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Punishment That Fits the Crime

By: steelring



My wife has a tattoo on her left thigh. I guess that there are other men whose wives have tattoos as well, but this one is unusual, if not unique. It is on the outside of her thigh, level with her pubis, hidden by a skirt or shorts, but since I designed it, I am always conscious of it being there. When she wears stockings and a suspender belt, the tattoo is framed between stocking top and suspender straps, and all it would need is for the hem of her skirt to be raised, and the tattoo would be visible to all.

Of course, that has never happened. In the real world, outside erotic fiction, in middle class Brighton, on the south coast of conservative England, the hem of a skirt is never raised as high as that. So Laura's tattoo is rarely seen by others, and as far as I can remember, it is only on the beach that it has been bared. Then, it is visible below the inverted side curve of her bikini bottom. 

With friends, or relatives, Laura's tattoo is more intriguing. On the rare weekend when the summer sun is shining, we might picnic on the beach, and invite friends to join us, other children for ours to play with, and adults for us to talk with, or we might bring Laura's parents who live nearby and love their grand-children, or my sister and her family, down from London, or Laura's brother, and his, from nearby Lewes. For them, for family and friends who see it, the tattoo is so clearly out of character with the reliably conservative, calm, collected, organised wife and mother that Laura is. 

But no one comments. From the summer when it was first displayed, no one has ever asked Laura why she had herself tattooed. Nor do they realise that it was my decision, not hers, both the original, and the additions. Whether any of them has ever guessed the tattoo's significance, I do not know. To even mention it would be indiscrete. 

In France, of course, the tattoo is noticed, and comments have been made. Each July, before the school term ends, Laura's parents move into our spare bedroom to take care of the children, and we have two glorious weeks to ourselves, driving to Dover, across to Calais, then heading south, to the French beaches, where bikinis are not required. 

In two weeks I can work up a deep, nut brown tan. There is Italian blood in my mother's genes. Laura, even with her dark brown hair, has Irish blood, and her milk white complexion requires maximum protection, hardly tans at all, but instead a spattering of freckles appears, covering her entire body. Amongst the naked, golden or nutmeg bodies that litter the beaches there, Laura's untanned complexion stands out, like a new arrival, even after two weeks of lying in the sun. Men walk past eyeing her. At beach bars, the guys will look, overtly enjoying her nakedness, all the more stark for her pure, delicate whiteness in a sea of bronze.

Then, occasionally, someone will comment, usually when I am not there, getting the drinks or going to the gents. Someone nearby will compliment her, on her complexion, or her breasts with their wide, pink areoles and thick stubs of nipples, on her tattoo, or on the one piece of jewellery that she always wears, a small gold lock that I bought her as an anniversary present. 

Once, only once, someone made a comment not to Laura, but to me, in Laura's hearing. He was French, although the beach had Italians, Spaniards, Germans, Dutch and every other European nationality. He spoke in French, the sense, if not each word, unambiguous. He thought my wife was beautiful. He liked her tattoo. 

Should I wish to add to it, he would be honoured. It was only once, and I declined, but it told Laura something that she had been avoiding. He knew, and if he knew, then perhaps others knew as well. 

Picture a simple, solid, black oval, on its side, an inch long and half an inch high, slightly to the front of a woman's left thigh and level with her exposed, protruding labia. Add a long tapered tail, also in solid black, maybe a quarter of an inch wide where it emerges from the oval head, rising and falling in waves as it curves around the side of her thigh and narrowing towards the under curve of her buttocks, each of the waves smaller than the one before it. 

Picture this black silhouette of a simple head and tail on the pure, milk white skin of the woman's outer thigh, positioned so that if the tail could flick back and forwards, like a water snake, the whole shape would swim around the front of her leg directly to her hairless pubis, and her protruding labia. If you have that image in your mind, black ink, needle deep under white skin that can be freckled in the sun, then you will know what I decided on, in the week that followed Laura's trip to Germany.

Were you to see Laura naked now, you will see more than that single tattoo. It has been added to. The same basic shape has been used. It was chosen for a reason, and that reason is unchanged. So the additional tattoos are identical, but each is only half the length of the original, positioned one below the other, and centred on the first. There are now three of these. A fourth is in the planning. Only Laura and I know exactly what each means. And, of course, the guy on the beach in France, who worked it out, and offered his services to service her, so there may in fact be others. A member of the family or a friend who has seen the tattoo, and the additions that have one by one appeared beneath, even one of them may have solved the riddle, and never said anything to indicate their understanding of it meaning. That thought punishes my wife. But then after what happened in Germany, she deserves that punishment. 

Germany was beyond my control, not that I had ever felt the need to control Laura. Our relationship was based on trust. It is only when trust has broken down that control is required. Laura understands that now. She realised herself, when she told me about Germany, that trust could no longer underpin our relationship. Trust had gone, and would have to be replaced with something different. She may not then have appreciated the full consequences of her actions, but she has accepted them. She has since abided by my decisions at every point. She may not have honoured while she was in Germany, but she does obey.

Germany came out of the blue. Then, we had been married for twelve years. Our children were eight and six. I have always earned good money, and Laura did not need to work, but she always had, and after each period of maternity leave, she went back to work again. Her mother would look after the children when they were too young for school, and once they started, she readily agreed to bring them to school and collect them afterwards, allowing Laura the time she needed to hold down her job. 

Laura enjoyed working, partly for the sense of achievement she gained from managing a senior executive's office, and partly for the social interaction that went with office life. The company was an international corporation, and Laura's boss was responsible for its European operations. That was why Germany came about, although his asking Laura to come with him was the first time that that had happened. He had said that he needed her to minute some crucial meetings while he was there.

The first indication that anything untoward had happened was while Laura was undressing the evening that she returned. It was a Friday. Laura had been driven from the airport to our home by the executive she worked for, arriving around six. We had had some family time together, including a meal that I had put together with help from a supermarket's food preparation team. I have never learned to cook. After three nights without Laura, I was more looking forward to the children being asleep, and enjoying some catch up love making with my exquisite wife. 

I have always enjoyed watching Laura undress. The way her full breasts still keep their shape even when she removes her bra is quite incredible. Years of marriage and two children have had little effect on them. If anything they are slightly fuller, and the nipples thicker, although the pink brown areoles have always been the width of her palm, if not my own. When she bends to slide her stockings down shapely legs, her breasts sway beneath her, transforming themselves to soft white cones of flesh, tipped with the pink brown of her areoles, and with their stubs of nipples pointing to the floor. When she stands straight again, they settle back into their perfect shape. No wonder that I love to watch. 

That night, Laura was wearing black underwear with sheer black nylons. Her thong left her buttocks bare, perfect white globes. I adore her milk white complexion, and could kiss and caress her back, buttocks, legs, neck, breasts, stomach and pubis for an eternity. When we married, she had a thick copse of dark hair covering her pubic mound, which she would tame from time to time, trimming the wilder excesses, although before Germany, she had never removed her pubic hair completely.

Her back to me, she removed her bra, and then slid her thong down her stocking clad legs. She unclipped her suspenders, rolling down her stockings, one by one. I was undressing on the other side of our bed, but watching every move, and my penis was hardening at the sight of my delicious wife revealing more and more of that wonderful body, and in anticipation of what was to come. She had been away for three long nights, and I was sorely missing her. My cock was aching for her. My eyes were fixed on her as she unclipped her suspender belt, removed it from her waist, and turned towards our en suite bathroom.

What I saw, as Laura turned, made me smile with pleasure. My incredibly beautiful wife had thought of her husband while she was away, and had prepared herself for her return to him. Her pubis was shaved smooth, something she had never done before. Laura was proud of her dark pubic hair, and while she liked to keep it trimmed, she also liked the contrast of the dark triangle against the whiteness of her legs and lower belly. Now, there was only white, and the pinkness of her labia peeping from her slit. What I had suggested so many times, she had finally done. 

Something about the look she gave me as she went through to the bathroom should have warned me. It was brief, checking how I was reacting, unsure of herself. I waited until she finally joined me in our bed. Then, one arm around her, I cupped her pubis with the other hand. I could feel the bare beginnings of her regrowth, but still it felt deliciously naked, a present from her trip away to let me know that she had thought of me. She had shaved herself as her gift to the husband who had been without her, and who had wanted for so many years to see and to feel her totally denuded, vulnerable and exposed. 

That was when she said my name, and added, "There is something that you need to know."

