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Her pussy looked so gorgeous that I couldn't figure out what to do to it first. I started with my finger, gently circling the lips and finally breeching the gates into the warm stuffing box beneath. With my other arm I managed to get her whole ass into something like a head-lock as I fingered her harder. Her pussy was mine, and my perverse imagination crashed against the forefront of my mind like the sea into a shore line of rock. I reached over and took the pink vibrator from her night stand. I stuck it in and worked that pussy over good.

Then I took notice of her precious bottom, and images from my dream brought up the biggest wave of perversion yet. With her ass high in the air and in my complete control, I slowly worked the pink plastic vibrator into her butt. What can I say, it had to be done.

A third of the way in I let go and her tight sphincter held it in place, so it poked out like a flagpole on the side of a building. I stepped back and stared. It was beautiful. I'd never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Beth was bound and gagged, her ass jutting upwards, round youthful and flawless, and vulnerably presented for my perverse mischief. Then there was the vibrator, glowing with the red evening light from the window, like a marker indicating her ass had been claimed, manhandled, desecrated.

I was suddenly compelled to say something a little mean. "Betcha Brad would love to photograph this."

It caused her to lose it and freak out. With her belted hands she tried to pull the other belt free from her mouth. I quickly moved beside her and unfastened it from the back. The belt fell, she spit out the balled up panties, and then she really let me have it.

"That's the best you can do? Tie a girl up so you can stick a stick in her butt and stand around completely full of yourself? Is that what it takes to feel like a man?"

I was stunned. Maybe I'd gone a little too far, but still. She hadn't moved, she remained on her knees with her ass in the air, vibrator and all.

"Pathetic! Why don't you get it over with and just stick it in your own ass already."

I lost it then, grabbed the vibrator and pushed it further in.

"Shit! That's it––let me know how you really feel."

I did! I began to jam the vibrator deeper, then in and out. I fucked her ass with our little plastic friend like a madman. Finally I jammed it all the way in.

"Oh fuck! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

I grabbed her hair and yanked back her head as I furiously worked the pink rod in and out. Our pink friend was thin, smooth and lubricated, the flesh of her asshole was slick and oily, and welcomed the speedy trespasser with quivering solidarity. It glided through her sphincter so smoothly the flesh didn't fluctuate with the motion, it stayed as still as a hole in a wall with Pinky darting through. She was speechless, and probably coming. I was agitated, confused and totally out-of-control excited. For the first time in our marriage I understood Beth's insanity. My own heart had become that of a poet's, and sights, sounds, yearnings, pain all flowed through me in wild passionate rhythms, and satisfying the rhythms took precedence over reason, which screamed for me to stop.

It dawned on me how close I'd come to recreating my dream, the dream where Beth played the hot assassin who paid dearly for her profession with her ass. And from out of nowhere I remembered the old rich man who bought the super yacht, the one with enough cash to buy anything. He played a part in this somehow. As my thoughts returned to my wife's behind and the slender pink rod inside it, I suddenly had a premonition of how my obsession would play out, in fact, it seemed to have all happened before and every detail had been seared into my brain. I feared for my wife and myself, but a torrent of passion drove me forwards.

I gradually lost interest in the vibrator and flipped her over for a fuck. I trapped her bound hands over her head, and kissed her with an open mouth. Her legs locked around my butt, and I came with our cheeks pressed together, watching the last of the light fade behind our thin rose patterned curtains.

Twilight left the room blue and dark and the vibrator was hidden in the shadows on the floor. I rolled off her, undid the belt around her wrists and she immediately hugged me and proceeded to curl up into my lap. I held her like a child, caressing her hair and kissing the top of her head. She wouldn't speak and wouldn't let me go. She needed to be cuddled, and so I held her for close to an hour. Our demons had been vanquished, and the sex and shouting and insanity now seemed eons ago. The entire house turned pitch black. I kept her safe as a calm peace settled over both of us, and for a moment I lost my obsession, and let go of the old rich man, Brad the photographer and my troubling dream.

