tagBDSMSynder & Ashe Ch. 2

Synder & Ashe Ch. 2

byTatewaki©

Getting what she wants isn't always the best thing that can happen to a woman.

So I thought as I sat on a plane winging its way to Venezuela. A major weapons exposition would start three days from now, and Deimos had won the right to present their wares first. The week-long trip meant instant promotion for my husband Dave, and a week alone with our three boys for me.

Screw that! I'd been denied a vacation for almost ten years, and I'd be damned if he took off for a warm climate and left me freezing my tits off in a mid-January deep freeze. My incessant carping paid off. Dave consented to let me come along.

Part of me wishes that he'd shown more backbone.

From the first moment we'd met, Andrew Grissolm had been after my ass. He appraised my body openly. Usually I enjoyed such activities, but not the way he did it. His intense, thorough stares made perspiration gather between my breasts. He made absolutely no effort to hide his stares from Dave. I'd expected my husband to say something, but he didn't. Dave ignored Andrew's measuring gazes.

I thought my disappointment with Dave couldn't get any deeper. Events would prove me to be quite mistaken.

"Barbara Ann's lovely," Andrew said in his deep, Black-Man-Bass rumble. "She has an ass that makes the most of those white hot pants of hers."

My face heated as he continued. "I love that lace blouse she's wearing. It hints more than reveals. Her belly looks really firm. You're certain she's borne three children?"

"Relatively certain, yes," Dave replied with a soft tone. "Three boys."

"I was kidding. I've met your kids, remember? I'm just amazed that a woman with children can still look so hot." Andrew's gaze swept over me, following the contours of my body with his greedy glances. I self-consciously crossed my arms over my breasts, partly to hide them from his view, but also so I could surreptitiously rub my nipples against my forearms.

You see, my pussy had started to seep from the first moment I'd laid eyes on him. Hours into the flight my condition had worsened due to his hot talk. My sodden pants felt sticky with my juices. I knew people could smell me, as my heavy musk permeated the air in the hermetically sealed, all too confining cabin. I kept my legs closed, mashing them together in time to the throbbing, rhythmic hum of the plane's powerful engines.

"Does she ever wear heels?" Andrew asked.

"Sometimes, but never higher than a couple of inches," Dave replied. He answered all of Andrew's questions in similar fashion. Always candid, with no embellishment or inflection. If Andrew had asked him about the maximum range and payload of a missile I would've expected such a flat, bored monotone. But not when his boss made improper comments regarding his wife! I'd long expected Dave to say something in my defence. He hadn't.

Want to know the sad thing? Neither had I. Andrew had a truly commanding presence that stalled any attempts at backtalk. This man ruled by charisma and a firm hand. His rugged good looks also played a role. He looked like a man who commanded respect, expected to receive it, and would pummel you into submission if you failed to deliver.

"What are her favourite colours?" he asked. "White looks nice on her, but what else does she like to wear?" Andrew fixed his gaze upon my crotch. I took a wool blanket and spread it over my lap, shielding myself behind an impenetrable barrier of itchy grey cloth. His mouth quirked into a small smile, one that stayed upon his lips for the briefest second.

"She likes green and black mostly."

"Truly? I expected her to like blue."

"She likes green, just as her husband told you," I said acerbically. If Dave wouldn't speak up for me, then I'd have to for myself. "Her dress size is a six. She's a four and a half shoe, hates honey and oysters, avoids red meat, but adores cheesecake with whipped cream. Her children, Mark, Matt and Jason, are all her own. She knows this for sure since she pushed every single one of them out of her. She does like high heels, but they tend to hurt her ankles. She'd rather be comfortable than stylish. Furthermore, she prefers her hemlines long, her bodices tight, and her makeup understated. Is there anything else you'd like to know about Barbara Ann Synder?"

My presumptuousness shocked me. Shocked Dave too, if his face mirrored his mind. My head spun. Did I really say all of that? This man owned Deimos, the company Dave worked for. He could fire Dave in a second. We couldn't afford to be without money, not when things were finally looking up for us. What had I done?

"Running shoes don't really suit her, Dave. A classic beauty like hers demands refined clothing and accessories. These things," he waved a hand over the length of me with an errant flick of the wrist," look sexy, but are beneath her. She's no hood-rat. She deserves better than this." Andrew looked past me, staring at Dave as if he had just caught him picking his pocket. Dave looked down at his large hands folded in his lap. "She deserves the world. If only I could give it to her." Dave sounded so hurt my heart leaped. I placed a hand over his. Dave and I shared a loving smile, the first since we left the States.

"I can get it for her, Dave. For a week the world's hers if you're willing."

