“You’re having me on… this has to be a parody account. How many fucking Christmas trees does a person need?” Dave asked with an air of disbelief as he handed me back my mobile phone.
“Honestly, I couldn’t make this up. She really does put a tree in every room, including the cinema room in the basement,” I replied. “Facebook is made for someone like her.”
“Of course, you can’t forget the fucking cinema room. You Americans and your McMansions.”
“Don’t include me in all that. I chose to move here to live in cramped conditions with you lot. Besides, those monstrosities cost a fraction of what a terraced house costs around here.”
“I see – American houses are big and cheap, like your women.”
“Ha ha.”
Dave and I were exchanging our usual banter over a quick post-work drink at a London pub. It was the evening before I was to set off for a trip back home to the American Midwest, and I was showing him where I was going to be staying. As luck would have it, I had an extended work project that landed me in the city where I grew up, smack in the middle of the Rust Belt.
Instead of a hotel, I was planning to crash with an old high school friend, Tom Evans, and his wife Kitty. Tom wasn’t my closest friend, but we knew each other well enough. He and I were in all the top-set classes together. With my surname being Dawes, alphabetical seating plans meant that we were nearly always placed next to each other. It was Kitty who, somewhat surprisingly, insisted I stay with them rather than opting for a hotel.
Tom is a really good guy, but, truth be told, he is terribly boring. It’s not just that he always sticks to the same topics of conversation, it's that he’s lived an incredibly conventional life. He went to State U to study engineering, then to City U to get an MBA. He drives a spotlessly clean SUV, vacations at the same beach every summer and genuinely looks forward to attending an annual business convention in Las Vegas. He’s always followed the safe and conventional path. One mutual friend remarked that Tom doesn’t have a subversive bone in his body. However, while he may be boring, he is at least self-aware.
At uni, Tom’s first-ever girlfriend was a very sparky Latina who had him wrapped around her little finger. He was almost inconsolably devastated when she dumped him. He subsequently dated the very nice but dull sister of a friend. He broke up with her, because, in his own words, “She’s boring, and I’m boring so we’d just end up being boring together.” Then along came Kitty.
Petite, blonde, bubbly and a former cheerleader, Kitty was the antidote to Tom’s dull ways. Coming from a rural part of the state, she attended a community college where she attracted extreme amounts of male attention. Although she wasn’t particularly academically gifted, Kitty was ambitious and saw the potential for a better life in Tom. It would be uncharitable to say that’s all she saw in him as the two of them genuinely seemed very happy together. However, she was shamelessly materialistic, opting to wait until Tom could add another carat to the ring before accepting his eventual proposal.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and they’d built what looked like a dream suburban life: a handsome son, a beautiful daughter, a couple of dogs, the aforementioned McMansion and all its trappings. Kitty devoted her life to the kids and took pride in showering them with attention. She also never missed the opportunity to document her efforts on social media. There were photos of the back-to-school mother/daughter mani-pedis along with all the honour society awards, recitals, basketball games and slumber parties. Christmas, Halloween and even Easter decorations were done to a ridiculous scale. With both kids having flown the nest, Kitty was at a loose end. I assumed that was why she seemed so keen to have a guest.
The Evans house was just a twenty-minute drive from the airport. After collecting my hire car, I was able to get to their place in the early evening. It being late June, there was still plenty of daylight when I arrived. The GPS led me to a neighbourhood of large homes situated on perfectly manicured lawns. Nothing seemed out of place, and an aura of privilege and sterility prevailed.
When Tom answered the door of the massive red brick house, I immediately did a double take. In high school, Tom was a decent baseball player and was reasonably fit. Somehow over the intervening decades, he’d managed to put on a significant amount of weight. Before I could compose myself, he read the look on my face and sheepishly admitted, “Yeah, I’ve gained a few pounds.” Despite the rocky start, he gave me a brotherly hug and ushered me inside.
As I set foot in the obscenely proportioned foyer, Kitty’s voice echoed off the cathedral ceiling, “Is that Jack? Tommy, bring him into the kitchen.”
