By: Donovan_Savard - Published: 3rd August, 2018
I provide the ski masks.
I provide the zip ties.
I’ve told them when my wife will be home alone.
I’ve even left the apartment unlocked. They only knock to draw her to the door.
I stand at the back and I see her through the eyes of my ski mask but she doesn’t see me. She wears the dress I bought her yesterday, black and tight, a short hem and low cleavage, exposing neck-line framed in lose and draping fabric. Her shoulder length hair is done in high, tight spirals that frame her face and expose the sleek, fine arch of her neck. She wears the day collar I’d instructed her to wear, a simple sterling silver chain, thick, and tight to her throat. She’s done her make-up, taken more time with it than she would for an average day, and it’s a shame its about to be ruined. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are dark and wide with surprise and shock when she opens the door to be rushed by six men in ski-masks. Her heels wait at the ready near the door for when she expects me to pick her up. There’s no logical reason for her to be wearing them in advance, but I’m a little disappointed nonetheless.
I have only a second to appreciate how remarkable she looks before she’s overtaken.
She doesn’t have a chance to react with anything more than a audible gasp before she’s screaming into the hand covering her mouth. They take her by her wrists, twisting her arms behind her back, anchoring them together with a zip-tie. They kick her legs out from beneath her and she hits the floor hard, tailbone thudding, nerve endings in her elbow shooting pain throughout her arm. She begins crying instantly. I watch all of this from behind them, from within a ski-mask of my own. A hand strikes her cheek before gripping her throat. “If you make any more noise I will fucking kill you.” His grip is strong. Her face begins to turn purple while he waits for acknowledgement. In his other hand he holds a knife. Long. Sharp. He holds it cold to her throat. She manages a nod and he lets go. She draws breath desperate as though she’d just resurfaced from near drowning. There are so many hands holding her, by her arms, by her ankles, by her hair, all pinning her down. Some of the hands paw at her chest, grope at her tits, groaning and muttering misogynistic obscenities. Slut. Whore. Cunt. The knife cuts through her dress from hem to neck line. I’d bought it cheap from a head-shop that caters to strippers knowing it would be destroyed. Her eyes widen, the adrenaline of panic making her twitch as the cold, dull back edge of the blade moves across her skin. Legs. Stomach. Tits. A squeak of fear wheezes from her and a hard hand lands across her face in response. The knife is pressed to her throat. “Do you fucking want me to cut you open? You don’t have enough holes in you to fuck?” She winces at the suckling mouth on her tit. Fingers push inside of her while hands hold her legs open against her kicking and struggling. A voice encourages her to fight. Says it’s way better that way. She starts to sob in blubbering fits. Not from pain but from fear. I can see the doubt in her mind. The worry. Somewhere in her mind she knows this was arranged, that this is the fantasy she's longed for as much as she’s feared, but there is still doubt, and that doubt makes her so very, very frightened. There are so many hands. So many bodies. They stink of whisky and sweat and cigarettes. Their breath smells of meat. If she has time to count them before the black plastic bag is pulled over her head, zip-tied taut to her throat, she’d have known their were five. Not counting me. I watch the bag morph into the shape of her mouth before inflating outwards before she again sucks in for breath, finding none. I watch, not getting too close, not wanting to expose myself. Not wanting to risk her recognizing my voice, my touch, my scent. Her breath quickens as the first man pulls his erect cock from his jeans, sheathing himself in a condom, pushing inside of her and telling her to stop squirming. He calls her a cunt and smacks her face while she runs out of breath, the fight slowly going out of her, accepting her fate, her use, her humiliation, her degradation. I wonder then if she worries she’s going to die.
“I need something really bad to happen to me.”
It was the first thing she’d really said in days. Most of last week she’d been quiet, depressed, locked into mindless games on her phone or staring blankly at reality television.
In my experience it’s always the strongest women who desire the most debase of humiliations. Danielle is no different. She is strong, intelligent, says what’s on her mind and generally gets what she wants because she refuses to take no for an answer. To those who only know her in a professional capacity, she’s been referred to as a cold hearted bitch, ball-buster, an ice queen, or any other such terms meant to strip her of power, or make her second guess her decisions. To gaslight her. To the people who know her best, she’s a woman most strive to emulate. She an inspiration, but terms like ambitious and or inspiring and powerful tend to be reserved for men. Men wear the moniker of assertive, where women are often labeled as aggressive for the same behaviour.
