Confession - Judgement Day

This is the last of four pieces I have written about my marriage. They follow on from each other. This one describes how it all ends. Since it happened to me, and I know it all, back to front and inside out, it is difficult for me to know how much this piece stands up as a story on its own, and how far the reader should look up the other pieces first, to know the background.

I like to think this works on its own, so you can take the risk and read it, and if you like the way I write, you could treat the other pieces that I wrote as prequels. Whatever works for you.

**********

Three weeks later. Three weeks from my visit to the Hilton. Three weeks from spending those two hours in that hotel bedroom. Three weeks from having sucked and fucked a man I did not know.

Date night. Changed to a Saturday. My mother had a dinner party invitation on the Friday, so could not mind the boys for us, and so our date night had been changed. This one was our special date night. Atonement night. Not just spending loving time together. The last weekend of each and every month was when we played out our more fetishistic game.

Crime and punishment. Penance for betrayal. That was how I thought of it, although for Peter, it was just enjoying my submission and his dominance. He had no idea of my crimes or my betrayal. Just with two men, but I knew deep inside that those were two men too many.

I was looking forward to it. Something about the different ways that my husband secured me gave me a sense of inner calm, tranquillity. The leather paddle hurt, of course. That was the point, the purpose. My body, and its cravings, totally deserved it. That I had given in to those desires meant that I deserved it too.

But pain can be soothing. It can heal. It can redress the wrongs committed. It can assuage conscience. It can atone for anything and everything.

My body told me that it too was looking forward to the ties and the insistent strokes my husband used so lovingly. Walking in the park that afternoon to tire the children, I sensed the moisture permeating from within. My cunt, preparing for arousal, and for being taken by the man I love.

Not just my cunt. My brain. Memories returning. Images, as if a camera had been there, not still photographs, but action films, taken from the ceiling of my kitchen, and from the hotel bedroom walls, the viewpoint looking down at me, seen from above, as God and the hosts of angels would have viewed it, the woman they created, sinning, depraved, defiled.

The first time. The man my husband had arranged, to tend our garden, the one we laze in, that our boys play in, where we barbeque and entertain, not my private garden, not the one between my legs, although he tended to that too. My dress unbuttoned. Removed completely. My body turned. My torso leaning on the table. Naked. All but for the bra that I still wore. My being taken. The thrusting. My oblivion as I came. His emptying himself in me.

The second time. This time my following my instincts, my desires, that took me to that Hilton bar, that made me show a stranger, my unprotected cunt, beneath my dress, by the crossing and uncrossing of my legs. The room number written on a paper napkin, turned towards me. My knocking on that bedroom door. My kneeling. My opening his fly. My licking and my sucking and the rampant blackness of his cock. Then my kneeling at that hotel bed. Black cock head, followed by black shaft, that I could no longer see since now he was behind me, but that I felt so full and deep. More thrusting. More oblivion. More emptying.

My mobile rang. Supercalifragilisticexpialidotous. Mary Poppins. My youngest's favourite. It made heads turn when people heard it, but it brought smiles on two boy's faces. Even Peter, my husband, laughed each time it rang.

This time, it was Peter calling.

"Hi," I said. "How's it going?"

"We've finished our round," he said. "I can pick you up in fifteen if you want."

The boys and I had taken the bus to Richmond Gate while Peter played his round of golf. Walked from there. Down to Pen Ponds, across the walkway between the two small lakes, then across to Robin Hood, and now were headed back towards Kingston Gate.

"That would be good," I said.

"Car park at Kingston Gate?" he asked.

"We'll be there by then," I said.

"Okay," he said. "Love you loads!"

"Love you more," I said.

We always said that. One way round or the other. Whoever said it first said 'loads'. The other always said that they loved 'more'.

I wondered, briefly, why so few couples keep telling one another just how much they love their partner. Love thrives on words said. On holding hands. On sitting side by side on sofas. On loving touches as you pass each other, in kitchens, bedrooms. On sleeping naked. Spooning one another. Doing little things that say you care.

And sex, of course. Love thrives on making love together. On joining bodies nightly, before we fall asleep. On cocks in cunts and sliding, thrusting. On hands and mouths and stroking and caressing, licking, lapping, sucking. Love thrives on all of that.

