Faithful Affair: Ecstasy and Agony

This story bombed in Erotic Couplings; folks there, it seems, don't like having their idealised eroticism rudely contested by the vagaries of real life. I hope you will be more broadminded, because these things do happen; and this particular one, I understand, really did...

"I had a request..."

Tom was concentrating on making breakfast, and Ella's words took a while to sink in. It was his day off, and a fresh fruit salad was occupying his attention; he had to finish the solemn business of scraping the discarded orange peel into the food waste caddy before her voice could penetrate his barely-awake, pre-breakfast brain. Slowly, her words fell into place and he turned to find her standing in the doorway, leaning with a superb elegance against the door jamb. Suddenly, breakfast went completely out of Tom's mind.

Ella didn't look as though she had come to the kitchen to eat breakfast. Man-eating seemed much more likely than breakfast-eating in that get-up; and seeing her in that carefully nonchalant pose -- and in those clothes -- Tom felt quite happy to be eaten.

Working from home as she did these days, her normal daytime attire was either trousers, jeans or leggings with some kind of casual top. She might possibly have dressed up rather more had she been going out to a meeting or a speaking engagement: that could explain the skirt and the black sweater, although the sweater was a little tight and the profile of her breasts strongly suggested that some serious uplifting technology was deployed beneath. It would also explain the makeup and some high heels; but not that high, surely? They were definitely in the 'fuck-me' category. At breakfast?

Tom's stunned brain tried to process what Ella had said and what he was seeing. It was true that he had made a request. Ella's dressed-down day wear had lately begun to pervade their evenings; Tom was very rarely stirred by leggings, and he had begun to wonder if the sight of them was dampening the ardour that Ella liked to see in him at bedtime. Trousers, unless they were superbly cut, and leggings were so damnably prosaic; jeans, in his opinion, were work trousers for builders. In public, he did not mind -- Tom was not the sort of man who expected all the women in the world to dress for his titillation. But surely for a cosy evening with his wife in his own home he could hope for a little of the teasing feminine mystery provided by a skirt, at least occasionally? So, yes, he had put in a request. But that was only last night! He hadn't quite expected to see the benefits so soon, nor so early in the day.

"You look... dangerous," he said, carefully. That was an understatement. The clothes wrapped her tall, slim body in a package that looked nothing short of sensational -- in Tom's eyes, absolutely fucking sensational -- and when she turned around to give Tom the benefit of the rear view, those startling high heels launched his eyes directly up the prominent seams of those sheer black stockings that only emphasised the elegance of her slender legs. And where her legs disappeared under the hem of her skirt, his imagination saw no reason to stop: his inner eye had no difficulty in travelling on up her deliciously straight thighs to the lace tops of her stockings, and then making the short ascent up the remaining inches of naked flesh to their rendezvous above. And then...

Knickers, thong or string? Crotchless? Perhaps there was nothing at all. Time would tell. He turned his thoughts back to her skirt, so smoothly encompassing her gorgeous derriere: that needed caressing. She needed caressing. All of her.

He pulled her into his embrace and kissed her lipstick to messy ruin. Her arms came round over his shoulders while his hands enjoyed her waist and then slid up and down her slim torso before settling inevitably on her buttocks.

"Come on," he growled, nudging her back through the doorway. Breakfast could wait, this could not. He needed her.

Upstairs in the bedroom, he didn't waste any time. If she could be said to have turned him on, then she should know that the voltage was dangerously high. That tight sweater went first, the quarter-cup bra beneath it lifting her breasts and offering him her nipples for his delight -- which he expressed with an enthusiasm that in turn delighted her, even as he spread some of her lost lipstick around them. The bra was soon gone, too.

There was a minor setback -- like a momentary clashing of gears in what should have been a smooth change -- when her skirt came off. Unbuttoned, unzipped and hanging precariously from her waist, a couple of provocative hip-rolls sent it slithering down her thighs and dropping to the floor as her hands writhed sensuously above her head; that was a great move, but it revealed her imagined lace-top stockings to be in fact a pair of tights, which was something of a shock. Tom was inclined to regard tights as a form of cheating. However, she coped with them admirably and deftly swept them off -- together with her knickers -- in style, a feat that Tom had never thought possible; he was impressed, despite himself, and grudgingly admitted to himself that they might have a place after all. Anyway, right now there was naked feminine flesh to enjoy, urgently needing his attention. He gave it his all.

It was around this time that Tom made a decision that was to have unforeseen and painful consequences. It was not necessarily a wrong decision, however; it simply had painful consequences, and they were part of a larger whole. By and large, Tom would accept them as a fair price for the particular pleasure he chose. Would he have gone ahead if he had foreseen them? He could not say. Would he do the same again? Ay, there's the rub!

For better or for worse, Tom made the decision not to undress. And it was 'the rub' -- though not quite in the way that Shakespeare had had in mind -- that would indeed be the problem.