For Danielle, if she’s had a good week at work, our sex life is modest and vanilla by our standards. We make out like teenagers and fuck like hungry animals. If work has been shit, her desires become more debase, more masochistic. Feeling weak provides her the emotional tools she needs to feel strong. The harder she has to work, the more pit-falls she encounters, the more she craves relinquishing control. It’s a means for her to exorcise her self-doubt.
This week her boss, Chase, made her fire her entire team. Valued colleagues, hand-picked and vetted, loyal and hard working, some of which had become close friends over the course of the last few years.
For days she was inconsolable.
When she was finally willing to talk about it, and when I asked her why she thought this had happened, she told me. She told me that Chase had taken her out to dinner under the guise of discussing a future project. He had told her that he knew she had sex with men outside of her marriage, that he had seen her at bars with men she wasn’t married to in compromising embraces, touching, kissing, had witnessed a hand move up the inside of her thigh, and that he had even seen her profile while cruising Tinder, read the filthy, filthy things she desired. He’d suggested that he be next in line if she didn’t want him to report back to her husband.
She told me she’d laughed.
Really, now? Tell him if you’d like. She’d said to him. My husband and I have an open marriage. Not that its any of your business.
All the better. There won’t be any problem then.
You and your wife don’t have an open marriage, Chase. And therein lies the problem. Also trying to blackmail me for sex is a rather huge turn off.
They parted ways awkwardly. The following Monday the memo came down regarding lay offs, the bias targeting people directly under Danielle’s supervision.
Now she’s tired of thinking about it, tired of going over the details in her head, tired of letting it weigh her down. Now, she needs an escape.
“You say you want something really bad to happen to you. On a scale of one to ten?”
“Twenty, Mr. Stone,” she said without hesitation.
She always called me Mr. Stone. My name is Mason, and she only ever uses my name during a singular circumstance. My name, Mason, is her safeword.
Twenty. I got up from my desk and walked to the kitchen. I grabbed a wine glass and filled it with her favourite Malbec. I stared at the fridge for a moment before walking into the living room, staring specifically at the fridge-magnet that portrayed our wedding day, both of us smiling and giddy, myself leaning over her as I half dipped her for the photographer. The camera doesn’t show it, but every time I see the picture all I can hear is the way she laughed as though in victory while I held her there, keeping her from falling.
No one fucks with my family.
There needed to be revenge. Justice. But first, I needed to help my wife on the path to her healing. The kiddo was off to my mother’s for the weekend and part of next week, so we had time to ourselves.
I stepped into the living room and handed her the wine as I stood before her. She accepted it with a nod and took a sip, wrapped to her neck in a blanket, knees raised to her chest in a fetal position. “I’m so fucking mad,” she said, shaking her head. “Is this what it takes? No matter how high I climb, no matter how much success I find, am I always going to have a man standing over me looking for an angle where he can use me as his whore? Is what all I am? A whore?” She’s slipping, falling, and she can’t climb back up again until she hits bottom where she can find her footing. It was going to be my job to give her that push.
I reached down and touched her cheek, raising her gaze to meet mine. There were so many things in that moment that I needed to say, wanted to say, words of encouragement and reassurance, but so much of it would’ve been empty consolation to her. It wasn’t what she needed to hear. She needed to hear the worst, believe the worst, so that she could ultimately rebel against it, prove it wrong. She’s a strong woman. The strongest I’ve ever known. But she needed her spirit put to the test; a challenge to overcome. It was time for me to kick her to the bottom.
“Yes,” I said, sitting next to her. “But you’re so very, very much more.”
Then I held her while she wept.
On Saturday I pulled her out of bed by her hair.
Her ass hit the floor with a thud and she held my arms to relieve the tension on her scalp as I dragged her out into the living room, whimpering and begging to know why this was happening. In the living room I took a seat and pulled her across my lap, ignoring her pleas for a reason. I lifted the hem of her nightgown to expose her ass and I began to spank her, each strike a little harder than the last, repeatedly until her whimpering became a sob, wordless and sputtering. The more she struggled for freedom, the tighter I held her hair, the harder I struck her ass until her yelping gave way to silent sobs, and she laid still and passive, waiting for it to be over. When I felt she’d had enough, felt she was behaving well enough and had remembered her place, I spanked her for another five minutes.
When I was done I lifted her to her feet, kissed her, stroked the tears from her cheeks, and told her to go to the kitchen and bring us each a coffee. She returned a few minutes later, handed me my cup then knelt before me, posture proper, knees together, her own cup held before her in both hands.
