A Picture in Black and White

The message had no salutation or signature, other than simply "—Charles". It read as follows:

"The demographic for this particular segment of the research comprised [U.S.] Caucasian, married women, aged 35-45. Further, it focused specifically on those who confirmed a previous or ongoing extramarital affair – a surprising 53% of the total survey base of 15,582. Of that 53%, fully 86% asserted a 'significant' or 'major' increase in sexual experimentation, and 'significantly increased levels of satisfaction' with their extramarital partner as opposed to their spouse. The vast majority reported that this was due to a 'perceived release from codes of expected behavior and/or propriety' implied in the marriage contract. For example, 47% of the survey base – more than 7,320 women – reported that they 'regularly performed oral sex on their lovers and willingly swallowed their ejaculations', as compared to only 17% who would regularly perform the same act for their spouse. Furthermore, and more compelling, 45% of the survey base confirmed that they "willingly and eagerly agreed to their lovers' requests for sexual experimentation, even when they knew that those requests were considered taboo by either their religious upbringing or by conventional societal norms."

--Inside the Secret Garden:

Exploring Women's' Sexuality, 1999

I tried to imagine Brigitte's reaction as she read it: A wry smile? Relief? Exoneration? I mentally thanked Charles for sending it.

That night I asked Brigitte if she'd seen it. She smiled and blushed but, in typical fashion, refused to comment other than a nearly-monosyllabic, "Mmm, yes." We didn't mention it further.

Charles' next email, however, sent several days later, was far more provocative. I found it on my PC at the office when I came in.

I noticed, again, that Brigitte had been copied. I would have loved to see her face as she read it.

"Fully 61% of the American women we surveyed reported that their strongest and most sexually satisfying fantasy involved situations with multiple male partners simultaneously. Furthermore, fully 88% of those elaborated specifically upon the fantasy, stating that their imagined partners were large, dominant black men, and that the scenario most often involved them being taken roughly or forcefully, almost always involving simultaneous oral, vaginal and anal penetration. Asked if they would, in fact, act on such a fantasy, 42% responded affirmatively – regardless of the attendant risk to their marriage or to their societal position, should knowledge of their experience become public."

--Today's Woman:

A Nationwide Study of Female Sexuality, 1999

Of course, I had to ask her when I got home that night if she'd seen it.

"I can't believe he'd send something like that to the office!" were the first words out of her mouth. "What if someone in I.T. got a hold of it?" she fumed.

"I think they'd probably look at you in a somewhat different light, don't you, honey?" I answered, smiling. Then added: "But what did you think about it? Is it true, in your experience?"

"What do you mean? Is what true? What do you mean, my experience?" she shot back.

"Do you think most women have that kind of fantasy?"

"How do I know?"

"Uh, because you're a woman?"

"I'm just one. I can't answer for everyone woman on the face of the planet."

I pushed harder. "Well, then, do you?"

"Of course not!" she answered. She paused, though. Then she added, "I mean..." She started to blush – and to fidget. Clearly, she seemed uncomfortable.

I looked directly at her. "Something you want to tell me?" I inquired, disingenuously. She shook her head, but continued to redden.

"Are you sure?" She shook her head again.

"Come over here," I said quietly.

She came up to me. I reached up and unbuttoned the four buttons on her gray blouse. She didn't resist. Gently I pulled it open and off her shoulders, revealing her bra. Her nipples poked out fiercely through the thin, white fabric, fully half an inch erect.

"Would it be fair to say that the prospect excites you a little bit," I teased, whispering in her ear.

She knew I had her. And, incredibly and totally uncharacteristically, she did not deny it. In fact, she nodded her assent. I decided to push it a bit further.

"How much does it excite you?" I whispered, gently cupping her breasts. I then reached up and took both nipples between my thumbs and index fingers, and whispered to her again.

"Do you want to be fucked by three or four black men at once?" I teased softly. As I did, I gently but firmly grasped each nipple and pulled them, stretching them out straight, as far as I could. I whispered to her again: "This is what they'll do to you, you know? And this is just the start..." Brigitte moaned.

"Do you know what else they'll do?" I went on, continuing to play with her breasts, rolling the nipples and pinching them sharply. Brigitte just groaned, then whispered, "What?"

