Sierra's Lord Commander Ch. 01

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Posing for an artist transforms Sierra and awakens husband.
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Chapter 1: The Transformation

I live in a midwestern university town, and there are plenty of internationally renowned experts in this and that. When a famous artist Marcelo asked my wife Sierra to model for him, she asked me what I thought. She was asking for feedback, but I gave her permission. I wasn't comfortable with it, but the "man in charge" inside me hadn't yet come out of his shell, and I let the decision slip into her hands. Sierra also hadn't yet come out of her shell. She wasn't ready to turn over all control to me or any other man. And so she sat for the artist as a model, and things never were the same again. From the experience, we all got to know ourselves better. It's funny, looking back I see us both as having been timid and tentative. Both "being in charge" and "being in submission" require absolute confidence. Later, we would learn the mutual pleasures of one person committing fully to another. Later, Sierra would devote herself to my every wish, and I would devote myself to caring for my most cherished possession. Later, our life together would grow to reflect a reality conjured up by the artist. Later, the dance of dominance and submission would echo back and forth between sex and the rest of life. But at that moment, I was a powerful fish caught in a net, unable to take control of my present and future.

I didn't feel great about the modelling idea. My wife knew Marcelo through our mutual friend John, who had introduced my wife and I only six years earlier. We had been married within a year of meeting, and John was one of our few friends in common. John was a high-income doctor, and he bought Marcel's pieces as a collector. Marcelo had been complaining at John's holiday party that he needed more models. Marcelo had already asked John's new girlfriend, a cello player from Brazil, if she would model, but John said no. John told me there was something seedy about Marcel's relationships with his models and that he just wasn't comfortable with it. But when Marcelo suggested that he'd love it if my wife would model, I recognized the look on her face immediately. She had been teased as ugly as a child, with braces, wild hair, and an athlete's body.

She had refused to wear girl's clothes until age 16, and still had self image issues. She had honed a hot body, and learned to adorn it in clothing that drew men's gaze whenever we went out downtown. The sheer dresses fit tightly, with the curves of her ass nicely outlined and the insides of her thighs silhouetted through the fabric. She worked out twice a day and had an impossibly trim and firm figure for a 35-year old, with C breasts that she wanted to be assured were big. She is a geology professor, and her male colleagues sometimes let her know they found her attractive. She liked the attention and thought I was being silly if I objected to it as inappropriate. Being asked to model for an artist with a national reputation, she was over-joyed with flattery. I knew she would bristle if I tried to rein her in.

That night, I let her know I wasn't that comfortable with the idea, which did in fact irritate her. "It's fine!" she said, "don't be ridiculous."

When he followed up the first week of January with a phone call asking to schedule a modeling session, she was sitting in the passenger seat as I drove on the highway. She covered the phone and said, "Marcelo wants me to model on Saturday," I didn't realize she was asking if I were free as well on Saturday. I wasn't available, but I said, "It's fine with me."

As Saturday approached, I found myself increasingly irritable, like a horse feeling a storm approaching. I kept imagining Marcelo fantasizing about fucking my wife, planning his session with her and stroking his dick thinking about how he might be able to put it inside her. When Saturday rolled around, she was still anticipating I would go with her. My schedule that day was full, so I couldn't go along. As the miscommunication became evident, she was upset that I would have agreed to let her go on her own. She was loathe to cancel with him, and she pleaded for me to go with her. "You can do your work later. Just come with me. It'll be fun." My job let me work from home, but I had a videoconference scheduled with some teachers I was training. I was about to be late for showing up on camera and urged her to leave or cancel but to quit debating with me. She decided she was comfortable with it and understood that I hadn't intended to surprise with being unwilling to go.

I shooed her out the door and got to my meeting just in time. If she were uncomfortable modeling alone, I thought, it served her right, as I had in fact said that I preferred that she not model for him. But, I did say that she could do what she wanted, and she did. My meeting ended 30 minutes after she left, and I waited anxiously for her to return. She was home minutes after the one-hour session was supposed to end. Not surprising, given that his work studio was blocks from our house, but I guess I was bracing for the worst and was surprised to have her home so punctually.

When she got home, of course, I asked how it went. She blushed and twittered, appearing for a moment like an adolescent who had been caught, but then began to tell the story. "I knew I'd be naked," she said, "but I didn't anticipate that he'd have costumes for me to wear." She admitted to a thrill when Marcelo asked her to pick out lingerie to wear from a drawer, "for inspiration." There were various colors and moods available, she said. All her size. She told me that she had picked a long robe of 2-inch square holes in a mesh of cotton twine.

"He had me sit in a series of poses, and photographed each one." I asked if the poses were relaxed or strenuous to hold. "The hard part was shifting from one pose to another. As I leaned from one pose to another, directed by him, the edges of the mesh squares of the robe kept catching on my nipples." It made her wet, she related that afternoon, to be directed how to arrange her legs, arms, torso, head, mouth. To have her long hair, once her body was positioned, adjusted by the artist.