I took a few minutes to drink my cup down to half, allowing her to do the same. Neither of us spoke and she didn’t ask any questions. She sat and drank her coffee.
“Would you like to know what that was for?”
“I know what it as for, Mr. Stone.”
I leaned forward, lifting her chin to meet her eyes. “Tell me.”
“It was because I didn’t fuck my boss,” she said. A tear trickled down her cheek. I wiped it away for her. “Four good people lost their jobs because I didn’t fuck my boss.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “Why didn’t you fuck your boss?”
She looked up at me, blinking, like she didn’t understand the question. She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. I took another sip of my coffee, checking the temperature, and decided it had cooled enough.
I reached forward quickly and took her by the throat, tipped her head back and splashed the coffee into her face. She didn’t have time to recover from her wince or her gasp before I smacked her hard across the face. Her own coffee fell into her lap, and when I lifted her to stand by her hair her struggling legs kicked it part of the way across the floor. I smacked her again. “I asked you a question: why didn’t you fuck your boss?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Stone.”
I dragged her across the room to the dining room table, one hand twisted tight into her hair, the other one on her throat, her legs kicking for traction. I reached the table and kicked open the toy chest. I removed my hand from her neck and scooped her up from behind her knees, lifting her up and slamming her down on the table. I removed my hand from her hair and replaced in on her neck, squeezing. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck your boss,” I demanded.
“I…don’t…know…Mr. Stone,” she squeaked.
Holding her steady, I reached the length of rope I’d prepared before waking her, looped it to an ankle, then ran it beneath the table legs to her other foot before running under the table to the opposite end to bind her wrists together above her head. “Let’s find out then.” I said, and once I’d tied her down secure, I pulled a ball gag from the chest and pushed it into her mouth, latching it behind her head. “I strongly suggest you use this time to think about why you didn’t fuck your boss and save the jobs of four people you care about.”
I poured myself a second cup of coffee, pulled the candle from the chest and started it burning in the candelabra, then lit a cigarette on its flame before stepping out on the balcony to smoke, consider my next steps, and curb my erection before continuing.
Being aroused is inevitable when playing with my wife, but giving into that state results in a lack of patience, a hurried scene. From the balcony I watched her stare at the candle’s flame with fear and excitement. I knew I would have to let it burn in her periphery while I conducted other punishments and experiments, allowing the candle’s anticipation to build.
An hour later I fucked her bruised and wax covered body, a trail of clothespins lined across her tits, parting the lips of her cunt, a puddle of her cum pooled at my feet. Over the course of that hour, I repeatedly asked her why she didn’t fuck Chase, reminding her of why she was being punished, and what she was to be meditating on while I used her. When I came, I moved to the side of her head and sprayed across her face, pools forming in the crevices where the rubber gag met her lips.
Despite intentions, I always get sentimental and affectionate post orgasm, but there was little time for it, not if I was going to be what she needed. I went to the kitchen and poured myself my third coffee of the morning, then took a seat on the couch, turned on the radio, and relaxed for approximately twenty minutes while regrouping.
When I got up, I walked to the chest and retrieved the Hitachi, then plugged it in and went to work wordlessly. It buzzed to life and her first orgasm came almost immediately, and the second followed eagerly. By the third she shook her head violently from side to side. This was her yellow, her way of telling me when gagged that she was reaching her safeword, or, on rare occasions, that she had reached it.
I went to the kitchen for a glass of water before removing her ballgag, pouring a generous amount into her mouth while lifting the back of her head.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone.”
Mr. Stone. Not Mason. Good.
“Why didn’t you fuck your boss?”
Her eyes lit up with fear and disbelief. “I…”
I pulled the release of her restraints and lifted her from the table, retying the rope to only her wrists before hitching its length to the the anchored eyelet on the ceiling, tying it off, leaving her to dangle in the middle of the room, her toes barely reaching the ground. I went to the chest and retrieved my leather flogger.
“Please—” she whimpered.
“Thats not your safeword. Why didn’t you fuck your boss?”
“I don’t—” I brought the flogger down across her tits, knocking only one of the clothespins free. My aim was good and practiced. There were six in total. She screamed with such volume that I winced and worried she’d be heard by the neighbours and the thought made me chuckle sadistically. I swung the flogger underhand, connecting between her legs. She buckled and sighed and groaned. She loved having her pussy flogged. She’s used the word favourite. I brought it up between her legs four more times before snapping it hard at her tits to remove another clothespin and again she screamed and sobbed.