"Well..." I whispered, "first they'll make you undress slowly..."

Chapter XXXI

We did not have long to wait before the object of Charles' emails became obvious. The next night the phone rang as we were eating dinner. Brigitte, once again closest to it, picked it up. Although I could only hear murmurs from the earpiece, Brigitte's blush told me everything I needed to know. "Yes," she said several times softly – obviously receiving some sort of instruction. "Yes, sir."

Then, still blushing, she hung up. Without saying anything, she got up from the table, rummaged around in the drawer for a minute, then returned to the phone with a piece of paper. She dialed the number written on the paper, and after a few pleasantries, quickly arranged to have Anne baby-sit for us the following evening. All of this with barely a glance in my direction. Finally she sat down again.

"Going out tomorrow, are we?" I inquired.

"Yes," Brigitte replied. "We're going out to dinner with Charles, then to a club," she explained.

"And he wants me to go, too?"

"Oh, yes," she answered. "He said, 'Make sure Bruce can come, too. He needs to be there." She blushed again.

Oh, boy, I thought. This should be interesting.

I could barely get through work the next day, my mind swirling with imagined scenarios of what was to come. Finally, 6:00pm came, and I turned off my computer and headed home.

Brigitte had arrived home before me, and was upstairs dressing when I walked in. Anne had arrived sometime earlier, too, and was playing with the boys in the family room. I chatted with her for several minutes, fixed myself a drink and waited for Brigitte to come down. Already dressed in a suit, myself, I saw no need to change.

Brigitte descended a few minutes later. When I saw her, I nearly fell off the couch. I can't imagine what Anne must have been thinking.

Once again, she had applied eyeliner and dark red lipstick. She looked sultry and sexy in the extreme. But that was only the start.

She was dressed in an obviously brand-new black leather skirt – one that was fully 8 inches above her knee. It was short enough to reveal a glimpse of the lace tops of her stockings when she sat down on the loveseat – stockings I knew that Charles must have ordered her to wear. Black, three-inch heels made my statuesque wife even more so. The effect was stunning. But that wasn't what took my and Anne's breath away.

Years before I had purchased Brigitte an utterly sheer, black silk blouse. She'd never worn it, being far too modest. It had hung in her closet since the day I'd given it to her. Until tonight.

Tonight she wore it proudly, and with not a trace of the hesitation or embarrassment that I would have expected. As though it were a sweater, or ski parka – and not something entirely transparent. As though you couldn't see the sheer, black lace bra that she wore underneath – the one which seemed to draw immediate attention to her dark aureoles and erect nipples.

"Mummy," giggled one of the boys, "I can see you!"

Brigitte didn't miss a beat. "Yes, I guess you can, honey." Without hesitation, she turned to Anne and rattled off a few last-minute incidentals – cell phone number, pizza in the freezer... All without the slightest embarrassment. I nearly fell over.

This was my wife? This was my shy little girl? Yikes!

I had to admit, though, that she had my full, hard attention in a way she'd never had. Wow! I thought to myself. What a woman!

Brigitte grabbed her coat and asked me if I was ready. Ready? Eeesh. We got into the car and began the drive to Boston – me shooting glances at my enormously sexy wife, wondering what I'd finally gotten myself into. Brigitte cut into my reverie.

"We're supposed to pick up Charles at the Four Seasons," she said, simply. I looked over at her. "Okay," was all I could think of in reply.

We drove in silence. I kept stealing glances at my wife. She gave remarkably little away, in her own, subtle fashion. We drove on. We hit downtown Boston. I found the Four Seasons without trouble. I pulled up under the portico, next to the revolving front door, and looked into the lobby. Charles was standing there waiting for us. He came out to the car, an empty champagne glass in his hand. He came around and opened the rear, driver-side door, and got in.

"Good evening, you two," he said with a flashing smile. "Thanks for coming out at such short notice." Brigitte looked back at him, beaming. "Always a pleasure," I answered, with more than a trace of irony. Brigitte giggled.

"Brigitte, come here and sit in back with me," Charles said quietly. "Bruce, you can drive." I sucked in my breath, but said nothing.

Finally, I had to say, somewhat lamely, "Well, I hope you know where we're going." Charles chuckled at my comment. Then he continued with his instructions.