Love you loads. Love you more. The purity of love in marriage, still flourishing after all those years. Two boys beside me. His sperm, my eggs, miraculously grown to play and laugh and hold my hands.

And that anticipatory feeling in my cunt, for date night, for ties that bind, for pleasure pain, inflicted by the man I love. No wife could be more happy than I was.

How did he know that we were getting close to Kingston Gate?

My heart stopped for a moment, and my stomach sank.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck and fuck! Shit! Damn and blast and fuck!

My stomach churned. Life 360. More like end of life, 360. Fuck! That stupid app! How had I not remembered. I never even used it. Not once. Not ever. I did not need to. I trusted Peter.

Two years ago, we both downloaded it. An easy way of locating each other if we needed. My mother's suggestion. The first few days from downloading it onto my phone, I played with it from time to time. Saw Peter's smiling face. Zoomed in, and saw his office block. Or saw which hole he and his friends were playing at, watched his face move from tee to green, zig-zagging slightly, pausing several times, as he played that stupid ball.

Which meant he could see me. See my smiling back at him. See me at home, writing the articles I write, or at my mother's, or picking up the kids from school, or walking in the park with them, or at the Heathrow Hilton, instead of meeting Martha, on the one night that he was away, in Wales, hitting those stupid little balls on daffodil strewn Welsh greens.

FUCK!

Unless he had not looked. They would have had a wine fuelled dinner in the evening, while I was driving to Heathrow. Golf club rubber chicken, or leather steak. Bordeaux and maybe brandy. Too much to drink. I hoped. I prayed.

He had not texted. Nor had I. No need. We both knew what our plans were. He knew that I was meeting Martha in central London. Dinner. A cocktail bar to finish off the evening. The tube back home.

Except Life 360 traced my every movement. His too, but that was not the problem. Had he decided, just before he crashed out on his Welsh hotel room, just to see my face and see if I was on my way back home, or still sipping negronis with my old college friend, then he would have seen me miles from central London, way to thw est, the airport complex, the hotel, where people go, to travel, or if not to travel, then to meet a friend or stranger. Life 360 does not lie. Wives who wander tell the lies. And some husbands. But Life 360 tells the truth.

My stomach churned again. It sank, so deep inside me, that it began to hurt.

Even the next day. Go into history. Chose the person, although for us there were just two to choose from, and Peter knew exactly where he had been himself, so that meant only me. The clever programming would let him see a map of movements, when and where and for just how long each smiling face had been.

How do I explain two hours spent at a hotel a forty minute drive from home? A hotel that I had never mentioned visiting. Too late to say that Martha had been flying out to Finland or New York or Sydney, and we had had our dinner there. Arriving at ten, which that stupid app would tell him. Leaving after midnight. Hardly dinner time, for meeting up as friends.

Just keep walking. Keep breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat again, force your chest to do what panic striken dread extinguishes. The boys were getting tired. Jolly them along. Sing Supercalifragilisticexpialidotous. Dum-diddle-liddle, dum-diddle-liddle. Force yourself to sing. Too high a pitch, because your throat is tight with trepidation. Swing their arms in time to the tune.

Except, the past three weeks, everything had been normal. Nothing unusual about how Peter had been. Two date nights since the Hiton. Dinner at that Italian restaurant that we both love, with the theme from the God-father playing softly. He had licked me out so beautifully that night. Given me an orgasm to scream home about. Before making love to me so tenderly. Giving me another. Giving me a copious load of sperm.

Then there had been the concert at the Royal Albert Hall, the second date night since I had betrayed him yet again. Matthew Bourne's Car-man, amazing dancing, uplifting Bizet. His hand on my leg throughout. The dress he had suggested with the high side-split that let him feel my inner thigh above my stockings, his little finger playing at my naked cunt. Strumming me to the dark, orchestral rhythms.

No bra, of course. He much prefers that, when we are not too close to home. Even though the wide circles of my areolas pressed out against the sheer mesh fabric of the dress he had laid out for me to wear. Just the dress, the stockings, and my heels.

Showing off my body to the other concert goers, as we queued to enter, as we eased along the row to reach our seats. As we drink Chablis at the bar, during the interval. A coat, of course, light summer beige, to wear from home to tube station, until we felt safe from friends or neighbours seeing us.

