Confession - Masked for the Unknown

Movement, at my right ear, my hair being eased back, away from it, then a breath being taken, closeup against it, before she whispered.

"My guess is," she said so quietly that only I would hear, "your husband likes to watch, more than he likes to swop."

Something warm brushed against my arm as she whispered. Soft, giving, but also something firmer. Her breast. Her nipple.

I wondered again what she was wearing. What other women in the club were wearing. I had only seen the one woman in the foyer, the blonde in her black leather straps. Her breasts had been bare, as had her pubic mound. The woman beside me was displaying her breasts. So was I, for that matter. But at least I knew that others were too.

I sensed Peter paying for our drinks. A male voice responding to his. A barman, not a bargirl.

"Have a nice evening." A deep baritone.

"We can get some seats," Peter said, and I instinctively took his arm again as he began to move.

I turned.

"Is that bad?" I asked the woman, in answer to her whisper, just to say something, not to receive an answer from her to a question I was also putting to myself.

This time I walked even more carefully. Peter, presumably, had a drink in either hand. I did not want to inadvertently pull on his arm to steady myself. He guided me expertly, as if he had been leading blind people around all his life. He turned me. Told me it was safe to sit. It was. The leather, padded seat, or more likely vinyl, was cool and slightly adherent beneath my thighs. Nothing unpleasant. Just the way bare flesh against that kind of man-made fabric tends to feel.

"Feeling okay," he asked me, as he touched my Negroni glass to my hand, waiting until I was holding it.

"Nervous," I admitted.

"You already got attention, I saw. What did she say to you?"

"She said she guessed you like to watch."

"Okay," he said. "Maybe she's right."

"Is she?" I asked him.

"I like,..." he said, "to keep you guessing."

"Bastard!" I laughed.

Meanwhile I was wondering, just what this all was about. Peter suggesting we come to the club, something we had never done before, or even talked about. The mask, with its very explicit wording. The tease, or more than tease, about watching, with its implication that Peter might invite someone else to fuck me.

Our relationship was good. Our marriage now more unconventional, maybe. That had been my doing. Breaking my marriage vows, betraying Peter with those two men. Wrecking what had been a blissful family life. For nothing other than a physical need, that I should have managed to control.

Then Peter finding a way for us to stay together, asserting his right to punish me, the tattoo on my butt, previously private, between ourselves, now announcing my infidelity to people at the club. Our date nights, our children with my mother, when Peter would use the paddle to remind me I was the one who had betrayed him. But always fucking me when he had finished, releasing me, holding me, telling me how much he loved me.

It had not taken long before we had regained our previous easy relationship as husband and wife, in front of our boys, my mother, our wider family and our friends. Other than those date nights, every other day we lived a happy family life together, talking, teasing, laughing, loving. So why were we here, in a swingers' club, in central London?

All I could think was that this was some kind of marital power play. In marriages, couples can be equal partners, or pretend they are, pretend even to themselves, but more often one or the other has the upper hand, using it subtly, or not so subtly, making key decisions, and lesser ones, the other partner following, accepting.

Peter and I had always seen ourselves as equals, or at least I thought we had, until I strayed. Then I had offered Peter the reins, at least in the bedroom. Not just the reins. The whip as well. I had invited him to be dom to my sub, to punish me, and he had adapted to the role.

Then, once he knew that it was not just my playful introduction of bdsm fun into our sex life, but that I had been unfaithful to him with those other men, and that inviting him to warm my buttocks was not just sex play, but was deserved, he had ceased to play-act in the role of dominant, but had assumed it totally.

This, the club, had to be Peter's way of underscoring just how far our sexual relationship had been transformed, that everything had changed, he was in charge, he called the shots, made the decisions, and my role was to comply. If he chose to bring me here, to punish me here, instead of at home, there would be no argument, no discussion to be had. It would happen.

If Peter wanted me to wear a mask, make me so totally dependent on him, render me so vulnerable to his desires and wants, and remove completely my capacity to determine anything that happened, or was done to me, then I was to be subservient, acquiescent, his to guide, command, control. If he chose to watch as someone fucked me, that was his right.

"I like to keep you guessing," he had said.

Sitting, unseeing, sipping my negroni, I realised that that was exactly what he had arranged. I could do no more than guess what he intended, what would happen here.