These are words no husband wants to hear, not from his wife. Only one thing will follow, after the apprehensive silence that is the pause while she draws breath, gathers herself together, and prepares to tell you that which you do not wish to hear. When your wife says these words, you will know already what she is about to tell you. It is understood, even before it has been said. 

She has slept with someone else. 

Not just slept with, but made love with. He has persuaded your wife, whether against her better judgement, or worse, with her complicit cooperation, to open her legs for him, and let him slide his cock inside her. She has allowed another guy into that private garden, welcomed him even, into that part of her that you had thought was reserved exclusively for you. There has been no key, no lock, no gate, but only trust, that any other person seeking entrance to that garden will be turned away. But that garden has been despoiled. Another man has ploughed there, has dug deep, and has left his seed.

Instead of turning him away your wife has let him in. She has let his cock head part her labia, stretch her entrance, and enjoy the warm wetness within. She has relished the full length of his shaft sliding deep inside. She has let him not just penetrate, but thrust again and again into her moistness, burying his shaft to the hilt each time, grazing her clitoris and giving to your wife the pleasure that once she received only from you. Having given you her vow, to be faithful, and to honour you, she has dishonoured you, broken that vow, and debased herself. She has allowed another guy to fuck her. 

Of course, your wife will not describe it quite like that. She will keep it simple. That she has slept with someone else is as much as any wife will say, until you ask the questions, and only then will she allow herself to add flesh to the bare bones of what she has just told you, giving only a little to begin with, just the unadorned, naked facts, but then, as you probe and delve and seek out every sordid, sensuous detail, she will tell you more.

No, it was not her boss. It was one of the German executives he was meeting with. He had invited her to dinner, and she had seen no harm. He had been charming and attentive, and she had been flattered. It had felt good to receive that kind of attention. Afterwards he had seen her to her room, and she had dropped her guard. Yes, she had let him stay the night. Yes, all three nights. Yes, they had made love each and every night. Yes, he had made her come. Yes, she had enjoyed it. She was ashamed about now. She knew that it was wrong. She was so, so sorry. It should never have happened. It never would again.

Of course, you may not have to ask the question that I then had to, my hand still cupping her hairless pubis, nor deal with the answer, nor work out which you found the greater betrayal, that she had let him fuck her, or that she had let him shave her. Because when I asked her, Laura answered yes. It was the German who had, without asking her, shaved her pubis smooth, denuding her and exposing her true self. 

It had been after they had made love the first time. He had just gone to the bathroom, and come back with the shaving gel and the lady's razor that she had brought in case she needed it. She had not realised why he had brought them to the ned, until he started smoothing the gel into her trimmed pubic hair, but no, she had not objected. 

She had thought about what would happen when she came home, what she would say. He had also thought of that. He had told her to say that she had done it for you. But she had not wanted to lie. And it had just felt so good to have someone do something so intimate to her.

She was now talking more openly, describing in greater detail what had taken place, how she had felt. She had loved just lying there, feeling his fingers spreading the gel over her pubis and in between her legs. When he had started to use the razor, at the top, it had felt incredible. All the time he worked, he had strummed lightly on her clitoris, keeping her aroused. He had taken his time, smoothing the pubic mound itself, then easing her labia first to one side, then the other, ensuring that each and every hair was carefully removed from either side, talking gently, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he loved her body, her breasts, her cunt, and she had revelled in it. 

When he had finally used a wet towel to rinse and wipe her, he had lain between her legs and for the second time had eased his penis into her. It had been so intensely intimate, her sexuality laid bare, that within minutes of his entering inside her the second time, and fucking her denuded, hairless cunt, she had come again. She was sorry, but that was just the way that it had happened. 

Listening to her describing what had taken place, using that word, the word that neither of you has ever used before, but that he had used, that was so crude, but is now so appropriate, for the place where your hand is resting, for the pussy that is no longer pussy but is now a shaved, hairless cunt, listening to her, you make a simple, inevitable decision.

No one will ever shave my wife again. I will make sure of that.

When you wife says that there is something that you need to know, you have to decide whether to keep her as your wife. You feel betrayed, but even in the midst of hurt and anger, your cock is hard. She is the woman that you have loved, the mother of your children. You have a family, and a family life that you do not want to throw away. And your body will not allow you to deny that she is still the woman that you love to fuck. 

But if you decide to keep her as your wife, there yet more decisions to be made. The trust that you have enjoyed between you is no more. You have no choice but to accept that your wife has sexual desires that can be awakened by another man, that have been awakened, and that she has allowed another man to satisfy. You have to accept that those desires exist, but you can and must choose how to deal with them. 

You can forgive her for what has happened, or attempt to, but you can never be sure of what may happen in the future. You can accept that what has happened may be only the beginning. There will be other men. This will now be part of your married life. She may be faithful to your marriage and your family life, and may still please you, and be pleased by you, but there will be others too. Her garden is no longer yours alone. Others will plough their furrow there. You can choose to accept that, or you can decide that that is not for you, that your marriage can exist no longer, and you must go your separate ways.

The alternative, the third way that I chose instead of accepting meekly, or living separate lives, is to take control. Do not even attempt to forgive and forget. Instead, punish and remember, and ensure that she remembers too. Think of crime and punishment, of receiving your just deserts, or rather of your meeting out those just deserts to the wife who has done you wrong. And the punishment should fit the crime. 

That is why no one will ever shave my wife again. One of her crimes was in lying still, her legs parted, allowing someone not her husband to shave her pubis smooth of hair. The punishment that would be most fitting to this crime was clear. Laura would be for ever smooth. No more dark curls would grow where once they had. She would be permanently exposed. My decision, not hers, nor his. 

The science is that high frequency light reflects off any surface that is white, including pure, milk white skin, but the same light is absorbed by darker colours. Dark brown shafts of hair will absorb any light touches it. Laser light finds the hair, even when it is shaved, travels to the very root, heats it, and destroys it. All that it needs is for a professional to smooth the laser source over a shaven pubis, and the hair follicles are eliminated. Over the weeks that follow, the rootless hairs are shed. 

Hair grows in stages, with dormant periods, and the laser procedure works best when the hair is in an active growth phase, so four, five, or six treatments may be necessary, but no one will ever shave my wife again, and her peeping labia will never again be shielded from view by curling hairs.

Punish and remember. My wife's for ever bare pubis and her eternally exposed cunt are a perfect reminder of her three nights of infidelity.

But back to that evening, the evening when Laura had returned from Germany, freshly shaved and freshly fucked, but seemingly penitent, the prodigal wife returning to her husband, admitting her misdeeds, and asking for understanding and forgiveness.

When it happens to you, you will find that you have more questions, other things that you will want to ask. The answers, from your wife, may be different to the answers Laura gave. Some wives play safe. Some take risks. Some do not even think about it. They become too wrapped up in the moment, and they are naked, and conjoined, and writhing as he fucks them, without a single thought other than to enjoy his hardness taking them to the edge of delirium.


Punishment That Fits the Crime



Laura was on the pill, since the arrival of our second. For six years we had had no need to think of my wearing anything as a precaution against pregnancy. There was no need to think, and so in Germany, Laura did not think. Not for one moment, one split second, did she think. Or rather, he was inside her, fucking her, before she thought, and by then it was too late. And yes, he came inside her, not just the first time, but since it had happened that first time without thinking, she had let him come inside her every time. And yes, he had made love to her a second time that night. Not just that night. Each night. And yes, that very morning. 

If you have never been there, you will find it impossible to work out how you will feel when you are lying in your bed in your safe, secure home, your children asleep just down the landing corridor, your beloved wife naked beside you, when you realise that just sixteen, seventeen hours before, that same day, another man has come inside her.

Yes, your wife is on the pill, or perhaps yours will not be, but even if she is, this guy's semen is still there, still inside her. You know, because you are a man and men remember data they have read, important or inconsequential, that the average ejaculation contains one hundred million sperm. So, knowing they did not use protection, that is how many sperm have been spewed inside your wife, by this other man. You know that the life span of sperm after ejaculation averages five days, so if this man has fucked your wife inside that period, most of those one hunderd million sperm will still be there, swimming their random course, trying to find an egg that they can fertilise, whether or not that egg may be waiting for them to find. 

If like me you do the maths, three nights that she spent in Germany, maybe six or more times that they have fucked, six times that he has come, six times one hundred million sperm, from this guy's balls, firing through his shaft, erupting from that single eye, blasting deep inside her womb. Work out for yourself how you will feel when your wife tells you that he has come inside her.

