Wife In Bondage 7

I saw the woman from the window of my office; Mrs Black as I tended to think of her. It was two weeks almost to the minute since I had struck a deal with her on the very bench where she was now sitting.

Truth be told, it seemed almost a lifetime ago. Truth be told, since the events of the previous weekend nothing untoward had happened at all. Life went on with ordinary, everyday events; at moments I almost felt as if everything I believed I'd witnessed had been a wild hallucination.

If I'd seriously thought that, the sight of Mrs Black dispelled such thoughts quickly enough. I switched the computer off before gathering my things together. It was going-home time on Friday. As I looked down on Mrs Black I felt a tremor of foreboding, as if I was half aware of the turn events were about to take, or perhaps I'm merely imagining my own prescience after the event.

At any rate, I took the lift to the ground floor and the underground walkway to the green area that provided such a surprising oasis, doubling as a traffic island, as it did. As before, I paused a short distance away before walking up to the bench. That was where I had sat when I said that I “wanted” the woman. I had no idea what I'd been thinking.

Mrs Black, or whoever she was, had offered me anything if I would “let things follow their natural course”, meaning that I didn't stand in the way of my wife's “adventures” with Mr Black, the man whose slave she had consented to be. Whatever had I been thinking when I'd said, “I want you” to the woman? I hadn't been thinking, not properly, not rationally; that was the thing.

I walked up to the bench, not knowing what to say or do. Mrs Black didn't even look at me, though I was only too acutely aware of the smooth nylon stretched across her legs, the smart skirt and jacket. Once again she was the picture of a professional on her way home from a busy day at work.

“ Well,” the woman said, once I was seated. “Two weeks. Technically speaking, I'm all yours.”

Her fingers were tracing a path across the nylon on her thighs. As alluring as this was meant to be, I couldn't feel anything but trepidation. Picking up on her tone, I said, “But...?”

I could sense her smile. “Before we get that far,” she said, “there's one more thing you need to see.”

I sighed inwardly. This didn't augur well at all. Whenever there was something I needed to see, it always consisted of my wife discovering some new depth of debauchery. I could have said, “Do I really?” I didn't. Not once had I had it in myself to take that route, and I didn't now.

“Will you at least tell me your name?” I said instead. This time I looked up, seeing the woman's eyes light up mischievously.

“All in good time,” she said. “There's plenty of time for you and I to get much better acquainted.”

Her tone was suggestive. Something was brewing, and once again I was lagging so far behind the game I might as well have been a donkey at the Grand National.

The woman rose. “Shall we walk?” she said.

I'd learned that much about the game, that when sentences were uttered with question marks hanging, they were intended as instructions rather than suggestions. I rose too, walking silently beside the woman, who now became much less talkative.

The walk took 25 minutes. I'd known these streets for all of my adult life, but suddenly the emerging neon seemed unreal to me, assuming a phantasmagorical aspect, or perhaps I'm just imagining things again, after the event. Mrs Black hardly seemed real herself: a phantom, my imagination, my dreams, my nightmares made flesh, I hardly knew which. I remember bumping into someone as if I'd imagined I could just pass straight through them.

“Sorry,” the man said, as is the custom in these parts.

Suddenly I discovered that we were in a narrow street lined on both sides with nondescript brick buildings. Mrs Black stopped in front of a door marked with a plaque. “STAGE DOOR” it read. I watched as she tapped a code on a small keypad then pulled the door open.

“Where are we?” I asked. The place was indeed a theatre. Mrs Black lead me down a narrow corridor and then up some steps.

“This is the Duke's Playhouse,” I was informed.

“ I thought it closed down, what, five years ago,” I said, curious in spite of myself.

“It was,” Mrs Black said. “Or at least it was closed to the public. But the building was purchased and kept for other, more private performances.”