“Tell me why you didn’t fuck your boss. You’re a slut. You’re a fucking whore. Fucking is what you do. Why didn’t you fuck your boss?”
I snapped another pin from her tit. There were three left.
“Why didn’t you fuck your boss, slut? Do you think he’s beneath you? Do you actually believe you’re too good for him?”
The flogger cracked in the air and removed another clothespin. Again, she screamed. She stared at me with a hate I knew was temporary, teeth gritted, brow furrowed, staring, chest heaving. I met her eyes. “Why didn’t you fuck your boss? You never discriminated before. How many men have you fucked since I’ve met you? How many cocks have been inside of you? Forty? Fifty? You open your whore legs every chance you get. Tell me!”
I brought the flogger across her left tit from the side, knocking the clothespin across the room. “Tell me why you think you’re too good to fuck your boss!”
“BECAUSE!!” She yelled, just as I’d wound up the flogger, preparing another strike. I yielded and gestured for her to continue. She was panting. “Because he didn’t have the right to ask that off me, Mr. Stone. He doesn’t have the right to use me. All the other men I’ve fucked, I’ve been using them. Only you have earned the right to use me Mr. Stone.”
I stepped toward her slowly, lifting her chin, kissing her gently. “Good girl,” I said. Then I kissed her deeply while I removed the final clothespin from her tit, her nipple, and she screamed into my mouth. The both of us laughed before I held her as she cried.
I insisted she take Monday and Tuesday off. Mental health days. She tried to argue, insisting it wouldn’t do any good, but I insisted. Over the course of the weekend I formulated my plan and put it into action. It had been a fantasy of hers for years, one that she’d always been afraid to experience, as all of the best fantasies are.
This was her twenty, even if she wasn’t aware that it was what she’d been asking for. Begging for.
She’d shared with me the fantasy first years earlier when gripped in the throes of shed orgasms, and she shared it with modesty and fear of judgement, blushing before pulling sheets over her face where after she’d shrugged and suggested that it was just a fantasy. Because it was something she could never experience with me, because there would be no true fear. She knew I didn’t have it in me to hurt her.
Consensual non-consent, is the term for it. After she’d shared her fantasy with me initially, it became easier for her to talk about, to fantasize about openly. “I want to be fucked into submission by a group of men. I want to fear for my life.”
The fantasy grew more detailed each time she would share it with me. The ski-masks, The zip-ties. The knife was a later addition. But each time, in the sobering light of day, she’d shake her head, embraced, saying that the thought of it excited her, but she was terrified to actually experience it.
“But the fact that it terrifies you makes it all the more exciting, doesn’t it.”
“Gawd yes!” she’d say, and she’d drop her head to my shoulder, blushing and laughing.
I spent the Sunday searching and vetting contenders who might be interested in helping me, hitting up the consensual/non-consent forums. The last minute no-shows in this were generally pretty high, so I recruited twelve men. Four showed up, which was three more than I’d anticipated.
The fifth man was far easier to recruit than I’d anticipated.
I’d taken her on a walk, away from our apartment to the tree lined streets of Cabbagetown, down through Riverdale Park until we found ourselves in the light sun of the afternoon, the Don Valley Parkway and the Bayview extension buzzing in our periphery. We walked arm in arm, listening instead to the birds, to the river, to long blades of grass shifting with the breeze.
When Danielle asked me what she was going to do, I shrugged and told her with a laugh that she was going to have to fuck her boss, phrasing it as a joke.
She rolled her eyes, then shrugged. “To be honest I wasn’t opposed to the idea. It’s just the principal of it; the blackmail. And the fact that, as a rule, the only married man I fuck is my husband.” She squeezed my arm as she leaned into me, sticking her tongue out, petulant and playful.
“Well,” I said, pulling her in close. “There are exceptions to every rule.”
“So, you think I should fall on my sword? Take one for the team?”
I laughed. “Yes. I think you should fall on his sword.”
They other men stroke their cocks free of their jeans, groping at her, touching her, smacking her, grunting, groaning, and sweating while she cries. The plastic bag inflates and deflates with an increased and panicked pace. I reach through their bodies, puncturing the film of plastic to allow her to breath. My wife gasps and her body arches hard against the floor of our apartment while she’s held down, the cock of a man whose name she’ll never learn pushing hard inside of her, deep, the groans and cries of no, please, stop, and fuck you all ignored. The fight a thrill for her. Her pleas for mercy laughable to her abusers.