Yes, she is sorry. She does not know why she let it happen. Everything was just so different in Germany. It was like being in another world. Being away just made everything seem so right, even if she knew that it was all so wrong. You have to understand. It was not about you. She loves you. She could not keep what happened from you. She could not come home and live a lie. She had to tell you what took place. She is so, so, sorry.

So, you will be shocked, staggered, shaken to your foundations, and you will be furious with her, that she has put your entire relationship at risk for three nights with this guy, but something else is happening as well, because if you are like most guys, while she has been telling you about what has taken place, about this other man who has fucked her and come inside her, leaving his sperm in the shaved cunt that you are still holding with your hand, your cock has come alive and is rock hard.

Even through the shock, and the anger, this is still the woman you love, and the woman whose body you have loved so many times, and still love. Another guy has fucked your wife, but her breasts are still incredible. Her wide, pink areoles are still exquisite. The half inch, thick nipples that that other guy must have sucked and bitten are still amazing. Her pubis, where your hand is, which that other guy has shaved so smooth, still feels wonderful, more so now that it is so bare, and now that it is no longer your wife's pubis, but her cunt. So your cock, which she is holding, in spite of all your rational reaction to what she has just told you, is rock, fucking solidly erect.

You know that this other guy has been between her legs that morning. You can even feel that she is wet. It cannot be his semen. Not sixteen hours later. It has to be her own excitement that lets your fingers slip so easily inside her delicious cunt. At least, that is what you tell yourself, as you move on top of her.

The most delicious sensation in the world, short of actually coming, is the feeling aroused in the sensitive skin of your penis head as you enter a woman, parting her labia and opening her. It is so exquisite, it is worth repeating, not just the next time you are with her, but then and there. 

Push forward slowly, just enough to feel the rim of your penis head slip past her labia, and then pull out, just as slowly, until only the eye is touching her moist lips. Then just as slowly, sink your penis head inside her once again. 

Do this as often as you wish. It teases her, and as well as giving you the most wonderful sensations, it confirms that this is your pussy you are enjoying, yours to fuck, because that is what she wants of you. Add into that mix the knowledge that this is your wife, who has given her body to you for your pleasure, and that will take you into a zone that is sheer heaven.

But throw on top of that, your knowledge that someone else has been doing this. His cock has probed the delectable pussy that you thought was yours alone. It has eased its way inside that pussy, sliding between those lips, thrusting into this same moistness. His cock has transformed it by its presence from the sweet, succulent pussy that you have so long enjoyed, to the splayed, wanton, cunt that it has become. 

Knowing this, all sorts of thoughts will propel themselves around your head. The sensations of making love to her are just as incredible, except that it is not love that you are making. This is your pussy, that you are reclaiming. And it is his cunt, that he has fucked. That is what your wife's pussy has become, just as she is no longer just your wife. She is a cunt who has betrayed you, and this cunt's cunt is now yours to be fucked and enjoyed, and through your anger, your fury, and your lust, you are going to demonstrate to her that you can fuck her as well as and as hard as anyone.

If you had them within reach, you would use ties to secure her wrists to the bed. You would fuck her with her arms splayed. But there are no ties within reach, so you have to hold her wrists, and stretch her arms with your own, while you play your penis head in and out of her cunt, frustrating her that you have not yet sunk your shaft deep into her.

Getting inside your wife's head is something else. She is staring up at you. You can see that this is the last thing that she expected. She has just spent three nights letting another man make love to her, and now you are making love to her, except that she can sense that you are fucking, not loving, for any element of love for her is now on hold until you have had time to work things out, or perhaps on hold for ever. You can tell that she cannot understand why you are making love, but she does understand that love has gone, and you are fucking her, enjoying her body, delighting in her wet slut's cunt, but you can also tell from her open mouth and the little moans she makes, that she is loving it.

When you finally thrust deep, without warning, to punish her, she cries out, the most beautiful sound a woman can make. You stay like that, deep inside her, then withdraw, all the way but for half an inch, so that you can thrust again, harder this time, wanting to punish her with each thrust, and each time you hear that exquisite sound again. 

Your cock is a tool, your instrument of revenge, and you use every muscle in your buttocks and your back to drive it into her, making her moan and writhe. That is the nature of your fucking, deep, furious thrusts that match your mood, that make her cry. Except her cries are not cries of pain, but of the sensuous pleasure of a woman who is wanted and desired, in spite of her having fucked that another man, or perhaps because of it, and of a woman who has discovered that a cock is a cock, and that her cunt can come alive whether it is her husband's or another's. 

In your own head, the cries and moans and groans all serve only to confirm that the woman who is mother to your children loves to fuck, her legs now wrapped around your body as they would have been wrapped around his before, and your own enjoyment of her body serves only to prove that she is just as good to fuck, as succulent and as delicious, as ever she was when she was only yours. 

She comes. Her arms held down by the wrists, her legs wrapped around your body, she squirms beneath you, gripping you, angling her body to maximise the sensations exploding through her, detonated by the wet friction of your smooth, hard shaft grazing her engorged clitoris. The orgasm sweeps over her, your reminder to her that you can fuck her as well as any guy, and the intensity of her orgasm and the spasms that make her body shudder under yours, and tighten her grip around your cock, bring you to your own inevitable climax.

You think about the six hundred million sperm over just three nights, however many million of them still swimming in her womb, living their meagre five days of fertile existence, as you are about to release your own three day store of semen, and you feel the first delicious contraction drive that semen through your shaft and deep into the dark recesses of her womb. 

Now you release her wrists, and instead hold her body, as repeated contractions empty your sac of semen into her, your wife, your lover, your mistress, your possession, that another guy has used and abused for his own pleasure, has penetrated to the hilt of his own cock, has fucked and sucked, and has fired his own cannonades where now you fire yours. Your good, wholesome, virtuous sperm mingles with the remnants of his invading, foreign sperm. Your ejaculation racks your body. You feel the intensity in every fibre, from head to toe, but multiplied a million times through the shaft of your penis and in its head, excruciatingly wonderful, pleasure on the cusp of being pain.

Afterwards, when you have both recovered, she is still so, so sorry. She will never do anything so stupid or hurtful again, she swears. She will do anything you want to make it right. Whatever it takes. Whatever it needs. However you want to punish her, she knows that she deserves it. She just wants it to be right between you.

In your head, you are deciding that you neither want to see your family torn apart by what has happened, nor lose the wife you love, neither the person who is your friend, companion, partner, mother of your children, nor lose this exquisite woman whose wonderful body you still love to fuck. 

You are deciding too, that this cannot go unpunished, that the punishment must fit the crime, and one element of punishment has formed already in your mind, that no one will ever shave your wife again. That will be a daily reminder to her of what she has done, each time that she is naked. There will be other punishments, but that will be the first. She let him remove her pubic hair and expose her cunt in all its wantonness. You will remove that same pubic hair for ever, a reminder to her of who and what she is. 

So the laser depilation was arranged, but was in no way adequate. Laura was the daughter of a respectable, middle class couple, church going, well regarded. Laura was the beautiful, sweet, innocent daughter, who as a bride looked virginal, proverbial butter not melting in her full lipped, smiling mouth, yet who had allowed a man who was not her husband to spray six hundred million sperm deep inside that perfect body. 

Without her pubic hair, she looks even more sweetly innocent, but that persona is a lie. You need to remind her of her acceptance of that guy's sperm, a reminder that would not be sweet and innocent, and that she would see daily, and know that others would also see.

Key in "sperm", and click on "images". That is what I did, even before Laura's laser treatment, only a few days after that life changing return from Germany, the idea still forming in my mind of how else she should be punished, how else she would remember for ever what she had done that was so wrong. One image I found seemed perfect for what I had in mind. When the tattooist traced around it, pressed it to Laura's leg, and the outline was there, blue transfer ink on the whiteness of her thigh, I knew for sure that it was exactly what was needed.

Laura was still in shock. I had not told her where we were going, or why, just that I had arranged something that was one of the conditions of our staying together as a couple and as a family, and that she should dress in a skirt and top, with hold up stockings, and nothing else below her skirt

Crossing the threshold of the tattooist's studio was walking into a world which the sweet, respectable daughter would never have dreamed of entering, but when the transfer had been drawn, and the tattooist, with his eyebrow, ear and septum piercings and his bare arms decorated with hard tribal curves and cut outs, had asked my wife to lift her skirt, she had obediently raised it above its own waist band, baring the absolute whiteness of thigh above black stocking top. 

