Full Page Spread

I woke up suddenly, finding myself sweaty and hard.

I went to my suitcase and pulled out the Playboy I'd packed. It fell open to the ad for Svedka Vodka, featuring my wife on the pool table. I then waited three hours for it to turn nine on the west coast so I could phone her.

My dick grew hard again the instant I heard her voice. I confessed to staring at her picture at that very moment, and then to having had a dirty dream about her, although I kept the details a mystery. I was surprised to find her receptive to a little nasty talk, so I asked her to pose like she had in the picture, but totally naked. She gave me some shit about it, but she finally complied, or at least said she did, and then fingered herself towards orgasm as I jacked off, squirting come across the glossy page adorned with her eight-ball undies.

I was stuck in Maine another two days, and again found her tolerating a little long distance role play, even when asked to imagine her hands tightly tied behind her back. I can't explain how exciting it was to hear her cooing into the phone as I thought of my dream. It brought on such elation to have my wife submit to my kinky desires, that on my last day I bought her a stylish green vinyl jacket and boldly purchased a pair of handcuffs.

In person it was too embarrassing to even bring up our phone calls, let alone the idea of handcuffing, so I waited until after dinner, slipped them into the pocket of the green jacket, and laid it on her pillow to discover.

As I said, my wife is not the submissive type, and when she found the handcuffs in the pocket she rolled her eyes and dangled them in front of her like a dirty condom.

"Are you kidding me?"

I smiled guiltily. "Surprise!"

Luckily for me she found them more amusing than offensive and we kidded back and forth until she finally asked for the keys.

"This is what I get for letting you have your fantasy phone sex, huh?"

I pulled the keys from my night stand and tossed them over.

She held them in front of her. "So let's try these out." She jingled them when I didn't immediately offer over my wrists. "You don't trust me?"

I actually didn't trust her, she had way too much mischief in her eyes, but I also wanted to call her bluff. Quite frankly, it didn't matter who wore the handcuffs, it was turn on enough having my wife explore her sexual side.

I put out my wrists, and she brought the handcuffs underneath them––then stopped.

"You should remove your shirt first."

I did as asked, and she openly stared at my chest.

"That's better." She took hold of my wrists and I felt her hands tremble, and that slight tremble instantly transformed our roles. I felt stronger than ever. My half naked body was seriously turning on my hot model wife, and I congratulated myself for spending so much time in the gym.

She decided it would work better if she cuffed me behind my back, and I tried not to smirk at her growing uncertainty. I suddenly realized it might be the first time she'd ever initiated sex between us, and openly craving cock must have been awkward after constantly mocking my gender's inability to keep it in their pants. I compliantly turned around and brought my hands together over my butt. Again she brought the cuffs up to my wrists and stopped.

"Aren't you going to resist a little?"

I pulled my hands away, which met zero resistance as I slipped free of her grasp. She grabbed them and tried to reposition them for cuffing, but when I lightly struggled again my hands broke free a second time.

I've playfully wrestled with my wife before, and for a skinny little girl she puts up a pretty good fight, so I could only assume she'd allowed me to get free.

I wrestled her arms, and only when placed on the defense did her battle grow spirited. But for a guy who benches reps of ten with two-hundred even, it didn't take much to pin her on the bed and cuff her hands behind her back.

"You huge ass, you better hope I don't get free or you're sooo going to get it."

I spanked her butt and then raised it enough to pull down her skirt. She fought against it, but only for show.

"Oh my god, you are such a pervert. Let me go!"

"Don't make me gag you."

"This is totally what I get for stepping into my husband's fantasy."

I striped off her blue panties in one hard yank. I then balled them up and shoved them in her mouth, cutting her off mid sentence. From then on she was all mine, and oh the terrible things I wanted to do.

I spanked and kissed her bottom, and relished the idea of sticking my pinky into her ass, but feared it would genuinely upset her. After turning her over and unbuttoning her shirt, I helped myself to her precious little titties. My tongue met her lithe nipples and circled delicately. But soon her legs hung over my shoulders and I drove her pussy like a prize fighter pinning her to the ropes.

