Punishment That Fits the Crime

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Dealing with unfaithfulness.
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steelring
steelring
1,133 Followers

My wife has a tattoo on her left thigh. I guess that there are other men whose wives have tattoos as well, but this one is unusual, if not unique. It is on the outside of her thigh, level with her pubis, hidden by a skirt or shorts, but since I designed it, I am always conscious of it being there. When she wears stockings and a suspender belt, the tattoo is framed between stocking top and suspender straps, and all it would need is for the hem of her skirt to be raised, and the tattoo would be visible to all.

Of course, that has never happened. In the real world, outside erotic fiction, in middle class Brighton, on the south coast of conservative England, the hem of a skirt is never raised as high as that. So Laura's tattoo is rarely seen by others, and as far as I can remember, it is only on the beach that it has been bared. Then, it is visible below the inverted side curve of her bikini bottom.

With friends, or relatives, Laura's tattoo is more intriguing. On the rare weekend when the summer sun is shining, we might picnic on the beach, and invite friends to join us, other children for ours to play with, and adults for us to talk with, or we might bring Laura's parents who live nearby and love their grand-children, or my sister and her family, down from London, or Laura's brother, and his, from nearby Lewes. For them, for family and friends who see it, the tattoo is so clearly out of character with the reliably conservative, calm, collected, organised wife and mother that Laura is.

But no one comments. From the summer when it was first displayed, no one has ever asked Laura why she had herself tattooed. Nor do they realise that it was my decision, not hers, both the original, and the additions. Whether any of them has ever guessed the tattoo's significance, I do not know. To even mention it would be indiscrete.

In France, of course, the tattoo is noticed, and comments have been made. Each July, before the school term ends, Laura's parents move into our spare bedroom to take care of the children, and we have two glorious weeks to ourselves, driving to Dover, across to Calais, then heading south, to the French beaches, where bikinis are not required.

In two weeks I can work up a deep, nut brown tan. There is Italian blood in my mother's genes. Laura, even with her dark brown hair, has Irish blood, and her milk white complexion requires maximum protection, hardly tans at all, but instead a spattering of freckles appears, covering her entire body. Amongst the naked, golden or nutmeg bodies that litter the beaches there, Laura's untanned complexion stands out, like a new arrival, even after two weeks of lying in the sun. Men walk past eyeing her. At beach bars, the guys will look, overtly enjoying her nakedness, all the more stark for her pure, delicate whiteness in a sea of bronze.

Then, occasionally, someone will comment, usually when I am not there, getting the drinks or going to the gents. Someone nearby will compliment her, on her complexion, or her breasts with their wide, pink areoles and thick stubs of nipples, on her tattoo, or on the one piece of jewellery that she always wears, a small gold lock that I bought her as an anniversary present.

Once, only once, someone made a comment not to Laura, but to me, in Laura's hearing. He was French, although the beach had Italians, Spaniards, Germans, Dutch and every other European nationality. He spoke in French, the sense, if not each word, unambiguous. He thought my wife was beautiful. He liked her tattoo.

Should I wish to add to it, he would be honoured. It was only once, and I declined, but it told Laura something that she had been avoiding. He knew, and if he knew, then perhaps others knew as well.

Picture a simple, solid, black oval, on its side, an inch long and half an inch high, slightly to the front of a woman's left thigh and level with her exposed, protruding labia. Add a long tapered tail, also in solid black, maybe a quarter of an inch wide where it emerges from the oval head, rising and falling in waves as it curves around the side of her thigh and narrowing towards the under curve of her buttocks, each of the waves smaller than the one before it.

Picture this black silhouette of a simple head and tail on the pure, milk white skin of the woman's outer thigh, positioned so that if the tail could flick back and forwards, like a water snake, the whole shape would swim around the front of her leg directly to her hairless pubis, and her protruding labia. If you have that image in your mind, black ink, needle deep under white skin that can be freckled in the sun, then you will know what I decided on, in the week that followed Laura's trip to Germany.

