Confession - Masked for the Unknown

I waiting, wondering, what my husband would now chose to do. He liked, he said, to keep me guessing. My guess was that in this club, he would chose to watch.

From somewhere overhead, Wagner's violin and cellos played.

**********

We both showered at the hotel. That is, I showered, while Peter walked in, naked, with me, and used a rag and gel to rinse me down, my hair scrunchied into a bun to keep it dry. He used the hand held shower head, directing the water downwards, soaping me and streaming the suds from my body.

I did the same for him, although his need for cleanliness was less than mine, but taking equal care around his genitals, his semen laden testicles, and his thick and angled hard-on. Then I turned the shower-head back onto myself, clicking the selector from drizzle spray to jet, aiming it between my legs, letting the water open me, dowsing and rinsing and purifying my well used cunt.

We dried each other, luxuriating in the huge, white, fluffed up towels. Then we used the twin basins, our electric tooth brushes, mint freshness in the toothpaste, Peter dealing only with any remnants of our pre-concert, pre-clubbing dinner, so many hours before, my also cleansing my mouth of bitter tasting semen.

We rinsed, and dried our chins and went to bed and held each other, and it felt so good, so wonderful, to be back with him alone, and in his arms, and to hold the reassuring firmness of his so beautiful, alluring cock, the only cock I really wanted, the essence of the man I love.

"You were amazing," Peter said.

"I can't believe you wanted that," I answered.

"I had to," he explained. "I've pictured it so often, you, with those guys you slept with. I needed to see it, see you being fucked, to stop imagining and see reality instead."

"I never meant to hurt you," I told him.

"I know," he said. "But that doesn't change what happened."

"I know."

A moment's comfortable silence. Neither of us speaking. Eyes looking into one another's eyes. Love exchanged in open, honest gazing, into each other's souls.

"I lost count," I admitted. "Was it three or four?"

"Four," Peter told me. "And the one you swallowed."

"That explains why I feel so well used," I said. "Although they seemed to come quite quickly."

"That was my other thought," he said. "Something different for you to remember. Not the guys you slept with. What happened at the club."

That was twice that he had used the same phrase. "Slept with". I had not slept with either of them. Allowed them to fuck me, yes, but the gardener had fucked me in the afternoon, and in the kitchen, not in bed, and the man whose bedroom I had gone to at the Heathrow Hilton had fucked me from behind over the end of the bed, not in it, and I had left when we had finished, so I had not "slept with" him either.

What his choice of words meant to me, was that my husband still did not want to say that they had "fucked" me. Something prevented him. I was still the woman that he loved.

"I don't think I'll forget tonight that easily," I said.

Then I added my one reservation about what had happened.

"I can't believe you let some woman use your belt on me," I said.

"Why not?" he laughed.

"It was humiliating!" I complained. "And then, even afterwards, when you'd taken off my mask, you wouldn't tell me which woman it was!"

"Or which men it was, who fucked you," he continued laughing.

This time he had used the words. "Fucked you". But then tonight had been his night, his decisions, not mine.

"I prefer not knowing," I admitted.

"I prefer you not to know," he said.

"Although I knew it wasn't you," I said. "I mean the first time, when I felt him entering."

I had felt hands resting on my butt, close to the pelvic girdle, not where my flesh was throbbing. Then unguided nudging at my cunt, what felt like cock head, not quite locating where to penetrate with greatest ease. Then one hand leaving where he held me, brushing my butt, and he took hold and guided his manhood, and the head slid into the wetness that awaited it.

I had wondered if it was Peter. I could not tell. Sometimes, at him, he used the same technique to guide his cock inside me. It might have been my husband fucking me, or someone he had nodded to, just like the Scotsman. A stranger fuck. Anonymous. Not just that I did not know the stranger, but that I did not even know if it was indeed an unknown man. I knew only that this cock felt good, and that I needed this, had waited long enough, and I would just enjoy this fuck, would let it happen, and would not worry who it was.

He did not make me come, that first man. He came. By then I had taken in the different feel of him, as long, as thick, as Peter's, but sliding somehow differently, the feel of it a little slicker, and then I had realised why, and had been grateful for the fine latex between his skin and my own, and the knowledge that when he came, it would be captured, and the semen would not remain inside me, not this time.

"None of them was me," my husband said.

"I wondered if it was you I swallowed," I said. "Was it?"

"No," he said. "A couple asked me if I minded if the husband could,.."

"So,..." I said, "that means,... I've got a stranger's semen in me,... now."

"I guess," Peter confirmed.

"You don't mind?"

"Honestly?" he asked.

I nodded, my head moving against his chest.

"I was in two minds about asking those guys to wear protection," my husband told me. "Letting them come inside you without it would have been more erotic. Maybe just not too sensible."

Four strangers, each fucking me to ejaculation, and spewing their semen deep inside me, no protection, no nothing, definitely would not have been sensible. But the thought made my clit pulse. I was still holding Peter's cock, stroking it gently as we talked, my finger playing at his frenum, just below the flange. He had not yet fucked me, or anyone.

"Are you going to,..." I asked.

He did not bother answering. He just removed his arm from round my shoulders, and used the size of the hotel bed to turn me onto my back. Then he moved above me.

Four, Peter had said. Taking me from behind. While I was strapped to that leather horse contraption, unable to see behind me, even if I had not been wearing the mask. Four anonymous cocks, opening me, sliding inside, thrusting steadily, gently, and not so gently, one in particular slamming into me, making up for a lesser length with more forceful fucking, taking me to a second explosive orgasm, proving that size is not everything, although it was less technique than the mind-blowing experience of being strapped down while being fucked by unknown men, that had raised my level of enjoyment to that orgasmic crescendo.

It had been amazing fucking, but my husband's cock slowly parting my labia, widening my entrance, and easing deep into my cunt was far more wonderful that anything that had happening in the club. I could see him, for a start. He was above me, staring down, love and acceptance beaming from the depth of his eyes. I loved him so much. Still do.

Briefly, as he fucked me, I wondered if the club had been a one time only thing, my husband's way of telling me that I was no longer just his wife, but his newly discovered fuck-toy, his plaything, his to do with as he wished, sexually, that is, or if something more had been awakened in him, a darker appetite, Wagnerian, that would require satisfying, would lead to yet more darkness for myself.

If that was what it takes to save a marriage, then that was what I would allow. Not just allow. Not just submit to. Enjoy, perhaps. Look forward to. Look back on, afterwards, with the same sense of pride that I could do what I had done.

It was a fleeting thought, overtaken by his insistent, deep and delicious thrusting. I truly loved this man.

**********

"Hey, Mum, how was the concert?"

"Wonderful," I said, holding both my boys in my arms at once.

My mother smiled.

"Good date-night?" she asked me, just that bit more knowing than the children as to why a couple might want some time alone.

I smiled back at her, grateful that even mothers cannot read their daughter's minds.

"It was good," I told her, nodding, while hoping I was not giving any hint of just how mind-blowingly good the night had been.

"Really good," Peter agreed.

"Thanks for looking after these two," he added, meaning the boys.

I straightened up, from having hugged our sons. My butt still throbbed a little, from its punishment. So did my cunt, but gently, nicely, pleasantly. It felt so good, to be a 'Mum' again, but to know, as well, exactly who and what I was.