tagNonConsent/ReluctanceKelly's New Man

Kelly's New Man


Something unusual has happened, and I no longer know myself. Whatever new thing I am has made me joyful and confused at the same time. John did it to me. When I look in the mirror, I look changed, though I can't exactly tell what the difference is. People must see me differently. John surely sees it. Yesterday afternoon he sent me an email at work that changed everything. When I got it, I was in the middle of a project and only read the note quickly. Now I would pay attention.

From: John
To: Kelly _________
Subject: need a ride

After work, come to the MB dealer's. I'm getting some work done on the car.

When you get there, park and come into the showroom. I'll be waiting.

You should be there by 5:15. Be on time.

By the way, even though you believe you know me, act like you don't. We've never met before.

Don't forget!


The bossy tone was not like him. I read it again. He is the sort of man who would say 'please' if he was drowning, especially with me. There was no need for him to be pushy. And what was that about not knowing him? I wrote back: "I'll be there when I can. Is everything okay?" I marked a reminder in my calendar and promptly forgot about it. He was probably just having a bad day.

When I got in the car after work, my mind was still full of the problems I'd left on the computer. I went several miles before I remembered that he'd never answered me. He is usually eager to reassure me and would have said something like "Thanks for asking." I wondered if he got my reply.

As I drove, I began to think about him. He has been struggling with our life. We've been married long enough that we're very used to one another. He's mentioned our sex life several times lately, or rather the lack of it, and that he'd like something different, and more. He said to me once: "I love you. But I want to be in love with you again, too." I'm not sure either of us has the energy for that. I know I don't. Too much stress. Besides, what we have is pretty darned good. There is a lot to be said for old shoes.

Of course our life isn't perfect, and I think everyone would like a little romance. I assume John's had his chances, as I have.

A few years ago there was a client named, I think, Frank. He was interesting, and I went to dinner with him. The second time, he came on unmistakably, and it might have been good, but it was also clear that he would be high-maintenance. Anyway, I have never thought of leaving John. He is so good to me.

Of course we're in a rut. Over the years we've gone through stages, like every couple. But he's right, our sex has become predictable. Not very frequent, very predictable, and very mellow. He is gentle. I pretty much let him do what he wants. He is sensitive to the things I don't like almost always. I often cum. He does, usually. There is a real peace that settles over us once we've made love, and that is very special. But I'd agree it's not very exciting.

We both like foreplay, and a lot of it. And when I finally get sufficiently turned on that I'm wet and horny enough to maybe cum, sometimes I'll tell him to get on top of me. I help him know what I want, like when I want him to stroke slowly and when to pick up the pace. More often, I'll be on top. He's always liked it when I take charge, and it's always been best for me, but maybe that's part of what he's tired of.

Sometimes I can't cum. Then he drives me nuts with his eagerness to find some way to help me, but the fact is that my desire just isn't what it once was. And sometimes he doesn't get very hard, and a couple of times he hasn't cum either, and I know that frustrates him. Well, we do our best. We usually have sex on a weekend, when there's time. Maybe once a month, or every other month, we'll have a "date" during the week.

I like it that we're happy together, and while a "romance" would be fun, our lives are full of stress and other people. Actually, there's nothing I'm doing that I'm ready to give up. When he mentions more sex, in my heart I always hope he'll just adjust and maybe, I don't know, let it be.

When I got to the dealership, I had to drive around the lot twice, carefully because it was crowded with luxury cars, until finally I found a spot. I could see John in the showroom, talking with a saleswoman, and I decided I would wait for him because the car was cool and would be clearly visible to him from where I was parked.

Once, he looked out, and then looked again in a couple of minutes, right at me, but it was like he didn't recognize me. I was expecting the usual, a big wave and a smile. But he made no sign of recognition, and then I remembered what he'd said in the email about not knowing him. Very strange.

What was up? Maybe he had a car he wanted to show me. I was tired and still frustrated from work and didn't want to have to leave the air conditioning, but I also didn't want to sit there and cool my heels all night. So I went into the showroom, a little irritated.