Were you to see Laura naked now, you will see more than that single tattoo. It has been added to. The same basic shape has been used. It was chosen for a reason, and that reason is unchanged. So the additional tattoos are identical, but each is only half the length of the original, positioned one below the other, and centred on the first. There are now three of these. A fourth is in the planning. Only Laura and I know exactly what each means. And, of course, the guy on the beach in France, who worked it out, and offered his services to service her, so there may in fact be others. A member of the family or a friend who has seen the tattoo, and the additions that have one by one appeared beneath, even one of them may have solved the riddle, and never said anything to indicate their understanding of it meaning. That thought punishes my wife. But then after what happened in Germany, she deserves that punishment.

Germany was beyond my control, not that I had ever felt the need to control Laura. Our relationship was based on trust. It is only when trust has broken down that control is required. Laura understands that now. She realised herself, when she told me about Germany, that trust could no longer underpin our relationship. Trust had gone, and would have to be replaced with something different. She may not then have appreciated the full consequences of her actions, but she has accepted them. She has since abided by my decisions at every point. She may not have honoured while she was in Germany, but she does obey.

Germany came out of the blue. Then, we had been married for twelve years. Our children were eight and six. I have always earned good money, and Laura did not need to work, but she always had, and after each period of maternity leave, she went back to work again. Her mother would look after the children when they were too young for school, and once they started, she readily agreed to bring them to school and collect them afterwards, allowing Laura the time she needed to hold down her job.

Laura enjoyed working, partly for the sense of achievement she gained from managing a senior executive's office, and partly for the social interaction that went with office life. The company was an international corporation, and Laura's boss was responsible for its European operations. That was why Germany came about, although his asking Laura to come with him was the first time that that had happened. He had said that he needed her to minute some crucial meetings while he was there.

The first indication that anything untoward had happened was while Laura was undressing the evening that she returned. It was a Friday. Laura had been driven from the airport to our home by the executive she worked for, arriving around six. We had had some family time together, including a meal that I had put together with help from a supermarket's food preparation team. I have never learned to cook. After three nights without Laura, I was more looking forward to the children being asleep, and enjoying some catch up love making with my exquisite wife.

I have always enjoyed watching Laura undress. The way her full breasts still keep their shape even when she removes her bra is quite incredible. Years of marriage and two children have had little effect on them. If anything they are slightly fuller, and the nipples thicker, although the pink brown areoles have always been the width of her palm, if not my own. When she bends to slide her stockings down shapely legs, her breasts sway beneath her, transforming themselves to soft white cones of flesh, tipped with the pink brown of her areoles, and with their stubs of nipples pointing to the floor. When she stands straight again, they settle back into their perfect shape. No wonder that I love to watch.

That night, Laura was wearing black underwear with sheer black nylons. Her thong left her buttocks bare, perfect white globes. I adore her milk white complexion, and could kiss and caress her back, buttocks, legs, neck, breasts, stomach and pubis for an eternity. When we married, she had a thick copse of dark hair covering her pubic mound, which she would tame from time to time, trimming the wilder excesses, although before Germany, she had never removed her pubic hair completely.

Her back to me, she removed her bra, and then slid her thong down her stocking clad legs. She unclipped her suspenders, rolling down her stockings, one by one. I was undressing on the other side of our bed, but watching every move, and my penis was hardening at the sight of my delicious wife revealing more and more of that wonderful body, and in anticipation of what was to come. She had been away for three long nights, and I was sorely missing her. My cock was aching for her. My eyes were fixed on her as she unclipped her suspender belt, removed it from her waist, and turned towards our en suite bathroom.