She spit out her underwear, which could have been done at any point, and came hard for her man. I watched her body squirm. Her knees were trapped over my shoulders, her hands trapped under her body, her shirt flipped open so her tits jostled freely, and her black hair streaked against her sweaty face. I almost cried she was such a beautiful sight.

One thing became clear, even though she couldn't admit it to me or even herself, this was now as much her fantasy as mine. I couldn't exactly call my wife submissive, but she definitely took to being restrained. The bratty bitch in her liked it rough. For all her outspoken girl-power competitiveness, being overpowered in the bed made her cream herself crazy.

The Svedka Vodka ad garnered Beth more work in the following two months than she'd seen the entire prior year, just as her agent said it would, and most were higher profile, with one series running in GQ. Even more amazing, she'd loosened up considerably when it came to the risqué sessions.

For one ad she wore a black skirt, pink tennis shoes, a black body stocking, and a pink ribbon around her neck. No bra meant her coral nipples glowed plain as day through the shear transparent stocking.

Even better was a session she did for Tallia Orange. They cut her hair into something like Elvis's, applied a dense layer of midnight-blue eye-shadow, long fake lashes, and put her in nothing but a white, men's, dress shirt, unbuttoned down to her navel. A fully clothed man stood behind her, and she kneeled facing away from him, arching her back so her shoulders and head rested on his abdomen, and held onto his tie like a rope. His face poked out of the shot, while hers stared straight at the camera, her eyes glowing like blue neon over a brothel door and her lips puckered full and relaxed, as if quivering from cold or lust. Her unbuttoned shirt buckled on the far side, so the profile of her tit was exposed. She looked so ready to fuck I couldn't stare at it without getting hard.

It was tame enough I could tack to my office wall, and I did. She was so heavily made-up it took Parker, my boss, a week to recognize her. When he did, he said, "You better keep a lot of ice on hand, because your wife's so hot she'll burn your dick off." I gave Parker a knowing smile just as my phone rang, and he left my office shaking his head.

Beth was on the line, and her agent just received word they needed her for a follow up to the Tallia Orange ad. The bad news––they planned to pair her up with Brad, the photographer who shot the Svedka Vodka ad and the overbearing masculine type Beth has a problem with. I tried telling her it didn't matter, but she wanted to back out, fearing he'd try to push the limits on an already racy campaign.

"Tallia Orange needs something they can print, so he's bound by that."

"I know, but he just likes to shove his camera where it doesn't belong and I know I'll say something and be branded the mouthy girl all over again."

"Pretend it's me. Pretend we're in our bedroom alone and the rest of the world doesn't exist. Or just think of the money!"

I hid my excitement over the fact she'd more than likely return from the shoot ready for a night of handcuffs and love making. My excitement turned to disappointment, however, when I learned the day of the shoot fell on the same day I had to be in Maine meeting with a group of old rich men interested in purchasing Parker's super yacht

Super yachts are amazingly cool. They are basically mini cruise ships, and this particular one featured seven decks and a pool. Parker purchased it for ten million from some guy in Spain desperate to sell, and spent six years and another two million restoring it. I honestly don't think he expected to ever unload the thing, since he priced it close to a hundred million, but I'd chatted up some old guy at the Maine convention, and he called me back, very interested. Parker needed me there for the final deal, and I expected to earn one hell of a commission as a result, so as much as I wanted to be home when Beth returned from the shoot, there was no getting out of the trip.

The following week I flew to Maine, where Parker and I met the old rich guy at his Cape Elizabeth estate. He happened to be the president of an ultra elite yacht club, and it was the club who planned on jointly purchasing the ship, so we presented to nine members of the club board in his huge courtyard overlooking the Atlantic and backed by a grove of reddening maple trees.

By the time we headed off to dinner, Parker was confident I'd made the sale and treated me to five-star restaurant in town. We headed back to our hotel around ten with a couple Martini's in us, but I couldn't fall asleep as I was running on West Coast time, and so I called Beth while I spread out on a queen size bed. She answered with an irritated "Hello," and I immediately knew things hadn't gone well at the shoot.

