Her......
She had many, many men. They varied in all ways, physically, in age, in experience and in attractiveness. I knew that those she liked best were those unusual ones with genuine spirit and fire. Those with the strength to take her again and again. To inhabit and possess her body and mind.
Her secret private life centered around finding men who understood her and could make her go to that place in her mind where her body relaxed, where her mind free of fear, that haven of the senses where she let them do as they wished with her and glory in the result.
She loved that place, the marks on her body witnessi to her submission mentally and physically. Sometimes she would tell me about it.
We might be lying in bed quietly reading when she would turn to me and ask " Do you want to hear about it " . I knew of course what she was referring to but I often teased her a little feigning ignorance and making her spell it out delighting in my little moment of power.
Of course I was dying to hear her talk to me to tell me. I loved hearing her soft voice describing how her body responded to their words and how they used those words to overcome her so she slowly became what they wanted. She was clever at describing how it happened making it sound almost commonplace to be treated as an object for providing pleasure for sweaty bodies as she stored her emotions, sensations and details in her mind.
That place in her mind was special she was free there, she let them use her and sometimes abuse her, in that place where she treasured every bite, every thrust into her, every cum, every release. That place which altered her so when it was finally finished she came home bruised, marked but satiated. Different to when she left, I would know then that she had met some special ones who had given her what she craved.
My role when she came home was to soothe her, to chat a little, to make a meal, to ease her body with creams and oils, to bring her back to our world. We would talk a little but she was always spent by the time she walked through the door. Eventually after a short chat maybe a light snack she would sleep.
I was usually a little unsettled after her dates so I found things to do to occupy my mind and use that restless energy that was yet to be satisfied.
I tidied the house, put her clothes in the washing machine, washed her iconic, significant, sexual pieces of lingerie by hand of course and generally made our world that other place where it was quiet and soft, safe until her restlessness stirred once again. We would have our normal time of seeing movies, eating Thai and going to the park. It was easy and cruisy while it lasted.
When her mood shifted and our quiet, safe place was not enough things changed, became different, a tension would lie beneath her casual chat, her movements, her being, Over time I learnt to wait, not to ask or comment but to wait.
I could read her moods and knew that once again she wanted to express her other self. I would wait, saying nothing, watching, waiting patient until something inside her made her decide to act. It was a matter of needs really. Quite simple.
She would want more, more excitement, more intensity, more of the thrill of other bodies around her. Of being used again by them. I would recognize the signals and adjust to what was inevitable. She would start to be late coming home, more tense with me and of course have nights out with the girlfriends. I would notice marks on her body. Small at first then gradually became more obvious, bruises on her breasts, on her thighs and a swollen redness confirming my belief.. Finally there were the scratches.
I think of all the things it was the scratches on her body, some small, others long raked lines that I think had leaked little drops of blood, those scratches got to me. They got to me. They really got to me.
I could imagine then, her and them. Their hands at her, her tits, her cunt, her ass, that pale beautiful body marked by these men who used her. Satisfied her. I accepted it but felt conflict between lust and sadness that I could not give her what she needed. Its an old,old expression, "what she needed " it was the reality of us,,,,,,"what she needed ".
We would talk, about her need for sex, what kind of sex, what kind of men , what she wanted to feel and what was lacking in our relationship. In some ways it was odd because there was a very deep love between us but that did not exclude cruelty or obsession, it was not an easy path sometimes.
It appeared to outsiders I was the weaker but she said once, I am strong but you are stronger. Most cuckolds will know this feeling, of being seen and judged as a classic weak cuckold but they also know how it is when their wives come home craving comfort. Its the kind of comfort which needs no words just a tender touch. Most wives value that particular kind of unconditional caring, where they can be themselves and its simply themselves as they really are. That's it. No judgement just quiet ease and perhaps gentle cuddles. The time for gentle cuddles was beautiful but finite, she would be close and soft for that gentle time then once again the mood would change, the choice of music, of what she wore, where she wanted to go became different and the cycle would begin again.
When her mood began to change i sensed that this time it was different, She developed that restlessness I knew so well but it was complicated by developments at the place where she worked. It was a reasonably small family company doing specialized work in the media area. It had been established for years and was well regarded. Her friends at work were generally warm and open people who liked to work to a high level and then relax socially together. I had been to quite a few business dinners and social occasions and liked their company particularly the women who fascinated me with their dedication and skills. They were strong with a strong passion for living life in their own ways. My wife fitted right in as she was one of them with the same passions and the same need to let go.
It actually frightened me sometimes to be with these women and see them talk, plan and above all go out and take what they wanted from life. Whatever that may be, I was quieter and more unsure, not a daring devil but more of a loving supportive mouse in one sense. That combination did not always work in our marriage and at times intense conflicts occurred. Things were said often with devastating results driving us apart looking for solace and relief.
