Punishment That Fits the Crime

What I also knew was that if that was how it was for me, it had to be the same for Laura, but even more so. This slim, black haired German would always be with us in her head when we were making love, an unwelcome member of a threesome. This is the guy who has had his way with her. This is the guy she inevitably remembers, who has fucked her six times. There is no way that I wanted him to be the dominant memory of her infidelity, the guy in her head while I was making love to her. When you find yourself in my position, you will think the same. You will not want your wife thinking about the guy who fucked her. It was a conundrum that was unexpected, how to be rid of him, of that lingering image, and it took time before the right solution slowly took its shape.

People are fascinating. Once I sold a car on ebay. I had kept it longer than I should, and had been tempted just to telephone a "buy any car" company and accept whatever they would offer. Instead I took some photographs, crafted the wording for the advert, and gave potential bidders five days to try their luck. It went for twice the amount that I expected. What I could not believe was that people would bid for a car that they had never seen, let alone tried out on the road, and that they would then turn up on the doorstep with the cash, complete the paperwork, and drive the car away. I would never dream of bidding for a car I had not seen in person, but people did. It works with cars, and all sorts of items that are advertised. It even works with people.

I did not take any special photographs. I had photographs already. Laura in our garden, at a family do, ready for a formal dinner, on the beach, half a dozen photographs, selected, photoshopped to hide her face, and then uploaded to a site. Not ebay, of course. Another site. The photographs were necessary. Punters need to see what they are bidding for, even if only the one on holiday showed her less than fully clothed. Laura in a bikini, but no more revealing than anything that can be seen on any beach in the summer months. The site had profiles with rather more explicit photographs, but I did not want to share that kind of photo, and anyway, punters without the imagination to picture her stripped of her bikini, or of her clothes, were not the kind of guys I was wanting to attract.

Setting up a profile took around an hour. It required a new email address, courtesy of Hotmail, a profile name, and a description of the item being advertised. Five foot three, brunette, green eyes, hourglass figure, full breasts, shaved - technically a lie, but they did not have an option to say that she is lasered - no piercings, discreet tattoo, safe sex not required. Respectable, clean, healthy, professional guy sought for hotel encounter, while husband watches. Photos of yourself essential. Please leave a message with contact details if you are interested.

The messages arrive, and a process of sifting begins, checking the message itself, anything crude rapidly deleted, good use of English noted, and profiles checked. Guys claiming to be businessmen, accountants, civil servants, teachers, doctors, lawyers, all send messages. Some of the claims are obviously false. Less obvious lies do not matter. If you are a doctor, pretending to be a teacher, it really does not matter.

Gradually you narrow down the choice. Anyone with black hair, or slim, was automatically excluded. You make some calls, talk to three, confirm what you want of them, and what is on offer. All married guys, or so they say. All endowed similarly to yourself. All are well built, a guy with fair hair, another guy with light brown hair, and one shaved skull. Shaved skull may not be pure white. He has some mixed blood, not much, but enough to give his skin a light coffee shade. He becomes your choice.

You make the arrangements. You book a hotel room for a Friday night. You ask her mother if she can child mind while you take your wife for a surprise evening out. The day before, you tell her you are taking her to dinner. You suggest the black dress that she brought to Germany, although Germany itself is not mentioned. After work, at home, getting ready, you ask her to wear stockings and suspenders, but nothing else, not even the tiniest of thongs. She gives you a look, but she complies.

In the hotel bar, you buy a bottle of Rioja. A full bodied red seems appropriate. At a table, you pour some in a glass for her, in another for yourself. Then you tell her you have booked a room. She looks puzzled but intrigued, but is still comfortable with an evening arranged for just the two of you. Then you tell her you have been concerned that she might still think about the German guy, especially while you are making love. She admits that she still does. You tell her that you have decided on another form of punishment, one that will help her to forget that guy. She now looks even more puzzled, perplexed, uncertain. Then you tell her that someone at the bar is joining you. Watching her face, you know that you will not have to tell her why.

