Afterword(s)

This is my first submission and it just so happens to be about a first submission about a first submission... I recognize it's not for everyone, but I welcome constructive comments. Italicized text is the author-character's side of a present-day conversation and regular text is the author-character's fantasy, where the juicy bits are.

Prologue.

Well, I've really gone and done it now, haven't I. I've actually written down a sexual fantasy. Really explicitly. And posted it publicly for anyone to see. And sent the link to you. And invited you to read it. After all, you're in it. Anonymously, yes. But it's not so anonymous to you anymore, is it? Dear lord, is my heart pounding from excitement or just pure terror?

I have no real reason to be afraid, of course. I mean, that's one reason why my top fantasy is surrender and submission to you. You're my amazing husband and best friend and I trust you a lot.

It can't come as that much of a shock to you either, not really. The writing, sure, but not the topic. I've gradually started bringing up the general idea in recent months, just a little. I suppose it's been driven by a fairly cliche mid-30s female sexual peak or reawakening. Which I know we've both been enjoying.

It's just that, you know, while our mostly-vanilla married sex life is wonderful, we've always been within the limits of what "happens naturally" without talking or planning. Talking about getting it on just hasn't been something we do—before, during, or after. Not directly, and hardly at all even euphemistically. Residual repression combined with a lack of problems, I guess.

As much as I want to be able to talk out loud about this stuff with you like I think a grown-and-sexy adult should be able to, to explore with you and take something already great to the next level... sometimes my tentative new efforts have felt even more vulnerable and intimate than, like, actually having your tongue between my legs. And not nearly immediately gratifying! You've seemed a bit... I dunno... bemused by the talk at times, but overall appreciative, or at least game. I'm grateful for that. But we haven't really pushed it.

So talking has still been hard. Those inner walls are hard to crack.

And so, instead of talking, I secretly wrote.

Letting you read what I wrote, though... Oh man, that takes the vulnerability and intimacy up another order of magnitude. In some ways, I'm putting more of myself in your hands now than I have before in all our years together. Letting you deeper into the secrets of my freaky mind.

Ultimately, it's because I know that I can. Even if my fantasy is not quite your fantasy, you'll know that much more about me, right? And I know I'll still feel safe and accepted even if it stays in fantasy-land. And if it is? If it does turn you on? If something like this could actually, eventually, happen? Even lead to more? I mean, that's a chance I can't let pass by.

And I do think there's a chance.

OK. Well. You just sit there and read, and I'll just be over here, doing my best to look chill. Here we go.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's been a couple of fairly uneventful weeks since you read the erotic story I sent you.

We talked about it a bit, right then and a few times since. It's been more than we've talked directly about our sex life for a long while, but still, only a few times, and fairly briefly each time. I've made sure to emphasize that the fantasy of dominance and submission that the story described wasn't something I thought our properly egalitarian marriage or sex life were lacking, per se, and that I've been far from dissatisfied with anything, especially lately. It's just that I've felt a growing desire to explore more things with you, especially what I've come to learn is "power exchange." I'm not looking to dive head-on into the deep end of hardcore BDSM or anything, I've explained, but I do want to get a little outside of our comfort zones and into a more exciting place where there's so much to learn about each other and ourselves. A place that's just a wee bit kinky. I want to give you permission to take control.

Despite the small discussions we've opened up, on boundaries and whatnot, and despite (or maybe because of) how sweet you are, I've wondered what you really thought about it all. I've wondered whether you were perhaps put off by the story itself, by how much I unexpectedly find myself thinking about sex lately, by how much it seems I've been, essentially, nerding out about the topic. I've tried to explain why I wanted to be sexually submissive and bottom for you like in the story, and even sent you some articles. I've been more successful in explaining how it's perfectly compatible with my—our—fierce feminism, but it's much harder to really describe the depth of the appeal of total surrender as if it were a rational thing when it's very much not.