My heart stopped. Dave's hand felt clammy, like a lump of play-doh. His face betrayed nothing. Only his tension-vein, the small blood vessel just above his left eye, gave his game away. It always throbbed when he was upset, turning a sickly blue whenever he felt stressed. The turgid vessel looked ready to burst.

"What can she have?" Dave said, his smooth tones hiding his rage. Dave was no small man. His bulky, powerful frame matched Andrew's. Both men stood over six feet tall. Andrew looked like a veteran soldier while Dave a professional football player. Neither one looked riled, though I knew Dave to be quite perturbed. Was Andrew?

"Whatever she requires for the week. If she's to be my wife for that time she'll need to look the part. We may deal in weapon systems, but we're civilized people. Some folks don't seem to trust a man without a family. It makes them nervous. Nerves make for bad business, especially with our product line."

"Why not use an escort?" Dave asked him.

"You can smell a whore from a mile off, Dave." He glanced at me and winked. My legs clamped together tightly by themselves. "I need someone with a brain and with class. I promise to treat her well. What do you say?"

Dave rubbed my hand again, ever so softly, as if fearing to chafe my skin. Then he withdrew his hand and returned it to his lap. My heart sank. With that small gesture he'd told me everything I needed to know.

He'd given me up.

"If it's only for the week and helps with the presentation, I'm sure Barb wouldn't mind. Isn't that right, babe?"

I didn't answer. Shock numbed me. He'd cut me loose, just like that.

"Barb? Is everything okay?" Dave's solicitous voice crept along the fringes of my hearing, trying to insinuate itself into my awareness.

"Barbara Ann. Come over here." Andrew's voice sliced through the ennui that had enveloped me, laying my soul open. My eyes jerked to his as if on strings suddenly pulled taut. His brown eyes regarded me warmly, but with total self-confidence. He reached out a hand and held it aloft, palm up.

Waiting.

I took his firm hand with my trembling one and gained my feet, curling the blanket around my waist.

"Leave it. I have one over here you can use."

Dave regarded me with such sublime sadness it hurt to look at him. I averted my eyes and let the blanket fall to the cabin floor. It only took a second to step out of my seat and cross the aisle, a narrow three foot passage that marked the beginning of a world of fantasy. Andrew stood, allowing me to squeeze in front of him as I took the window seat. My dampened ass grazed his crotch, his substantial-feeling package tickling me as I passed. He moved his briefcase from my seat then patted it. I sat down quietly and forced myself to look relaxed.

"I'm glad to have you, Barbara Ann. I promise you’ll have a most pleasant week, Mrs. Grissolm." As he spoke his hand caressed my tummy through my lace top. My belly quivered. His bold touch had been so unexpected! He made no attempt to hide it from anyone. I glanced over at my husband. He stared at the wispy clouds below.

My high shorts covered my navel, but clung to me like shrinkwrap. The crotch displayed a camel-toe anyone could see if they looked.

Believe me, Andrew looked. Both looked, and enjoyed.

"Have you ever been to Venezuela, Barbara Ann?"

"No. Never been out of the States." Words came with difficulty due to that hand of his stroking my tummy. The only sounds I wanted to make were contented purrs. I should've said something to make him stop. I was a married woman, for Christ's sake! But I didn’t stop him. After all, this week Andrew was my husband. Dave had said so.

"You'll like Venezuela," he said without pause, not giving me a moment's respite. He moved his hand from my belly and pressed a button on the arm of my chair. My seat reclined until I lay almost horizontal with my legs fully extended. My trembling legs clamped together, as if the increased pressure would keep my juices and my shame hidden from him. "Some of the most beautiful women in the world come from there. I bet they'll be right pissed when they see the beauty I brought with me."

His hand resumed its gentle stroking of my tummy, then slipped under my lace top. It made contact with bare, heated flesh for the first time. My breath whooshed out of my lungs in a loud huff as he stroked my stomach. His fingertips grazed the waistband of my hot pants. "You're going to give those women a real run for their money."

He pulled down my zipper. Each tooth that scraped between the jaws of the zipper sent a tremor through my crotch and directly into my clitoris. The zipper thudded along its ivory track, the ever-widening split revealing my long gash of navel, the pale, gentle swell of my tummy, and faint, wispy swaths of pubic hair. The zipper halted, my pants undone, but with my sex still decently covered.

But just barely!

His hand glided over the newly revealed expanse of skin, rubbing in the fine mist of perspiration he found there. "On the resort where we're going you'll have plenty of opportunities to work on your tan."

"I don't like tanning," I replied. It was all I could do to keep my voice steady. I couldn't bear to look at him. Instead, I looked past him to where my husband studiously examined his small oval window.

"You will, Barbara Ann. Once we land, you'll get the urge. Women always do when they get to the Carribean." His hand plunged downwards, scraping over my already juicy pussy lips to press my engorged clit against my pubic bone. My hips bucked forward by themselves.