Instinctively, I felt for Peter's thigh. It was not hard. He was sitting right beside me. Legs crossed, as I discovered, as he always did when he was at ease and confident. I let my hand rest on his leg, conveying my assent, my acquiescence, my acceptance, my trust.

I said it too.

"I love you," I told him. "I always will."

Saying the words, conveying my subservience, somehow removed a layer of tension that I had carried with me, right though the concert, in the taxi to the club, and walking from the foyer and reception on inside. I felt it dissipate. My breathing calmed. With each exhalation I felt that previous apprehension melt away. What would be, would be. Peter would decide for me. I had no need to make any decisions of my own. Only to do as he would ask of me.

Relieved of that constraining tension, I sensed a greater awareness of my own body. My chest relaxed. My limbs became less taut. The tightness in my stomach eased. I felt lighter. I also felt aroused. My nipple stubs were tingling. My clit was softly throbbing. Even my hand, on Peter's thigh, felt sensitive to the fabric of his trousers, as if my sense of touch had been enhanced.

Shocked, I realised that while I had been wondering what Peter's motives were, my body had already been anticipating what was yet to come, much as it would at home, when before Peter would tie me down, readying me for having my butt chastised, I would be aroused to the point of sensing my own wetness.

My body wanted this. My cunt wanted it. I wanted it. My womanhood wanted whatever Peter had planned. The punishment, yes, but more so what would follow. Peter fucking me, or someone else. My body did not care. All it desired was the invasion of hard, solid, masculine flesh, stretching me open, penetrating, thrusting, and spewing its seed.

"You're getting looks, by the way," Peter said.

I pulled myself back from my own thoughts and longings.

"Are you surprised?" I asked. "Where did you get the mask from?"

"Online," he said. "You'd be amazed what you can find if you look."

"As long as you delete your history," I said. "You know the boys are getting good at exploring things they shouldn't."

"Of course, I do," he said. "And I was thinking we need to get them a laptop of their own, and keep it in the kitchen-diner, so that we can keep an eye."

"Makes sense," I said, mildly amused at the incongruity of talking about responsible parenting while sitting naked in a swingers' club.

"We could rearrange the shelf unit at the far end," Peter said. "Create some desk space."

"Sounds good," I laughed. "Although I wasn't expecting to be talking about that here!"

That was when he put his arm around me, his shirt sleeve smooth on my bare skin.

"Okay," he laughed. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Tell me about the club," I said. "What's it like? Is it busy?"

"Okay," he said. "So right now, we're in the main space. There's the bar, where we got our drinks. There's this bench seat along one wall. There's a small dance floor. Doorways to other spaces."

"Busy?" I asked again.

"Maybe thirty people where we are," he said. "Mostly couples. Some guys at the bar who look like they're not with partners. Hopeful singles. A dozen people on the dance floor. Couples, dancing close. A dozen sitting. The rest standing around, or going into other rooms or whatever."

"How are people dressed?" I asked him.

"Pretty sexily,..." Peter said. "Assuming you mean the women. Only a couple of little black dresses,... mostly lingerie,... with or without bras,... some g-strings,... some not,... a couple of women in corsets,... breasts out,... the couple we saw in the foyer,... I'm guessing you saw her leather strappy outfit,... is being chatted up by a guy. I'm guessing he's hoping she's available to fuck. Looks like the club attracts serious swingers."

"Anyone else wearing a mask?" I asked.

"Just you," my husband said.

I felt my clit react as he answered. It wanted to be stroked.

"You know your nips are out?" he told me.

"I can't see," I said.

"No," he said. "But other people can. Are you turned on?"

It was easier to admit it.

"Yes," I said.

"What turns you on the most?" he asked me.

I thought about my answer. First, what it really was that was turning me on most, and second, what it was that I was willing to admit to.

The first answer, I knew, as soon as I thought about it. What really turned me on was the thought of someone else, someone I did not know, could not see, maybe never would, sliding their cock into me, while I was not even sure if it was Peter, or another man, and maybe I would not be sure, not even from the feel of his cock, or the rhythm of his fucking, but I would enjoy it anyway, and he would take me all the way to a shattering orgasm, by ravaging my cunt while behind my mask the thought of what was happening exploded in my head.