Absently staring at the beige cinder block wall separating our backyard from the alley, I took a sip of coffee and let the smell and warmth calm my nerves. The sleeves in my bathrobe were getting damp from the dew on our glass patio table, so I pulled a sleeve back as I set down the cup and hit send on the email with Beth's Tallia Orange spread attached.

I pressed my phone back to my ear. "OK, it should be on its way."

"Give it a minute, my mail's slow."

While waiting I closed down the browser window displaying the billionaire's yacht club and a second window showing a large still shot of a camera and machine stamped text, reading, "Brad Court Studios."

Brad came back to the phone. "That's the model your client wants? Listen, even if she goes for it, she'll probably ask two grand before doing the kind of shit they're asking."

It was so bizarre to hear my wife's price and I spaced out for a moment trying gauge what it meant.

Brad must have taken my silence to mean I'd reconsidered, because he spoke up quickly. "Look, I can probably talk her down to fifteen hundred, but I could get you a decent girl for half that. Also, check out that chick's eyes in the center photo, there's a crazy bitch living in there. You have no idea what she's like to work with. I'm going to need an extra five-hundred if it has to be her."

I stopped myself from yelling, and calmly reasoned, "You want five hundred extra bucks to photograph a pretty girl in the nude?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'll enjoy it, it's just gonna be rough. And given this is some obscure newsletter for some super elite yacht club, there's zero visibility on this, so there's nothing in it for me beyond the money."

I already didn't like the guy, but if anyone could get the shots I wanted that jack-ass could, and I begrudgingly agreed to his price and hung up the phone with shaking hands.

I stared at the beige cinder block wall again. It suddenly dawned on me I finally had the money to knock it down and put up the double slated wood fence Beth wanted. Hell, I had over a million dollars coming my way––I could buy a whole new house. And with Christmas only a month and half away I pictured myself handing Beth the keys to a Porsche, or passing her an envelope stuffed with airline tickets for a trip around the world.

Breaking the news of the money should be magical like that, and not a band-aid to tide over her depression. If money came into her life right then that's exactly what it would be––Beth would spend and spend until she felt numb, and whatever brief change it made would inevitably end right back where she started.

I quickly closed down my email when the sliding glass door to the patio opened and Beth came through the doorway wearing nothing but panties and a tee-shirt. With a sexy smile she thanked me for making coffee and cradled a large cup of it in both hands. It was the earliest she'd been out of bed in months, and appeared vibrant and content. Maybe last night's game of tied up wife effectively lifted Beth out of her funk. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, nothing meant more to me than seeing Beth happy, and the little present I'd secretly schemed for myself became more important than ever.

On Friday Beth and I ate dinner at Taix French Cuisine in Echo Park. Seated across the table from her I noticed a change in her appearance. I was still getting used to her black flowing hair having been cut short, but that wasn't it. Beyond the allure of her blue poet's eyes and flawless beauty, something else popped her out from a crowd. Maybe it was only me, but my bondage loving wife acquired a dark mystique even more compelling than her looks.

After our soup arrived I asked if she had any jobs coming up, trying not to sound so interested as to give myself away. She claimed not to, but her eyes dropped towards her soup. For a moment I wondered if she'd accepted the job and planned to keep it from me, but I couldn't believe she'd accept that kind of work without my consent.

Our entrees arrived and she began cutting into her tomato and mushroom crepe, and then set her fork down.

"OK, I've been offered a great paying job, but it's for that guy Brad, and it sounds extremely strange, so I'm hardly considering it."

"It's extremely strange?"

She lowered her voice and leaned a few inches forwards, so I did the same.

"Strange! I'd be nude, but what's strange is it's supposed to be for some kind of newsletter going out to a group of wealthy men. Apparently they are very secretive with it."

"OK, that's a little strange, but it also means you don't have to worry about anyone seeing, right?"

"I knew you'd say that. I kept it from you because I knew you'd try to talk me into it, and I need to be sure about this."

"I'm just saying..."

"You're just saying I should strip naked for the camera any chance I get. Men are just so predictably simple. The only reason I'm considering doing this is the money. I'll get a thousand for day's work, and that's unheard of."

A thousand? Apparently my wife's price was lower than I'd been told.

"So what's stopping you?"