She had lowered her voice, ushering me into a box overlooking the stage. As I slipped into one of the seats, she sat down next to me. I had no time to consider what she might mean by “private performances”, nor did I need to. Directly below, on the stage, lying on what looked suspiciously like the examination table from Mr Black's house, was my wife. She was completely naked save for the collar around her neck. A circle of chairs surrounded her at a distance of five or six feet; twelve in all, alternately occupied by men and women in various styles of fetishwear. Mr Black, once again dressed in his ubiquitous black uniform and mask hovered near my wife. What really seemed incomprehensible to me was the woman kneeling in front of my wife, her black latex catsuit gleaming as the light fell on her, lightly sliding her fingers over my wife's pudenda.

I gasped, then I looked at Mrs Black, who seemed amused by my incomprehension.

“That's my sister,” she said, as I took in my wife's closed eyes, her impassive face, her body shiny and sparkling as if it had been oiled beforehand.

“Your sister?” I whispered back.

“Yes. You wouldn't be the first person to mistake us for each other. People often think we're twins, but we're not. I'm her senior by two years.”

“I'd have thought the reverse,” I whispered, and caught the flicker of a smile.

“Compliment accepted.”

I wanted to ask more, but now the woman in black was sliding her fingers into my wife's vagina. I could see that she wriggled them inside, while my wife moved not a muscle, not a sound coming over her lips. The woman withdrew her fingers, holding them up. The glint spoke volumes as the woman intoned, “She is ready!”

The twelve people rose as one from their chairs, forming a line behind the strange woman. Mr Black moved to the back of the line as it started snaking its way slowly forwards. I could hardly believe my eyes as one by one the assembled players repeated the action of the woman in black, wriggling their fingers inside my wife, who lay there as if in a trance.

The line moved slowly, the woman in black finally standing by my wife's head, her fingers held just above my wife's mouth. I saw my wife's lips part. The gloved fingers that had probed her vagina were now inserted into her mouth for her to suck on.

“What is this?” I whispered.

“It's the final initiation,” Mrs Black replied. “It's quite fun, actually.”

I was struck by her tone and momentarily averted my eyes from the events below us. “You mean, you've...?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs Black whispered.

Below us each of the players in turn probed my wife's vagina before slowly moving up to have her suck their fingers clean of her own secretions. Then they slowly resumed their seats.

“So what... I mean, how...?” I whispered.

Mrs Black had her eyes fixed on events now and failed to respond to my incoherent question. I suspected that she was waiting for things to unfold and focused on the events myself.

With everyone seated, Mr Black spoke; that voice I'd come to loathe so. “Slave may now welcome the guests.”

Slowly my wife rose from her recumbent position, swinging her legs over the side of the table. Dropping to the floor she went down on hands and knees, heading for the person directly in front of her. It happened to be a woman, who slid forward on her chair and parted her legs so that it became clear that her own latex catsuit could be unzipped to allow access to her sex. My wife crawled up to her, and without flinching, leaned forward, planting her lips on the woman's labia before saying, “Thank you for coming.”

She crawled to the next person in the circle, a man, whose cock was sheathed in black rubber, just like Mr Black's, standing big, erect and obscene. My wife pressed her lips to it. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

“You see,” Mrs Black whispered. “What I mean about it being fun, I mean.”

I shot her a glance of incredulity which made her eyes dance in amusement before becoming serious again. My wife was crawling to the next person in the circle, a woman whose skirt was so short it hardly hid her pubes at all, and my wife had no trouble in kissing her pussy lips. “Thank you for coming.”

Meanwhile, Mrs Black became more businesslike, or at least more forthcoming. “My sister,” she whispered, “chose to marry a man who shares her particular tastes. As my sister's likes in that area have always been my dislikes, and her dislikes my likes, I willingly let my brother-in-law become my Master.”

My head began to swim. It was too much to take in, especially since my wife was now kissing what looked like a monstrous size for a cock. “Thank you for coming.”

“Your sister... Is she... I mean, have you... Do you...?”