Nevertheless, you've expressed openness to it. Why wouldn't you? You tend to take control in the bedroom already, to a certain extent, and you have no complaints having a wife who's only grown more horny for you after all these years. You've also appreciated the "arsenal," as you call it, of lingerie I've accumulated of late to show off my ample assets for you. Still, while reading the story got us both hot and bothered, the sex we had afterward had a just few more little butt smacks than usual; our little sex talks have stayed rather sporadic and tame, and our sex life has remained in the lovely but stable place it's been.

Today, though. Today, something has gotten into you.

Today you come up to me while I'm finishing putting away my laundry and you wrap me tightly in your arms. Today you give me a look, with hunger in your eyes, and you ask me, with a low voice: "Are you all mine tonight? Do you belong to me?"

"Ohhhh yes," I reply, enthusiastically, breathlessly. "Yes! I'm entirely yours. Do whatever you want with me; you know I want you to."

There's a lustful smirk on your handsomely scruffy face as you say, "I like the sound of that."

I hold back a thoroughly unsexy squeee of excitement and instead look up at you with a flirtatious smile. You reach down and grab my ass, nice and hard. We're actually doing this! I feel a surge of euphoria already.

Your assertion of control begins right away. With your strong hands still on my ass, you tell me you want me to put on a black bra, some sexy black panties, stockings, and those really high heels I only wear around the house to show off for you. You tell me to wear the shortest skirt I own and one of my choker necklaces, since you know I feel sexy in those. You want me to be ready by 6:30 for a drink before dinner, which you'll have delivered. I'm a little surprised you didn't go with my even sluttier looking, strappy, bondage-y red lingerie, but I like what you've chosen; I like even more that you chose.

"Do you want the stay-up stockings or the kind with the garter belt?" I ask with a grin.

You hesitate a fraction of a second, about to tell me to go with whichever I prefer, but you catch yourself and tell me to wear the garter belt. "With your panties on top," you add, authoritatively. Practical as ever.

"As you wish," I say, like Westley in Princess Bride, but I feel like the princess. I'm rewarded for my geekery with a butt smack. Then, a very hot and lingering kiss.

It's already late afternoon so I'm off to the shower fairly soon. The anticipation makes scrubbing my own skin feel like foreplay. I shave, leaving just a landing strip; I much prefer the way things feel when I'm mostly bare down there. After toweling off, I blow dry my brunette curls. I put on some lotion and makeup and apply little dabs of that perfume you like, feeling a bit tingly the whole time. I normally wear glasses, but this feels like an occasion for my rarely-used contact lenses. I roll on some silky black thigh-high stockings with seams up the back, and with a bit of struggle, snap them into the garters. Next is a high-waisted black thong which I adjust over my fleshy hips. I fasten the bra and do the ol' "lean and scoop" to make sure my 32DDDs are shown off to maximum advantage by the black lace.

Then, the skirt. You've never seen my shortest skirt, a cheap little black stretchy faux-leather thing that I bought online on a horny whim months ago but haven't yet been able to bring myself to wear. At your command, though, I couldn't possibly wear anything else.

I remember that you didn't specifically mention a shirt earlier, but I take the liberty of putting one on anyway, tight and low-cut. If it occurs to you that this wasn't quite literally what you instructed, maybe you'll spank me for being a bad girl. Heh.

I clasp on a black choker that looks ever-so-slightly like an o-ring collar. I enjoy how cheeky it feels, and how it's like a constant little caress around my slender throat.

Finally, I step into my high heels. I survey the results in the full-length mirror. Not half bad, I think, despite my self-consciousness about the thickness of my thighs: I still have that hourglass waist-to-hip ratio you love, these heavy breasts that I admit fill out the tight top pretty lusciously, heavy-lidded eyes that look nicely dramatic with mascara and a swipe of eyeliner, and a well-timed good hair day. Do I already look a little flushed with desire, or is that just the makeup?

I debate in my head what shade of lipstick would work best as a finishing touch, passing over a loud red for a more sultry rosy nude shade. There. Now I'm ready to present myself to you. For you.