"I told you, it's a newsletter for some rich, old, pervert's club needing a few nudie pics to accompany an article. Doesn't that strike you as pretty weird? I'd be a spy in it or something. Brad didn't give me too many details, but he said they were perverse enough to make the old perverts ask for discretion. Just when I thought men couldn't be any more fucked up, life presents me with this."

"Well it's your decision, babe, and if you decide to do it you don't even have to show me the pictures." Guilt stabbed into my stomach knowing I'd be the recipient of the final pictures, a fact I'd planned to keep secret until they were in my possession.

She relaxed and had a few glasses of wine, and as soon as we arrived home I led her to the bedroom and tied her up tight. After forty-five minutes of intense sex, I held her close, where she whispered excitedly into my ear how she'd procure at least one of the photos for me.

At the time, I couldn't have been happier.

Another week crept by and I heard nothing more about the shoot. Then on Thursday a strong wind picked up, sending wave after wave of elm leaves tumbling up our street as I headed towards a dark house. I smelled the same burning petrol smell as the night I came home to find firemen in our backyard, but it was only my mind playing tricks, there was no fire to be found. Her car sat angled in our driveway, and inside the house I went from one black room to the next calling her name.

Then I entered our bedroom, and on our bed laid a single print of Beth tied up at the feet of a big U.S. Soldier in camouflaged fatigues. A second soldier pushed her head to the floor, his hand smashing her furry Russian military hat embroidered with a hammer and sickle emblem on its front. She wore a grey tee-shirt but from the waist down was naked and beautiful. Being shot from the side no actual privates were visible, and it came out so perfect I had to reach into my pants and give my dick a few strokes.

"Is that right?"

I retracted my hand and turned around to see Beth standing naked in the doorway, lightly drying herself with a towel.

"Where'd you come from?"

"Where do you think?"

"Didn't you hear me calling?"

She sighed. "I just needed to soak and listen to the wind awhile longer." She then motioned with her head towards the bureau, where two belts lay over its top.

Her poet's eyes lacked their depth. Clearly she'd had an extremely emotional day leaving her a mere husk of her usual self. She was... defeated? But the belts where out, waiting for me, so whatever happened left her in need of my bondage. Yet something was wrong––so wrong I wondered if I could go through with it. I wanted this more than anything in the world, but not with a dark, defeated Beth. Reason screamed that I was on the verge of losing her for what I'd done and was about to do, and I froze standing in the middle of our bedroom.

Beth had never been molested or even badly jilted, so her darkness was a bit of a mystery to me. At best I had a weak theory. She was the youngest of three sisters, and probably her father's last hope for a son. Her sister claimed Beth was daddy's little princess, but she was wrong. He coached her at baseball, took her to car shows, let her help with his sports column, and pretty much raised the son he never had. I imagined Tatum O'Neal in The Bad News Bears whenever those stories came up.

Then came high school and the two semesters she spent at college, where a promiscuous student spoon-fed herself men and wrote elusive jeering poetry. She was daddy's little nightmare, and scarred him so deep Beth worried he wouldn't give his rebellious daughter away at our wedding.

I knew the aggressive tomboy lived on, but lived alongside an inordinately sexual woman. So in many ways a male dominated society wasn't her worst enemy––she was. And I hoped that maybe, just maybe, being tied up and forced to be a woman allowed her to fuck like mad without betraying the spitfire rebel who took on the world. It was a weak theory, but the best I had.

"Don't tell me you lost your stomach for this now!" My cheek lit up as her hand slapped my head to the side. My eyes settled on the printout, and tightened on the image of her face shoved to the ground. He'd done exactly as I'd asked––she was helpless, subdued, deserving.

No article existed but I'd invented a topic, which was a comparison between the cold war and the war on terror, and asked him to support it with pictures of a captured Russian spy being searched for bombs. I thought of my dream, were Beth argued with the cast and crew as she lay naked in front of them. She'd given Brad a similar earful during the shoot, I'm sure of it.