She had stood quietly as the tattooist moistened her translucent skin with alcohol, carefully positioned his tracing as I had asked, level with her protruding labia, rubbed gently, and then peeled it to leave the blue tinted outline of her about to be tattoo.

My wife lay on her side on the flat, black leather upholstered table, docile, uncomplaining when the tattooist moved her skirt right away from the sperm shaped transfer outline, accepting that her buttocks were now bare to any customer standing at the reception counter, and that her pubis was now exposed to the tattooist as he worked. 

I sat, watching as the tattooist opened a fresh needle pack, fixed it to the hand held machine, dipped it in the ink, tested it, the machine buzzing in his hand, and then turned to my wife's naked thigh. There was no complaint when the machine buzzed again, nor at any time. He worked rhythmically, inking, wiping, inking, wiping, the machine buzzing, pricking her milk white skin and driving the dense, black ink just beneath. Her face registered the pain, bottom lip sucked in, eyes moist. I have never been tattooed, so do not know how great, or how insignificant, the pain of the needle is, but watching Laura's meek acceptance, I knew that it was fitting punishment for Germany. 

Still in shock, her thigh, under her skirt, now covered in film and tape, Laura walked with me back to our car. We drove home in silence. Our children were waiting, her mother keeping an eye on them while we were out, having some "couple time". Yes, we had had a really nice lunch, Laura said. Thank you for looking after them.

Tattoos heal. They need care and good hygiene, but they heal, and Laura's healed perfectly. The head and tail of the sperm that she wears for ever, I have already described to you. Were you to meet my wife, at a social gathering, in church or at a parent's evening, you would never guess that on her thigh, under her skirt, and level with her smooth, hairless pubis, there is that black inked, four inch silhouette of the sperm's head and tail, positioned to swim around, enter her, and then swim on, to where six hundred million other foreign sperm once swam. 

The pain of the tattoo needle was indeed an element of her punishment, but that was ended within an hour. The knowledge that the tattoo is there, that her previously unblemished white complexion permanently bears this record of her crime, is the longer lasting punishment. The greater embarrassment I know she feels when she wears a swimsuit, with anyone she knows seeing her tattoo, is yet another. But the punishment does fit the crime. 

The consequence of these punishments, her permanently smooth and hairless pubis and the black sperm tattoo, is that because they are always there, as a reminder to Laura of her infidelity, her sense of shame and guilt is always with her, and of this I am the beneficiary. She still expresses her regret from time to time, and expresses her gratitude that I did not reject her because of what she did. 

Gratitude can be expressed in words, but also through a person's actions, and Laura's gratitude is expressed sexually as well as verbally. Nothing is denied. Our lovemaking has not suffered, but is so much fuller and freer than before.

An unanticipated consequence is my own reaction. That first night, as she told me about Germany, my erection was stiffer and stronger, my lovemaking deeper and harder, and my enjoyment of her body, her orgasms, and my own, so much more intense. Somehow, my knowing that another guy had been fucking her so freely and coming so copiously inside her, had energised my love making. 

Anyone whose wife has never been faithful to them might think that a wronged husband would want, more than anything, to forget, to put out of his mind what his wife has done. They understand very little. I have never wanted to forget, because that sexual reaction to Laura telling me another guy had fucked her, is something that I do not want to lose. I enjoy it, again and again, each time that we make love.

So Laura's depilated pubis and her sperm tattoo ensure not just that she does not forget, but that I also do not forget. Whenever I see her naked, I remember. That resurgent memory stimulates the same reaction as that first night, and my penis rises, engorged with blood brought to the boil by the memory of her betrayal, and the conjured image of her being taken by another man. Even when she is clothed, if I let my mind wander to the tattoo under her skirt, or to her protruding labia beneath her panties, unencumbered by any hair to hide them, the reaction is just as physical. 

If Germany was sexual betrayal, its consequence is the ongoing heightened enjoyment of our love. After our second child, we had settled down to twice weekly sex, or on a good week, three times, if I was lucky. Since Germany, there has rarely been a night when we have not make love. Seeing her naked, her pubis and her tattoo, I harden. She knows what I am thinking, and never turns away. Sometimes we talk about it, whispering into each other's ears, reliving her stay in that German hotel, her lovemaking with that guy, and my punishing her with my cock the night that she returned to me. 

And there is another, deliciously erotic consequence of Germany. Laura had been the beautiful, innocent bride, and became the cherished mother of my children. I had worshipped her. But in Germany she was transformed. She was no longer to be worshiped, but to be fucked. Dressed, she is still a loyal wife and mother. Naked, she is a harlot, a slut, a slattern, whose cunt is to be ravaged and plundered, and who loves to be taken, to be fucked with anger and with fury. No holds are barred, and the release that this brings is exquisite.

So the laser removal of Laura's pubic hair, and her sperm tattoo, were not only fitting punishments but are stimulating reminders of her behaviour in Germany, that enhance our sex life so wonderfully. In spite of that, one consequence of what had happened on that trip, lingered in my mind for several months, causing an underlying frustration and irritation that I could not set to one side and just forget. 

I had asked the questions you will ask. I knew that he was around my height. He was slim, where I am reasonable well built. He had black hair, where mine is brown. His hair also covered his body, chest, abdomen, limbs, and even on his back, where my own body hair is sparse. His skin was white, like Laura's own, where mine always appears lightly tanned. His penis, she said, was not quite as large as mine, and uncircumcised, where mine is cut. 

Knowing this, I could visualise him with Laura, conjure up the image of his shaving her, then tonguing her exposed labia, picture his uncut penis entering her, the foreskin retracting, his pubic hair a mass of black pressed against her shaved whiteness, imagine him coming, his bony back arched, his buttocks tightening, his shaft spasming, his sperm erupting from the thick head, deep inside her. Of course my visualisation could never be as accurate as if I had met him and seen the real man who had fucked my wife, not that I want to, but in the same way that when you read a novel, you form a picture of the hero that will stay with you, an image of the German had taken residency in my mind. 




Punishment That Fits the Crime



What I also knew was that if that was how it was for me, it had to be the same for Laura, but even more so. This slim, black haired German would always be with us in her head when we were making love, an unwelcome member of a threesome. This is the guy who has had his way with her. This is the guy she inevitably remembers, who has fucked her six times. There is no way that I wanted him to be the dominant memory of her infidelity, the guy in her head while I was making love to her. When you find yourself in my position, you will think the same. You will not want your wife thinking about the guy who fucked her. It was a conundrum that was unexpected, how to be rid of him, of that lingering image, and it took time before the right solution slowly took its shape. 

People are fascinating. Once I sold a car on ebay. I had kept it longer than I should, and had been tempted just to telephone a "buy any car" company and accept whatever they would offer. Instead I took some photographs, crafted the wording for the advert, and gave potential bidders five days to try their luck. It went for twice the amount that I expected. What I could not believe was that people would bid for a car that they had never seen, let alone tried out on the road, and that they would then turn up on the doorstep with the cash, complete the paperwork, and drive the car away. I would never dream of bidding for a car I had not seen in person, but people did. It works with cars, and all sorts of items that are advertised. It even works with people.

I did not take any special photographs. I had photographs already. Laura in our garden, at a family do, ready for a formal dinner, on the beach, half a dozen photographs, selected, photoshopped to hide her face, and then uploaded to a site. Not ebay, of course. Another site. The photographs were necessary. Punters need to see what they are bidding for, even if only the one on holiday showed her less than fully clothed. Laura in a bikini, but no more revealing than anything that can be seen on any beach in the summer months. The site had profiles with rather more explicit photographs, but I did not want to share that kind of photo, and anyway, punters without the imagination to picture her stripped of her bikini, or of her clothes, were not the kind of guys I was wanting to attract. 

Setting up a profile took around an hour. It required a new email address, courtesy of Hotmail, a profile name, and a description of the item being advertised. Five foot three, brunette, green eyes, hourglass figure, full breasts, shaved - technically a lie, but they did not have an option to say that she is lasered - no piercings, discreet tattoo, safe sex not required. Respectable, clean, healthy, professional guy sought for hotel encounter, while husband watches. Photos of yourself essential. Please leave a message with contact details if you are interested. 

The messages arrive, and a process of sifting begins, checking the message itself, anything crude rapidly deleted, good use of English noted, and profiles checked. Guys claiming to be businessmen, accountants, civil servants, teachers, doctors, lawyers, all send messages. Some of the claims are obviously false. Less obvious lies do not matter. If you are a doctor, pretending to be a teacher, it really does not matter. 