Some women friends would call me Miss Mouse and tease me about my wife. I liked it which I know is strange, was disturbed hearing them say those words but aroused. A strange Miss Mouse indeed !
Her secret private life centered around finding men who understood her and could make her go to that place in her mind where her body relaxed, where her mind free of fear, that haven of the senses where she let them do as they wished with her and glory in the result.
She loved that place, the marks on her body witnessi to her submission mentally and physically. Sometimes she would tell me about it.
We might be lying in bed quietly reading when she would turn to me and ask " Do you want to hear about it " . I knew of course what she was referring to but I often teased her a little feigning ignorance and making her spell it out delighting in my little moment of power.
Of course I was dying to hear her talk to me to tell me. I loved hearing her soft voice describing how her body responded to their words and how they used those words to overcome her so she slowly became what they wanted. She was clever at describing how it happened making it sound almost commonplace to be treated as an object for providing pleasure for sweaty bodies as she stored her emotions, sensations and details in her mind.
That place in her mind was special she was free there, she let them use her and sometimes abuse her, in that place where she treasured every bite, every thrust into her, every cum, every release. That place which altered her so when it was finally finished she came home bruised, marked but satiated. Different to when she left, I would know then that she had met some special ones who had given her what she craved.
My role when she came home was to soothe her, to chat a little, to make a meal, to ease her body with creams and oils, to bring her back to our world. We would talk a little but she was always spent by the time she walked through the door. Eventually after a short chat maybe a light snack she would sleep.
I was usually a little unsettled after her dates so I found things to do to occupy my mind and use that restless energy that was yet to be satisfied.
I tidied the house, put her clothes in the washing machine, washed her iconic, significant, sexual pieces of lingerie by hand of course and generally made our world that other place where it was quiet and soft, safe until her restlessness stirred once again. We would have our normal time of seeing movies, eating Thai and going to the park. It was easy and cruisy while it lasted.
When her mood shifted and our quiet, safe place was not enough things changed, became different, a tension would lie beneath her casual chat, her movements, her being, Over time I learnt to wait, not to ask or comment but to wait.
I could read her moods and knew that once again she wanted to express her other self. I would wait, saying nothing, watching, waiting patient until something inside her made her decide to act. It was a matter of needs really. Quite simple.
She would want more, more excitement, more intensity, more of the thrill of other bodies around her. Of being used again by them. I would recognize the signals and adjust to what was inevitable. She would start to be late coming home, more tense with me and of course have nights out with the girlfriends. I would notice marks on her body. Small at first then gradually became more obvious, bruises on her breasts, on her thighs and a swollen redness confirming my belief.. Finally there were the scratches.
I think of all the things it was the scratches on her body, some small, others long raked lines that I think had leaked little drops of blood, those scratches got to me. They got to me. They really got to me.
I could imagine then, her and them. Their hands at her, her tits, her cunt, her ass, that pale beautiful body marked by these men who used her. Satisfied her. I accepted it but felt conflict between lust and sadness that I could not give her what she needed. Its an old,old expression, "what she needed " it was the reality of us,,,,,,"what she needed ".
We would talk, about her need for sex, what kind of sex, what kind of men , what she wanted to feel and what was lacking in our relationship. In some ways it was odd because there was a very deep love between us but that did not exclude cruelty or obsession, it was not an easy path sometimes.
It appeared to outsiders I was the weaker but she said once, I am strong but you are stronger. Most cuckolds will know this feeling, of being seen and judged as a classic weak cuckold but they also know how it is when their wives come home craving comfort. Its the kind of comfort which needs no words just a tender touch. Most wives value that particular kind of unconditional caring, where they can be themselves and its simply themselves as they really are. That's it. No judgement just quiet ease and perhaps gentle cuddles. The time for gentle cuddles was beautiful but finite, she would be close and soft for that gentle time then once again the mood would change, the choice of music, of what she wore, where she wanted to go became different and the cycle would begin again.
When her mood began to change i sensed that this time it was different, She developed that restlessness I knew so well but it was complicated by developments at the place where she worked. It was a reasonably small family company doing specialized work in the media area. It had been established for years and was well regarded. Her friends at work were generally warm and open people who liked to work to a high level and then relax socially together. I had been to quite a few business dinners and social occasions and liked their company particularly the women who fascinated me with their dedication and skills. They were strong with a strong passion for living life in their own ways. My wife fitted right in as she was one of them with the same passions and the same need to let go.
It actually frightened me sometimes to be with these women and see them talk, plan and above all go out and take what they wanted from life. Whatever that may be, I was quieter and more unsure, not a daring devil but more of a loving supportive mouse in one sense. That combination did not always work in our marriage and at times intense conflicts occurred. Things were said often with devastating results driving us apart looking for solace and relief.
Some women friends would call me Miss Mouse and tease me about my wife. I liked it which I know is strange, was disturbed hearing them say those words but aroused. A strange Miss Mouse indeed !
6 years ago