But now I couldn't see him; he must have gone to the service desk or lounge or something; so I took a deep breath, and I let it out and went over to one of the new SUVs just to keep myself occupied.

The saleswoman who had been speaking with John came out of the hallway with him trailing behind her. They were chatting and laughing. I turned, and probably the irritation was showing on my face. The saleswoman said: "May I help you, ma'am?"

I could see John over her shoulder. He looked directly at me, but he was suddenly very stern, like he used to look at our son whenever he would come in late. He was reminding me about his note and not to show that we knew one another. I felt a little ridiculous, actually.

"No," I said, "I'm just on my way home and decided to take a quick look at the SUV. My husband has talked about it."

I glanced at John, he was approving.

"I'm tired," I said, "maybe I'll come in again when I'm fresher, for a test."

When she gave me her card, I could smell her perfume, and I was sure John had enjoyed talking with her. He loves a musk aroma. He said good night, walked around her and stood face-to-face with me.

He said: "I don't think your husband would care if you gave me a ride, do you?"

I sort of laughed. He has always been good at cloaked conversation. "No, it'll be fine," I said, laughing at the weird situation he had set up. In spite of being tired and grumpy, I enjoyed the surprised look on the saleswoman's face. I could see her curiosity, suddenly alert at what could be a threatening situation for a potential customer, and she was surely wondering why I was so ready and willing to leave with a stranger.

As we walked to the car, John trailing me by a half step, the expression on her face was still in my mind's eye and I thought: "What she must be thinking!"

John's voice was suddenly hard, like I remembered it from the rare times he became angry about something: "She probably wonders what sort of married woman gives a complete stranger a ride." John rarely yells. I can only recall once, years ago. Sometimes he is loud during sex, but of course that's different, and he does get a really sharp edge to his voice when he's irritated.

It was his tone, like in the email, that struck me. It was not John's way of treating me at all. I didn't want to ask what the problem was until we got into the car. He went around to the passenger side; I saw he was carrying the small duffel he uses to go back and forth to the gym. The saleswoman was still watching from the showroom, her left arm folded beneath her breasts and her right hand toying thoughtfully with her hair. When I backed out of the spot, she had turned and was already talking with another customer who was standing by the SUV.

"So, what's this all about?" I asked. He had partially unzipped the duffel.

"Well, I'll tell you, Lady. You've put yourself in a bad position.

"I want you to look in here," he said, his voice still angry and threatening, and opened the duffel a couple of inches so I could see inside. There was a glint and chromium shine of something that looked long. Maybe a knife?

"It's dangerous to pick up a stranger. Or to let yourself get picked up," he said firmly.

I was stunned and, for an instant, felt a shadow of fear. I looked into his eyes, hoping to see a bad joke playing there. But he looked dead earnest. With the threatening way he was leaning toward me, I felt the physical presence of this man I had married in a brand new way.

"Do what I tell you, he said. "Unless you prefer really ugly consequences." He pronounced each word clearly and evenly.

"Keep your eyes on the road," he directed me.

He paused. "Do you understand?"

He was beginning to irritate me. "John, I've had a long day, I'm …."

"Shut up," he snapped in his tight and quiet new voice.

"No one cares about your fucking day. I'm no one you think I am…and I'll have what I want from you.

"Your job is to shut up. You'll do what I say to survive, and you'll enjoy whatever I say."

He continued: "In case you've forgotten already, I'll ask you one more time – Do you understand?"

Now I was really rattled. It was clear he was serious, and I knew that even if he had a knife in the duffel, he wouldn't cut me. But I didn't know what he would do! He'll play games. But he had never acted anything like this. I had no experience to work from and no clue what he might do if I ignored him, like when I want to do something different from what he wants. I kept thinking: "He's never like this."

"Yes," I said slowly, "I understand." There was a resignation in my voice that sounded strange and new even to me. After a couple of seconds I said: "Tell me why I want to do this."

"I don't care why you do it," he said quietly. "Do it because you're a tramp. You'll enjoy doing what a stranger wants. Respectable women don't let strangers pick them up…. Or do it because of what I showed you in the bag. I don't care."