Gradually you narrow down the choice. Anyone with black hair, or slim, was automatically excluded. You make some calls, talk to three, confirm what you want of them, and what is on offer. All married guys, or so they say. All endowed similarly to yourself. All are well built, a guy with fair hair, another guy with light brown hair, and one shaved skull. Shaved skull may not be pure white. He has some mixed blood, not much, but enough to give his skin a light coffee shade. He becomes your choice. 

You make the arrangements. You book a hotel room for a Friday night. You ask her mother if she can child mind while you take your wife for a surprise evening out. The day before, you tell her you are taking her to dinner. You suggest the black dress that she brought to Germany, although Germany itself is not mentioned. After work, at home, getting ready, you ask her to wear stockings and suspenders, but nothing else, not even the tiniest of thongs. She gives you a look, but she complies.

In the hotel bar, you buy a bottle of Rioja. A full bodied red seems appropriate. At a table, you pour some in a glass for her, in another for yourself. Then you tell her you have booked a room. She looks puzzled but intrigued, but is still comfortable with an evening arranged for just the two of you. Then you tell her you have been concerned that she might still think about the German guy, especially while you are making love. She admits that she still does. You tell her that you have decided on another form of punishment, one that will help her to forget that guy. She now looks even more puzzled, perplexed, uncertain. Then you tell her that someone at the bar is joining you. Watching her face, you know that you will not have to tell her why. 

The look of shock as she takes this in is wonderful, but not as wonderful as her acquiescence. There is no argument, no discussion. She looks anxious, but she does not demur. But you explain again, this time in more detail. You have pictured what happened in Germany too often, and need to over write that image with another of your own choosing. You also want her own memory of Germany to be erased. In future this night, and this guy, will be her abiding memory of another guy enjoying her. She nods. She understands, as you knew she would, and her consent is in her silent acceptance of her fate.

You signal. He comes over, joins you, and you make the introductions, calling her a name that she has never used, and unconcerned whether the name that he has given you to introduce him by is genuinely his or not. You do not allow time for awkward moments in the bar. By leaving work slightly early, you have checked into the hotel already, before going home to pick up your wife. The room entry card is already in your pocket. You stand up with your glass of wine still in your hand, pick up the bottle, and invite your wife, and this guy that you are only meeting now, to follow you.

In the lift, no one speaks. Your wife looks at you. In her eyes you her acceptance of what is about to happen. The guy does not seem phased by silence, but by the way that he is looking at your wife, you know that in person, as in her photographs, she is to his liking. 

In the room, you go to the chair by the window, sitting down, setting the bottle on the side table close to you, sipping from your glass, enjoying the fullness of the wine, watching, and waiting for things to begin. Your wife has walked in after you and is standing, uncertain, by the bed. The guy has come in last, closing the door behind him. He goes to the bed, easing down the covers, all the way, so that they fall on the floor, only the bed sheet and the pillows remaining. He goes to your wife, standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and kisses the bare skin at the base of her perfect neck. 

On the phone, he has told you that he is experienced, has enjoyed other men's wives while they watched several times before, and you can tell that he is at ease. He slides the shoulder of your wife's dress over her shoulder, baring it. He must already have unzipped the back. The top of the dress falls away on that side, baring the fine, black lace of her bra, through which her wide areole and thick nipple are clearly visible. His hand reaches between her arm and her body, cupping her breast over the bra, his mouth returning to her neck. Your wife is looking at the floor, somewhere around your feet.

He uses his forefinger and his thumb to play with her nipple, through her bra. His other hand is slipping the other shoulder of her dress down the other arm. Both shoulders of the dress now rest at her elbows, but in her first act of acceptance, she slips them down each forearm, and off. The front falls further. Aside from her bra, her torso now is naked, perfect white. He again kisses her neck, and now her head is angled to one side, giving him more scope to use his mouth on her soft, creamy skin.

You can hear her intake of breath as her bra comes loose on either side. With his free hand, he has unclipped the clasp. He slides one shoulder strap down and off, then the other. Her bra falls away, and he lets it drop to the floor. Her breasts are naked, but only for a moment. His palms cover both of the wide areolas. Your wife, the woman you still love, raises one hand, putting it to his head, caressing his smooth, hairless scalp as his mouth explores the curve of her neck, and his hands gently stroke her full, aching breasts, her nipples stiff and hard against his fingers.

He uses both hands, taking her dress at either side, easing it down over her hips. Her black lace suspender belt comes into view. Your wine tastes delicious. You swirl it around your mouth, savouring it, as the dress falls to the floor in a circle around her feet. 

Her hairless pubis is exposed, black suspender straps framing it on either side. Her pink labia protrude. Your decision not to allow your wife to wear a thong has proven right. It is so much better that she is now naked there, exposed, than had she been wearing one. She is sufficiently side on to you that the sperm tattoo is visible on her leg, on the white flesh above her stocking top, one of the suspender straps passing an inch from the oval head. His right hand returns to cup her breast. The left explores between her legs. She releases something between a whimper and a moan as she meets your eyes.

She is submitting. Wearing only black mesh stockings, lace suspender belt and black four inch heels, your wife is allowing this stranger to explore her body, hands and fingers caressing and probing, the top digits of two fingers no longer visible, her labia stretched around those fingers. You wonder if he realises that her smoothness there is more than mere depilation, that her pubic mound will always feel so silky, her skin so soft and pure. It does not matter. He will enjoy her just this once.

You sip at your wine. She looks incredible. The tattoo suits her. Black on white works so well. Soon there will be more sperm. You have not told her that you have invited him to fuck her bare, to come inside your wife, just as took place in Germany. Yes there is a risk. Life is full of risks. She took a risk in Germany. You have minimised that risk by selecting carefully someone who is experienced, but not careless, and who was hesitant to accept this aspect of your offer. Only when you explained that there have been no others, except that one several months ago, did he agree. She will find out soon enough that that risk she took in Germany is about to be repeated. You relish the dryness of the Rioja on your palette, and watch, enjoying your own growing hardness.

He turns more towards the bed, turning your wife around to face his body as he does so, and they are side on to your line of view. She looks up at his face, but his own attention is just below his belt, where he unzips himself, levering out his rigid penis. His hands go to your wife's shoulders, gently guiding her to her knees, her black stockinged legs folding under her. Her hands go to his erection. 

There is no hesitation, only acquiescence. She knows what is expected. Holding his erection your wife kisses the shaft with the lips that you have kissed so often, then parts those lips and takes the head inside her mouth, closing her lips softly around it. You cannot see, but guess from the motion of her head and jaw, that she is using her tongue to play on the penis head. 

He is slipping off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, easing it from his trouser belt, sliding it from his shoulders, dropping it to the floor. He even manages to slip off his shoes, using his feet, while she is still sucking on his cock. He is not tall, but his shoulders are broad, his chest solid, arms thick. His chest is devoid of hair, in keeping with his shaved head. His skin is olive. His nipples, set on firm, defined pectorals, are dark. 

It is your wife who reaches for his belt. She is still sucking on his cock as she frees the wide strip of leather from the buckle, unclipping, unbuttoning, letting his trousers fall, gripping his shorts and pulling them down around his calves. Leaning back, she releases his penis from her mouth, angles it up against his stomach, and licks its length. She does the same again, starting lower, at his balls. Holding his penis with one hand, she cups his balls and draws them towards her, taking the entire sack into her mouth. She has done this to you so many times. There is nothing that she has not done to you. But watching your wife with him is something else again.

The way she reached for her belt confirms what you already know, what Germany has already told you. Your wife, the mother of your children, loves to fuck and to be fucked. She is not just allowing this to happen. She is inviting it. Not for a single second did she hesitate. Her lips went to his cock without his guiding her, telling him that she was his, that she would not just accept his fucking her, but wanted it.

Something about the way she wants this makes you feel uncomfortable. Sometime, not now, you will need to work out how you really feel about that. Right now, you have other things to think about.

His cock looks larger than he has said. Most guys on the site seem to like to boast about their size. This guy had said that he was seven inches, above average, but slightly less than you carry yourself. Except that now, as your wife still licks and kisses his shaft, and sucks on his penis head, his looks larger than he has said. Larger than seven. Larger than your own.