The look of shock as she takes this in is wonderful, but not as wonderful as her acquiescence. There is no argument, no discussion. She looks anxious, but she does not demur. But you explain again, this time in more detail. You have pictured what happened in Germany too often, and need to over write that image with another of your own choosing. You also want her own memory of Germany to be erased. In future this night, and this guy, will be her abiding memory of another guy enjoying her. She nods. She understands, as you knew she would, and her consent is in her silent acceptance of her fate.

You signal. He comes over, joins you, and you make the introductions, calling her a name that she has never used, and unconcerned whether the name that he has given you to introduce him by is genuinely his or not. You do not allow time for awkward moments in the bar. By leaving work slightly early, you have checked into the hotel already, before going home to pick up your wife. The room entry card is already in your pocket. You stand up with your glass of wine still in your hand, pick up the bottle, and invite your wife, and this guy that you are only meeting now, to follow you.

In the lift, no one speaks. Your wife looks at you. In her eyes you her acceptance of what is about to happen. The guy does not seem phased by silence, but by the way that he is looking at your wife, you know that in person, as in her photographs, she is to his liking.

In the room, you go to the chair by the window, sitting down, setting the bottle on the side table close to you, sipping from your glass, enjoying the fullness of the wine, watching, and waiting for things to begin. Your wife has walked in after you and is standing, uncertain, by the bed. The guy has come in last, closing the door behind him. He goes to the bed, easing down the covers, all the way, so that they fall on the floor, only the bed sheet and the pillows remaining. He goes to your wife, standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and kisses the bare skin at the base of her perfect neck.

On the phone, he has told you that he is experienced, has enjoyed other men's wives while they watched several times before, and you can tell that he is at ease. He slides the shoulder of your wife's dress over her shoulder, baring it. He must already have unzipped the back. The top of the dress falls away on that side, baring the fine, black lace of her bra, through which her wide areole and thick nipple are clearly visible. His hand reaches between her arm and her body, cupping her breast over the bra, his mouth returning to her neck. Your wife is looking at the floor, somewhere around your feet.

He uses his forefinger and his thumb to play with her nipple, through her bra. His other hand is slipping the other shoulder of her dress down the other arm. Both shoulders of the dress now rest at her elbows, but in her first act of acceptance, she slips them down each forearm, and off. The front falls further. Aside from her bra, her torso now is naked, perfect white. He again kisses her neck, and now her head is angled to one side, giving him more scope to use his mouth on her soft, creamy skin.

You can hear her intake of breath as her bra comes loose on either side. With his free hand, he has unclipped the clasp. He slides one shoulder strap down and off, then the other. Her bra falls away, and he lets it drop to the floor. Her breasts are naked, but only for a moment. His palms cover both of the wide areolas. Your wife, the woman you still love, raises one hand, putting it to his head, caressing his smooth, hairless scalp as his mouth explores the curve of her neck, and his hands gently stroke her full, aching breasts, her nipples stiff and hard against his fingers.

He uses both hands, taking her dress at either side, easing it down over her hips. Her black lace suspender belt comes into view. Your wine tastes delicious. You swirl it around your mouth, savouring it, as the dress falls to the floor in a circle around her feet.

Her hairless pubis is exposed, black suspender straps framing it on either side. Her pink labia protrude. Your decision not to allow your wife to wear a thong has proven right. It is so much better that she is now naked there, exposed, than had she been wearing one. She is sufficiently side on to you that the sperm tattoo is visible on her leg, on the white flesh above her stocking top, one of the suspender straps passing an inch from the oval head. His right hand returns to cup her breast. The left explores between her legs. She releases something between a whimper and a moan as she meets your eyes.

She is submitting. Wearing only black mesh stockings, lace suspender belt and black four inch heels, your wife is allowing this stranger to explore her body, hands and fingers caressing and probing, the top digits of two fingers no longer visible, her labia stretched around those fingers. You wonder if he realises that her smoothness there is more than mere depilation, that her pubic mound will always feel so silky, her skin so soft and pure. It does not matter. He will enjoy her just this once.