Sometimes when we have gotten into sex play, I have pretended to enjoy it when he told me I'm slutty. Hell, I really did enjoy it, a little, when he called me that. But he never said things like that to me otherwise, and I was a little miffed that he would call me a tramp right now. He suddenly barked: "Turn into the steakhouse driveway down here, and park."

"Oh, am I getting dinner out of this little charade?"

"You have a credit card, I'm sure. You can buy dinner for me."

My Lord, whatever happened to my perfect gentleman? When we got out of the car, he brought the duffel bag. I was putting my keys in my purse when he said: "Give them to me."

He took them out of my hand and slipped them in his pocket. He grasped my free hand and held it up to my waist behind my back. "Don't say anything to anyone but me.…Otherwise." He twisted my arm and pulled it up. I cringed, "Ohh. That hurt me!" I said.

"Good," he said, "that way you won't want it for real."

He told the hostess to give us a rear booth, somewhere where "we can talk," and continued to grip my wrist behind my back. The hostess took us to the rear, away from most of the traffic, and asked, looking at me, if the table was okay, but when I started to answer I could feel the pressure increase on my arm.

"This is fine," he said. I didn't say anything.

The hostess looked at me with a puzzled look, a sort of concern like I saw in the eyes of the saleswoman at the dealership. When I turned to sit down, she left.

"You handled that well," John said, as he slid into the booth across from me, and smiled his gentle smile.

"I thought you might hurt my arm," I said.

"I would have," he said, and laid his hand on top of the duffel bag where he'd put it on the seat next to him. I was being reminded of the shiny, long thing inside. He gave no explanation. I said nothing.

The booth was a circular one. Sitting across from one another as we were, there was room for another diner or two between us, but the table worked fine for two. When the waitress came in a few minutes, he moved his foot so that it rested on mine. She asked if I'd like a drink and, feeling the pressure against my instep, I understood I was not to answer. I looked to him.

"Yes, she would," he said, and ordered a mixed drink that I often have when we're out. "A double," he said. "She's had a bad day." He ordered the beer he likes and told the waitress we would be ready to order when she came back.

I picked up the menu. "You don't need that," he said.

"But I don't know what I want."

"I do," he said, and repeated, "You want what all sluts want. You don't need a menu."

I put it down. Truthfully, and strangely, in spite of being frustrated I was also enjoying the new attention and the forcefulness. I wondered if that meant there was something wrong with me. I usually am in charge, a habit of ours I guess, but this felt very different and, although I felt forced, and that irritated me, and I felt vulnerable, and that frightened me just a little, I also was enjoying something about not being in control.

Something else: because I know John so well, I actually felt his love in what he was doing more than I had in a long time, because I knew this was something he had worked at pretty hard. This wasn't a part of his personality that I had seen before, and he had to have thought hard about it. Just how hard, I would find out as our evening became night!

He ordered my meal with the waitress, and his own, and a bottle of the pinot we like. The meal wasn't what I would usually order, but it sounded good. I was starting to get into this a little. I thought: "I could get used to this."

I said out loud: "So, hi, stranger. My name is Kelly. What's yours?"

He surprised me again. He glowered at me, and the pressure from his foot was suddenly back. Apparently small talk wasn't on the agenda.

"I don't care what your name is," he said with emphasis. "I don't want to know your name, Slut." This time it was an insult, an assault. I wondered what he thought I had done to deserve such an angry reaction. I think I just stared at him.

He continued: "If I had a wife, and she let a stranger pick her up, and if she was tramp enough to buy dinner for him and drink with him and share a bottle of wine with him, I'd be angry. Very angry. Just drink that drink, and thank god I'm not giving you what you deserve." Well, I needed the drink.

I had been hoping the joke was pretty much over, and that now we could talk about our days and let things get back to normal. But it was clear that was not to be. The unusual feeling I'd had of being off balance, a sense of being opened up in public, was just a shadow at the dealership and was only a little stronger when we got to the restaurant, but now it was in my throat with emphasis.