Just as I’d instructed.
She knows her safeword.
She struggles harder. I grab her leg and push it up further, allowing her “rapist” deeper access. He fucks her with more desperation and I try not to laugh for fear that she’ll recognize my voice. I watch him push into her and I can see how wet she is, the ease with which her body welcomes him. For mere seconds she forgets to fight and she allows herself to enjoy his cock, welcoming it, squeezing it with the well trained muscles of her cunt. I smile to myself. I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying good girl and instead only mouth the words for nothing more than my own satisfaction. Two of the others gripe and cuss and try to hold her head steady, fighting with their cocks to occupy her mouth. She arches her head, tongue protruding, reaching, welcoming them both. The second man pushes into her throat and along with her gag comes her first orgasm. She moans as it happens. She pants and gropes for breath. The man fucking her is expelled from her and rejoices with laughter. A hand smacks her face, calling her a good little slut, saying you like that you fucking whore? You do like it. You like being used lil a piece of meat. And she arches her open mouth back with a inviting nod. The third man turns her head back in his direction by pinching her nose shut and stuffing his cock deep into her mouth, maintaining position even as she sputters and chokes and wretches, her entire body convulsing with rejection.
When he allows her a breath of air, she weeps and says no and please but still keeps her safeword to herself.
Were I not here, were she truly convinced this was real, her fear would only flood her when she called out my name, her safeword, and found there was no rescue. The lack of her safeword relieves me of any fear that she was truly panicked or afraid. Part of her is, of that I’m certain, but she’s not convinced this is real and there is no true fear.
And because of this, there’s a small part of me that’s disappointed.
On Monday after I’d returned Danielle home after our walk, I excused myself under the guise of having an errand. The walk took twenty minutes, but I found myself at the base of Danielle’s office tower where I waited. I stood with a take out espresso and smoked a cigarette, watching the couriers and the pedestrians scurry about the busy intersection, men with their ties and briefcases, woman in their tight pencil skirts and sensible blazers, all with phones held to their ears or positioned before them, texting frantically. The space was well lit by the sun despite the height of the office towers that surrounded it. Were this later, or earlier, in the day, it would be overshadowed.
I watched him emerge from the turnstile of his building, feet hurried, staring down at the phone in his grip. His hair was blonde and longer than was fashionable in his line of work. His jaw was sharp, face younger than his age. I squinted and tried to decide if Danielle found him attractive. I decided that she did, despite her having tastes that leaned toward men with more edge. Certainly getting laid was rarely an issue for him. I decided his pursuit of my wife had more to do with the challenge than actual desire. Picking up at a bar would be easy for him. But the insecure often crave what they can’t have in the pursuit of validation.
We’d only met once before, so I wasn’t convinced it was him.
“Chase McGuffin?” I asked and he froze in step, looking up at me. I only stand a few inches taller than him, but it was enough. The width of my shoulders is what halted him, arms covered in tattoos, chest puffed out to amplify intimidation, even though I meant him no harm. At least not in any physical manner.
“Shit,” he said, spinning around to see who was watching. “You’re Danielle’s husband.”
I nodded. “Take a minute to cancel your lunch plans, then take me somewhere you won’t run into co-workers.” The colour drained from his face and his step staggered backwards. I smiled. “Relax, I’m not here to kick your ass. Just want to go to lunch.”
He cocked his head. His mouth opened, but no words came out. I spoke for him. “Someone like you doesn’t eat alone, and I’m certain you have a place you meet woman you aren’t married to for discretionary purposes. I have high doubts my wife is the first you’ve seduced.”
“Tried to,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, right? Because I made a move on your wife?”
“Succeeded,” I said. “You know we have an open marriage. My wife is very much interested in fucking you, but her tastes are unconventional to say the least. I’m here to negotiate on her behave.”
“Negotiate. On her behalf?”
I nodded. “It’s part of the nature of our relationship.”
“So, why am I not hearing from her?”
“If she’d texted you, you wouldn’t have responded. Considering that you let go of her team after she rejected you, we were both pretty sure you wouldn’t respond to texts for fear of screenshots being taken for use as blackmail or for revenge purposes. You wouldn’t have trusted any of this being arranged by text.”
“So, why didn’t she come meet me in person then?”
I smiled. “Again, she has unconventional tastes. I’m here to talk to you instead of her, because this isn’t a fantasy she can arrange for herself.”
