She lay kneeling, facedown on the bed, ass in the air, naked except for the kitten ears. Her husband had tied her wrists behind her back, and her ankles to the bedposts at the foot of the bed.  She trembled in anticipation.

A red satin blindfold, tied securely at the back of her head, stole her eyesight. Her other senses compensated.

Her nose pressed against the soft down of the blankets and sheets. They smelled of the countless combined scents of the both of them. Her perfume, his shampoo, her hand lotion, his sweat, the dander of the cat, the worn leather of the restraints, the flowers in the vase on the dresser, the fabric sheets they used in the dryer.

They competed with the brackish scent of her pussy for her attention, and lost.

He had left her on the bed several minutes ago. “I’ll be back,” he said, a smile in his voice. She heard his footsteps go down the stairs afterward. She heard the front door open, close, the door lock. He was probably letting out the cat.

But why lock the door? He’d just have to unlock it to let the cat back in.

His footsteps returned a short while later, up the stairs. Something seemed different about the second set of footfalls. The rhythm had shifted, the weight of the foot on the plush carpeting had been altered.

Maybe. Perhaps it was all in her head.

Two nights ago, they had invited a neighbor over for drinks. Sophe lived two houses down, in a cute little two bedroom bungalo. They met her on the sidewalk, invited her in for a coffee, which stretched into a drink.

Nothing happened. She left right before supper.

They talked about Sophe after she left. Yes, she seemed nice. Yes, that was a pretty sundress. Yes, she was rather attractive.

“She’s your type,” said the woman.

“She’s your type,” her husband replied.

She was both their types, it turned out, and while they didn’t linger on it overly at the time, her name came up in the bedroom that night. How she looked as she crossed those long coltish legs. They way the light weave of her sundress fell against her skin. The faintest outline of an erect nipple when she turned just the right way. The sway of the simple strand of pearls around her neck.

And so as the woman lay facedown, kneeling and bound, naked and blindfolded, her ass out in the air like a birthday wish, the idea occurred to her that it might not be her husband walking up the stairs. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this.

The bedroom door creaked slowly open. She did not hear a corresponding creak to let her know it had been closed.

Bare feet padded toward the bed. Again, the rhythm, the weight seemed different. Lighter, faster.

Did she smell perfume?

She felt warm breath on her skin of her legs. Despite her wariness at the identity of the person breathing on her, she felt her pussy moisten, her nipples harden, her arousal build.

The breath moved to the cheeks of her ass, rounding the curve to settle into the cleft between them. She felt the wet heat on her asshole, then drop lower to her labia.

Would he have invited Sophe into their home without asking? Would he have discussed their sex lives without her permission or participation?

Would he have invited her into their bedroom?

Her worried thoughts were interrupted by a light kiss on her leg, followed the soft slide of a tongue along the slope of her thigh.

Her breath caught. Her worries dissipated.

The tongue glided upward, then parted her pussy lips. The woman made a fleeting attempt to discern if the touch of it felt like her husband, or if it contained some tiny, errant clue that identified her partner as Sophe. The attempt didn’t last long; the sensations flowering within her felt too good, and it was so much easier to simply give in to them.

So she did.

The upside of giving in was that she could entertain the notion that Sophe licked at her pussy and ass, without guilt or remorse or fears of her husband betraying their privacy. She could switch the identity of the person behind her, from Sophe to her husband, whenever the desire to do so hit her. The experience felt more like fantasy than reality, because she could choose, and change, the person lapping at her wetness. Like Schrödinger's infamous cat--both dead and alive until it was seen—until she confirmed the identity of the individual of the person behind her, that identity was in flux: it could be Sophe, it could be her husband.

It could be anyone.

It could be everyone.

She heard the soft click of pearls, colliding against each other.

The presence of pearls did not point to either lover. Sophe wore them days earlier, but her husband had a great love of pearls, both as fashion accessory and sex toy.

No way to know.

She didn’t care. She succumbed to pure passion, untainted by persona. The warm round spheres, goaded by a gentle tongue, slipped between her engorged pussy lips, one by one. The tongue doing the goading morphed effortlessly, man to woman and back to man, not just her husband, not just Sophe, but past lovers, celebrity crushes, strangers seen on the street, a limitless and ever-changing cast of characters. With each pearl a new lover took his or her place behind her, all slipping as easily into their roles as she had by simply donning her kitten ears.

She purred in satisfaction, contemplating the possibilities.