I felt vulnerable, like a child with an angry adult, and I could understand why people who worked for him said they hated it when he was mad. When he put something hard in his voice this time, it was insisting that all the years we had spent learning each other so well had been suspended, and that was unsettling. For the first time I can remember with John, he was clearly in charge, and I was clearly to do what he asked. I don't think the idea of not going along with him even crossed my mind

"In fact," he began again, "I don't know what you're doing dressed respectably. People should know you're a tramp."

I was sure listening carefully now. This was a new development and it didn't sound good. I had been drinking a little faster than I probably should, and it had started to get to me. What with the stress of the day and all of the tension of the moment, I had to focus. He reached into the duffel and I froze, but he only took out a plastic bag like you get with a purchase in a mall store. This one was strange, red with black print. I could see there was a box in it but couldn't guess what else.

"Listen carefully," he said. "I want you to finish your drink." I needed it to steady me anyway. It went down easily.

"Now go into the bathroom. Go into the handicapped stall so you have some room.

"Take off your clothes, all of them. You can hang them on the door hook.

"There are fresh panties in here, and something for your tits.

"Put your skirt back on, and your blazer. Don't bother putting your blouse back on; put it back in the bag. Put on the shoes I have in here; put the ones that you have on now into the bag.

"There is also makeup in here. I want your eyes lined and shadowed and mascara on, too. I don't care that you don't like to do it. Just do it.

"There is lipstick and gloss. Put it on.

"And put it on your nipples. Make them the same color as your lips.

"Do a good job. Bring the bag back to me. And I'll give you dinner."

He paused to see if I understood. "Oh, don't forget that I have your keys," he said. "Now, go."

John had never done anything like this. I had never done anything like this. I was feeling tipsy from the liquor, or from the challenge to the world I thought I knew, or from the shock. I walked carefully on my way to the bathroom. A little boy looked up from his dinner and smiled at me. I blushed, thinking of what was happening to me and what I was doing and looked away.

Thank God there was no one else in the bathroom. I went into the stall, took a deep breath and started to take my clothes off. I suddenly remembered that John had told me this morning how much he liked this suit. It is more of a party outfit really with its short skirt, but it is okay for an occasional day at the office. In fact, I usually don't wear a skirt to work, but he'd said "please, it makes you look so nice," and I went along just to humor him. And that was the last kind, gentle thing he'd said to me

Actually I didn't remove all my clothes. I left the skirt on while I changed. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, or me. When I opened the bag – it was from Frederick's, a store where I'd never shopped – I could see the panties there among the makeup and stuff.

When I held them up, they were actually quite beautiful, diaphanous, sheer, and the palest green I could imagine. With my brown hair and the tone of my skin, he had really chosen well. I took off my usual, much more practical underwear and put on this lovely lingerie. It was like a breath of air against my hips and pussy. I swore I could feel the air moving across me, the panties were so light. I pulled the skirt up high and looked in the mirror at their high, French cut legs and the dip they took in the front down to the very top of my fuzz.

And I suddenly remembered how he'd asked me, when we'd made love last weekend, to please trim myself, to make it easier and more accessible for his foreplay. Now I was glad I'd done it and had done it carefully, so the hair was neat and all gone from my lips. The little strip of hair that I had left showed faintly through the panties. The pale green really did look good. Of course it was obvious that he would want to make love later, and I thought he would really enjoy these panties when he looked at me then.

I began looking for whatever he had brought for a bra. I knew how the jacket fit. It gives good coverage and I'd be okay as long as I sat up straight, and so long as he'd gotten a bra that wouldn't glare out white or red or something too vivid. Maybe it was a matching pale green, but then I couldn't see anything like that in the bag.

I looked again, wondering if he'd forgotten something, and then I found, in the bottom, a thin chain. I didn't know what it was so I took it out. At each end was a little noose and a little clamp that I saw would be used to tighten the nooses. My God, the chain was a pair of nipple clamps. I began to giggle, and then I blushed. 'No, I won't do that. Not in public.'

But I remembered how serious he was and how important this must be to him. I could not even picture him buying these things with his quiet dignity intact. I knew he would be angry again if I didn't do what he'd said, so I decided I'd try them on to see how they looked with the blazer and to see if I could get away with it.

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