She'd done as I suggested, pretending I guided her through each shot instead of Brad, and for the most part she relaxed and did as asked. It wasn't until he spanked her that she snapped, and then yelled for him to punch her in the face, shouting, "Punch me as hard as you can. Do it, I want you to. You want to lay one on me––I know it, so just do it, please!"

She then ran to a side office and took five minutes to gain control again. When she returned she claimed to be especially accommodating just to prove he couldn't get to her, a move he totally took advantage of.

"He had me lay over this guy's knee and the guy pretended to spank me with the belt, like I was a little girl! I totally have Brad figured out now––he wants me to be a bitch because he likes to force bitches to do degrading shit––that's how he gets off. I always knew he hated women, I just didn't realize his boner depended on it."

"Hates women? Couldn't he maybe just like to objectify women? He is a photographer, after all."

Beth wasn't hearing me, she only wanted to vent, and so I let her––for over an hour I let her.

I flew back to LA early the next day, grabbed my car from the lot and drove home as fast as I could.

As I turned down my street I spotted a fire truck blocking our driveway, and coldness trickled down my spine. Then I smelled it, the pungent stench of burning plastic, and my mind flooded with a vision of a burnt-out bedroom window and a smoldering bed. The side gate hung open, so I parked on the street and followed the cobblestones into our backyard. I saw our metal trashcan pouring out white smoke in the middle of our patio, and three firemen surrounding Beth. One of them held a clipboard out towards her, but her arms remained locked across her chest. She wore only a large T shirt, and probably nothing but underwear underneath.

"Ma'am, this isn't an admission of guilt. This just says we were here. You can still dispute any penitential fines."

"The problem is I didn't ask you to come."

"The problem is it's illegal and dangerous to burn gasoline and plastics."

"It wasn't like I was burning tires or trash."

"There were gasoline flames as high as your roof and I could smell plastic and rubber. Look, if you wanted to get rid of your clothes, just donate them."

"Why, so some woman can turn anorexic trying look good in something only a twelve-year-old should fit into?"

"Without a signature I guarantee they'll turn it over to an investigator."

"I didn't have to let you in!"

I stepped in then, introduced myself and signed his paper. As I did, he explained there'd been a report of a fire and it appeared my wife had filled our trashcan with gas and burned several shoes and items of clothing. She fled inside without saying a word to me. As soon as the firemen left I walked over to the remaining pile of clothes. I grabbed the vinyl green jacket I'd bought as a present, the one I hid the handcuffs in, and carried it with me as I went inside to hunt her down. I found her sitting in our sofa, her arms still locked over her chest.

Beth weighed about one-twenty––she was thin but tone. She had perfect curves and hips slightly wider than her shoulders. Any skinnier would have detracted from her beauty. She once explained how the super models filling the pages of Vogue and Elle are beyond thin because all the women reading those magazines fantasize about being skinny and young, and models that aren't walking skeletons tend to land in garbage catering to men, like the Tallia Orange campaign.

"OK babe, I get it. I know it sucks that all the big-time fashion gigs go to bone thin little girls, but did you really need to burn your clothes?"

"I'm tired of looking at my fat ass in them."

"Now you're just being stupid! Your ass is a miracle from god, and it isn't fat."

Her forehead softened some, and then tensed up like she was about to cry. "I just want to kill him. Can I? Can I just kill Brad?"

I laughed and reached for a hug. She wrapped her arms around me tight and squeezed me intensely. I comforted her, at least for the night. I realized then she'd missed our little bondage game more so than I, in fact, her bruised ego couldn't heal without it and she only became worse.

Over the next few weeks she grew increasingly depressed, barely speaking to anyone and rarely leaving the house. I felt horrible for encouraging her to do the shoot and wondered if she'd ever snap out of her funk.

Little changed over the next month, and then on a Friday morning I noticed several bruises on her thigh as I dressed for work and she slept in. It troubled me throughout the day, as I came to the conclusion she'd taken to hitting herself, and I grew anxious to get out of the office and back home to her.

Then at four-thirty, Parker rapped on my office door and told me we were heading out for beers. Apparently the check had cleared and I'd officially sold the super yacht. He also slipped me a commission check for a million-five, and I could barely focus on all those zeros as I laughed aloud.