Of course there is reverse psychology. He has admitted that he likes meeting couples, has met two already, and enjoyed their wives. Maybe this guy has realised that boasting may not always achieve the goal. Some guys might like the idea of watching their wife with a well hung guy, but some may feel threatened by this prospect. That was your own logic. Better to choose a guy who is around your own size, so that there will be no feelings of inferiority or insecurity. Shaved skull may have worked on the basis that underplaying his size would make it more likely that a husband wishing to avoid that insecurity will accept him, as you have done. But if you are right, and he does have that extra inch or so, then he will go just that bit deeper than you have ever done. He will go deeper than you ever will.

Being sure is difficult. This is the first and only time that you have seen another guy with an erection. In real life that is, not on a dvd. It is not just his head that is shaved. He has no hair around his cock or scrotum. That might make his cock seem bigger than it actually is. Your wife's head affects your line of vision, and when she takes his cock in her mouth, judging its size is totally impossible. The extra inch may be a figment of your imagination, or a message from your subconscious, that watching this guy fuck your wife could be a big mistake. It could be that now would be a good time to call a halt.

His hand is on her head, fingers entwined in her dark brown hair, softly encouraging. In spite of this, she raises herself from kneeling, her thigh muscles tautening under the black mesh of her stockings, her arms raised, her hands going around his neck as his hands cup her buttocks, holding your wife's body close to his, the hard cock that may or may not be larger than your own, now sandwiched between their bodies, upright, but invisible. 

You can stop this. He has even agreed that with you. It is one of the reasons that you trust him, his telling you that he realises how big this is for both of you, and that if you have any second thoughts at any time, all you have to do is say so, and he will respect that.

And it is big. It is bigger than you expected. Both his cock, and what is happening in front of your all too nervous eyes. You are watching another guy about to fuck your wife.

"Okay guys. I think we'll leave it there."

You hear yourself saying it, but only in your head. 

What you actually do is take another sip of the wine. It still tastes good. Sitting there, one leg casually crossed over the other, the glass in your hand, moving it to your lips and back to resting your arm on the side of the chair, you give every impression of being cool with what is happening, being calm, confident and in control. It is a lie. Inside you are seriously uncertain now, the only thing that you are sure of is that you will keep up this act. You are committed, and to go back now would reveal weakness you are not willing to concede exists.

So you watch as he lowers your wife to the bed, as your wife moves back on the bed, getting her entire body onto the white sheet covering the mattress, lying side on to you, stocking clad legs parted, and as shaved skull leans over her, his muscular arms supporting his torso, his head going to her hairless pubis, paying homage to her with his tongue.

You can still stop things there. You put your wine glass back to your lips, but it is empty. You pick up the bottle, pour another measure, take a sip, and he is moving, his knees now on the bed between her legs, his arms on either side of her.

Like you, he is a full head taller than your wife, and she now looks small and vulnerable beneath his bulk. He licks at a nipple, but moves on further up, kissing her neck, her cheek, her forehead. She is looking at his face, then at his neck, and once again she puts her arms around that neck, inviting him to fuck her.

In the hotel bar, she acquiesced without demur, accepting the arrangements you had made, understanding the logic. She is, after all, your wife, penitent at allowing the German guy to make love to her, all the more committed to honour your every thought and wish, and to obey your every request. Now she is honouring your desires by offering herself to this new lover, obeying her husband by parting her legs and drawing this other man to her secret garden. 

Except that you can sense more than that. She is doing this for you, but also for herself. She reaches up, her arms on either side of his neck, her hands curving around, finger overlapping at the back, drawing him to her. She wants this. You really will have to think about how readily she is giving herself to this guy, how openly she is inviting him in. This is when you first think the need to lock the gate, but only fleetingly, as the tableau changes form. 

His arms are straight, supporting his weight, but he lowers his pelvis. His cock is jutting down at the perfect angle, and yes, you are certain now about that extra inch. He will go deeper than you ever have. Now really is the time to put a stop to what is taking place. Hesitate, and he will be inside her. Except that you know that as this cock enters her, it will erase your wife's memory of that other German cock, and you should still nothing. 

She lifts her legs, wrapping them around his body, black stocking against his olive skin, feet locked together at the ankles. Her white thigh, the one with the sperm tattoo that is now framed by her suspender belt, hides his cock momentarily as she raises her legs, but when her feet are locked her thigh is bent forwards so far that you can see the thick, brown, solid shaft again, its purple mushroom head touching her right there. 

His cock and balls are dark, several shades darker than his olive skin, brown rather than black, darker than coffee, but not mahogany, the head purple-brown so engorged with blood is it, almost the colour of the dark wine that is in your glass.

She tautens the muscles of her legs, tightening her grip on him, pulling him to her, and the dark wine cock head disappears. Now you sip some more, savouring the flavour and the moment as he sinks his shaft between your wife's nether lips and into her, inch by hard, swollen, blood engorged inch.




Punishment That Fits the Crime



He is considerate. He holds back, just a little, that final inch. You can see it, that inch of brown cock shaft between your wife's upraised, hairless pubis and his strong, muscular frame, and seeing that it is just an inch you know that his penis head is now where yours would be. He stays still, not wanting to give her more than she is ready for. She waits, legs still around his waist, arms still around his neck. He did not have to hold back. He could so easily have sunk his full length into her. Instead, slowly, he withdraws.

Now, as it emerges from her wet depths, his shaft is coated with her juices. You realise just how wet she was, and is, for him. Lust is physical and mental. The ease with which she went down on him, kneeling in front of him and sucking his cock and balls, and then lay on the bed and opened her legs for him, reaching her arms around his neck, and wrapping her legs around his body, all of this tells you that in her head, she had no hesitation, but mentally was primed to let him fuck her. They way her nipples responded to his touch, and the sheen of her secretions on shaved skull's cock tell you that her body was also all too ready to be fucked by him. 

Now you realise just how much you are playing with fire here. Germany waved air over the tinderbox, and a flame emerged. Since then you have contained it, but now it is breaking out again. In due course, you will have to show her who controls the fire. Now, having lit the bonfire, you can only watch. There is nothing with which this fire can now be dowsed. Or rather, the fluids that will dowse it are not your own, and the timing of their release, not in your control. Only when they are released will this fire subside. All you can do is watch the spectacle. You sip some more delicious wine.

All of his slick brown shaft is visible, and most of the thick purple head. He pushes his way inside again, then moves steadily, in and out of her, just a few inches, no more half the length of his shaft in her before withdrawing, the head reappearing every time. You have done this to her. You love the wet slithering friction of her inner surfaces on your cock head. You know from the whimpers that she makes that she enjoys it too, and now you hear those whimpers coming from her lips, telling you that his dark cock is giving her that self same pleasure.

You put down your wine, needing both hands to properly adjust your own hard cock, so that it lies comfortably against your lower belly instead of pushing at the fabric of your clothing. It really is incredible that you are now watching this wife or yours, so respectable, demure, loved by all her family and your overlapping friendship circles, mother of your children, yet now taking this stranger's cock, and moaning softly to his movements. You pick up your glass again, and in the moment that your eyes went to the side table to guide your hand, you hear her.

It is a delicious, drawn out moan of pleasure, one that she has so often made for you, somewhere between a gasp and long exhalation, her vocal chords relaxed so that the sound resonates softly until her lungs are empty. Your eyes are back where they belong, and there is no movement. His body is hard against hers. No remaining inch of cock shaft can be seen. His cock buried deep. This is what you might have, could have, perhaps should have, intervened to prevent it happening. You could have called it off, but you did not, and now the dark wine, mushroom head with its taut skin and its thick rim is deeper within her than yours will ever be.

Your wife is shuddering.

The whole of her body is vibrating.

Her hands release their grip and her arms fall on either side. Her mouth is open. She is still staring at his neck. Her black encased legs, still wrapped around his body, are tensed, muscles taut, as are her arms, rigid on the bed. Your wife's white body is moving fast and rhythmically, her breasts are quivering, but the epicentre of this body quake is between her legs. 

That is her entire focus, where his shaft is buried, stretching her labia around it, where his hard lower belly is pressed against your loving wife's hairless pubis, and where you know, from having taken her to this point yourself, her clitoris is now pulsating.

She is incredible. Her groans of pleasure are beautiful. Watching the mother of your children enjoy this orgasm, you now know with certainty that this was what was needed. This displaces Germany, and this other cock, which has given her this orgasm, is not her doing, but your own. 

Slowly it subsides. She relaxes gradually, coming down, her muscles slackening, her legs slowly releasing their tight grip on him, coming down onto the bed, and he now lets his torso lower onto hers, his weight now on his elbows, his arms no longer straight, his forearms reaching beneath her back, holding her to him.

