Chapter 3

She sat some ten feet away from Simon in the walnut-paneled library. Glasses of brandy rested on identical cherry tables beside each richly upholstered wingback chair. He was unusually quiet this evening, taking time to savor the rich, dark drink, allowing her to nearly finish her own generous portion. She expected he would talk of her husband, and was apprehensive about betraying her love for him, even with unshared thoughts. Instead, he sat and watched her, his fierce eyes drinking in her slim body, harboring clues to her fate later in the night.

"Do you love me?"

His first words startled her, both with their suddenness and their content. She hesitated, trying to guess the answer he wanted from her.

"Simon - I..."

"Do-you-love-me? A simple question - four words - none more than four letters."

His eyes were locked on hers - dark with savage intensity. Her hand trembled as she reached for her brandy, only to find the glass empty.

"I love my husband. I love your cock."

He stiffened suddenly and leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes narrowing.

"Such language from a pretty wife. The day will come when I tire of your hungry, young body. Poor little thing, hanging on my gate, used and discarded."

He had never spoken to her like this. Would he turn her away for giving just one wrong answer? Should she beg? Play indignant, or proud? What did he want from her?

His fierce stare melted into a wide smile.

"But how could I possibly discard such a thirsty young woman who knows so well what she wants, and loves. Oh, I did very much like the sound of that - what was it again?"

Now she trembled for a different reason. She felt the coolness between her legs where her juices pooled, wetting her inner thighs.

"I love your cock, Simon."

His smile faded a bit, his eyebrows arched, then after a few thoughtful seconds, he tilted his head to the side with lips pursed.

"I love your cock, Simon," she purred slowly, letting her heat warm every word.

He poured another drink, then rose and went to her, half-filling her glass as well. She drank it in gulps, not stopping until it was gone. When he reached for her the empty glass slipped from her hand, shattering with a pop on the hardwood floor. Without flinching, he began to open the dress; one button, then two, three, lingering deliberately before going to the next, savoring the trail of tender skin left behind as the front of the dress parted. It seemed to take forever, and by the time he had undone the last button, she was breathless and limp. She slid lower in the chair over the slick fabric of the open dress, until her hips passed over the edge of the seat, supported only by her splayed legs stretched out on either side of him.

"Are you wet?"

"God yes, Simon. Can't you see?"

The dress had fallen away from her belly and legs. He studied the swelling slit between her legs with a puzzled frown.

"Show me."

She struggled to hold her cunt open to him, her fingers slippery with the fluids that poured from her. She had never felt more naked, more vulnerable. But that's what Simon did. Why did it feel so good? From what dark corner of her imagination had this maddening addiction freed itself? Her husband was just fifty yards away, waiting for her to return to him, knowing that she would give her body to Simon in ways that would forever remain her secret. Was at least a sliver of the excitement from knowing her husband agreed to surrender her, and would likely do so in the future? Was it really his strength, his compromise to keep them together, or some perverted sense of power over him that made her dripping wet so quickly tonight?

"Play with yourself. I want to watch your face as you cum."

"Please Simon, I -"

A sudden ripple of disappointment shot through her. Her first orgasm was always the most intense, and riding it out without his cock in her was something she hadn't expected.

"Well, well. You are a spirited little thing tonight. You've never hesitated for a second at one of my requests - always eager to play the slut so unbecoming a prim and proper wife."

"I - I want you inside me when I cum."

"So. We regress. Remember how we play? Simon says..."

She sank two fingers deep inside, then drew them out slowly, one along each side of the hard, wet button of flesh. Cradling it between them, she eased both fingers along her swollen clit, circling over the sensitive tip every so often with a trembling swirl.

He stood between her outstretched legs and watched with satisfaction, then raised the half-full glass of brandy in the air over her, tilting it slightly just above her upturned face.

"Simon says, 'Open'."

Her mouth fell open just in time to catch the ribbon of burgundy that fell from the rim of his glass. He smiled down at her as he kept it coming, soon filling her mouth faster than she could swallow it. As it overflowed across her chin he followed with the glass, pouring a thin, steady stream over her breasts and belly, until it funneled between her legs, mixing with her own sticky nectar, finally trickling into a building puddle on the floor below.

"Decisions, decisions. What should I do with such an anxious young lady? Should I grant her her wish and stick my cock in her? Although, I haven't really heard her beg convincingly for it this evening.

Perhaps I should bring her husband inside. We could watch her face together, her body twitching as she fingers herself to orgasm in my library."

He turned his back to her and walked slowly toward the door. Would he do it - even after he had promised not to push her husband hard enough to endanger their marriage? He was going too far - she couldn't allow it - but she was so wet, now suddenly much closer to the brink, still without his prick filling her.

"Simon, please! I can't - can't hold out - much - much - longer. I need you, Simon. I need - your - cock in me. I - need - your - cock - I need - your - cock - I -"

He wore a pleased grin as he turned to face her.

"Ahh, you have such a way with words - convincing words indeed."

His chair was only a few steps away. He went to it, sat, unzipped the front of his pants, and pulled his erection through the opening. Her eyes were glued to it - so hard and thick, like a bar of bronze sculpted into a warm likeness of the perfect cock.

"Simon says, 'Over here.'"

She slid over the edge of the chair until her knees touched the floor, allowed the dress to fall from her shoulders, then crawled to him on hands and knees, slowly, with her head down, the way she knew he would want her. Stopping between his parted legs, she waited for the sound of his voice. He withheld it until he could see her shiver, knowing that her need to be filled grew with each agonizing second. He watched in silence as the small of her long, smooth back arched, her ass rising and falling almost imperceptibly in a futile effort to bring relief to the ache between her shaking thighs. 'How long would she wait?' he wondered. Hours? - Days? - this fragile, loving wife, cowering, naked on the floor below, silently begging to be taken by a stranger...

