Punishment That Fits the Crime

He is considerate. He holds back, just a little, that final inch. You can see it, that inch of brown cock shaft between your wife's upraised, hairless pubis and his strong, muscular frame, and seeing that it is just an inch you know that his penis head is now where yours would be. He stays still, not wanting to give her more than she is ready for. She waits, legs still around his waist, arms still around his neck. He did not have to hold back. He could so easily have sunk his full length into her. Instead, slowly, he withdraws.

Now, as it emerges from her wet depths, his shaft is coated with her juices. You realise just how wet she was, and is, for him. Lust is physical and mental. The ease with which she went down on him, kneeling in front of him and sucking his cock and balls, and then lay on the bed and opened her legs for him, reaching her arms around his neck, and wrapping her legs around his body, all of this tells you that in her head, she had no hesitation, but mentally was primed to let him fuck her. They way her nipples responded to his touch, and the sheen of her secretions on shaved skull's cock tell you that her body was also all too ready to be fucked by him.

Now you realise just how much you are playing with fire here. Germany waved air over the tinderbox, and a flame emerged. Since then you have contained it, but now it is breaking out again. In due course, you will have to show her who controls the fire. Now, having lit the bonfire, you can only watch. There is nothing with which this fire can now be dowsed. Or rather, the fluids that will dowse it are not your own, and the timing of their release, not in your control. Only when they are released will this fire subside. All you can do is watch the spectacle. You sip some more delicious wine.

All of his slick brown shaft is visible, and most of the thick purple head. He pushes his way inside again, then moves steadily, in and out of her, just a few inches, no more half the length of his shaft in her before withdrawing, the head reappearing every time. You have done this to her. You love the wet slithering friction of her inner surfaces on your cock head. You know from the whimpers that she makes that she enjoys it too, and now you hear those whimpers coming from her lips, telling you that his dark cock is giving her that self same pleasure.

You put down your wine, needing both hands to properly adjust your own hard cock, so that it lies comfortably against your lower belly instead of pushing at the fabric of your clothing. It really is incredible that you are now watching this wife or yours, so respectable, demure, loved by all her family and your overlapping friendship circles, mother of your children, yet now taking this stranger's cock, and moaning softly to his movements. You pick up your glass again, and in the moment that your eyes went to the side table to guide your hand, you hear her.

It is a delicious, drawn out moan of pleasure, one that she has so often made for you, somewhere between a gasp and long exhalation, her vocal chords relaxed so that the sound resonates softly until her lungs are empty. Your eyes are back where they belong, and there is no movement. His body is hard against hers. No remaining inch of cock shaft can be seen. His cock buried deep. This is what you might have, could have, perhaps should have, intervened to prevent it happening. You could have called it off, but you did not, and now the dark wine, mushroom head with its taut skin and its thick rim is deeper within her than yours will ever be.

Your wife is shuddering.

The whole of her body is vibrating.

Her hands release their grip and her arms fall on either side. Her mouth is open. She is still staring at his neck. Her black encased legs, still wrapped around his body, are tensed, muscles taut, as are her arms, rigid on the bed. Your wife's white body is moving fast and rhythmically, her breasts are quivering, but the epicentre of this body quake is between her legs.

That is her entire focus, where his shaft is buried, stretching her labia around it, where his hard lower belly is pressed against your loving wife's hairless pubis, and where you know, from having taken her to this point yourself, her clitoris is now pulsating.

She is incredible. Her groans of pleasure are beautiful. Watching the mother of your children enjoy this orgasm, you now know with certainty that this was what was needed. This displaces Germany, and this other cock, which has given her this orgasm, is not her doing, but your own.

Slowly it subsides. She relaxes gradually, coming down, her muscles slackening, her legs slowly releasing their tight grip on him, coming down onto the bed, and he now lets his torso lower onto hers, his weight now on his elbows, his arms no longer straight, his forearms reaching beneath her back, holding her to him.

It is his pelvis which now takes over, rising and falling, as she moans with the realisation that for him, things are only just beginning.