It is his pelvis which now takes over, rising and falling, as she moans with the realisation that for him, things are only just beginning.

You take your time, savouring the wonderfully full bodied wine. He takes his time, savouring her body. You roll the wine around in your mouth with your tongue, as he rolls gently from side to side, thrusting into her from different angles. You slowly swallow the thick, translucent, dark red liquid, while in your mind you picture the thick, white, translucent fluids that he will, when he is ready, release inside your wife.

His rhythm is steady, but he varies his movements. He is between her legs, thrusting steadily, now he thrusts a little from the left, and now the right, now he has moved his body slightly down, thrusting almost horizontally, now he moves back up, his penis almost vertical, yet angling its way into her with each thrust. 

He moves her left leg, the one with the sperm tattoo that is still just the single sperm, that he may, or may not, have noticed yet, so that her tattooed thigh is between his, and he continues thrusting. Then the other leg, and somehow he is still thrusting, his legs outside hers, holding them together, and your respectable, charming wife is trapped beneath him, for him to fuck and fuck and fuck.

It is as you approach the bottom of your glass that he parts your wife's legs again, raises his body, lifts each of her legs in turn, and tucks them beneath his shoulders, her white thighs bent back beneath him, her black stockinged feet jutting into the air above both their heads, hers with its dark brown hair spread across the sheet, and his, shaven smooth, as devoid of hair as you have made her pubis.

He resumes his steady thrusting of his dark cock again and again into her upraised pubis, but with a gradually increasing rhythm. Now you can see the length of his shaft each time that he withdraws, and watch as he thrusts harder and harder into her, every time his cock head reaching deeper than your own. His hard thrusts remind you of how you have fucked her with the image of Germany clear in your head, punishing her with your cock, but in reality giving her yet more pleasure. He has no need to punish her, but he still slams his body against her upraised pubic mound, his buttocks contracting yet more strongly with each and every thrust. 

She is groaning each time he slams into her, her body being pushed across the bed. Her head moves off the mattress, and he grips her shoulders to prevent her moving further. His back arches, and blood rushes to his face. With the next thrust, he cries out with the release, and you know. You know.

You will never forget this moment. You could only imagine Germany, but now you are watching the reality of this other man, spewing himself deep into her, once, twice, three times, four, then five, and one more time he thrusts, and each time you know that that he is expelling his semen deep inside your wife, his milky ejaculant with its one hundred million sperm, still warm from his testes, is shooting from his cock head, hitting her inner walls, blasting into her womb, making a slut of her. You will remember this, your perfect wife fucked to the edge of a hotel bed by another man, her cunt impaled by his cock, receiving his sperm, his semen, his seed. This is exactly what you planned, because she too will remember for always how he has ravaged her body for his sexual pleasure, emptying of himself so deep, so very deep, inside her. 

It was a punishment perfectly suited to her crime. Laura was so, so contrite about Germany, so apologetic, begging to be forgiven. She did not know what had come over her, why he had had such an effect on her. Now she knew, and would have to accept the truth. It was not about him. 

It was not the effect that one guy, one executive, had had on Laura. Nor was it anything to do with Germany. Germany served only to release her from the norms of being a wife and mother back in England. What had come over her was very simple. She loved, adored and lusted to be fucked.

That is the fact that you and she both needed to acknowledge, that your wife loves sex, that her body wants it and desires it and would seek it out wherever and whenever the rules of society did not prevent her from so doing. Away from your home, family and friends, she had and would let those needs hold sway. The German guy was just a guy. Had it not been him, it would have been another. Now, encountering a new stranger, in a hotel room where social norms did not exist, not even with her husband watching, she followed her instincts, allowed the man to fuck her, and to release his sperm while he was deep inside her. 

It is so simple. You are married to a woman who need and loves to fuck, and the who and the where are restricted only by what others would think of her if they were aware. That hotel room led both of us to realise that simple truth, and to accept it. 

It did not even end there, when shaved skull had come inside her. After a break, lying beside her, he then lay on his back, head on the pillows, while she stroked his wet, limp cock back to full erection, climbed on top of him and guiding it back inside. Where before it was he who had fucked her cunt, now it was her cunt that ground down on his rigid cock as she fucked him, giving me the most amazing ring side seat from the foot end of the bed, her suspender belt stretched across her lower back, his hands stretching her buttocks wide, fingering her anus, his cock stretching her cunt around it as she morose and fell on kneeling, stockinged legs, finding for herself another orgasm, and for him the ability to come again. 

That time, when they had finished, and she raised herself from his slick cock until it fell free of her cunt, a globule of his milky semen escaped from between her labia, oozing down her inner thigh toward the black stocking top, a delicious hard core moment of time, recorded in my memory, that still plays in perfect high definition focus inside my head every time I think of her with him.

It was while watching that second time, while she was squatting over him, raising and lowering herself, impaling herself again and again, her tattooed thigh tautening rhythmically, that I conceived the second sperm, smaller than but otherwise identical to that first, tattooed immediately below. The first tattoo was for the Germanic sperm. The second would be for this guy with the shaved head, olive skin, and his extra inch. It seemed appropriate, and when later I told Laura what I intended for her, she did not demur.

Laura climbed right off the guy, the globule of semen still on her thigh, turned, and lay on her back beside him. Shaved skull lay still. He moved only his hand, resting it on my wife's thigh, the one with the tattoo. Turning his head, he saw the tattoo. He sat up, smiled, and said just one word. 

Neat.

Minutes later, saying nothing more, shaved skull left the bed for the adjacent bathroom. There was the sound of running water. It stopped. Then he emerged, retrieved his clothes, dressed, nodded his thanks to me and left.

It would have been so easy to undress, climb onto the bed, and fuck my wife. My cock was still rock hard. If you have watched hard core porn, and come erect, needing the relief that only comes with ejaculation, then watching live sex, where your wife is one of the two people fucking right in front of you, will do so all the more. I needed relief. I wanted to fuck her. She deserved it. But she also needed to know who was in control.

Instead, I told her it was time to go. Not to shower. Not to use the bathroom. Just to dress and do her hair.

Even then, I enjoyed watching. Laura climbing off the bed, her breasts swaying beneath her, her hair falling in tresses. Laura picking up her bra, fastening it under her breasts, then turning it round to bring the fasteners to her back, slipping her arms through the shoulder straps, raising the straps over her shoulders, easing her breasts to sit correctly in the cups. Laura, picking up her dress, turning it the right side out, stepping into it and raising it over her body, arms into arm holes, its shoulders onto her shoulders. 

Only then do I put down my glass, stand up, move behind her, hold her waist, take hold of the zip, and ease it up. Then I kiss her neck, the other side to where shaved skull had kissed her. She turns, all the way to face me, looking at me, curious. I kiss her forehead. She says two words.

Thank you.

We leave in silence, drive home in silence. It is late. We have not had dinner, but our arrival at the hotel, to when shaved skull left, enough time has lapsed for other couples to have enjoyed a three course meal with red wine accompanying the main, and crème anglais to finish. 

The children are in bed. Laura's mother is watching the late news. Yes, we had a lovely evening. With shaved skull's semen still drying on her inner thigh, and more, perhaps, trickling from her cunt, my loving wife, the devoted daughter, the slut, thanks her mother for looking after our two children, sees her to her car, hugs her, and wishes her good night. 

The front door closed, I kiss her. Not on the neck, but the mouth with which she caressed, kissed and sucked on a stranger's cock. She is still hungry. My appetite is at its peak. Our tongues explore. For long minutes we stand there, mouths locked. I reach beneath her dress, find her cunt, finger her, slimy with his semen, remove my hand, break off our kiss, and put my fingers to her mouth. 

She licks them clean.

Upstairs, she washes. 

Then we fuck.

Now, go back to the beginning. Remember my description of that tattoo. Remember the detail. One large oval, with its tail. Below it, as I said, three smaller versions of the same tattoo. Germany the large one, shaven head the second, but now there are two more since then, and one still in the planning, not yet inked onto her leg. 

The third tattoo is for a guy in his fifties, grey hair, but still trim, who replied not only offering to service Laura, but willing to pay us for the privilege. Some guys think that they can buy anything, and five hundred pounds is a fair sum to offer for one evening. I had never planned to sell my wife, but the idea eventually appealed, provided that it was cash, in a brown envelope, and proffered in the hotel bar, to Laura, while I waited in the room. We did not need the money, but the kids love their wooden garden climbing frame, and I love reminding Laura how she paid for it. 