"He took pictures," she said. I think she hadn't realized he would do that. "Most of the time was of him adjusting me to a new pose and then taking a handful of pictures. But at the end, he drew one pose slowly." She was to stay very still, she said, as he moved in closer to draw various details. She had felt her labia swell slightly and moisten as the session had progressed, as her breasts were caressed by the mesh as she moved from one pose to the next, following directions. By the time he settled me into the final pose," she said, "my clitoris protruded a bit." When she had picked out the mesh, she explained, backtracking in the story, what had drawn her to it was the long drape of fabric, surprisingly heavy. The mesh garment was made of an uneven weight, with some squares' cotton twine edges being much thicker. In a couple of places, the spiral twine making the mesh was almost a half-inch thick, thick enough that the irregular texture of each of the three strands was almost veiny.

"While he was leading me with directions into the last pose, he started using gentle touch to guide my motion as he instructed me how to move. He had me in a yoga pose, 'half-moon' he called it, balancing on my left leg, with my right leg extended parallel to the floor, at hip height. My arms were spread open, my left palm supporting my weight against the floor , my right palm stretched up in the air. It opened up my chest, thrusting my boobs out, and the rope tickled across my nipples worse than ever. One side of the robe's opening was draped across my leg up in the air, and the thick veiny part of the mesh was caught between my labia. He twisted me around, supporting my torso like a dancer dipping their partner, and I ended up in a backbend, looking up with my hands and feet on the floor, my pelvis up in the air. A knot in one of the corners of the mesh feel directly on my clit, and as he moved me into the final pose, coming down from the back bend onto my back and then rolling to my side, the knot ground into my clit and I came." She looked down and clearly felt ashamed, like maybe she had cheated on me. "It's fine," I assured her.

But in reality, it didn't feel fine. I felt hurt. Betrayed. I made dinner for us but spent the evening cold and distant. Eventually, I felt angry. "I had SAID I wasn't comfortable with it!" I thought. "Why would she go and pose anyway!?" Of course, I knew it flattered her, that she went hoping I would go to. And I felt sure that she wasn't holding back some additional part of the story from the session. So I felt I had no reason to hold it against her. But still, it made me mad. And somewhat to my surprise, it made me hard.

When we went to bed, she tried to overcome my aloofness, kissing me invitingly with an open mouth and duck-flared lips. She sometimes gave me head, and I would normally lay back and enjoy her efforts sucking. But tonight, I was in no mood to be gentle. I was mad. Instead of laying back and enjoying, I sat up on the bed, resting on my heels drawn together under my butt, my knees wide apart, her head buried in my hips. I looked down upon her, her torso folded over her bent legs, crumpled below me. She was working sideways, her cheek resting on my thigh as she slid up and down the thigh to suck in more of my cock. I imagined Marcelo plowing into her from behind as we double-teamed her. The imagined idea of him penetrating her enraged me.

I reached down and lifted her cheek up off my leg, cradling her jaw with both hands as I slid my hips forward, pushing my cock into her throat. It was an act of aggression. I wanted to facefuck her, and I was going to take her head and do as I please, whether she liked it or not. She gagged, but instead of pushing away as she normally would when gagging, she tried harder and seemed to enjoy the work of doing so. Her hands drew together and cradled my balls adoringly, her face pressed down into my pubic bone, and her hips rose and rolled forward as her back arched. Her pussy lips, inflamed and pink, peered over her beautiful ass. I kept my left hand on her jaw, controlling her head, as I reached with my right hand to her pussy. She was sopping. She always got good and wet, but never before I began to lick her. Here, I hadn't even touched her - except to accept a kiss and the start of a blowjob- and she was gushing and swollen.

I imagined that my hand was Marcelo's cock, and I plunged roughly into her with my third and fourth fingers together. I pushed my hand into her, pulling her by the pussy up into the air so that her torso's weight bore down onto my hand and her head. I thrust her torso toward me, carrying her deeper than ever before onto my cock with her throat. I fucked her this way with my hand, imagining Marcelo heaving into her, with each thrust pressing my cock deeper into throat. I pictured his thick cock pulling out of her and coming thick loose arcs splashing onto her back, and the image made me come, hard. I held her head fully around my cock as I felt her throat work to expel me. Cum dribbled out of her mouth and I pulled out. She gasped for air but had a greedy look on her face that I had never seen. For the first time in our marriage, she sucked down my cum hungrily, scooping up the bit that had escaped.

As we rolled onto our sides, she stayed low on the bed, making purring happy noises as she nuzzled her face into my dick. She slept as I contemplated the weeks to come. As I replayed the story in my mind's eye, I realized that something had changed for each of us. It wasn't that my wife had been changed by the experience of modeling. No, she had always been exactly who she was now, been turned on by the same things, responded to sexual stimuli the same way. I just hadn't yet known what they were. It felt like a gate to a land of limitless bounty had been opened, that life forever more would be full of my every desire's contentment. My woman needed me to own her. Fully. And so I began to create in my imagination the journey that she would take to that happy place where she would kneel before me and worship my cock whenever and however and with whomever I desired.

When she awoke in the morning, a present awaited her on the kitchen table where she normally took her coffee. Tied with a scarlet ribbon, I knew it contained a first step, a step she was ready to take, and I was ready to make her take it.

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