Mrs Black, who it suddenly transpired wasn't Mrs Black at all, put a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Oh good gracious no,” she whispered. “I do have some limits you know.”

“Thank you for coming,” my wife said, her lips having just grazed another woman's pudenda.

“No,” the woman next to me said. “My sister has her own little group of willing submissives, men and woman, who are happy to submit to her demands. My brother-in-law on the other hand, likes to focus properly on one person at a time.”

My wife was kissing yet another large phallus. “Thank you for coming.”

Next to me the woman sighed. “Of course, since he began devoting so much attention to your wife, I've been feeling rather out of the loop.” I was suddenly distracted from my wife by the feel of the woman's fingers against mine on the armrest. “Rather as I imagine you have.”

I looked at her. Was this part of the game; was she trying to lure me into something by creating some kind of bond between us based on our mutual exclusion; or did she genuinely feel a little rejected? Her fingers closed themselves round my hand, she was moving it gently towards her, placing it on her thigh. I felt the black nylon against my fingertips and let my hand rest there, on her leg.

Looking down my wife was moving back from another stiff erection. “Thank you for coming.”

The woman next to me leaned over. Her lips brushed my ear as she whispered, “I enjoyed it, you know. The taste of you. Both times.”

She was referring to the two occasions when she had taken my sperm in her mouth, the first time after the most incredible oral treatment I had ever known from a woman's mouth. I felt my cock twitch. I couldn't help it. Wherever this was leading it would lead there irrespective of anything I might want with my rational mind. It had been like that the whole time.

My wife pushed her lips against another cock. “Thank you for coming.” Having now gone full circle, she crawled back to the examination table, positioning herself on her back, as before, but now with her buttocks resting just on the edge. Mr Black waved his arm in the air. The six men rose as one, standing in line in front of my wife. It didn't take a genius to work out what was afoot, and the first in line stepped forward, steering his large cock towards my wife's opening, pushing right the way up her without her giving so much as a sound or a movement. I was surprised, though, when the man just held still there.

“What is a Slave's first duty?” Mr Black intoned.

“A Slave's first duty is to obey her Master in all things,” my wife replied, without faltering for an instant.

The man inside her withdrew, making way for the next to push as far into my wife as he could.

“What is a Slave's second duty?” Mr Black asked.

“ A Slave's second duty is to hone her skills so that she may please her Master to the best of her ability.”

The cock in my wife was replaced by the next one in line.

“What is a Slave's third duty?” Mr Black asked.

“A Slave's third duty is to hone her skills so that she may please anyone her Master commands her to please,” my wife said.

“Oh for goodness sake,” I whispered. “This is beyond belief.”

The woman next to me laid her hand on mine, pressing it into her nylon-clad thigh. “Don't be like that,” she whispered. “Not when we're getting along so well together.”

I was thinking that the flesh is weak when a man's ardour has hardened. My wife was saying something down below, but I couldn't quite see her as my wife, as the woman I'd hitherto shared my life with. There was a warmth emanating from the woman next to me, an allure I hardly knew how to handle.

I forced myself to focus. Mr Black had just asked something I hadn't caught. My wife, a new cock buried in her pussy, said, “Slave is convinced of the validity of Master's belief that a slave should have her holes occupied as much as possible, lest she get up to mischief.”

The cock was withdrawn, replaced by the last in line.

“What is the most reprehensible thing a Slave can do?” Mr Black asked.

“The most reprehensible thing a Slave can do,” my wife replied, “is to administer pleasure to herself without Master's permission, and especially to cum without Master's express permission.”

“Listen and learn,” the woman next to me whispered.

“What?” I said.

The men were moving back to their seats as Mr Black spoke again. “Of all Slave's skills,” he said, “which would she say is the one at which she is most adept?”

“Master, Slave believes her most finely honed skill to be that of sucking cock, Master.”

“Well,” Mr Black said, “let us put Slave to the test. Turn over!”