Kitty greeted me with a big smile and a warm hug. The years had been kind to her. Somehow her skin maintained its youthful glow, and unless her bra was an engineering marvel, her impressive C-cups were still defying gravity. I accepted her offer of an iced tea and was given a tour of the house. We stopped and admired every room, and Kitty was quick to point to all the tokens of her children’s accomplishments. The house and her children were clearly her life’s work so I listened patiently and asked questions to give her a chance to talk about her kids’ successes.
Arriving back in the kitchen, Kitty proudly showed me her "European coffee bar" complete with a wide range of flavoured syrups. She seemed proud to be able to make coffee, “just like they do in Switzerland.” Although not an expert, my experience with Swiss coffee never involved anything tasting of lavender or coconut. Not wanting to burst her bubble, I just smiled and said I was looking forward to a morning cup.
With the preliminaries being over, Kitty steered me to the massive granite-topped kitchen island where she’d laid out quite an array of food. “Never mind the mess,” she said as she gestured towards a tangle of 4th of July decorations to the side of the large double sink. She then reminded Tom that he needed to hang the strings of lights and bunting before the weekend was over.
Kitty was quick to point out her new charcuterie board. However, I was more interested in the delights it held. I was hungry, but with jet lag, I wasn’t quite in the mood for a complicated dinner. Cold cuts and cheese were perfect, and I appreciated the effort she’d gone to in putting the spread together. I insisted on taking them out to dinner the following night.
The next day, Kitty announced to Tom and me that she’d found the perfect restaurant, a nearby Italian. I offered to drive, but Kitty opted to take one of their SUVs saying she wouldn’t feel safe in my compact rental. I chose to be diplomatic and not point out that the dangers came from those who chose to drive unnecessarily large gas guzzlers.
On the way, Kitty mentioned that It was an “authentic Italian” (is there any word more overused in the restaurant trade than ‘authentic’?).
“The Donovans told me about it. They went to Italy for their twentieth anniversary and said this place is as close as it gets to what they had there.”
I’ve always been a fan of Italian food, and love the variety offered by the different regions. Out of curiosity rather than scepticism, I asked what part of Italy they visited.
“I’m not sure of all the places they went, but I know their ship docked in Venice for a day or two.”
My heart sank. The prospect of “cruise ship” Italian was not terribly exciting. However, the lack of authenticity did not keep me from enjoying the meal. The portions were huge and everything was covered in mountains of cheese -- just as I remembered ‘proper’ Italian being from my youth.
At dinner, Kitty kept the conversation flowing, making reference to Tom also being an international business traveller - to which he pointed out that his only experience on foreign soil was for a meeting in Toronto earlier that year. She also made numerous misinformed references to how things were done in Europe, but there was nothing I felt important enough to correct her on. Towards the end of the meal, after she’d had a couple of glasses of wine, Kitty looked at me with a glint in her eye and asked about the sex club scene in Europe.
I let out a large sigh. Some years prior when I was out with old high school friends, I mentioned that I’d visited a sex club once. Truth be told, it was a run-down place in Edinburgh that I paid £30 to enter and regretted it almost immediately. I only saw two women in the place and a lot of desperate-looking men. One woman was clearly only interested in her partner, and the other was tied up in the dungeon with a vibrator strapped to her crotch. I left straight after downing the bottle of beer which was included with the entry fee.
I was too embarrassed to admit how awful the place was so I refused to offer any details. As I’m usually open about things, my friends took that as an indication that I’d got up to something particularly crazy. I never corrected them, and the air of mystery surrounding the incident grew. Word had clearly leaked to the wives, piquing their curiosity over the years as well.
Rather than provide the underwhelming truth, I played coy, which left Kitty less than satisfied. Tom rescued me by announcing, “Kitty, I think it’s time we head home.”