"Bruce, we're driving to Providence. I'll give you directions when we get to the outskirts of the city." Then he turned to my wife. "Brigitte, take off your coat."

Brigitte hurried to comply, slipping it off her shoulders and tossing it over the back of the seat, to land beside me. To sit there in silent mockery, reminding me of what was happening. I looked in the rearview mirror, to see my wife in her sheer blouse, cuddling up to her black lover. I said nothing, but turned onto Arlington Street, found the connector, and then pointed the car down the South East Expressway. Toward Providence and who knows what else.

For the next hour, I drove. I looked back in the rearview mirror regularly, but saw nothing, only the edge of Charles' handsome profile.

Because, for that hour, my wife had her head between Charles' legs. There were no words exchanged between them. Whatever was happening seemed to be pre-arranged, with no need for direction. There was only the occasional soft moan from Charles, and what sounded like gentle, rhythmic sucking, so soft and distant that it almost sounded like waves on the beach at night. Three or four times it seemed to build to some sort of crescendo, accompanied by a rustling of clothes and shifting of position on the leather seats, but nothing more.

My mind raced. What was he making her do? What was she agreeing to? And, more importantly, Why was I letting this happen? I drove on, still shooting glances in the mirror, but seeing nothing. I tortured myself with the pictures and implications that my imagination created. Finally, we reached the outskirts of Providence, to my mental relief.

"Turn left here. Right at the next light. Straight ahead through that intersection." Charles' directions came regularly and infallibly. I heard a soft sigh from my wife. We drove through increasingly bright and busy streets. Finally, Charles said, 'Pull up here." I looked over at the subtle, hand-painted sign above the front door of the restaurant he'd directed us to: "Calin".

I'd heard about this place. It was one of Rhode Island's best restaurants, very French, written up everywhere. I smiled; you had to admire good taste.

We got out of the car, and I handed the keys to the valet. As I did, I was pleased to see that Brigitte had put her coat back on, and wasn't going to be completely exposed to this high-school kid parking our car. She held something in her hand, but I didn't really notice, being too busy with the idea of what sort of image we were going to present as we entered: A black man, an extremely attractive white woman, and what was obviously her white husband. Yikes.

Nonetheless, I soldiered on, breaching the front door, and the lobby, with my wife and Charles. Much to my dismay, he took this moment to reassert his control. He reached over and gently slid Brigitte's leather coat off her shoulders. And although there were only four or five people in the lobby, I felt like the entire restaurant had turned their eyes on us.

My wife let the coat slide off her shoulders and stood proudly in front of the maitre d'. I could see him suck in his breath, studying her long legs, her full breasts so obviously on display. He shot subtle glances back and forth between Charles and I, trying to figure out what was going on. And he did it all in a nano-second, discreetly, barely missing a beat. The consummate professional.

"This way, madam, gentlemen," he said quietly, leading the three of us through what seemed the entire restaurant, passing what appeared to be every table, before reaching ours.

You should have seen the stares we got – most of them discreet, as it was a tasteful, expensive place. But stares nonetheless. The men looked on enviably. I'll bet a few of them got kicked under the table by their wives and girlfriends. The women stared, too, even more openly – although more than a few looks could have best been translated as either a hiss or, "Bitch!" Ah, women. There was no denying it: My wife was definitely the life of this party.

Finally, much to my relief, we were seated in a dim corner, looking out over the restaurant. If we looked left, we could see, through a large picture window, the skyline of Providence, the capitol dome glistening gold.

The waiter wasted no time in attending to our table. I couldn't help but notice how, as he approached, he kept subtly darting glances at my wife's chest, all the while maintaining the picture of decorum.

"What can I bring you for cocktails?" he inquired. Charles wasted no time.

"The lady is all set. I'll have a Bombay martini, straight up, extra dry, with a twist. Bruce?"

I looked over at him with curiosity. Why wasn't he going to ask Brigitte what she wanted? This was odd. Perhaps he knew something I did not.

"A Crowne Royal Manhattan, straight up," I replied in some bemusement.

"Very well," he answered, stealing one last glance at my sexy wife before turning away to fetch our drinks.

I looked over at Charles and Brigitte. "You're not having anything to drink, honey?" I asked in innocence.