The fourth is for a student, an intelligent, good looking, British born Jamaican whose parentage did not appear diluted by any white blood in his family history. The contrast of skin on skin, black on white, was incredibly intense. Even the head of his cock was black. His semen, of course, was pure, milky white, more copious than any of the others, and seeped deliciously from between her labia even as we drove back home, leaving a stain on the front seat that neither she, nor her mother who also tried, without knowing the source of the mark that marred the fabric, neither of them has managed to remove.

If you are wondering, yes, my wife enjoyed those punishments, and we both enjoy reliving them, while we are making love, but she has never strayed again. There are ways that you can make sure of this. If some guys allow their wives to enjoy their sexual freedom, well, I am not that kind of guy. Laura's exposed, protruding labia are not only nature's way to make her cunt so much more delectable, but they are also functional. 

Germany invaded her garden, the garden that I had thought was mine alone. There was no lock on the garden gate. He had entered her with ease, and she had enjoyed this stranger in her garden, igniting a bonfire of passion and lust within her. Watching her with shaved skull, I saw that fire rekindled. That time the invitation to enter had been mine, but my wife had still enjoyed the forbidden flame of a stranger stoking at her furnace. She had loved every moment. I knew that, even while I watched, I knew, and knowing that, I knew also that if I left that garden unsecured, others would seek to penetrate, and some, at least, she might not, would not turn away.

The miniature gold lock I sourced from Tiffany, just over an inch in height, heart shaped, with a curved closure that is four millimetres thick. Perfect as it has proven for what I had in mind, I suspect that it was not the use for which it was designed. Fully functioning, it came with a pair of working keys. One I keep attached to a chunky silver bracelet that Laura gave me for my thirtieth birthday. The other is secreted where only I know the location, just in case the first key should detach itself, or in whatever way be lost. 

Our tenth wedding anniversary was just over a month after shaved skull. It was a Saturday, which made what I had planned so much easier. I gave Laura flowers, a card, and the wrapped Tiffany presentation box that morning, and she beamed. Opening it, she saw the lock and said that it was beautiful. She had a gold chain that she could use to wear it. I said nothing to disabuse her, but told her that I needed her to be ready to go out for lunch, and that her mother, who I had pre-arranged, would arrive at twelve to take care of the children.

We did have lunch, half an hour's drive away, in a favourite restaurant. We both ate fish, washed down with a dry Sancerre. I suspected that Laura would need the alcohol to deal with what was planned for after the anniversary meal. 

The appointment I had made for after lunch was within walking distance. This appointment was not at the tattoo studio, but at another studio which they had recommended, which I had visited before I bought the lock, to discuss whether what I had in mind was feasible. They confirmed it was. 

The woman at the reception desk was the same person I had spoken to. In her mid thirties, slim, dressed in white jeans and tee shirt, with straight black hair, she had no visible tattoos, but her nose had a steel ring set through the left nostril, and her tee shirt was stretched taut over her neat breasts, revealing the contours of nipples that both had barbell piercings.

Laura had followed me into the studio even more hesitantly that with the tattoo studio. Her reaction reminded me of our first visit there. She just went quite. A little less than an hour from our arrival, we left the studio and headed to our car, Laura still just as quiet, perhaps more so, but walking hand in hand. 

When we got back, Laura's mother asked, as always when we returned from a couple's outing, if we had enjoyed ourselves. Laura said we had. What she did not, could not, mention, was that after our lunch she had allowed a woman at a body piercing studio to set a pair of steel ball closure rings through her protruding labia. It was not the kind of thing her mother could be told, or would wish to hear.

That was the first wedding anniversary that we did not make love. In fact we did not make love until a week later, and then only cautiously. Once I was inside her, Laura confided that she had missed me. We took it slowly, taking care with the rings. It was good to be inside her once again, to be making love with her again, and although the piercings necessitated being more restrained, they did not prevent Laura from orgasming, nor impede my own delicious coming inside her just a little later.




Punishment That Fits the Crime



Two months of carefully restrained love making later, we revisited the studio. The same piercer examined Laura, confirming that she had healed extremely well. She already knew what we wanted, removed the rings, and asked for the lock, comparing the width of the small closure, or shackle as it is technically known, with several steel tapers, until she was happy with which taper she should use.

You can shackle a person by their wrists, or ankles. It was a form of secure imprisonment. people were shackled in castle dungeons. Now it can be a sexual game, shackling a partner to the bed. Calling the lock's closure by that same word, seems inappropriate. It is only four millimetres thick, less than an inch around the curve. Something so small and neat cannot be compared with the heavy irons used to shackle the miscreant, or the sexual slave. 

Yet, there is no other word, and whatever size the lock, it is the shackle that secures. On a garden gate a heavy lock will secure the entrance against intruders. For my wife's garden, even in miniature, this small gold lock set through her labia, across her entrance, would serve the exact same purpose. 

Stretching Laura's piercings by lubricating the taper with some kind of oil, and easing the steel through each labia in turn was slow, but in due course both holes were wide enough to accept the small lock's shackle. As soon as the first piercing was stretched sufficiently, she slipped it through. Then the second, and she closed the lock. The garden was secured.

For a second time, we did not make love for a week, as the stretched piercings adjusted to the increased thickness of the lock closure. Seven days later I used the small key to free Laura's cunt, removing the heart shaped lock, and with neither rings nor lock to impede our enjoyment, Laura was a like bitch on heat, while I was the proverbial bull. 

Afterwards, Laura went to the bathroom, picking up the lock as she went. When she came back, without my asking, the lock was back in place.

It suits Laura. Because the piercings needed to be on either side of her vagina, they are towards the bottom of her labia, and when she is naked, the lock is suspended in the space between her thighs. She needs to sit carefully on any hard surface, and she would be unable to ride a bike while wearing it, but the lock has never caused any serious inconvenience. It looks so neat right there, framed by the pure white flesh of her thighs, and her hairless pubic mound. Although it is only on our annual 'couple' holiday, when the kids are looked after by Laura's mother, and when we enjoy France's best naturist beaches for two luxurious, sun filled weeks, that Laura's lock is seen by anyone other than myself. 

On the beach, it provokes interest. Maybe one woman in twenty on a naturist beach in France will have a nipple ring or bar-bell, or a labia ring, or a vertically placed bar-bell. Researching Laura's lock led me to know what each of these piercings is. But whilst these are not uncommon, only Laura wears a lock. 

Of course there is no need for Laura to wear her lock while we are in France. We are together all the time. There no temptation or opportunity for Laura to let a stranger in. But that is not the point. The lock secures our marriage. No one removes their wedding ring just because they are with their spouse and there is no need to tell others that they are taken. Wedding rings are worn with pride. Laura wears her lock with pride. She tells me that it proves my love for her, and hers for me. 

And at home, in England, the lock works. There is no risk that Laura will see another guy behind my back. The lock's placement ensures that enjoyment is impossible. Penetration cannot take place. Her garden is secure. I remove the lock each night when we make love, and replace it every morning. Laura now thinks of it as part of who she is, and feels undressed without it.

I also had to remove the lock for the guy who paid for the children's climbing frame, and for the student, and I will again, for the next guy, and for the others after him. Laura needs these reminders of who she is, and I love to watch, not just to watch but to plan, negotiate, and later to replay key moments in my head, most especially the semen escaping from her just fucked cunt, and to whisper in her ear when we are in our bed, how much I enjoyed watching her with him, or hear her tell me how it felt. 

So my advice, when your wife strays, is do not even think that you can forgive her and forget. Do not even try. Let her know who is in control, but enjoy her inner slut. Be grateful. She loves to fuck, and her cunt is yours to fuck, and yours to decide who will fuck her. Whether you chose to record those times, with a tattoo, is your decision. But take my advice. Do not place your faith in trust. It is your garden where intruders may seek to play. Make the decision yours and yours alone. Lock the gate. 

Post Script

This account was first written some years ago when I was planning the fifth tattoo for Laura's thigh, long before our children had grown up and before we became again a couple free to live our lives entirely as we wish. Is it not true that pleasures enjoyed should be revisited,so I have indeed revisited the same web-site once a year since then, booking a hotel room and making the necessary arrangements, asking the tattooist after each occasion to replicate the sperm tattoo again, with Laura now having fourteen of these in all. Total all of these experiences, and we both have delicious memories that we savour in the sharing. Fiction writers may be envious of a true story such as this, but read the first word of each sentence in this paragraph without the rest, as you sip your Rioja, Sancerre or whatever you enjoy, and I wish you well.