No panties either. Not even the most minimal of thongs. Which left me wondering if not just the cleft between my buttocks would be clearly seen, but the other cleft, between my legs, that is my cunt.

I checked, before we left. Our mirrored wardrobe doors. You could tell that I was smooth, right to my entrance. If that display served to turn my husband on, then that was how his loving wife would be.

More wine when we got home. Unfinished. A liquid prelude to lovemaking on the floor. Beside the coffee table. Me on my hands and knees, and my husband kneeling right behind me. My dress still on. The skirt raised. Baring my already naked butt. My cunt so wet for him. His cock so hard for me. Normal, happy, married life.

Maybe, like me, his Life 360 was one of those apps that just takes up space on his mobile's memory, and is never used. Maybe that explains why these past weeks have been such normal, loving life together.

But maybe not. Maybe, in Wales, he touched that icon. Saw me smiling from a place I should not be.

Why the fuck did I go to that hotel?

"Mummy! You're squeezing my hand too tight!"

My youngest.

My stomach churned again.

FUCK, FUCK and FUCK!

**********

Glass is unforgiving. Having breasts that are on the slightly generous side does not help. Especially if your arms are stretched out, so that they cannot support you. Your breasts and stomach take your weight. Nipples pressed against the unyielding surface. Cold at first. But they acclimatise, to the temperature at least, if not the unforgiving nature of the table top.

Peter had made me put on the cuffs myself. The ankle cuffs were easy. Just wrap them round and slip the strap into the buckle. Firm black leather, with soft, padded satin on the inside. The wrists were harder. One handed buckling is difficult to do. But not impossible.

Harder for my right hand than my left, since I am one of the one in ten they say are 'sinister'. Left-handed, Latin style, or medically described, or morally, perhaps.

Legs parted at the kitchen table. My legs each tied to the legs of the table. The long side of the table. So that my legs were opened wide. Then bending. That was when my breasts were pressed as flat as the flesh allowed itself to be, against the glass. I stretched my arms out, knowing that that would be required of me. Not straight in front. Diagonally. Towards the corners of the table top. Black silk, slender rope ties through d-rings on my wrist cuffs, secured them to those two table legs.

Then something new.

The paddle was there, of course, on the glass, beside me, ready. The one with the raised lettering that I had bought for Peter. The one with the reversed lettering that when inflicted on my flesh spelled out what I knew myself to be, even if Peter, at least as yet, did not. S-L-U-T. So was the leather mask that he would put on me. When he was ready. For now just resting by the paddle. So, for now, my head turned sideways, I could see.

It was black. It had to be coincidence. He could not possibly know. Life 360 says nothing other than location. Not the colour of the man you meet. But it was black, the dildo that he set beside me, so close to my face that I could have moved my head and touched my lips to it. Generously sized. Not ludicrous. Human proportions. A pleasingly, well endowed human. In plastic, of course, not flesh.

My stomach was in dread now. They talk of butterflies when you are nervous. I had carrion crows, beating their wings while tussling inside me. He knew. He had to know. That fucking Life 360 had betrayed me. The dildo was his way of telling me, that he knew I had betrayed him, without the need for words.

"Lift your head," he said.

I strained my neck to lift it from the table. He put the mask in place, covering my eyes, and checking the elasticated strap was following the lines that glasses would, above my ears, and down a little, around my hair, below my crown.

I had had to close my eyes. The mask just touched my lids, as always. I let my head rest back on the glass of the table, sideways again.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

Leaning over a hard glass kitchen table with your legs apart and your arms stretched out can be described in many ways, but the word 'comfortable' would not be one that I would chose to use.

"I'm fine," I lied.

My throat was dry, and I heard the rasping in my voice. Betraying me. Nothing but betrayal all around. Mine of my husband. My quavering voice, overlain with guilt and dread.

The pain was nothing. It would hurt, of course. Once he used the paddle. My buttocks would once again have the 'slut' word burned into my flesh, but I could bear that. That had become a game. Sub to his dom, our monthly ritual no longer made me fear him. What was unbearable was knowing how much pain he would be feeling from my having seen those men.