My wife rolled over on the table so that she now lay on her stomach, her firm buttocks pointing at the ceiling, glistening from whatever lotion had been applied to her body beforehand. My mouth fell open as I saw how the women rose along with the men, each one fumbling under their chair for what now proved to be large strap-on dildos.

Mr Black went over to the examination table and adjusted the height. He and Mrs Black positioned themselves diagonally in front of my wife to either side. Then the twelve players moved forward, forming a line in front of my wife. First in line was the woman in the latex cat suit, a big dildo protruding from her crotch. She stared at my wife.

“Manners, Slave,” Mr Black said.

My wife raised the upper part of her body, resting on her arms. The woman was pointing the dildo at her. “Please, Ma'am,” my wife said. “May Slave demonstrate her skills by sucking your cock?”

“You may,” the woman said.

The angle was such that I couldn't quite see my wife's lips part, but I was nevertheless amazed to see her head bob back and forth on such a large object. The action lasted for what I deemed to be half a minute, then the woman withdrew.

“Thank you, ma'am,” my wife said. “I hope ma'am was satisfied by my performance.”

“For now,” the woman said, making way for a man to step forward. His cock was naked where he'd extracted it from a pouch so tiny it made me wonder how his erection had managed to fit in there at all. His pole wasn't thick, but very long and he held it before my wife.

“Please, Sir,” my wife said. “My Slave demonstrate her skills by sucking your cock?”

“You may,” the man said.

As the man's long, curved member disappeared into my wife's mouth, I felt a hand sneak over the armrest. The woman's hand arrived in my lap, and could hardly avoid to detect that whatever else I was feeling, my cock was erect.

“It's impossible not to feel aroused, isn't it?” she whispered.

I wasn't going to answer, but an instinctive hardening of my grip on her thigh was, I suppose, answer enough for her.

“This was my chosen speciality too,” she confided, as if determined to get some other reaction from me. “I really am very good at it.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said. And I did, only too well. The woman had used some kind of technique the like of which I'd never experienced, and which it's impossible to describe, seeming able to control me at will with her lips and tongue alone. “I've never known anything like it.”

The last slipped out as an afterthought, but it obviously pleased the woman. “Am I the best little cocksucker you've ever known?” she teased.

I didn't want to answer that, at least not in the way she wanted.

“It doesn't matter if you don't say,” she whispered lightly. “I know I am. I've won prizes for my skills, you know.”

I turned to her in amazement. “Prizes? You mean there are competitions... You mean you've...?”

“Oh yes,” she whispered back. “I've got the t-shirts to prove it.” Now she smiled winningly. “There's a lot about me you've yet to learn.”

Not more lessons, I thought. I'd learned an awful lot about my wife in the last couple of months, and truth be told, I'd more than had my fill. An awful idea entered my head as I watched my wife suck the remaining cocks and fake cocks, watched as she said to the final man, “I hope Sir was satisfied by my performance.” Would Mr Black make her enter some kind of bizarre competition? Demand that she gain some tangible evidence of her skills?

The players were all seated again as Mr Black's voice rang out loud and clear. “How does Slave feel about Master's primary conviction?”

My wife repeated the line I had heard earlier. “Slave is convinced of the validity of Master's belief that a slave should have her holes occupied as much as possible, lest she get up to mischief.”

“Slave's holes don't look very occupied,” Master said.

I gathered that this was rehearsed, that the line was a cue. My wife climbed down from the table and went down on all fours, once again crawling towards one of the circle. It was a woman. “Ma'am,” my wife said. “I am a horny slave who needs to have her holes occupied.” Then she kissed the woman between her legs.

As before this was repeated, my wife crawling round the circle, kissing cocks and cunts, saying the exact same thing each time. The woman she had first chosen had, however, risen and positioned herself on her back on the examination table. Once my wife had done the full circle, she crawled over to the table, climbed up and straddled the woman.

“Slave is permitted to show some enthusiasm,” Mr Black decided.