“Cancel your lunch, then take me to a place we can talk freely. I don’t think you want anyone from your office overhearing anything I’m going to have to say.”
He nodded, slid open his phone, then began thumbing a text.
She howls against the cock in her mouth as a finger is pushed into her ass. Through the shroud of her plastic bag I can see her face tightening with a wince before she begins to relax, accepting it. “You like that, don’t you whore? You like that finger in your filthy ass you little fucking slut.” With the cock in her mouth, she nods, pushing her body back, welcoming it deeper. A hand strikes her face, telling her to suck harder, telling her to do a good or he’d do it for her. She amplifies the motion with less eagerness than I knew she was capable and he responds in kind. Her holds her face by either side and begins thrusting into hole of the plastic bag, the retching sounds gurgle up as though she were drowning. The man fucking her begins to match the pace of the man in her mouth, neither of them displaying any gentleness or patience. She comes as she’s choked, ejecting the cock from inside of her, spraying across his lap and across the floor. Her body trembles in violence, panting for breath around the cock that occupies her mouth. “Oh fuck. You fucking whore!” He holds her legs open and pushes inside of her again with a hungry groan before pulling out, removing the condom, and tossing it onto her stomach. When it slops wet and warm against her body, she forgets she’s the victim. She moans sweet and begins to suck eagerly at the cock in her mouth as warm cum sprays across her stomach and tits.
My guest of honour positions himself to the right of her head, watching her work, desperate with his cock in his hand to experience my wife’s mouth, my wife’s skill, my wife’s hunger. He waits patiently, because he has to be last. It’s what had been discussed.
I stay back and watch the action. I can’t risk betraying my presence. Not yet.
After the man finishes fucking her, has spent the last of himself onto her chest, he peels off his ski mask and smacks her ass. Hard
The other three men and the Guest of Honour stare at him in disbelief. “What?” he says. “It’s not like she can see us.”
I smile beneath my mask. He’s delivered his line perfectly.
The others conform, freeing their covered faces.
“She wants me to do what?” Chase asked.
He takes me to a bar several blocks away, just on the edge of the financial district. The walls are old wood painted dark red and hung with mirrored ads for beer and whiskey brands that no longer exist, wooden plaques display family Code of Arms, and the waitresses all wear tartan kilts and low cut tops. It’s nice but still a dive bar by this neighbourhoods ostentatious standards, and not a place any of his ambitious colleagues would be caught dead in. For Chase, it’s the perfect locale for his philandering. For me, I’ll be coming back the first chance I get with Danielle for some nice scotch, a game of darts, and a bowl of wings.
I wash a jalepeno popper down with a splash of cold beer. “You can call it a home invasion fantasy if you’d like. Or a forced gang bang. Either way, she wants you to be a part of it.”
I shrug with a laugh. “My first thought would be that she doesn’t think you’ll be able to handle her on her own. But the truth is, the idea of fucking her boss as a means of career advancement makes her feel dirty, and if she’s going to fuck her boss, it’s going to be on her terms. The idea of fucking her boss under those circumstances, ironically, makes her feel in control.”
“I don’t know,” he said, pushing a glance over my shoulder, being paranoid, watching for familiar faces he doesn’t want to encounter. “Isn’t that whole scenario kind of, I don’t know—it seems weird to be in a room with that many other naked dudes.”
I leaned forward and took a long sip of my beer. “I didn’t take you for a man that insecure about his sexuality.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable with my sexuality!” he said, trying not to raise his voice. Failing.
“So, what’s the problem.”
“I guess I’ve just never done anything like that before, and, well, it seems crazy to me that you would allow your wife to have sex with other guys. I guess I just don’t understand the whole open marriage thing.”
I bite my tongue. I didn’t say all the things that came to mind to say. I didn’t bring up the hypocrisy about how regularly he fucks other women behind his wife’s back, and I didn’t illustrate the example that these other women likely never threaten how he feels about his wife, even though he takes advantage of her trust on a regular basis. I sighed and slumped back in my seat, rephrasing all the thoughts that run through my mind. “Say what you will, but Danielle and I never lie to each other. And we never have to sneak around behind each other’s backs.”
“But you’re okay with her fucking other guys?”
I shrug. “I know who she’s coming home to.”
He drank his beer, sipping, guilty and slow. “And this is really a fantasy of hers? To be treated like that?”