But that was not what I said.

"You," I answered Peter. "Being in control,... my being totally dependent on you,... submitting,... to my husband,... to the man I love."

I sensed him turn and felt his lips on my cheek. Kissing. Then edging to my ear, while his hand cupped my breast, palm covering my nipple stub, grazing it, sending ripples through the breast flesh and on, down, to where my clit reacted, as if in delicious harmony.

"Nice answer," he whispered, "although I think you might be more turned on by the possibility of someone else fucking you tonight."

Taking in what he had said, I was not sure if it felt good to know that my husband could read me so accurately, or if it left me even more in thrall to him. I felt a shiver run through my body. He knew me. He knew my wants and needs. Which meant that he could play with me. Not just my body. With my head, as well.

"Maybe," I acknowledged, turning to him, even though I could not see his face, or anything.

His hand moved from my breast to my cheek, gently keeping my head turned towards him. Then I felt his lips again, this time on my mouth. It felt like going back in time, to the first time we had really kissed, when I had offered him my mouth and he had explored it with his tongue, with the same probing, penetrating, impatience he had had when later he had fucked me for the first time.

Yet that kiss on the bench seat of the swingers' club that night, was so much more than lovers kissing, than a husband lovingly kissing his wife. He was my dominant, confidently conferring a deep, probing kiss upon the mouth of his submissive, confirming she was his, to anyone who saw.

"What do you think of my idea for the kitchen-diner?" Peter asked me, as he left off our kiss.

Head games. From talking about what turned me on, right back to family. Domesticity. Reminding me that I was not just his sub, or just a slut, or just his wife, but mother to our children. Responsible, caring, loving, domesticated.

I sipped my negroni again before I answered.

"I told you," I said. "I think it's good."

"We can call in at Ikea on the way back from your mother's. They should still be open."

Not just a wife and mother. A daughter too, brought up to be respectable, good, proper, upright, decent. My mother would be shocked to see her daughter sitting naked as I was, my "Slut" tattoo and "Fuck Me" mask.

"We could do," I said.

"Or we could wait and go together, next time they stay over with her, make it a surprise for them," he said.

"We could do that too," I answered.

Right then, planning anything to do with laptops or desks or furnishings was the last thing that I wanted to be focused on.

"You could wear the red leather mini-skirt I got for you, and the black blouse."

I knew which blouse he meant. Sheer. Worn without a bra on two of our previous date nights. In restaurants far enough away from our suburban house not to be known by other diners. Slut-wear. Not exactly Ikea. I could not tell if he was serious, or still playing with my head. Reminding me that the mother that I am was also a slut, the epitome of domesticity was a whore, the woman who read her children stories in bed at night, had fucked other men.

"Is that a challenge?" I asked him.

"Maybe," he said.

"I like to keep you guessing," he had said before.

All I had to go on was his voice. Calm, quiet, but strong. No body language. No facial expressions. You cannot read those when you cannot see beyond black leather. No hint as to whether he was serious or teasing. Nothing.

I sipped more of my negroni. I was coming to the end. Or the beginning, of what would happen next.

I finished off the last of the cocktail. He took the glass from my hand. I guess he set it down for me.

"Let's dance," he said.

I sensed him standing, and fought to get my head together as I got up, my thigh and buttock flesh peeling from the vinyl of the seat. This time he took my hand, leading me. I tried to walk with confidence, keeping my head high, resisting the non-sensical temptation to look down, which in any case would not have helped me see my way.

He drew me close, and I raised my arms to hold his neck. One hand was behind my back, the other on my buttock. The left butt. Not the right. Not the one with the tattoo. That would still be seen.

What had he said? Twelve people on the dance floor. We were moving slowly, our bodies close, my nipple stubs grazing his shirt front. I sensed movement around me, but could make out absolutely nothing. Then a touch of a hip against my own. Female, I guessed, because it had been flesh on flesh, not fabric.

It had been quite some time since we had last danced together, and that had been at the wedding of some friends. Suitably dressed. Not naked. Not blind. Not in a "Fuck Me" mask. It felt good, just the same, dancing with him in the darkness of the mask. Comfortable. Safe. Until he left me. On my own.