She watched her breasts hanging and quivering, engorged nipples straining toward the floor, and through the space between them the small tuft of hair matted and dripping with her juices. In time she closed her eyes, knowing that the sight of her body's response to him would only excite her more. Soon her eyes were clenched tight as she struggled to concentrate, to become whatever he wanted that night, at whatever cost.

Her body shook in rhythmic spasms. Ridges of muscle rose between her shoulder blades, and her inner thighs flexed and relaxed in an uncontrollable cadence. He waited for a sign - something new, something not easily surrendered. When her tears fell from within the tangle of hair that covered her face, landing with tiny splats between his feet, he spoke.

"Look at me."

Elyse raised her head slowly. Thick waves of hair parted to reveal her tear-streaked face.

"Interesting. What brings tears to the eyes of a wife as she sluts for another man? Is it shame, an overpowering disgrace born from the incapacity to control her own desires? Or is it simply pure lust, her body's final desperate mechanism for dealing with extended deprivation, fired by a ravenous carnal appetite? Of course, a true slut could never feel shame. A true slut would abandon everything for a good hard fucking, never stopping to think twice about her future, or the future of those she loves. So which is it? Tell me, are these the tears of a slut or sinner?"

She searched his eyes for some small hint that this was just a game, hoping that he would break into a sympathetic laugh, scoop her up in his arms, and take her to his bed. Soon she understood her answer was required, a necessary part of their evening together. But which answer?

"Both. I'm both, Simon."

Her voice cracked and wavered. She could taste the salt of her own tears.

"I-I'm your slut-your slut, Simon. And-and sinner-and worse, in my husband's eyes."

Leaning forward, he ran his fingers lightly over her face, then cradled it in his strong hands. She welcomed the gentle pressure as he drew her closer, stopping just inches from his towering erection.

"You may be many things in his eyes, but you've made this a refuge from such things, a refuge from all things proper and respectable. You've asked him to bring you here, and beyond that, to wait in the wings as I use his wife's body in ways that must test the limits of his imagination."

He paused, his fingers working their way under her hair, circling the small, delicate contours of her ears, then trailing lower, caressing cool bare skin at the back of her neck.

"I'm not interested in the sinner. The world is full of sinners. So don't waste my time with words. Actions speak with much more conviction."

She sat up, rested her hands on his thighs, and took the solid, golden head of his cock into her mouth. Closing her lips tightly just over the jutting ridge of the glans, she attacked the meat of it with the tip of her tongue. She could feel the beat of his pulse as she tested the hard ball of flesh, pushing hard against it, swirling around the edges, then gently probing the eye at its center. Each precious droplet teased from him arrived warm and sweet against the back of her throat.

"I don't think I've ever seen you suck me with such abandon, or for that matter, any wife so willing take another man's cock in her mouth. Are you as eager to take your husband's in the same way?"

She stopped and looked up at him.

"We don't - I mean, not like this. It's different with him."

"I see."

He sighed, showing his frustration with her evasive answer.

"Please, don't..."

"Come now. Whining doesn't become you, my dear. Tell me. I insist. Just how different is this husband of yours?"

She lowered her eyes. Her nipples seemed to reach out to him, embarrassingly hard.

"It's more - more, comfortable with him, I guess. It's safe, calm, warm, wrapped around each other in our bed. I could never - I mean, it's just not the same. He'd think - "

"You may be surprised what he thinks. Must a wife who does her whorish best by night forsake the lady she's become by day? You think nothing of offering your body to me for whatever amusement I might invent. In fact you flaunt your lust, so desperately, so ravenously, for what you could easily have at home."

"I don't understand it, Simon. It's not as simple as you make it. I'm not proud of this - I know I'm hurting him deeply. Do you think I enjoy that?"

"Do you? There is a certain exhilaration in exercising one's power over another, even if it's someone close to your heart. The liberation from feelings of powerlessness can be a stimulating awakening. And, as horrifying as you might find it on the surface, the pain you deliver with a newfound weapon can be both empowering and arousing."

A sudden chill shook her, causing her hands to tremble as she moved them along his thighs. When her hands found his erection she closed them gently around the firm shaft. She could feel the heat it radiated before touching him, and imagined it flowing into her fingers, along her bare arms, then into the core of her body, finally chasing the chill back from where his words had summoned it.

She found herself crying again - suddenly, unexpectedly sobbing, despite the comforting warmth that poured into her.

"Please stop, Simon. Why can't you leave him out of this? Why won't you just fuck me? I'm begging, Simon - oh God, I'm begging you..."

He rose and went to a desk at the far side of the room. From the wide center drawer he retrieved a coil of thick, heavy cord. Her heart raced when she saw it, partly from fear, partly from excitement. He ran a portion of it through his fingers, now careful not to look at her. It was woven of black silk, thick as his finger, but hollow at its center. Looping it loosely around his hand several times, he tightened it slowly, feeling it collapse slightly as its suppleness conformed to the contours of his knuckles and palm.

She was on her knees by his chair when he returned. He reached for her hand, she gave it, and he helped her to her feet. Gently but firmly, he brought her wrists together, circled them three times with the cord, then once more, passing it between them, finally tying the knot between her palms. He again looped the remaining length about his hand and headed for the wide, open stairs that led to his bedroom. She followed, two short steps behind, as much as the rope would allow, her cunt open, red, and flowing with juices from an hour's torment.