“Oh thank you, Master!” my wife replied. “Slave can't find the words to express how she longs to have her holes occupied!”

The woman beneath my wife was holding the strap-on and my wife lowered herself onto it, not so much dutifully, as wantonly. Certainly that was the impression given by her long moan as she skewered herself on the rubber cock.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Oh! This is just what a horny Slave needs!”

She began grinding against the strap-on, eager moans issuing from her mouth. A man rose now, straddling the table, grabbing hold of my wife, holding her still for an instant. I held my breath as his cock closed in on my wife's anus.

“Oh, Sir!” my wife cried as he penetrated her. “Thank you for helping to occupy Slave's holes. Thank you so much!” The man was already driving his cock back and forth in my wife's arse. The woman beneath her was pushing up. My wife cried out in lust, as if held captive by the animal in her.

“Don't worry,” the woman next to me whispered. “She's been well lubricated beforehand.”

“Don't tell me,” I muttered. “You know because you've been there.”

“Many times,” the woman replied with a little giggle, no doubt allowing herself it because there was no danger of the noise being heard below, not with the grunts and moans going on below.

A woman had risen, moving up to the table, she grabbed my wife's head and pulled it towards the strap-on. My wife opened her mouth wide, letting the woman push the thick rubber into her mouth. There was more grunting and moaning as the orgy continued.

The ritualistic aspect continued too, with the permutations rotated according to, what I assumed, was a set pattern; sometimes three men, sometimes three women, most often some combination. In between my wife could be heard crying something like, “Thank you for keeping Slave's holes occupied!” or “Thank you so much for treating Slave like the horny, cock hungry slut she is!”

I heard a little sigh beside me and turned.

“Nothing,” the woman said. “I was just wishing it was me, that's all. Happy memories.”

They were all insane, I decided, watching as my wife screamed and moaned, cocks and strap-ons ramming into her every which way.

Then, as the three occupying her withdrew, Mr Black said loudly: “I expect Slave wishes to cum.”

“Yes, Master,” my wife answered. “Should Master give his permission, Slave would be grateful.”

There was no answer to this. My wife climbed off the table, and the woman who had happened to be beneath her rose to resume her seat.

“Slave will position herself on her back on the table!” Master decided. Meekly my wife complied. “Strap her down!” Master barked.

Mrs Black, who had held herself in the background for a while now, stepped forward. Chains were pulled across my wife's torso. Tape was used to bind her arms and legs to the four legs of the table. I was reminded of a time when I had been implicated in tying my wife down like this at Mr Black's house, presumably on that very table.

Mr Black was now holding a wand, holding it before him much as a druid might hold a sacred flame. “Slave may not cum until Master gives his permission,” he said stentorianly. “Who will be first to test her stamina?”

A man rose, taking the wand from Mr Black without a word. Moving in front of my wife, he applied the head to my wife's vulva and switched the thing on.

Instantly I saw my wife's face contort. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing was heavy, but she did not make a sound. Presumably, then, this was what her recent training had been in aid of. The man stood there, holding the wand against her for thirty seconds, before moving across to one of the others and handing the device to them. It was a woman, who promptly moved across to my wife and applied the vibrating device to her. Her body heaved, but still she did not make a sound.

“Someone's getting frisky.” Soft words, moist breath against my ear. I gave a start, realising suddenly that my hand had wandered much further up the woman's thigh than I had wanted. “Perhaps it's time we left,” she whispered.

Later I would reflect that for once it didn't sound like an instruction, but a genuine suggestion. That wasn't how I took it at the time, and feeling relief at not having to watch my wife indulging in these shenanigans any longer, combined with disappointment at not being allowed to see the action through to the end, I followed the woman who was not Mrs Black back the way we'd come and out into the street.

It turned out that she had a car parked not far away. The cool night air felt fresh and cleansing after the scenes I'd just witnessed and I gulped it down.

“Just one more thing before I'm all yours,” the woman smiled at me across the top of the car.