"She's all set. Aren't you, Brigitte? Charles said quietly. I looked at him, surprised, then looked down at the table, where a champagne flute already stood. I suddenly realized that she had carried it in with her from the car. Brigitte blushed, but said quietly, "Yes, sweetie, I'm all set." I looked at her glass. It was already full, nearly to the brim.

"But," I said, "You didn't tell me you had champagne. That's not fair! I love champagne!" Charles merely grinned. Brigitte blushed again. Their silence made me suspicious.

I looked more closely at her glass. I suddenly realized that it couldn't have been champagne. It was too thick, too white... too... creamy. Oh, my God! My heart felt like it would burst from my chest. No!

With the sudden, sinking realization one experiences upon facing the more awkward moments of truth, I realized that I, perhaps, might no longer be in charge. I understood now why things had been so quiet in the back seat of the car. Why Charles had brought the champagne flute with him. Why Brigitte had had her head in his lap for an hour.

On Charles' order, I quickly realized, Brigitte had spent the hour in the car milking his cock. I realized now that he must have made her suck him constantly.

I could imagine her red lips around his black dick. Her tongue licking his balls. And how, each time he was ready to cum, he made her slide her lips off his dick and push his thick cockhead into the champagne glass, to catch every drop of his semen.

I looked down at the glass again. He must have cum four or five times. It was nearly full to the brim. My head was swimming.

At that moment the waiter returned with Charles' and my drinks. He set them on the table and departed, but not before stealing another glance at my wife's breasts, clearly visible through her sheer bra and blouse.

Charles raised his glass. "To a wonderful night out," he toasted. I lifted my glass, but really wanted to see what Brigitte did. She lifted hers, too, with alacrity. It was poised at her lips. "Nooooo..." I wanted to say. While the devil, sitting on my other shoulder, whispered, "Yessssss...."

My beautiful wife touched the flute to her lips, opened wide, and took a long swallow, draining nearly a quarter of the glass. As she set the glass back down on the table, she looked at me and slowly licked her lips, which glistened in the soft light. She smiled at me, completely uninhibited, completely confident.

And for the next quarter-hour, as we made small talk, and studied the menu – as Charles toyed with his martini, and I sipped my Manhattan – my wife drank her black lover's sperm from a crystal glass.

Chapter XXXII

For the first time in my life, I was short of small talk. I wasn't very hungry, either. In truth, I was more than a little preoccupied with the dynamics at play before me.

I'd asked myself before whether I was biting off more than I could chew by encouraging this tryst. I was always sure that I had it all in control. Now, watching Brigitte sitting there so provocatively, I was far less certain of myself. And that realization was making me just a bit uncomfortable.

Yet, a thought suddenly dawned on me as I sat there, alternately staring into space and playing with the cherry in my drink. A reverse – more positive – side existed to this. The realization crept into my head like a warm, little glow.

By relinquishing the strings of control – if, indeed, I'd ever truly held them – I was also, in large measure, relinquishing any responsibility.

After all, where does the fulcrum of accountability for others lay? Where does my responsibility for my wife's actions – her own exercise of free will – begin and end? I stirred my drink thoughtfully.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that I might be looking at the entire situation the wrong way. Put simply, I theorized that it wasn't really Charles who had taken control from me – although there was some truth to that, it had to be said. It was dawning on me that, in fact, Brigitte was perhaps orchestrating this to a much greater degree than I had considered.

We tend to avoid things we don't want to do, and pursue those we do. My wife was no different. I would never be able to make her do something she didn't want to. But if a wink or a nod of approval was the only thing holding one back from something new...

And so, having quickly – if somewhat too neatly – found a rationale for my own personal absolution, I sat back and took another sip of my drink. Slowly I tuned back in to Charles' and Brigitte's ongoing chat.

Although I quickly realized that the discussion was somewhat one-sided. Charles was doing the talking. Or, more appropriately, the ordering.

"I'll tell you when it's high enough," he was saying quietly, glancing down at my wife's lap. I looked over, and my heart skipped another little beat. Brigitte had just placed both hands at the hem of her leather skirt, and was gently sliding it up her thighs. She had already tugged it up an inch or two. I could see several inches of the lace tops of her sheer stockings. She had also raised herself a fraction of an inch off the chair so the skirt wouldn't catch. The action caused her to arch her back a bit, forcing her bust up and out.