Come Friday evening, Kitty was preparing for a girls' night out with friends from the neighbourhood. She wore a black sleeveless top with silver sequins and a tight, knee-length skirt and black strappy heels. I walked into the kitchen to find her talking to a similarly attired, gym-fit brunette. As I approached, I heard her say to Kitty with a giggle, “So that’s Christian Grey, is it?” It took me a second, but I eventually recognised the woman from Kitty’s social media posts. She was another stay-at-home mom who enjoyed wine tastings and Christmas cookie exchanges. She was also a big fan of Fifty Shades of Grey. She, Kitty, and a pack of neighbourhood MILFs posted photos of themselves discussing the novel in their book club and going to the opening night of the film. Some of the subsequent chat got a little racy and even included banter poking fun at Tom’s vanilla approach to life.
Kitty rolled her eyes and introduced me to Lisa who lived just a few doors down. We made small talk until the ladies had to leave. Upon departing, Lisa said to have fun with Tom and to make sure not to go to any clubs. Good grief. I could be known as the local guy who studied at Oxford and now lives in London. Instead, I’m known as the guy who once set foot in a sex club.
With the ladies gone, Tom and I grilled some burgers and watched a baseball game on the floor-to-ceiling screen in the cinema room. After a couple of beers, Tom nodded off and began snoring in his reclining chair. At the seventh-inning stretch, he roused himself and set off to bed as he had an early tee time in the morning. Apparently, a weekly round of golf provided the bulk of his exercise.
Watching an evening baseball game in real time was a novelty so I decided to stay up, even as the game went into extra innings. Around midnight, I slipped up to the kitchen to grab a glass of water when I heard Kitty come in. She was merry and appeared to have had a few glasses of wine.
We stood chatting by the island in the kitchen. The talk eventually became more serious, and she asked if I liked being back in town. When I said I did, she made a joke about the lack of a local sex club.
“I’m sure you could find or even start one if you wanted,” I replied.
“I could never do that. I’m a respectable member of the community. Did Tom mention I was on the school board for eight years!”
“Seriously though, what was it like?” she continued.
I was taken aback by her level of interest and felt I needed to give her some sort of insight just to get her off my case. I tried to remember the layout of the club and the house rules. I described a common area with a bar and a corridor with lots of rooms. Some doors were closed, which signalled the occupants wanted to be left alone. Who knew what could be going on behind them? I then noted that the basement was kitted out as a dungeon. At the mention of that, Kitty’s pupils widened and her chest became flushed.
I was running out of material so the only thing I could think to add was that it was very important to have a safe word. She nodded her head in vigorous agreement. When I asked if she had one, she blurted, “Pineapple,” before she had time to think and suddenly looked embarrassed.
When pressed if she’d ever had to use it, she sheepishly said no. I took that to mean that Tom had never pushed her boundaries, or more than likely had never even tried.
Taking stock of the situation, I saw an alluring woman leaning over a countertop in a very seductive way while intent on learning all she could about domination. I moved to stand behind her and inched closer. With no reaction, I began to press myself into her and put my hands over hers, pinning them to the granite surface.
With still no reaction, after two beats, I quickly jerked her hands behind her back with her wrists overlapping. I held them together with my left hand and used my right to push her hair to the side. Leaning in so that she could feel my breath on her neck, I whispered, “This is what you want, isn’t it?”.
She gave a barely perceptible nod and whimper of approval. That wasn’t enough to meet my threshold of consent so I continued, “You say ‘pineapple’ and I’ll stop, got it?”
“Yes... YES.”
At that, I got to work.
I pushed Kitty forward so her torso was on the countertop. Ordering her not to move, I went around to the far side of the island by the sink and grabbed a string of patriotically coloured fairy lights. I tied one wrist, wrapped the string around the kitchen tap and finished with the other wrist, making Kitty immobile.
Once that was sorted, I moved back to the main point of interest. I knelt behind Kitty’s legs and slid my hands up along the outside of her thighs and under her skirt until I reached the waistband of her panties. These were removed in one quick, downward motion. I then tossed the lacy, forest-green fabric to the side. As I stood up, I lifted the hem of her skirt with me. Once she was fully exposed, I used the outside of my feet to kick her legs apart. With her bare ass in front of me, I slid the index finger of my left hand down and into her slit to reveal that it was wet…very wet.