At 6:20, early for once, I walk downstairs with as much elegance as I can muster in my tiny skirt and somewhat awkward sky-high shoes. I find you on the loveseat, reading. You're wearing slim-tailored gray slacks and a nice dark blue button-front shirt with the sleeves rolled up on your fuzzy forearms. Looking yummy as usual, with your gorgeous head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, your sexy scruff, and your angular cheekbones and jawline accented by stylish glasses. There are a few more pounds on your tall frame than when we were younger, despite your commitment to running, but you wear them very well. I'm a lucky gal.

I'm a little nervous. You can sense that, so you give an appreciative wolf-whistle that makes me relax.

"Come here," you say.

I walk to the loveseat and stand before it, not sitting down. My hands are behind my back, my eyes are downward, and there's a small smile on my face as I bite my lip. I feel myself blushing. I look up and see a small, sexy smile on your face, too. You look like you're maybe not quite sure what you've gotten yourself into, but you're prepared to enjoy the ride. Good.

You tell me to turn around for you, and I do a slow twirl for your inspection. You make a humming noise of approval, and it sounds so genuine, I feel like it's just about the most gratifying thing I've ever heard.

"New skirt?" you ask.

"Just for you," I answer. My smile widens.

"You're lookin' good enough to eat. Speaking of which, I put in a dinner order but we've got some time. How about you make us some cocktails? I could go for a boulevardier."

Your commands are gentle, but they're not requests; I answer that I'll make them now. I almost say, Yes Sir, but I'm not sure if you'd be into it. Maybe a bit much for us, for now.

I do my best to sashay seductively back to the bar where I measure and stir the rye, vermouth, and Campari over ice. When I return with the drinks, you gesture for me to sit next to you on the loveseat. You take the glass in one hand and put the other on my thigh.

"To MY lovely wife," you toast, emphasizing the possessive.

"To teaching an old horndog new tricks," I respond with a laugh. Clink. We chat and flirt and drink on the loveseat for a while, your hand on me most of the time, claiming me.

Our dinner date is not too out of the ordinary, but there's an undercurrent of electricity crackling through it. The candles on the dining table are lit, and you put on some sultry background music. The food, which you chose for both of us from a favorite local restaurant, is delicious and not too heavy, and the wine loosens us up. The conversation is funny as usual and spicy with innuendos. We share dessert as it gets darker outside.

In the mood to serve, I clear the plates. I begin to tidy up the kitchen, until you come up behind me and gently but firmly grab my arms. You bring your mouth close to my ear.

"Let that wait until tomorrow."

You spin me around to face you, nearly at eye level because of my high heels, and you touch my cheek, and my collar-like choker. You look at me. It's a look I've yearned for, both hungry and confidently dominant. Like something wild inside you is coming out to play. My breath catches in my throat and my heart pounds hard, fast. I wonder if you can hear it.

You ask me, "Do you belong to me?" It's both a check-in and a reinforcement of what's to come.

"You know I belong to you completely."

We're about to go to the next level. Your hand drops from my face. I can almost see your headspace change; your eyes have fire in them and your nostrils flare. You command:

"Get. On. Your. Knees."

Oh wow.

Now, neither of us has ever been much for talking during foreplay or sex. Our communication skills are strong but with sex, we've always communicated more non-verbally, especially you. A four word command is a little thing, but for us, this is big. This is new. This is what I've wanted. This is... shutting down my ability to think, it's just so incredibly fucking hot.

And so I drop, wordlessly, to my knees before you, right there by the kitchen island, as you settle back against the wall. I sit back on my heels and spread my knees apart to put my face at the level of your evident bulge, and I can tell I'm already soaking wet. There's a moment when I'm just looking up at you, and you're just looking down at me. It seems to be a moment in which you're convincing yourself that this is really and truly what I want, to be used by you, to be your possession. If you have any doubts, something about the way I'm looking at you seems to resolve them.

You unzip your pants, leaving them on, and I take your mostly-hard cock into my mouth hungrily with a moan, still looking up into your eyes. Yes. Your slight, musky, masculine scent and taste are so familiar, yet so exciting. Yes.