What I saw, as Laura turned, made me smile with pleasure. My incredibly beautiful wife had thought of her husband while she was away, and had prepared herself for her return to him. Her pubis was shaved smooth, something she had never done before. Laura was proud of her dark pubic hair, and while she liked to keep it trimmed, she also liked the contrast of the dark triangle against the whiteness of her legs and lower belly. Now, there was only white, and the pinkness of her labia peeping from her slit. What I had suggested so many times, she had finally done.

Something about the look she gave me as she went through to the bathroom should have warned me. It was brief, checking how I was reacting, unsure of herself. I waited until she finally joined me in our bed. Then, one arm around her, I cupped her pubis with the other hand. I could feel the bare beginnings of her regrowth, but still it felt deliciously naked, a present from her trip away to let me know that she had thought of me. She had shaved herself as her gift to the husband who had been without her, and who had wanted for so many years to see and to feel her totally denuded, vulnerable and exposed.

That was when she said my name, and added, "There is something that you need to know."

These are words no husband wants to hear, not from his wife. Only one thing will follow, after the apprehensive silence that is the pause while she draws breath, gathers herself together, and prepares to tell you that which you do not wish to hear. When your wife says these words, you will know already what she is about to tell you. It is understood, even before it has been said.

She has slept with someone else.

Not just slept with, but made love with. He has persuaded your wife, whether against her better judgement, or worse, with her complicit cooperation, to open her legs for him, and let him slide his cock inside her. She has allowed another guy into that private garden, welcomed him even, into that part of her that you had thought was reserved exclusively for you. There has been no key, no lock, no gate, but only trust, that any other person seeking entrance to that garden will be turned away. But that garden has been despoiled. Another man has ploughed there, has dug deep, and has left his seed.

Instead of turning him away your wife has let him in. She has let his cock head part her labia, stretch her entrance, and enjoy the warm wetness within. She has relished the full length of his shaft sliding deep inside. She has let him not just penetrate, but thrust again and again into her moistness, burying his shaft to the hilt each time, grazing her clitoris and giving to your wife the pleasure that once she received only from you. Having given you her vow, to be faithful, and to honour you, she has dishonoured you, broken that vow, and debased herself. She has allowed another guy to fuck her.

Of course, your wife will not describe it quite like that. She will keep it simple. That she has slept with someone else is as much as any wife will say, until you ask the questions, and only then will she allow herself to add flesh to the bare bones of what she has just told you, giving only a little to begin with, just the unadorned, naked facts, but then, as you probe and delve and seek out every sordid, sensuous detail, she will tell you more.

No, it was not her boss. It was one of the German executives he was meeting with. He had invited her to dinner, and she had seen no harm. He had been charming and attentive, and she had been flattered. It had felt good to receive that kind of attention. Afterwards he had seen her to her room, and she had dropped her guard. Yes, she had let him stay the night. Yes, all three nights. Yes, they had made love each and every night. Yes, he had made her come. Yes, she had enjoyed it. She was ashamed about now. She knew that it was wrong. She was so, so sorry. It should never have happened. It never would again.

Of course, you may not have to ask the question that I then had to, my hand still cupping her hairless pubis, nor deal with the answer, nor work out which you found the greater betrayal, that she had let him fuck her, or that she had let him shave her. Because when I asked her, Laura answered yes. It was the German who had, without asking her, shaved her pubis smooth, denuding her and exposing her true self.

It had been after they had made love the first time. He had just gone to the bathroom, and come back with the shaving gel and the lady's razor that she had brought in case she needed it. She had not realised why he had brought them to the ned, until he started smoothing the gel into her trimmed pubic hair, but no, she had not objected.

She had thought about what would happen when she came home, what she would say. He had also thought of that. He had told her to say that she had done it for you. But she had not wanted to lie. And it had just felt so good to have someone do something so intimate to her.

She was now talking more openly, describing in greater detail what had taken place, how she had felt. She had loved just lying there, feeling his fingers spreading the gel over her pubis and in between her legs. When he had started to use the razor, at the top, it had felt incredible. All the time he worked, he had strummed lightly on her clitoris, keeping her aroused. He had taken his time, smoothing the pubic mound itself, then easing her labia first to one side, then the other, ensuring that each and every hair was carefully removed from either side, talking gently, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he loved her body, her breasts, her cunt, and she had revelled in it.