I dropped my shorts and boxers allowing my stiff cock to spring free. Stepping forward, I pressed my firmness into the gap between Kitty’s wide but surprisingly firm ass cheeks. Although Tom was surely pretty vanilla, I couldn’t believe that he had never fucked his wife in this kitchen. Odds were that he’d got to where I was and then proceeded in a conventional way. To give Kitty what she wanted, I needed to deviate from the script she’d played to for decades.
Instead of pushing forward and fucking like a teenager, I let the swollen mushroom head of my cock sit pressed against her opening. I waited. She wiggled her hips and began to push back. At that point, I withdrew completely and delivered a smack to her left ass cheek. She yelped but said nothing.
“You’re a bad, bad girl,” I told her as I dipped a finger back into her pussy, “Look how wet you are.”
Kneeling down, I extended my tongue and licked her from her dripping hole to her anus in one upward motion. She whimpered, and I immediately delivered a smack to her right cheek.
“You are a very bad girl… It’s a good thing I like bad girls,” I said as I knelt again and gave her pussy an extended licking. Just as she seemed to be getting close to cumming, I stood and smacked each cheek twice.
Rather than my cock, I inserted my right thumb into her snatch, making her jump. With the tip, I began massaging the front wall of her pussy, and I used my index finger to stimulate her clit. On the counter, there was a utensil stand just within reach so I grabbed a wooden spoon. Being careful not to inflict any real damage, I delivered smacks on alternate cheeks while continuing to thrum her, inside and out. She began thrashing about wildly and choked back screams as her first orgasm hit. It was a big one, and her legs went limp. Thankfully, Tom was asleep half of a (big) house away.
While Kitty was recovering, I again took stock of the situation. I had no experience with real BDSM, aside from tying up and lightly spanking a few former girlfriends as I’d just done with Kitty. That’s when it struck me that this wasn’t about pain or domination. What Kitty needed was attention, novelty, escape. All I had to deliver for her was the Disney castle or Epcot tour of the world. It didn’t have to be Neuschwanstein or ‘authentic’ experiences. McBDSM, if you will.
I’d never read the book or watched the film, Fifty Shades of Grey, so I tried to draw on what I did know. As a teenager, I’d caught flashes of the steamy film 9 ½ Weeks, from which I recalled images of blindfolds and a refrigerator.
I planted a kiss on the small of Kitty’s back and walked around the island. Taking off my t-shirt, I tied it around her eyes as a makeshift blindfold. She said nothing and rested her head back down on the cool granite. A minute later, the sound of the ice maker dispensing cubes into my glass made her rouse herself and cock her head.
Returning to Kitty’s juicy rear, I ran an ice cube up and down the sides of her legs, stimulating her so that she returned to the moment. Her legs straightened and a wicked thought struck me. I rested the cube in the dimple of her anus. Her body shuddered and her skin turned to gooseflesh – just the reaction I wanted. Kneeling again, I began to drink the droplets that ran down her thighs. I placed my outstretched tongue under her dangling labia, occasionally giving them a flick. The droplets that fell from her pussy were cool and tasted of a sweet muskiness.
My knees began to ache so I stood and rubbed my cockhead under her pussy. I placed another ice cube on her sphincter to contrast my hot cock entering her. She was much tighter than I expected. Then again she was exactly the devoted type of wife who would do her Kegels regularly.
After entering her fully, I began to build a nice slow rhythm. I pressed the ice into her rear in time with the movements of our hips, with the aim to stimulate but not to penetrate. I was desperate to avoid going too far and hearing “pineapple”, bringing everything to a halt.
