One night he tells me he’s having an old friend and his wife over for dinner. He tells me they were roommates in college. His friend embraces me with a warm familiarity, like a brother-in-law to his sister-in-law, and his wife and I exchange cheek kisses.
I begin to sense the nature of their relationship at dinner. His wife smiles and chats with us, but she waits for him to fill her plate with the food he chooses for her. She eats only after he begins to eat.
I start to see her differently then. When I get up and walk around the table to get dessert, I see that she is sitting on the edge of her chair, angled slightly towards him at her side, her thighs open. I see her ankles tucked neatly against each chair leg.
He didn’t tell me to expect any of these things, but I see them. I recognize the way she sits and defers to him, the way, even in casual repose, her body yields to the space exerted by his. The dominance.
When I take my seat again, bringing my legs apart as is my habit, his hand rests with significant intensity on my thigh, palm down on my leg. He legs the curl of his fingers rest against my groin. Not touching or stroking, just resting there with meaningful heat. My body is instantly alert. I am attentive to his every gesture and word. My body is swelling at this simple touch.
After dinner and dessert, we retire to the game room. His friend takes an armchair, while the wife sits on the arm. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she has to lean against him for balance.
His hand presses on my shoulder, a subtle signal. I sit on a small footstool by his chair. It is low to the ground. Oftentimes in the evening, when it is just the two of us and I am naked, he has me sit with my knees up high and spread apart, exposing myself for his viewing pleasure. When guests are present, he legs me sit with my legs to one side, ankles crossed. Ladylike. His friend’s wife looks at me, eyes widening a bit. Has she only seen her twin in me now?
As the night progresses, our Master’s gestures become less reserved. She is pulled into her husband’s lap, an intimate act made more revealing by the way he rests his hand against her cunt. He pets her there, fondly as he might stroke a cat, right in front of us. My Master molds a hand to the underside of my breast. I hold my breath for many aching seconds until i exhale, pushing my breast deeper into his hand.
Civility falls away. One of them—I don’t know who—begins a topic of conversation about their wives. Us. His friend is fondling his wife openly now through her cotton-jersey dress, which suddenly seems so thin and clingy as he shapes his hands against her pliant body. My Master parts my blouse, dips his hand into my bra, pinches my nipples. All the time, they talk about us. How beautiful we are. How loving. How obedient. How we beg for climax. How we are punished by them. How we scream our pleasure. How we cry under the paddle.
His friend suggests a game, a mischievous glint in his eye. A game to test our stamina. A game to test our obedience to our husbands. A game to hear our voices joined in cries.
At their command, she slides off her husband’s lap. I rise from my Master’s feet. They strip us naked, pulling our clothes off with eager impatience to see this game played out. The sofa is pulled out into a futon I am so very familiar with, having lain on top of it, bound into various positions, many times before. We are summarily bent over it, arms outstretched. We hold our supplicant position.
This game is simple. We have played it before, on our own. This time, we play against one another. The first to come loses, will suffer through the rest of the night with a relentless clit vibrator strapped on to ensure stimulation but not completion. Tied down in complete bondage, and gagged. The winner will be thoroughly fucked in all orifices by our Masters in front of the other.
To make it interesting, our Masters will switch submissives. His friend approaches me.
(Source: salm1265, via textmesomethingdirty)