Between the slap and the photo, I was back in the game. In silence I prepared her like a dish meant for the most ravenous of appetites. She cooperated and moaned frailly as I tightened the belts, and then again when I slid my fingers in and out of her butt, and followed up with the pink vibrator. The fight in her was totally gone––she just took it. Beth wasn't Beth, I missed that, but my dream had come true, and spurred me to deal out an extra hard thumping on my wife's raised up juice-box. I banged her hard from behind, my cock furiously bottoming out. Like I said, my wife wasn't one of those bone thin models––she actually had an ass, a fit juicy ass that rang like a snare drum when I smacked it. Amazingly enough she began to shove back against me. She was even more determined than I to get every last centimeter of dick jammed in her cooch. I watched her ass thud against my hips, her perfect drenched pussy swallowing up cock, and my finger dip in to the last knuckle. I could not believe what a horny bitch my wife became. I hit new heights, my ears ringing with blood and my dick painfully hard with it. I wondered if they touched her ass or if they roughly stripped her naked, maybe even brushing a tit in the process.

I quickly removed her gag and forced my cock into her mouth. I remembered something she'd said one night while out drinking with our friends, "I could never even get a guy to try different foods, yet they all think I should happily ingest their come––yeah right!" Her attitude apparently changed since then, because she surly knew my intentions and made no effort to pull away. She flinched with a loathing scowl when I erupted, but stayed on, and her delicate throat rose and fell, swallowing one hell of a load.

We both collapsed then without saying a word. Minutes later she twitched, and I knew she'd drifted into sleep and sunk into a dream of her own. I started the dishwasher and locked up, and then lay awake for hours. Instead of lying in the afterglow of the most gratifying fuck of my life, I found myself listening to the wind beat against our window, smelling an imaginary petrol fire, watching her eyes travel beneath their lids, and worrying who I'd wake up to in the morning.

Brad's studio was actually an apartment in Westwood where he both lived and worked. The living room was cleared of furniture and set up with lights and equipment. Off to the side was a glass desk where he sat at his computer in nothing but ripped, baggy shorts. He only shot in digital format, so he pulled up his work on a twenty-four inch monitor and walked me through the photos he described as 'usable'.

It started with my wife fully clothed in a Russian, military long coat and a soft furry hat sporting a hammer and sickle emblem, and flanked by two large U.S. marines clutching her shoulders. In the next few images her face revealed slipping courage as the men slowly removed her coat and patted down her sides for weapons. The intensifying fear in her poet's eyes tore into my heart––pleading for a decent man to rescue her, but she portrayed the enemy here, making the eminent lack of mercy cruelly exciting. As they stripped her collared shirt off one arm, her other pressed against her chest, trying to hide her tee-shirt covered breasts. Next her hands were tied as our boys in green removed her boots and pants. All three of them turned forwards, as again they clutched her shoulders, only this time they'd forced her to her knees. The men were fiercely poised, there heads tilted back, looking down at me. My wife's head also tilted back, the furry hat having slipped down partially over her eyes, and her mouth hung crookedly open, dreading her predicament.

My skin flushed with heat when her underwear came down. Each marine lent a hand in tugging her skimpy panties away, exposing her shiny smooth ass. She stood between them again, bent over with her ass facing forwards and her hands tied just above it, as the two marines slipped on rubber gloves, preparing to take her body search to whole new level. There were several photos of them running their hands over her body, and one where they searched her mouth.

Brad turned his chair towards me. "I had a good idea of what you were looking for, so you are really going to appreciate this next batch. I just still can't believe she agreed to it." He brought up the first image, with Beth's ass consuming most of the frame and one set of gloved hands holding her cheeks while the other inserted a finger into her butt. As my consciousness receded in disbelief, he continued to flip through images of two marines fingering my beautiful wife. I hadn't asked for full on penetration. I'd expected shots from the side like in that cheesy, softcore, action movie where they faked it. But there kneeled a huge marine grappling with my wife's waist and ass, while his buddy issued a warcry and worked in a second finger. Then something appeared in her ass––a stick of dynamite! It was longer and fatter than the pink vibrator I'd used, and looked twice as obscene.

I verged on losing my shit, and stopped Brad, telling him I needed to be somewhere. As I paid in cash and collected a DVD, he told me he'd had a beer with the guys after the shoot and they jokingly came up with a name to use for the article.