You sip at your wine. She looks incredible. The tattoo suits her. Black on white works so well. Soon there will be more sperm. You have not told her that you have invited him to fuck her bare, to come inside your wife, just as took place in Germany. Yes there is a risk. Life is full of risks. She took a risk in Germany. You have minimised that risk by selecting carefully someone who is experienced, but not careless, and who was hesitant to accept this aspect of your offer. Only when you explained that there have been no others, except that one several months ago, did he agree. She will find out soon enough that that risk she took in Germany is about to be repeated. You relish the dryness of the Rioja on your palette, and watch, enjoying your own growing hardness.

He turns more towards the bed, turning your wife around to face his body as he does so, and they are side on to your line of view. She looks up at his face, but his own attention is just below his belt, where he unzips himself, levering out his rigid penis. His hands go to your wife's shoulders, gently guiding her to her knees, her black stockinged legs folding under her. Her hands go to his erection.

There is no hesitation, only acquiescence. She knows what is expected. Holding his erection your wife kisses the shaft with the lips that you have kissed so often, then parts those lips and takes the head inside her mouth, closing her lips softly around it. You cannot see, but guess from the motion of her head and jaw, that she is using her tongue to play on the penis head.

He is slipping off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, easing it from his trouser belt, sliding it from his shoulders, dropping it to the floor. He even manages to slip off his shoes, using his feet, while she is still sucking on his cock. He is not tall, but his shoulders are broad, his chest solid, arms thick. His chest is devoid of hair, in keeping with his shaved head. His skin is olive. His nipples, set on firm, defined pectorals, are dark.

It is your wife who reaches for his belt. She is still sucking on his cock as she frees the wide strip of leather from the buckle, unclipping, unbuttoning, letting his trousers fall, gripping his shorts and pulling them down around his calves. Leaning back, she releases his penis from her mouth, angles it up against his stomach, and licks its length. She does the same again, starting lower, at his balls. Holding his penis with one hand, she cups his balls and draws them towards her, taking the entire sack into her mouth. She has done this to you so many times. There is nothing that she has not done to you. But watching your wife with him is something else again.

The way she reached for her belt confirms what you already know, what Germany has already told you. Your wife, the mother of your children, loves to fuck and to be fucked. She is not just allowing this to happen. She is inviting it. Not for a single second did she hesitate. Her lips went to his cock without his guiding her, telling him that she was his, that she would not just accept his fucking her, but wanted it.

Something about the way she wants this makes you feel uncomfortable. Sometime, not now, you will need to work out how you really feel about that. Right now, you have other things to think about.

His cock looks larger than he has said. Most guys on the site seem to like to boast about their size. This guy had said that he was seven inches, above average, but slightly less than you carry yourself. Except that now, as your wife still licks and kisses his shaft, and sucks on his penis head, his looks larger than he has said. Larger than seven. Larger than your own.

Of course there is reverse psychology. He has admitted that he likes meeting couples, has met two already, and enjoyed their wives. Maybe this guy has realised that boasting may not always achieve the goal. Some guys might like the idea of watching their wife with a well hung guy, but some may feel threatened by this prospect. That was your own logic. Better to choose a guy who is around your own size, so that there will be no feelings of inferiority or insecurity. Shaved skull may have worked on the basis that underplaying his size would make it more likely that a husband wishing to avoid that insecurity will accept him, as you have done. But if you are right, and he does have that extra inch or so, then he will go just that bit deeper than you have ever done. He will go deeper than you ever will.

Being sure is difficult. This is the first and only time that you have seen another guy with an erection. In real life that is, not on a dvd. It is not just his head that is shaved. He has no hair around his cock or scrotum. That might make his cock seem bigger than it actually is. Your wife's head affects your line of vision, and when she takes his cock in her mouth, judging its size is totally impossible. The extra inch may be a figment of your imagination, or a message from your subconscious, that watching this guy fuck your wife could be a big mistake. It could be that now would be a good time to call a halt.