"Calm yourself," he whispered. "Soak the seat if you must, Barbara Ann, but you’ll remain still, and silent."

His fingers deftly split my lips, then dove within. A passing stewardess caught my eye, looked at his hand and smiled. She went about her business and disappeared beyond my field of vision.

"You've been wet for awhile," he whispered. "How long?"

I didn’t dare tell him it was from the moment he'd started discussing business with my husband. I've never seen someone so in control without trying before. He commanded respect without even asking for it. My pussy responded to his innate charisma by lubricating like crazy. I needed some of that forcefulness in my life. Now, because of my gutless husband, I'd have it.

I didn't know whether to be upset with Dave or eternally grateful to him.

"For about half an hour," I lied. "It started when you began discussing me with Dave."

"Why did that make you hot?" His talented fingers played magic chords upon my tautly-stretched flesh. A whimper started from deep within. It crept up my windpipe and prepared to burst forth. As if he sensed it, he lifted a lube-smeared hand to my lips to silence me. He wiped my own juices upon my slightly parted lips. "Suck on that, Barbara Ann, but remain silent." He thrust his stiff fingers back into me, manipulating my flesh as skilfully as a surgeon sliced tissue with his scalpel. "Unfold the table from the arm rests, Barbara Ann, then read the newspaper. It’ll help you keep your mind focussed on other things."

I did as I was told, spending my time reading some rag I had no interest in. He read his magazine one handed, using his thumb to flick pages while his other hand quickly and repeatedly brought me to the cusp of orgasm, then pulled back. The bastard tantalized me for over two hours like that. Only when the captain's warning regarding our descent came over the loudspeaker did he remove his saturated hand from me.

"May I do up my pants?" I whispered. The little bit of fuzz that showed through the open slit embarrassed me.

"Only when we stand to disembark," he replied, still reading his FHM magazine. "Not one second before."

I sat there with my fly open, newspaper held across my lap in an effort to cover myself. That fucking stewardess kept hovering around our row, solicitously asking if we required anything. Andrew asked for and received some moistened lemon scented towelettes. He tore open one of the foil packets and unfolded the tight-packed sheet, then used it to cleanse his sticky hand. The extra packets disappeared into his inner jacket pocket.

"Do you always refrain from wearing underwear?" he asked me.

This man had played with my quim for over two hours. Why not tell him? "Usually. I like going without."

"Your husband doesn't seem like the type to insist that you do something like that. Was it for him, or another man?"

"What?"

He looked at me and smiled. "I'm asking why you decided to stop wearing panties. Was it for Dave, or did another lover ask you to do so? You don't seem the type to do something like that for your husband."

How could he have known that I had a lover a few years back and that he’d insisted that I never wear panties? Andrew had sussed out the truth. I’d never do something like that for my big, lovable, goof of a husband. But for the weekend lover who had treated me merely as his fuck toy I’d accommodated as much as possible. That relationship had ended, but I still loved the feeling of going without panties. They really got in the way. Not wearing underwear made me feel sexy. I wasn't going to share any of that info with Andrew, though. I shook my head no.

"No matter. From now on you'll wear what I tell you, and when I tell you to do so. But you'll wear underwear from now on unless I instruct you otherwise."

"Who do you think you are?"

"Why, your husband. For the next six days, at any rate."

Husband! Even Dave didn't tell me what to wear!

"Problem?" His raised eyebrow and steady eyes waited for my response.

"No, Mister Grissolm."

"Hey, Barbara Ann. We're married. Please call me Andrew." I didn't reply. "Now sit quietly until we disembark.”

My pussy ached so much it almost felt like menstrual cramps. He had told me to remain still, so immobile I remained. But God, how I wanted to dive into myself and frig my own box until I exploded. But somehow, I contented myself by thinking how nice things could be for me later on if I abstained.

"Mister Grissolm?"

Silence.

"Andrew?"

"Yes, Barbara Ann?"

"Where will I be staying?" It had dawned on me that as his wife he might expect me to stay in his suite. I wasn't sure that I really wanted to do that. But the idea didn’t repel me, either. The thought of staying with him didn't upset me as much as it should have.

"Where do you want to stay?"

What did I want, really? I wanted Dave to suffer. As much as I could understand his decision, I couldn't bring myself to respect it. He traded me away to a man who'd obviously had sexual designs on me. I opened my mouth to answer him. I wanted to go with Andrew, I realized. I wanted him, if only out of spite.

He took the choice away from me. "Perhaps you should remain with Dave for the time being, Barbara Ann. That would be the best for everyone concerned."

"Yes, Andrew," I said. Inside, I seethed with vexation.

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