There couldn't possibly be more, I thought, feeling that much more would be more than I could handle. Keeping up appearances I quipped, “Your place or mine?”

She drove me home. She came inside with me. Well, I thought, there was no doubt little chance of my wife turning up. Whether or not the ritual at the theatre went on for much longer, Mr Black would no doubt be keeping her over the night at least.

Ever the host, I offered the woman a drink. She declined. Politely.

I sighed, feeling obscurely as if she had turned me down. “At least tell me your name,” I said, so I know what to call you.”

This produced a coy, furtive twist of the lips. “You may call me whatever you like,” she said, “it's your choice. Slave, Servant, Wench, Slut, Cock-whore. I've been called worse.”

“I can imagine,” I said, by now heartily sick of this business, of this feeling of not getting anywhere.

The woman was producing something from her handbag. It was an envelope, sealed. “This is for you,” she said. “Read it.”

Her demeanour had become serious, almost reverential.

I cannot bring myself to reproduce the letter contained in the envelope. In short it was a note from my wife, stating that she had agreed to give herself entirely to Mr Black for a period of one year, after which she would return home. She hoped I would understand. She hoped I would forgive her.

Quietly the woman who still had no name said, “You wanted me. Now you have me. For a full year.”

Every conflicted, confused feeling I had boiled up within me, spurring me to action. “Oh for goodness' sake!” I cried. “This is insane, stupid, ridiculous, criminal! Things like this just don't happen! What the fuck is this?” I was staring at the woman, who stared back, clearly of no mind to answer my question. “Right,” I said. “Get in the car. My car!”

Quietly the woman said, “There's no point. It's too late.”

I had a terrible feeling that she was right; actually I experienced complete, terrifying certainty, but I couldn't just roll over and capitulate.

But of course it was as she had said. Outside the theatre I tapped in the code I had memorised, watching the woman when we arrived. I tried it several times, I hammered on the door, all to no avail. The woman watched me in silence, though I could hear her voice in my head, over and over. “It's too late. It's too late.”

Back in the car I drove like Lewis Hamilton to the big house, Mr Black's house, scraping the underside of the car badly on the dirt track leading up to it. Even as we pulled up and the headlights swept over the place, I could see it was all boarded up. Even so, I couldn't stop myself going up to the front door and pounding on it repeatedly, as the strange woman looked on from the car.

Finally, after a tour of the grounds, I was forced to admit defeat. The drive back home was subdued, slow, painful. Indoors I slumped in an armchair, the woman choosing to rest on the arm of a settee. After a brief silence she said softly, “What can I do for you? You do understand that I am yours completely. I will do anything for you, anything at all.”

I didn't answer. I'm not even sure her meaning sunk in.

She spoke again. “Would you like a drink?”

This brought me back to my senses. “I'll get it myself,” I snapped, rising and pouring myself a massive draught of Scotch, gulping it down in one. I was damned if I was going to play the game any more.

“Is there nothing I can do for you?” the woman asked.

“ Yes, yes!” I said, petulantly. “You can at last tell me what the fucking hell has been going on here.”

She lowered her eyes. “I can't,” she said.

“Don't be stupid,” I spat. “I think I deserve to know.”

“Perhaps you do,” she said. “And you will. But there's a time for everything.”

“Really,” I said, laying the sardonic tone on thick. “And when would be that be.”

“When you've learned to master the art,” was all the woman said.

And there, dear reader, the series must end. I imagine that some of you will be very cross with me for not explaining all. The truth is that I had intended to reveal all in this final part, but I now feel that there are things yet to be explored, and so I intend to produce a follow-up series some time in the future (with closer publication dates). I would like to thank those of you (you know who you are) who have taken the time to express your appreciation of “Wife in Bondage”. I am, really, very grateful to you for your kind words, which have served to spur me on, and if you are cross with me for leaving things hanging, well your enthusiasm has actually inspired me to want to continue with the story, so you only have yourselves to blame ;)