“It’s the taboo. It’s about wanting the thing that’s out of reach, unattainable. It’s about experiencing something dangerous.”
His eyes light up. He’s intrigued, but he’s still not convinced.
I leaned forward across the table. “Are you going to tell me that there isn’t a part of you that thrills at the prospect of getting caught when you’re fucking someone other than your wife? There isn’t a part of you that feels that it’s hotter because it’s wrong? This will be double that. Triple. It’s always hot to fuck a woman while she’s screaming yes, because it makes you feel powerful. Now imagine how hot it would be, how wrong it would feel, when she’s screaming no.”
He smiled a little like a child, hiding his mouth, concealing his blush and shifting in his seat. And I knew why he was shifting in his seat—the fucker got a hard on.
It was going to be a pleasure to destroy him.
Chase peels off his ski mask and begins batting his cock, half erect, against Danielle’s cheek while she suckles at the cock in her mouth. Another of her abusers pushes her leg up over and tugs her body lower, closer to him as he pushes inside of her. She moans and her tense body relaxes and she opens her mouth and throat wider, sucking with desperation that her efforts might save her life. She spins her head to the side, trading off and moving her mouth over Chase’s cock, tight and hard, the suction evident from the sound produced as he popped free of her mouth. He was erect now, and she arched her neck and extended her tongue to reach for him. He groans as he pushes back into her mouth.
The scene has grown tame, passive. I can no longer sense any tension or fear in her. She’s at home being her slutty self, and that needs to change.
I pat the shoulder of the man fucking my wife and gesture from him to stop, then gesture for him to lay down. I reach past Chase and grab a fistful of her hair through the plastic bag and I lift her to her feet while she screams. I smack her face with my left hand. The other men growl, their noises hungry and desperate. I push her down on the man on the floor and he pushes his cock inside of her and she gasps and she shudders and she says oh fuck as though she’s forgotten to be afraid. Myself, another of the men, and Chase stand before her, tugging her head back and forth violently, fighting for occupancy of her mouth, taking turns and smacking her and spitting on her while she rides the cock within her. The air is filled with threats and obscenities, demands that she suck as though her life depends on it, calling her bitch, calling her slut, calling her whore, yelling for her to ride that cock or she’ll be fucking cut. And she rides his cock hard while we take turns fucking her face, grabbing her head and thrusting in and out until she gags and her throat rejects us in favour of air and we give her little time to catch her breath before we start again, warning her not to let it happen again and the whole time she’s sobbing, tears running into her mouth with sweat and drool and the taste of pre-cum. When another of the men and Chase are laughing and squeezing both of their cocks into her mouth at once, I grab the bottle of lube from across the room. I pour it down her back and watch it trail down toward her asshole, then I pour some more. I push my fingers in, one, two, three, each digit making her squeal at a higher pitch that harmonizes with the laughter and the cat calls that she fucking likes it, that she loves it, and that maybe this fucking whore doesn’t have enough cock in her.
But it can’t be me. If I cum, I’ll lose my cool. I’ll end the scene. I’ll rush to her rescue.
I tap the fourth man on the shoulder, and when he looks down at me from where he fucks my wife’s face, laughing, I’m holding her ass cheeks open, showing him how welcoming and tight she is.
Within seconds he has a condom on, twisting a fistful of lube over himself and he’s on his knees behind her, finding his position, his angle.
He isn’t gentle. He doesn’t ease in, doesn’t give her a chance to accept him. He’s fucking her asshole to the hilt almost immediately and she screams and tries to stand and tries to escape and the sound of her scream is that of agony and panic and fear and my wife’s lips tremble and all attempts to push a cock into her mouth are resisted as she spins her head away from them, meeting another at every turn. She screams please and don’t and you’re hurting me and stop stop stop and fuck please please pleeeaaassssee and these pleas only make the multiple men inside her fuck her more viciously and violently and I have to remind myself that this is what she wanted and none of those words are her safeword.
She wants this. This is her fantasy. The reminder makes me smile and my cock is so fucking hard it could hammer nails.
I push Chase and the other man aside and I hook one hand under her chin and I hold the top of her head with the other, my fingers spread over her face to pinch her nose shut, to force her mouth open, and I plunge into her mouth and I fuck her throat with the same force as her cunt is being fucked, as her asshole is being ravaged, and I can sense how overwhelm she must feel. I hold her head tight, forcing myself deeper, resisting when he gag reflex tries to reject me.