When he had finally used a wet towel to rinse and wipe her, he had lain between her legs and for the second time had eased his penis into her. It had been so intensely intimate, her sexuality laid bare, that within minutes of his entering inside her the second time, and fucking her denuded, hairless cunt, she had come again. She was sorry, but that was just the way that it had happened.

Listening to her describing what had taken place, using that word, the word that neither of you has ever used before, but that he had used, that was so crude, but is now so appropriate, for the place where your hand is resting, for the pussy that is no longer pussy but is now a shaved, hairless cunt, listening to her, you make a simple, inevitable decision.

No one will ever shave my wife again. I will make sure of that.

When you wife says that there is something that you need to know, you have to decide whether to keep her as your wife. You feel betrayed, but even in the midst of hurt and anger, your cock is hard. She is the woman that you have loved, the mother of your children. You have a family, and a family life that you do not want to throw away. And your body will not allow you to deny that she is still the woman that you love to fuck.

But if you decide to keep her as your wife, there yet more decisions to be made. The trust that you have enjoyed between you is no more. You have no choice but to accept that your wife has sexual desires that can be awakened by another man, that have been awakened, and that she has allowed another man to satisfy. You have to accept that those desires exist, but you can and must choose how to deal with them.

You can forgive her for what has happened, or attempt to, but you can never be sure of what may happen in the future. You can accept that what has happened may be only the beginning. There will be other men. This will now be part of your married life. She may be faithful to your marriage and your family life, and may still please you, and be pleased by you, but there will be others too. Her garden is no longer yours alone. Others will plough their furrow there. You can choose to accept that, or you can decide that that is not for you, that your marriage can exist no longer, and you must go your separate ways.

The alternative, the third way that I chose instead of accepting meekly, or living separate lives, is to take control. Do not even attempt to forgive and forget. Instead, punish and remember, and ensure that she remembers too. Think of crime and punishment, of receiving your just deserts, or rather of your meeting out those just deserts to the wife who has done you wrong. And the punishment should fit the crime.

That is why no one will ever shave my wife again. One of her crimes was in lying still, her legs parted, allowing someone not her husband to shave her pubis smooth of hair. The punishment that would be most fitting to this crime was clear. Laura would be for ever smooth. No more dark curls would grow where once they had. She would be permanently exposed. My decision, not hers, nor his.

The science is that high frequency light reflects off any surface that is white, including pure, milk white skin, but the same light is absorbed by darker colours. Dark brown shafts of hair will absorb any light touches it. Laser light finds the hair, even when it is shaved, travels to the very root, heats it, and destroys it. All that it needs is for a professional to smooth the laser source over a shaven pubis, and the hair follicles are eliminated. Over the weeks that follow, the rootless hairs are shed.

Hair grows in stages, with dormant periods, and the laser procedure works best when the hair is in an active growth phase, so four, five, or six treatments may be necessary, but no one will ever shave my wife again, and her peeping labia will never again be shielded from view by curling hairs.

Punish and remember. My wife's for ever bare pubis and her eternally exposed cunt are a perfect reminder of her three nights of infidelity.

But back to that evening, the evening when Laura had returned from Germany, freshly shaved and freshly fucked, but seemingly penitent, the prodigal wife returning to her husband, admitting her misdeeds, and asking for understanding and forgiveness.

When it happens to you, you will find that you have more questions, other things that you will want to ask. The answers, from your wife, may be different to the answers Laura gave. Some wives play safe. Some take risks. Some do not even think about it. They become too wrapped up in the moment, and they are naked, and conjoined, and writhing as he fucks them, without a single thought other than to enjoy his hardness taking them to the edge of delirium.

steelring
steelring
1,133 Followers