He dragged all fifteen employees down to a sports bar on Washington to celebrate, and announced to everyone how I was the man of the hour. My head spun. I knew my commission would be big, but I'd suddenly become rich.

Parker then disappeared to take a quick piss, and on his way back, pulled me aside to ask if my wife was on the wall. I had no idea what he meant, until I remembered the corkboard in the men's room littered with pages out of Playboy and Penthouse. I shook my head no, but he said I'd better go check it out, and I did.

When I stared at the board running the length of the bathroom wall, the air in the room compressed and I felt as if my body was being crushed inwards. I had the panicky feeling everyone knew my dirty little secret, because not only were the pictures of my wife, they were of my wife tied up with belts. They had to be from the session she shot with Brad for Tallia Orange and while they didn't use the image of her being spanked like a little girl, what actually made it to print wasn't any better.

Before me hung a three-page fold-out of three separate images. On the left was a shot of my wife from the waist up, heavily made up and staring at me with inescapable I'm-going-to-fuck-you eyes. She was completely naked except for a belt wrapped around her chest, squeezing her tits and concealing her nipples like some bondage inducing tube-top. The way the soft flesh squished out from either side of the stiff belt made her tits seem huge.

The photo on the right focused on her bare ass. She had a man's belt fastened around her waist, but it did nothing to change the fact it was simply a photo of my wife's pronounced, bare ass.

The image in the center featured her kneeling between two men in suits. Everything above their shoulders and below their knees was cropped out. Again my wife was naked, but without even a belt to cover her up this time. Her tits were right out front, every nuance of her nubile nipples captured in stunning detail. With her teeth she pulled a belt free from the trousers worn by the man on her right, while her hands unfastened the belt buckle belonging to the gentleman on her left. Her poet's eyes stared right at me, glistening with unquenchable desire. The picture offered a story––these two guys were about to fuck the hot little bitch between them, my wife. That was the reason someone pinned her 'fashion ad' onto a board full of pin-up girl smut.

Beth must have been buck-naked for the entire shoot. Counting Brad, the photographer, she was buck-naked alongside three fully clothed men for several hours. She was buck-naked when Brad actually spanked her––skin on skin contact. No wonder Beth freaked, it was far more degrading than I could've imagined. I grew harder by the second.

I couldn't stand it. Even though I was the man of the hour, I had to see her immediately. I returned outside and was straight with my boss, telling him those photos gave me a sudden urge to see my wife.

He toasted me and winked. "You and me both, brotha."

I laughed and downed my beer.

"Show your little mamma that check, that'll ensure you get it on!"

Beth was right, he did make a monkey face when he said that.

From the bar I made a quick stop by Neiman Marcus and then raced home. Upon arrival I found Beth lying on the couch with a book. I tossed the Neiman Marcus bag on her stomach and she dropped the book flat against her chest.

"A present?"

"You haven't been right, and I thought you could use a little cheering up."

She opened the bag, peeked inside to see a coiled up Tallia Orange belt and shook her head.

"Really? This is my present? This is what you thought I needed to cheer up?"

I had a check for a million-five hiding in my pocket, so no matter how deeply I dug my grave, I could instantly eject at any moment.

"That's only part of the present. Here's the rest." I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, then queued up a picture of the men's room corkboard with her Tallia Orange spread smack dab in the middle of all that smut.

She took the phone and held it before her. I knew an ocean raged within her, but her face remained stone.

Finally she looked up while handing it back. She smiled but her eyes told a different story. "That's really great! You're right, that's just what I needed––to be reminded of the most humiliating ordeal of my life."

My optimism only grew––I wasn't afraid of her self loathing anymore. I grabbed the belt off her lap and gave it a snap.

She opened her mouth but froze before saying anything, and then finally sat up and reached out her hand. "Oh fuck it, let's go."

Once on her feet, she practically dragged me to the bedroom. I got the feeling nothing had changed for her, but I'd managed to momentarily distract her stormy head with a horny impulse straight to the crotch. I quickly bound her wrists with the new belt. I grabbed a second belt from my drawer to wrap it around her face and kept her balled up panties trapped inside her mouth.