And I know my wife. I know her body. Her whole body convulses as she gags and retches and she cums, showering both of the men inside of her, spraying hard against them to the sound of victorious laughter. The two men continue to fuck her, harder, faster, both of them coming almost immediately, simultaneously.
I look over to Chase and give him a nod, taking my cock out of Danielle’s mouth as she pants for breath, gasping inwards, growling with panic and exhaustion. I flip her over onto her back and she screams no, no, NO! and I smack her face repeatedly to subdue her. The other men help me hold her down while she struggles, while she grits her teeth and she spits and she growls. They continue to call her names, they continue to threaten. Chase has a condom on and is lowering himself between my wife’s kicking legs.
Amidst the screams and the cursing, the names and the threats, I run a hand gently across her face sheathed in the plastic bag. I say: “Good girl,” and for a fraction of a second, nearly indiscernible, she stops resisting, and I know she knows she’s safe. I smack her face. “Keep fighting you fucking whore, it’s better when you fight. Fight as hard as you can, cry as loud as you can, but he’s still going to fuck you—Chase! Pin this fucking whore’s arms down and fuck the living hell out of her!”
I stand and gesture for the other men to step back, to let Chase have his turn.
And hearing his name, feeling the weight of his hands on her shoulders, she fights and she kicks and she screams and Chase overpowers her, fucks her, calls her a useless fucking slut, just a fucking whore. And he takes what I told him at the bar to heart; to say the meanest, cruelest things he can think to say, and he tells her that he always gets what he wants, that no one gets away with rejecting Chase McGuffin, you hear that you fucking whore? No one rejects me.
And I have to try not to laugh, the others stand on either side of me, none of us blocking the view of the nanny cam imbedded in eye of a Teddy Bear, the only person in the shot is an anonymous woman bound and screaming for mercy, begging for him to stop, while Chase McGuffin announces proudly, angrily, arrogantly, that no one gets aways with rejecting Chase McGuffin.
No one fucks with my family.
This couldn’t have been more perfect.
Danielle insisted she get to the be the one to confront him. All I could do is smile and wish I could be there as witness.
Two days later she went back to work. She wore her red dress, tight and powerful, saying that she chose it because red looked devilish on her, and that it made her feel confident, but also that it was sexy as fuck while at the same time having a don’t fuck with me look to it. She strode into his office on heels that raised her to nearly match his height.
At first, she said that Chase was happy to see her when she walked into his office. He even stood and tried to kiss her, before she held her phone up between them, and he stopped in step when he saw what was on the phone.
I’m sure he wondered how he could’ve been so stupid.
It was video of him, undoubtably him, raping a woman bound with a bag over her head, screaming for mercy, screaming for him to stop. She said he winced and the colour drained from his face when his own voice emitted from the phone saying: No one rejects Chase McGuffin!
The only thing she said to him was “Quit your job. Tell them you have to focus on your marriage. Recommend me for your position. I’ve earned it.”
She was giddy when she told me that he was speechless, that he couldn’t say a word. As she left the office she said: “See? I told you blackmail wasn’t sexy.”
Tomorrow she has a meeting with the CEO and a few key board members. Prematurely, Debbie at reception and the CEO’s personal secretary have both congratulated her.
Her first action will be to hire back her team, because she’ll explain to the board that they never should have been let go in the first place. That they’re invaluable to the success of certain projects, and that training fresh hires was time they can’t afford to spend.
I kicked all of the men out of our apartment shortly after Chase had finished, thanking them all for coming as though we’d just hosted a dinner party. I untied Danielle and escorted her to the restroom to get cleaned up. Her smile beamed through the mess of ruined make-up, ear to ear. I spent the next hour holding her in our bed. She sighed and she smiled and she thanked me. I told her how proud I was of her, explaining to her about the nanny-cam bear and the footage it now held. She sat up and smacked my chest in disbelief, awed by how sinister I’d been. “I told you that you’d have to fuck him to get what you want, but no fucking way was I going to let him use you.”
She smiled, but there was a little tear in her eye. “This isn’t how I wanted to get promoted. This isn’t how I wanted to advance my career.”
The truth is she would’ve had her promotion years ago if it weren’t for men like Chase, and if it weren’t for men like Chase, she’d never have had to stoop to his level.
But she didn’t stoop to his level. I did.
She’s a good person. She’d never have thought of this in the first place. It’s not in her nature. For me, I’ve always been a little more creative in my cruelty. And its something I’ll always do for her.
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