As our fucking picked up pace, I ran my thumbs along either side of her spine on the outside of her blouse. Opening my hands, I gripped her shoulders and pulled her back into me. Kitty arched her spine and raised her head. I feathered my fingers through her hair and give a quick tug. This was met with an, “Ugggnngh,” as she began pushing her ass back into me more vigorously.
Sensing that I was pushing the right buttons, I pulled harder and bucked more forcefully. The sound of our flesh smacking echoed around the room as our pace became frantic. At its peak, Kitty let out a yelp and creamed all over my cock as she came for a second time.
Once again Kitty went floppy as she recovered from the intensity of her orgasm. Having been so focused on creating a new experience for her, I’d neglected my own pleasure and had yet to come myself. Believing that she had at least one more round in her, my mind began to race thinking about what to do next.
Kitty was as limp as a ragdoll as I untied her hands, flipped her onto her back and spun her 180 degrees on the counter. Her head hanging just over the edge of the granite, I used the fairy lights to tie her hands to a breakfast stool each. I then used the bunting to tie her legs to the handles of the cabinets beneath the countertop. When I was done, she was blindfolded lying spread-eagle on the island, naked from the waist down with her legs on either side of the sink.
I then began to rummage in her cabinets. I wasn’t sure what I’d find, or how I’d use it, but letting Kitty wait and speculate was part of the fun. Eventually, I came across an immersion blender with a long attachment. The blade was housed in a flared hood so there was no chance of injury, and the shaft vibrated nicely when turned on.
My mission at that point was: to play with her fantastic tits, which I had yet to see; to try to get her off one more time; and to come myself. Before stepping back into the breach, I couldn’t resist grabbing a bottle of flavoured syrup from the coffee bar - anything but vanilla or pineapple, of course.
I positioned myself by Kitty’s head and began massaging coconut-flavoured syrup onto my cock and balls. Once they were thoroughly coated, I tapped the head of my cock on her lips and she latched on with surprising energy. The coconut flavour seemed to surprise her and elicited an enthusiastic, “Yum.”
I had to go onto tippy toes to give her access to my balls which she licked and sucked like her life depended on it. Not forgetting the rest of my mission, I reached forward and drew her blouse up to her neck to reveal two creamy mounds encased in a lacy black bra. In the gap between the cups and her flesh, I could make out large, dark areolas. Thankfully the bra had a front clasp. Once it was undone, I placed a hand on each breast and felt the fine, firm points of her nipples in my palms. With her mouth back on my cock and her tits in my hands, I wasn’t going to last long.
Keeping one hand in contact with Kitty’s chest, I used the other to place the shaft of the blender on top of her slit. Kitty’s hips began to buck at the contact. Sensing she was still in a high state of arousal, I aimed to make her come with me. As I felt the tingling sensation well up in my cock, I pressed the switch on the blender. The vibrations kicked her stimulation into yet a higher gear, and she thrust her pudendum upward to receive maximum pleasure. The sight of her quivering naked body sent me over the edge. I pulled my cock out of her mouth and shot rope after rope of creamy white cum across her tits.
Kitty heaved a deep sigh and again went limp. I was still buzzing and had the feeling of coming down from a sensational high when the absurdity of the situation made me laugh out loud. Seeing a ‘proper’ suburban housewife looking dishevelled, strapped across an expensive slab of granite, tied down with American flags and fairy lights was just too much. Kitty started laughing and crying at the same time. The intensity of the experience seemed to have overwhelmed her.
I worked quickly to untie her. Once I had released Kitty's ankles from the bunting I paused for a second. Then, without thinking, I turned on the tap, extended the retractable sprayer and began gently washing Kitty’s pussy with warm water. She purred in delight and seemed grateful for the gesture of tenderness.
After a few moments, she lifted her head and gave me a huge smile, looking happy but exhausted. I helped her to her feet. We gathered our clothes, exchanged a small hug and wordlessly went off to bed.
I wish I could say that we repeated our session on the subsequent nights of my stay, but the opportunity never arose. However, our evening of passion gave us both a life-changing experience. The last I heard, Tom was converting the cinema room to a dungeon.