You take your time, savouring the wonderfully full bodied wine. He takes his time, savouring her body. You roll the wine around in your mouth with your tongue, as he rolls gently from side to side, thrusting into her from different angles. You slowly swallow the thick, translucent, dark red liquid, while in your mind you picture the thick, white, translucent fluids that he will, when he is ready, release inside your wife.

His rhythm is steady, but he varies his movements. He is between her legs, thrusting steadily, now he thrusts a little from the left, and now the right, now he has moved his body slightly down, thrusting almost horizontally, now he moves back up, his penis almost vertical, yet angling its way into her with each thrust.

He moves her left leg, the one with the sperm tattoo that is still just the single sperm, that he may, or may not, have noticed yet, so that her tattooed thigh is between his, and he continues thrusting. Then the other leg, and somehow he is still thrusting, his legs outside hers, holding them together, and your respectable, charming wife is trapped beneath him, for him to fuck and fuck and fuck.

It is as you approach the bottom of your glass that he parts your wife's legs again, raises his body, lifts each of her legs in turn, and tucks them beneath his shoulders, her white thighs bent back beneath him, her black stockinged feet jutting into the air above both their heads, hers with its dark brown hair spread across the sheet, and his, shaven smooth, as devoid of hair as you have made her pubis.

He resumes his steady thrusting of his dark cock again and again into her upraised pubis, but with a gradually increasing rhythm. Now you can see the length of his shaft each time that he withdraws, and watch as he thrusts harder and harder into her, every time his cock head reaching deeper than your own. His hard thrusts remind you of how you have fucked her with the image of Germany clear in your head, punishing her with your cock, but in reality giving her yet more pleasure. He has no need to punish her, but he still slams his body against her upraised pubic mound, his buttocks contracting yet more strongly with each and every thrust.

She is groaning each time he slams into her, her body being pushed across the bed. Her head moves off the mattress, and he grips her shoulders to prevent her moving further. His back arches, and blood rushes to his face. With the next thrust, he cries out with the release, and you know. You know.

You will never forget this moment. You could only imagine Germany, but now you are watching the reality of this other man, spewing himself deep into her, once, twice, three times, four, then five, and one more time he thrusts, and each time you know that that he is expelling his semen deep inside your wife, his milky ejaculant with its one hundred million sperm, still warm from his testes, is shooting from his cock head, hitting her inner walls, blasting into her womb, making a slut of her. You will remember this, your perfect wife fucked to the edge of a hotel bed by another man, her cunt impaled by his cock, receiving his sperm, his semen, his seed. This is exactly what you planned, because she too will remember for always how he has ravaged her body for his sexual pleasure, emptying of himself so deep, so very deep, inside her.

It was a punishment perfectly suited to her crime. Laura was so, so contrite about Germany, so apologetic, begging to be forgiven. She did not know what had come over her, why he had had such an effect on her. Now she knew, and would have to accept the truth. It was not about him.

It was not the effect that one guy, one executive, had had on Laura. Nor was it anything to do with Germany. Germany served only to release her from the norms of being a wife and mother back in England. What had come over her was very simple. She loved, adored and lusted to be fucked.

That is the fact that you and she both needed to acknowledge, that your wife loves sex, that her body wants it and desires it and would seek it out wherever and whenever the rules of society did not prevent her from so doing. Away from your home, family and friends, she had and would let those needs hold sway. The German guy was just a guy. Had it not been him, it would have been another. Now, encountering a new stranger, in a hotel room where social norms did not exist, not even with her husband watching, she followed her instincts, allowed the man to fuck her, and to release his sperm while he was deep inside her.

It is so simple. You are married to a woman who need and loves to fuck, and the who and the where are restricted only by what others would think of her if they were aware. That hotel room led both of us to realise that simple truth, and to accept it.

It did not even end there, when shaved skull had come inside her. After a break, lying beside her, he then lay on his back, head on the pillows, while she stroked his wet, limp cock back to full erection, climbed on top of him and guiding it back inside. Where before it was he who had fucked her cunt, now it was her cunt that ground down on his rigid cock as she fucked him, giving me the most amazing ring side seat from the foot end of the bed, her suspender belt stretched across her lower back, his hands stretching her buttocks wide, fingering her anus, his cock stretching her cunt around it as she morose and fell on kneeling, stockinged legs, finding for herself another orgasm, and for him the ability to come again.