His hand is on her head, fingers entwined in her dark brown hair, softly encouraging. In spite of this, she raises herself from kneeling, her thigh muscles tautening under the black mesh of her stockings, her arms raised, her hands going around his neck as his hands cup her buttocks, holding your wife's body close to his, the hard cock that may or may not be larger than your own, now sandwiched between their bodies, upright, but invisible.

You can stop this. He has even agreed that with you. It is one of the reasons that you trust him, his telling you that he realises how big this is for both of you, and that if you have any second thoughts at any time, all you have to do is say so, and he will respect that.

And it is big. It is bigger than you expected. Both his cock, and what is happening in front of your all too nervous eyes. You are watching another guy about to fuck your wife.

"Okay guys. I think we'll leave it there."

You hear yourself saying it, but only in your head.

What you actually do is take another sip of the wine. It still tastes good. Sitting there, one leg casually crossed over the other, the glass in your hand, moving it to your lips and back to resting your arm on the side of the chair, you give every impression of being cool with what is happening, being calm, confident and in control. It is a lie. Inside you are seriously uncertain now, the only thing that you are sure of is that you will keep up this act. You are committed, and to go back now would reveal weakness you are not willing to concede exists.

So you watch as he lowers your wife to the bed, as your wife moves back on the bed, getting her entire body onto the white sheet covering the mattress, lying side on to you, stocking clad legs parted, and as shaved skull leans over her, his muscular arms supporting his torso, his head going to her hairless pubis, paying homage to her with his tongue.

You can still stop things there. You put your wine glass back to your lips, but it is empty. You pick up the bottle, pour another measure, take a sip, and he is moving, his knees now on the bed between her legs, his arms on either side of her.

Like you, he is a full head taller than your wife, and she now looks small and vulnerable beneath his bulk. He licks at a nipple, but moves on further up, kissing her neck, her cheek, her forehead. She is looking at his face, then at his neck, and once again she puts her arms around that neck, inviting him to fuck her.

In the hotel bar, she acquiesced without demur, accepting the arrangements you had made, understanding the logic. She is, after all, your wife, penitent at allowing the German guy to make love to her, all the more committed to honour your every thought and wish, and to obey your every request. Now she is honouring your desires by offering herself to this new lover, obeying her husband by parting her legs and drawing this other man to her secret garden.

Except that you can sense more than that. She is doing this for you, but also for herself. She reaches up, her arms on either side of his neck, her hands curving around, finger overlapping at the back, drawing him to her. She wants this. You really will have to think about how readily she is giving herself to this guy, how openly she is inviting him in. This is when you first think the need to lock the gate, but only fleetingly, as the tableau changes form.

His arms are straight, supporting his weight, but he lowers his pelvis. His cock is jutting down at the perfect angle, and yes, you are certain now about that extra inch. He will go deeper than you ever have. Now really is the time to put a stop to what is taking place. Hesitate, and he will be inside her. Except that you know that as this cock enters her, it will erase your wife's memory of that other German cock, and you should still nothing.

She lifts her legs, wrapping them around his body, black stocking against his olive skin, feet locked together at the ankles. Her white thigh, the one with the sperm tattoo that is now framed by her suspender belt, hides his cock momentarily as she raises her legs, but when her feet are locked her thigh is bent forwards so far that you can see the thick, brown, solid shaft again, its purple mushroom head touching her right there.

His cock and balls are dark, several shades darker than his olive skin, brown rather than black, darker than coffee, but not mahogany, the head purple-brown so engorged with blood is it, almost the colour of the dark wine that is in your glass.

She tautens the muscles of her legs, tightening her grip on him, pulling him to her, and the dark wine cock head disappears. Now you sip some more, savouring the flavour and the moment as he sinks his shaft between your wife's nether lips and into her, inch by hard, swollen, blood engorged inch.