He just let go of me, slid my arms from his neck, and backed from me. I had two choices. Freeze, and stand unmoving, anxious, panicky, alone and out of place. Or keep on dancing.

I danced. It was still the kind of strong, deep bass, insistent disco music that would be played in clubs everywhere, that I knew from Spotify and U-tube, and I just kept moving to it. Minimal arm movements, nothing exaggerated, in case someone was nearby. But using my legs, keeping to the rhythm, arms bent, hands close to my breasts, blindly putting on a show of confidence, until I felt him take my hands. In sheer relief, I raised my arms around his neck again.

The other way around this time. His right hand on my lower back. His left on my right buttock cheek, caressing my tattoo. Something else felt wrong. Not his shirt collar. His neck, the feel of it. His smell, light sandalwood, soft and understated. This was not Peter. Not the man I loved.

"I love your tattoo," he said.

A gentle Scottish lilt, not London, not English, not any county that I knew. More Edinburgh than Glasgow. A hint of refinement. But not Peter. Someone else.

The shock of it ran through me, made my heart leap, spasmed my legs, just for a moment, taking me off the rhythm I had been moving to, and then I found the beat again, heart beat and rhythm, and a shot of adrenaline kicked my brain into action.

"Thank you," I said.

I turned one hand, palming the back of his head. Shaved smooth. Unseeing, I now had something by which to know him. Scottish, well spoken, a touch of class, and shaven headed.

Just to be sure I checked the crown. His skull was devoid of hair. Wet shave. I risked moving to his ear, his cheek, his jaw. Smooth to the touch.

"Would it be too corny to ask if you come here often?"

"No," I said. "It's my first time."

"Mine too," he said. "I'm in London for a conference. I thought I'd risk it here, see what it's like. We don't exactly have this kind of club in Edinburgh. Gentlemen's clubs, yes, except the clients aren't that gentlemanly, but not as open as this."

He hesitated a moment. Then asked the obvious question.

"So why the mask?"

"My husband's idea," I said.

"It's very sexy," he said. "Erotic. So, he likes to share?"

"He likes to punish me," I found myself saying. "I don't know if he plans to share me or not."

"You don't know?" he asked, his voice rising with incredulity.

"I don't know," I confirmed.

"You do look incredible," he said.

"So do you," I laughed, at my own retorted joke. Then I added, "Did he ask you to dance with me?"

"He gave me a nod," he said.

Which meant that he was watching. Peter, that is. Whether from the bar, or the seats we had been sitting on. He was watching his wife dancing naked with another man, his hands caressing her, caressing me.

Instinctively, I raised my head, opening my mouth, just enough to make the invitation clear.

His lips brushed mine. They felt firm, moist. This time it was my tongue that probed. He met it with his own. It felt good, not just kissing him, but knowing that Peter was watching.

We were still moving, pretending we were dancing, but in reality we were simply getting close, his hands now holding me to him, the bulge in his trousers only too evident, pressed as it was, against my stomach.

Peter, the stranger whose cock was now sandwiched, rigid and firm, between us, had said, had given him the nod. To dance with me? Or fuck me? My cunt was ready. Were he to guide me somewhere from the dance floor, it would open readily. I was mere putty in my husband's hands, and those of this stranger. A fuck toy, just a plaything, yet one with feelings, yearnings, or my own, for cock.

"We can call in at Ikea on the way back from your mother's," Peter had suggested.

That had been part of his talking about a new laptop and desk space for our two children, while we were sitting in the club, reminding me of who I really was. Now he was watching a man he had invited to dance with me, not just dancing with me, but kissing me, open mouthed, and fondling my butt, while his hard on was pressing itself against me.

Not just my butt. The stranger I was slow dancing with kept one hand behind my back, a little below my shoulder blades, while he used the other to explore my body. He caressed his way from my butt, over my pelvis, up my side to the undercurve of my right breast, appraising the fullness of its size and weight, before cupping the nipple stub.

He broke off our kiss just long enough to whisper in my ear.

"I love your areoles. They're amazing."

Peter had told me the same, so many times. Until his reassurances, early on in our relationship, I had always been embarrassed at the saucer like size of my areoles, not helped, of course, by comments made by girls in the school changing rooms, when developing breasts were a thing of general interest to hormone fuelled virgin brains.