That time, when they had finished, and she raised herself from his slick cock until it fell free of her cunt, a globule of his milky semen escaped from between her labia, oozing down her inner thigh toward the black stocking top, a delicious hard core moment of time, recorded in my memory, that still plays in perfect high definition focus inside my head every time I think of her with him.

It was while watching that second time, while she was squatting over him, raising and lowering herself, impaling herself again and again, her tattooed thigh tautening rhythmically, that I conceived the second sperm, smaller than but otherwise identical to that first, tattooed immediately below. The first tattoo was for the Germanic sperm. The second would be for this guy with the shaved head, olive skin, and his extra inch. It seemed appropriate, and when later I told Laura what I intended for her, she did not demur.

Laura climbed right off the guy, the globule of semen still on her thigh, turned, and lay on her back beside him. Shaved skull lay still. He moved only his hand, resting it on my wife's thigh, the one with the tattoo. Turning his head, he saw the tattoo. He sat up, smiled, and said just one word.

Neat.

Minutes later, saying nothing more, shaved skull left the bed for the adjacent bathroom. There was the sound of running water. It stopped. Then he emerged, retrieved his clothes, dressed, nodded his thanks to me and left.

It would have been so easy to undress, climb onto the bed, and fuck my wife. My cock was still rock hard. If you have watched hard core porn, and come erect, needing the relief that only comes with ejaculation, then watching live sex, where your wife is one of the two people fucking right in front of you, will do so all the more. I needed relief. I wanted to fuck her. She deserved it. But she also needed to know who was in control.

Instead, I told her it was time to go. Not to shower. Not to use the bathroom. Just to dress and do her hair.

Even then, I enjoyed watching. Laura climbing off the bed, her breasts swaying beneath her, her hair falling in tresses. Laura picking up her bra, fastening it under her breasts, then turning it round to bring the fasteners to her back, slipping her arms through the shoulder straps, raising the straps over her shoulders, easing her breasts to sit correctly in the cups. Laura, picking up her dress, turning it the right side out, stepping into it and raising it over her body, arms into arm holes, its shoulders onto her shoulders.

Only then do I put down my glass, stand up, move behind her, hold her waist, take hold of the zip, and ease it up. Then I kiss her neck, the other side to where shaved skull had kissed her. She turns, all the way to face me, looking at me, curious. I kiss her forehead. She says two words.

Thank you.

We leave in silence, drive home in silence. It is late. We have not had dinner, but our arrival at the hotel, to when shaved skull left, enough time has lapsed for other couples to have enjoyed a three course meal with red wine accompanying the main, and crème anglais to finish.

The children are in bed. Laura's mother is watching the late news. Yes, we had a lovely evening. With shaved skull's semen still drying on her inner thigh, and more, perhaps, trickling from her cunt, my loving wife, the devoted daughter, the slut, thanks her mother for looking after our two children, sees her to her car, hugs her, and wishes her good night.

The front door closed, I kiss her. Not on the neck, but the mouth with which she caressed, kissed and sucked on a stranger's cock. She is still hungry. My appetite is at its peak. Our tongues explore. For long minutes we stand there, mouths locked. I reach beneath her dress, find her cunt, finger her, slimy with his semen, remove my hand, break off our kiss, and put my fingers to her mouth.

She licks them clean.

Upstairs, she washes.

Then we fuck.

Now, go back to the beginning. Remember my description of that tattoo. Remember the detail. One large oval, with its tail. Below it, as I said, three smaller versions of the same tattoo. Germany the large one, shaven head the second, but now there are two more since then, and one still in the planning, not yet inked onto her leg.

The third tattoo is for a guy in his fifties, grey hair, but still trim, who replied not only offering to service Laura, but willing to pay us for the privilege. Some guys think that they can buy anything, and five hundred pounds is a fair sum to offer for one evening. I had never planned to sell my wife, but the idea eventually appealed, provided that it was cash, in a brown envelope, and proffered in the hotel bar, to Laura, while I waited in the room. We did not need the money, but the kids love their wooden garden climbing frame, and I love reminding Laura how she paid for it.