Not just the hurt that I had caused him. My guilt tore at my heart, almost unbearable, but along with that was a deeper, excruciating dread. My chest was tight with it, my heart now pounding, my stomach hollow. The terror of impending loss. My husband's love. My marriage. My family life. The love and respect of our two boys. My mother, who would judge me harshly. Give me no comfort. Take Peter's side. Of course, she would.

The hold a parent retains, even long after you have reached maturity, left home, loved, married, become a parent to children of your own, yet those childhood years remain with you, Freud's 'superego' emblazoned on your soul, fear of their judgement, so strong, that when I should have thought much more of Peter and our sons, my mother's condemnation, once she too knew of my betrayal, seemed the worst of all.

"That's good," he said.

Then Peter's hand at my entrance. His fingers. Checking, or so it seemed. Not playing. Just easing into me enough to feel that I was wet.

More betrayal. My cunt. Slick and wet and ready to received fingers, cock or dildo, whatever form of penetration, it really did not care. It felt no guilt. No shame. No dread of consequences. All it knew was lust, and carvings. No thoughts, no feelings, no conscience, not between my legs.

Flesh and plastic feel so different that my cunt knew what was opening it as soon as he began to ease it in. No warmth. No slight give. Cool, hard, firmly penetrating. The dildo being turned as he slid it into me, one way a little, then back. His wrist making the motion.

Unlike a human penis, this had no bulging head to open me. Thick at it was, it was just rounded, with no flange. It slid in easily, my wetness lubricating its progress. Impersonal. An object. Not flesh conjoined but cavity invaded. My cunt not loved or felt and in any way enjoyed, but just impaled.

Then something being done, around my legs, like something tied, the flesh pulled tight, his hands reaching beneath me, fingering between my thighs. Then movement, vibration, buzzing, the dildo set in motion.

"I'll be back," he said. "In a while."

There used to be an advertisement for Duracell, two toy bunnies, the furry, cuddly toy kind, not the sex toys, since this was day-time tv, not a night-time adult channel, each fluffy bunny powered by different batteries, Duracell in one, a no-brand name of battery in the other, both bouncing around until their batteries failed. Duracell lasted much longer. Of course, it did. It would go on for ever.

It had to be a Duracell dildo.

It buzzed and hummed and droned and whined and whirred, on and on and on, pulsing, throbbing, mechanically fucking me, perpetual motion in my cunt, drawing unwanted sensations from its insistent movement in me, unasked for stimulation rending me its captive, my body trembling, quivering, an unending imposition of robotically inflicted bliss.

I squeezed the muscles there, hoping to expel the relentless, strident, overpowering device, but only by the slightest fraction could I ease it out. Whatever Peter had done, somehow the dildo had been secured so that it was not going to slip or slid or be squeezed and ejected from my cunt. Not until he wanted to remove it.

All I could do was fight it. What others used for pleasure, to bring about a needed orgasm, played in their cunt or on their clit, was instead a form of sexual torture. Not painful. Pleasure imposed. Perpetrated. Uninvited. I love my orgasms with my husband, but this one was anathema to me, a violation, imposed, unwanted.

Unseeing, I could only guess at just how long he left me there. My body responding, not willingly, but with all choice removed. My clit throbbing so beautifully to the interminable vibrations of the thing inside me. My muscles taut in resistance. My eyes welling up with tears of frustration. Torture so sublime it tempted me to let it have its infernal way.

Then soft footsteps.

His hand there. The vibration ending. Taut muscles, arms, legs, back and buttocks, breathing sighs of relief. Relaxing.

"What happened at Heathrow?" he asked.

How should I answer? How to describe, explain, express regret? There were no words. So no words came, although he waited.

"Did you meet someone?" he asked.

I nodded, my head still sideways, just the millimetres of motion needed to convey the answer, yes.

"Someone you knew?" he asked me.

This time I shook my head, the same few millimetres. No.

"Someone you met online?"

Head shake. No.

"You just met someone there?"

This time a nod. Yes. Someone I met there.

He paused. Enough time for me to say what I would say repeatedly.

"I'm sorry."

I could not read his face, not with my eyes closed beneath the leather of the mask.

"Did you let this person fuck you?" he finally asked me.

Another almost imperceptible nod. A muted, yes. Whispered by that slight movement of my head.