs wider, pressing my hips forward, offering myself to his gaze, his touch, his manipulation at the same time as I buried my face in his shoulder, hiding the vision of my surrender from myself. He had found the nub of my clitoris and varied between pinching it slightly and running one long, straight finger slowly into me, each causing my hips to respond of its own accord. And then, as was his way whenever I had succumbed to his control, he would make me admit my desires, a humiliation as profound as anything he would physically do: he knew that my self-image was as important to me as my soul; that making these admissions was often more compliant and shameful than stripping myself bare. "You're wet, Lynne. You may pretend to be objecting, but your cunt gives you away, doesn't it?" I buried my face deeper into his shirt, avoiding the honesty that he demanded from me. "Tell me Lynne. Your cunt gives you away, doesn't it?" "Yes," I said, still hiding my face. "You've been thinking about my cock, haven't you?" He said this as he slid his middle finger deeply into the heart of me. "Tell me." "Yes," I acknowledged. "I have." "What have you been thinking?" I remained silent -- it was one thing to follow his lead but to describe my thoughts would be an acquiescence too far. His forefinger was now making languorous, slow circles against my clitoris, progressively harder, uncompromising. "What have you been thinking about my cock, Lynne?" I had to answer. "I've been thinking about touching it." "And...?" "Kissing it." Each phrase punctuated by irregular breathing as he fondled, squeezed, pinched my clitoris into life. "You mean sucking my cock, don't you?" "Yes," I admitted. "It's hard now, Lynne. Would you like to see it?" I nodded silently, and he released my wrists, then lay back. "Take my cock out and suck it Lynne." I could no longer lean on him -- instead of passively allowing him to use me, I now had to actively participate. I sat motionless, mind churning, both of us holding eyes, recognizing the crossroad that lay before me, then cautiously reached for his trousers, undid his belt and clip, unzipped him, and reached in to draw him out. His manhood was everything I had imagined. In the glare of daylight it seemed larger, prouder than my impressions from the shadowy previous encounter -- he was still becoming erect; as I touched it slowly hardened in my hands, the epitome of male desire, longing, unashamed craving. My hands were, incredibly, trembling as I held him, examining him as carefully as he had done to me. It would be unfair to compare him to Richard: Robert's member was rapacious, arrogant of its size, and Robert was aware of how transfixed I was. "Suck it, Lynne." So much sex with Richard had been perfunctory, shadowy, behind closed curtains or quietly done so as not to wake the children -- this brazen, demanding organ before me apologized for nothing. I wanted it; I wanted the liberation of unconsidered lust; I wanted to feel his ... cock ... inside of me, inside my mouth, between my legs; to do so without contrition. I leaned over and for the first time, in daylight, took a black man into my mouth. How long did I suck Robert for? It's hard to say. For the first time in my life I experienced the luxury of succumbing to the wonder of unqualified lust, holding him in my mouth, slowly licking the length of that glorious shaft, running it against my cheek, teasing open the slit with my tongue, sensing the throb of his heart as I let it fill my mouth. He was too big for me to consume; but that allowed me to explore all of him in parts, running him through my lips, moistening the entire extent of him down to his shaven origin -- because I learned that Robert's elegance extended beyond his clothing, to the way he exercised, tautened, and cleansed himself. For those minutes I entered a disembodied state, concerned only with the wonder of this moment, this cock, this experience, these murmurs of pleasure from his lips, those fingers in my hair, holding me close, pushing him into me until I could take no more. I felt him expel a slight pre-release into my mouth; with Richard I would have pulled away in disgust -- but now I took, cleaned him with my tongue, swallowed my man's juices willingly. I was lost. I was lost, my reverie broken by his voice: "I want you. Sit on my cock." I pulled his trousers down, seeing all of him now, flat stomach, muscular legs, then placed my knees on either side of him, reaching down to position him -- but he stopped me. "No ... no, do the slide." "The slide?" I was patently lost. "Slide your cunt lips along my cock." And so I lowered myself onto him, and ran my slit along the full length of his cock, in the first of many subsequent exchanges of this stolen pleasure. I don't know why this excited Robert so, but he would instruct me to do it often in our future liaisons and I came to identify it as a part of our secret intimacy, changing the angle at which I moved against him to either constrain my pleasure, or shifting forward so the head of his cock would find my clitoris, tease it, leave me anxious to feel him inside. He finally placed his hands on my hips, adjusted his posture, moved me, and with a last adjustment of his cock from my hand, slowly, slowly, so slowly slid into me. There are those moments when all of sex, all of lust, everything is distilled into one sensation. I can never relive that moment because I had never before had someone that large inside me; as he pressed himself deeper, as I felt him not only between my lips but inside, this presence filling me, I knew that I had never experienced anything of this sexual intensity; and more, that having done so I would never give it up. I had been virginal in the ways of longing before that moment -- I had measured all of sex by the polite penetrations of marriage, and a lifetime of illusion suddenly dissolved. He penetrated me and at first we lay, immobile, me adjusting to his size, him watching my face, breath slowly slipping out through my opened mouth. And then his hips started moving, penetration followed by release, each movement stealing more of my breath, leading me deeper into the lost, focused state of want. I could no longer contain myself -- for the first time in my life I cried out with a pleasure that I could not contain, abandoning modesty, driving him into me, feeling his explosion and his cries as we both discarded restraint in the mist of orgasm. Afterwards I lay on top of him, my cheek in the curve of his shoulder, while he slowly moved in and out of me, in a satiated expression of intimacy. "I can feel you," I said. "throbbing inside me." His eyes were closed. "You're mine now. You know, that, don't you." Lynne’s Story 04 "I know," I whispered. "You're mine, and you're going to give me everything I want." I nodded and pressed into his shoulder. "Everything. Without question." I nodded again, understanding for the first time that submission to this man had filled a void I had not even been aware of. My fingertips drew a line across one of his ribs, moving slowly, in the deep long breaths that I realized were the beginnings of a satisfied sleep. Robert was at rest; I was fulfilled. I had submitted to his will and it had enriched me. I felt him softening inside me as he slept. In those moments of quiet reflection I knew that this act was the antithesis of everything I had grown up to believe and to be; I pushed aside the immediate guilt towards Richard to wonder why this act of mayhem had left me so content. Black and white. Married infidelity. Submission to dominance. Something in me had needed Robert all my life and yet I had never known. As I drifted into sleep I felt him slip out of me, now flaccid and passive. I would, at some level, always fear Robert and his demands. But I had never felt closer to him, or more quietly happy than that moment, two bodies resting, two souls at peace, two hearts content.