Framed

"You can do anything you want to me,..." Sarah had written right across the centre of the photo poster. I planned to.

Sarah was naked by the time that I had finished. She looked as good as ever, except her pussy lips seemed to pout a little more than usual. I wondered just how many men had enjoyed her body in the past four weeks.

"Lie on the bed, face down," I told her.

Sarah did as I said, and I tied each of her wrists and ankles with the pink-purple rope lengths. When I had finished she was splayed, with her arms and legs wide apart.

I took the other item that Sarah had bought out of the bag. It was a play riding crop. I gave it a swish through the air, hitting the mattress close to Sarah's calf. It was Sarah who had bought the crop. She obviously intended for me to use it, but it seemed a little lame.

I left Sarah, took my keys from the hook by the apartment door, and took the lift down to the lobby. Outside it was dark, but the lights around the apartment block were good enough. There was a small rose garden in the grounds of the block, and some of the rose bushes were tied to green coloured cane stakes to stop them from going out of shape. I unbent the thin wire securing one of the roses and pulled the cane out of the ground.

Back in our apartment, I ran the cane under the kitchen tap to clean off the slight coating of earth that had adhered . I dried it with some kitchen towel. Then I went back into the bedroom.

Sarah was waiting. She had had no choice. The pink-purple rope ties had done their job. She looked at me and saw the cane. There was a flicker of something on her face, a trace of concern perhaps, but she disguised it rapidly.

I looked at the photo-poster, Sarah with four, or five, different guys. Every photo showed the guy's cock, erect. In three of them the erect cock was penetrating my wife's pussy. I read the writing across the centre yet again, as if I had not memorised it already.

"You can do anything you want to me,..." That was what she had offered and that was how I intended to play it.

"So how many guys have you met?" I asked.

Sarah did not answer.

I used the cane, swishing it through the air and slamming it onto the mattress with full force, again right beside her calf. It was twice as firm as the riding crop.

"How many," I asked.

"Nine," she said. It was fewer than it might have been.

"Then you get nine strokes," I said.

I took it easy, at first. I read somewhere that experiencing pain makes the body release endomorphins that act as repressors for both pain already being experienced, and any other pain that might be inflicted.

The first six strokes were all aimed across her buttocks. They each created a fresh red line against her pink-white perfect skin. I kept them parallel, exact horizontal lines on her buttock flesh. I like things to be orderly.

After those first six strokes I paused, checking Sarah's face. I could not tell how much pain she was experiencing. She was being pretty stoical, or to be more accurate, she was incredibly pretty and amazingly stoical.

I increased the force with stroke number seven. It was a lot harder. The red line was almost twice the width of the previous lines.

Sarah pulled urgently against her ties and cried out involuntarily. Then she was still, her head turned towards me, and a tear ran from the corner of her eye across her cheek.

I did my best to make stroke number eight the same level of force as number seven. Sarah's body jerked, and she gasped with the pain.

I kept the best for last. I used a longer swing, more force, and what the tennis coaches call follow through, except that there was nowhere for the cane to follow through, so that just meant it slammed deeper into the flesh of her buttocks.

This red line was by far the thickest yet. Sarah did not cry out, she howled. She did not so much pull against her restraints, as rise up on the bed, as if she were momentarily levitating. When she came down her tears were non stop. I guess that one really hurt.

That was when I undressed.

Lying over her, my legs between hers, my body on her buttocks and back, and supported by my arms, I guided my cock head to her pussy.

Nine different cocks had been there since the last time that we had made love.

I slid my cock head into her. She was as wet as a woman can get, wetter even. It occurred to me that it might not all be her sexual secretions.

"Did you meet anyone while you were out?" I asked.

"Yes," was the answer that came back at me. My bitch of a wife had allowed another man to fuck her that afternoon, and had come home to our apartment with his come still inside her. That was why she was so wet.

I made a mental note to use the cane again, not straight away, but soon. That lack of respect was going to cost her some discomfort. But my cock remained rock solid. I still fucked her, and it was exquisite. I have been fucking her ever since, whenever I want, however I want. Life is good again.

That was almost a year ago. Since then, I have not looked at another woman. I have not wanted to. I get everything I need from Sarah. The photo-poster is still above our bed, simultaneously a reminder and a turn on. Every time I look at it I am reminded of the nine guys who fucked my wife, and of her promise to let me do anything I like to her. There really is no bigger turn on.

I have no doubt that Sarah really did meet up with nine guys that month. She has told me about each of them, everything they did to her, and it sounds too genuine to be made up. Besides, the photos confirm at least five of those cocks having enjoyed her cunt.

Knowing that those guys fucked my wife is a turn on that I would never have imagined. Knowing that she could pick up another nine guys at the drop of a hat, but chooses not to, is just as big a turn on.

I like that my wife could have any guy she wanted, but she chooses to stay faithful, at least since that poster went up above our bed.