He would be the first to admit that there was an element of lazy bravado in it, but there was also a real desire to honour his wife for so gamely rising to his challenge. He had, as she had said, put in a request and she had been quick to meet it; he wanted to show his appreciation by responding with a certain wildness that might emphasise what an impact her move had made on him. He wanted her to feel his urgency, to see his stiff shaft poking out through his zip. She had driven him wild: let her know his madness. He undid the zip and, with some difficulty, pulled out his thickening cock. She certainly noticed it and, from the look on her face, she appreciated it and was looking forward to feeling it. They exchanged barely a word as he arranged her on her knees in front of him on the bed, her legs splayed wide open and his knees in between them; and then he plunged in, to the hilt.

The hilt on this occasion involved his zip. This novel experience was not what anyone would call painful, but there was something not quite comfortable about it -- though it was hard to say what. Whatever it was, the discomfort was just slightly less than the addictive comfort and the thrill of having his cock rammed up inside her.

That proved to be the pattern of what was to come. The longer he went on, and the harder he thrust, the greater the discomfort -- but never outweighing the sheer pleasure of driving his cock deeper into her. The complex and growing swirl of tensions around his groin, the pleasurable power of his thigh muscles and the sensual thrust of his pelvis, the deeper engagement of his brain: these all washed over him at each stroke, just -- but only just -- swamping the growing feeling that the flesh of his shaft was being ripped to shreds by the teeth of his zip as he moved.

He remembered, too late, that in contrast to Ella's fabulous and no doubt carefully contrived display of sexy power dressing, he had fallen out of bed straight into his gardening clothes. The folds of his increasingly disordered clothing made it hard now to see what was really going on where his trouser front was battering into Ella's gorgeous rump; but he did know that he was wearing a very old pair of trousers, and he had a feeling that the zip was quite primitive. Rather than a relatively smooth modern nylon zip with fine teeth, he could see in his mind's eye -- mingled with delicious images of his sleek, lubricated cock powering triumphantly deep into Ella's pussy -- the chunky brass teeth of an old-fashioned dragon savaging his delicate skin. The base of his shaft must be bleeding by now but the rising excitement of its head pulled him on with a desire that could not be denied, and the rest of his body was roaring it on. He must stop; but he could not stop.

Obviously Ella, stretched out in splendour in front of him, was completely unaware -- he presumed -- of his struggle. As long as his cock was sliding in and out of her rhythmically like the piston of a steam engine, that was all that mattered. Why disturb her pleasure with a question that only he could answer? Or, for that matter, a question that even he could not answer? He just had to go on, there really was no question at all. She would know all about it in the end, anyway, as they would have to confront together the matter of washing the sheet clean of the blood that must by now be dripping onto it from his brutalised member. It was hurting like hell now, but the heavenly pull of his imminent climax was too much to resist.

Was this pain/pleasure thing that he was experiencing in any way related to the dubious masochistic pleasures of BDSM? From what he knew, it didn't fit. He knew that the effect could be real, for sure: Ella certainly seemed quite genuinely to find an erotic thrill in the pain of wearing the ornamental rings that pinched her nipples. Tom had tried that too, and though it had rather less effect on him, he could well understand it. That pain, however, was only an extreme form of the natural pleasure of having your nipples toyed with, with the added kicks of elegance, naughtiness and bravado for good measure; what he was suffering here was an unnatural abrasion with no sort of elegance about it -- and with stupidity standing in for naughtiness and bravado. Not only that, but he was bleeding too.

He was aware that some people supposedly found pleasure in having their bottoms caned or flagellated even to the point of bleeding. Tom was very dubious about that, feeling that it might have more to do with the pleasure of the sadist inflicting the damage -- and even more to do with the profitability of selling such porn to voyeurs. Even so, the buttocks were at least an obvious and inviting erogenous zone. The base of his shaft, on the other hand, seemed to him to be the least erogenous part of his cock; and compared with something elegant like having his sexy buttocks (as Ella assured him they were) lovingly thrashed with a luxury faux-leather flogger, the prosaic damage being inflicted by his zip felt more like having his ankles ripped by the iron teeth on the bucket of a JCB excavator.

No, what his zip was doing to him was not sexy at all. On the other hand, what he was doing to Ella -- poking his hot shaft right up her -- was sexy beyond all imagination. Her occasional moans and groans, and somehow even more the tight silences as she focussed on maximising the pleasure deep inside her, confirmed his opinion. He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth and ploughed on, out of control, until at last he delivered in a final ball-clenching paroxysm. His usual feeling of triumphant euphoria was augmented by the sheer pleasure of having stopped.

Eventually, he came round and eased himself gently out of her with the usual sighs and deep breaths. He looked down to see what the JCB had done to him. At least there was no blood on the sheet; that was a mercy. It must all be on his trousers and in his pants. He unbuckled his belt and carefully pulled down his trousers and his underpants to see the raw places. He was amazed: the bloodied and torn flesh of his imagination simply was not there. The pain had been hugely reduced by freeing himself from his clothing, but he could still feel it; yet there was nothing to be seen -- barely a hint even of any soreness at all, let alone any blood. He couldn't believe it. Then he noticed his zip: an innocent, modern, nylon zip with teeth as fine and smooth as you like, nothing like the teeth on the bucket of a JCB. It was all very strange; yet no stranger, perhaps, than having your breakfast preparations interrupted by the seductions of a femme fatale.