The fourth is for a student, an intelligent, good looking, British born Jamaican whose parentage did not appear diluted by any white blood in his family history. The contrast of skin on skin, black on white, was incredibly intense. Even the head of his cock was black. His semen, of course, was pure, milky white, more copious than any of the others, and seeped deliciously from between her labia even as we drove back home, leaving a stain on the front seat that neither she, nor her mother who also tried, without knowing the source of the mark that marred the fabric, neither of them has managed to remove.

If you are wondering, yes, my wife enjoyed those punishments, and we both enjoy reliving them, while we are making love, but she has never strayed again. There are ways that you can make sure of this. If some guys allow their wives to enjoy their sexual freedom, well, I am not that kind of guy. Laura's exposed, protruding labia are not only nature's way to make her cunt so much more delectable, but they are also functional.

Germany invaded her garden, the garden that I had thought was mine alone. There was no lock on the garden gate. He had entered her with ease, and she had enjoyed this stranger in her garden, igniting a bonfire of passion and lust within her. Watching her with shaved skull, I saw that fire rekindled. That time the invitation to enter had been mine, but my wife had still enjoyed the forbidden flame of a stranger stoking at her furnace. She had loved every moment. I knew that, even while I watched, I knew, and knowing that, I knew also that if I left that garden unsecured, others would seek to penetrate, and some, at least, she might not, would not turn away.

The miniature gold lock I sourced from Tiffany, just over an inch in height, heart shaped, with a curved closure that is four millimetres thick. Perfect as it has proven for what I had in mind, I suspect that it was not the use for which it was designed. Fully functioning, it came with a pair of working keys. One I keep attached to a chunky silver bracelet that Laura gave me for my thirtieth birthday. The other is secreted where only I know the location, just in case the first key should detach itself, or in whatever way be lost.

Our tenth wedding anniversary was just over a month after shaved skull. It was a Saturday, which made what I had planned so much easier. I gave Laura flowers, a card, and the wrapped Tiffany presentation box that morning, and she beamed. Opening it, she saw the lock and said that it was beautiful. She had a gold chain that she could use to wear it. I said nothing to disabuse her, but told her that I needed her to be ready to go out for lunch, and that her mother, who I had pre-arranged, would arrive at twelve to take care of the children.

We did have lunch, half an hour's drive away, in a favourite restaurant. We both ate fish, washed down with a dry Sancerre. I suspected that Laura would need the alcohol to deal with what was planned for after the anniversary meal.

The appointment I had made for after lunch was within walking distance. This appointment was not at the tattoo studio, but at another studio which they had recommended, which I had visited before I bought the lock, to discuss whether what I had in mind was feasible. They confirmed it was.

The woman at the reception desk was the same person I had spoken to. In her mid thirties, slim, dressed in white jeans and tee shirt, with straight black hair, she had no visible tattoos, but her nose had a steel ring set through the left nostril, and her tee shirt was stretched taut over her neat breasts, revealing the contours of nipples that both had barbell piercings.

Laura had followed me into the studio even more hesitantly that with the tattoo studio. Her reaction reminded me of our first visit there. She just went quite. A little less than an hour from our arrival, we left the studio and headed to our car, Laura still just as quiet, perhaps more so, but walking hand in hand.

When we got back, Laura's mother asked, as always when we returned from a couple's outing, if we had enjoyed ourselves. Laura said we had. What she did not, could not, mention, was that after our lunch she had allowed a woman at a body piercing studio to set a pair of steel ball closure rings through her protruding labia. It was not the kind of thing her mother could be told, or would wish to hear.

That was the first wedding anniversary that we did not make love. In fact we did not make love until a week later, and then only cautiously. Once I was inside her, Laura confided that she had missed me. We took it slowly, taking care with the rings. It was good to be inside her once again, to be making love with her again, and although the piercings necessitated being more restrained, they did not prevent Laura from orgasming, nor impede my own delicious coming inside her just a little later.