I go a little fast at first, in an abundance of enthusiasm, while you quickly stiffen further. Then I slow down and lick up and down the underside of your shaft, the sides, your balls, around the head; I suck and kiss and slurp lewdly. Your cock and your reactions consume the entirety of my attention. I moan and hum and you can feel the vibrations. You exhale audibly and tilt back your head while my whole world narrows to the here and now.

I continue worshiping your gorgeous cock with my mouth, adding one hand around the base while my other hand pulls you toward me by your ass. You look back down at me and put your hands on my head like I've told you I want you to do, scrunching your fingers into my hair, guiding my rhythm. I'm not sure how many minutes pass. Things are getting sloppy. I try to take you deeper into my mouth than I ever have before, right back to my throat and further, managing to mostly suppress my gag reflex. I succeed. You moan and swear under your breath, rewarding me with the sounds of your enjoyment. Maintaining eye contact, you push on my head to signal me to do it again.

"Ahh. That's my good girl."

Fuuuck. Those words are magic. My eyes roll back in my head and I nearly orgasm right then and there.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Interlude.

How you doin' over there, love? Enjoying it so far? Hmmm, it looks like you are. Hahaha, yeah, you bet I caught that readjustment of your jeans just now. Maybe you'd be more comfortable reading with those off, hot stuff. Did you get to the kitchen bit yet? Hehe.

So. Anyway. Bit of a slow burn to start I suppose, but after the kitchen's generally the point where my fantasy spins off in wildly different directions every time it runs through my head. Which has been... more than a few times, haha.

Dominance can mean so many things, even within the relatively narrow play rules I'd want to talk through that would leave things like choking or degradation or "Daddy" off the table for us. You know, my submissive desires would be met simply by the fact of you leading, being in control, and taking and doing what you want, where and when and how you want it, without asking permission—even if what you want is only what we've done before, even if you insist on being a sweetheart and focusing back on my wants rather than your own.

But, as I've at least hinted, I'd be open to trying more. Rather a lot more, if you're up for it. I haven't told you all the details, yet, in real life, like I have in the fantasy—that I'd love for you to be completely selfish, that'd I'd love for you to use me on demand, that I'd love for you to get rough, that I'd like to be held down or tied up or blindfolded or teased or edged or denied or any number of other things, that the structure of some rules and rewards and punishments might be just what I need sometimes, that a little pain or suspense would heighten the pleasure. Most of all, I just want to see what it is that you would choose to do, if you really let loose and accepted my permission to truly do whatever you wanted to me. This story's not a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, though, so... this is just one scenario.

If you don't entirely see yourself in the character in this story, that's fine. It's only my fantasy. He just happens to look an awful lot like you.

Go on, then.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

With your hands still gripping my hair, you stop me. You tug gently and growl, "Stand up." I do, with your strong hand steadying me. I wipe my hand over my messy mouth and chin.

You run your hands down my body and reach one hand down beneath my skirt to feel how wet I am. Very. You laugh a little and in a rumbling voice, you comment, "You're really enjoying this already, aren't you? Your panties are absolutely soaked."

"Yes," I breathe, waiting for your next move.

You remove your hands and pause.

"You have on far more clothing than I want you to be wearing right now. Go ahead and take off your shirt. Nice and slow for me."

I do, peeling it over my head and dropping it to the floor while I shake out my curly hair.

"Now the skirt."

I shimmy it over my hips and let it fall, stepping out of it and kicking it a little out of the way with my stiletto.

"Good."

We simply look at each other again for a moment. I'm sure my face shows a combination of lust and a certain bashfulness at my own eager submission. Your own lust plays on your features along with something else, like you're feeling the rush of a stimulant drug. You're still clothed, while I'm down to barely-there underwear, a choker, garter belt, stockings, and heels; it reinforces the power differential. We haven't left the kitchen.

"Let's take this upstairs, hmm? Go up there and wait for me on the bed."

I smile, nod and turn. You give my mostly-bare ass another squeeze.

"Don't touch yourself or take anything else off until I get up there. You're all for me."

Yowza.

You watch from below as I walk up the stairs in my lingerie and heels. I hear clinking as I walk to the bedroom and realize that you're pouring the last of the wine.