The Submission of Sophie

Note: Some readers may feel that this should have been submitted as BDSM. Perhaps it should, but even a loving wife can have a submissive side, and the loving husband can never be sure where that will lead.

*****

"What brought that on?" I asked Sophie, once we were cuddled up together and relaxing after her explosive coming.

It felt good to have her snuggling into me, as she always does once we both have come. She may not be a Playboy model, but she has a nice figure, rounded where it matters, and her breasts against my side were soft and warm. Her leg resting on mine was also pleasantly soft. My wife does not work out. Hers is not hard, toned, athletic muscle, just delightful female flesh. Her arm across my chest felt good, loving rather than erotic, but then loving is how we are together, and that is fine by me.

I usually avoid post-mortems after sex. Sophie finds them awkward. She avoids anything that borders on the explicit. She was not brought up that way. Somewhere in her head there is still an ingrained pattern of thought that anything and everything sexual is, if not quite evil, then at least not to be approved of, and that we should really do it because that is how you make babies, not for the sexual pleasure alone. I blame her parents, and the religious upbringing she endured. But I love the woman. Always have, ever since I met her.

Not that our love making has ever been anything but good. Maybe because since we made our wedding vows, we have played at making babies, wanting a family, and deciding to let nature take its course. Mind-blowing sex, perhaps not, but always good.

Sophie's religious upbringing may have affected how she thinks about sex, but it has had no impact whatsoever on how her body responds. Her breasts love to be caressed. Licking or sucking on her nipple stubs makes her squirm with delight. Her clitoris is ultra sensitive, to both my fingers and my tongue. Play with her and she will come. She cannot help it. She never cries or screams, but shudders quietly, imploring me to stop, as if enjoying it too much is somehow wrong.

Then, although it causes her embarrassment, she cannot prevent her cunt becoming wet in moments, welcoming my cock inside with exquisite ease, so that fucking her is sheer delight. Anatomically, she is just perfect, her clitoris nicely positioned so that my shaft grazes it with its full length with each and every thrust, and that too, makes her come so readily. No histrionics, just quiet, low key, trembling that tells me that the moment has arrived.

All of that is another reason why there are no post-mortems. Ours may not be explosive love making, but it is warm and loving and deeply satisfying, and I never need to doubt if she has come before I have released my flow of semen into her. For the eighteen months that we had been married, before discovering this other side to her, we had been more than content. But this time it was different, so I asked.

It was different from the start, just the fact that it was Sophie, not myself, who had initiated things. Most nights we make love. I need the release. Sophie was at least taught by her mother that it is a wife's role to keep her husband satisfied. It is not lie back and think of England, because her body needs that sexual release as much as mine, but she likes to think it is marital duty, more than her sexual drive, that makes her respond so beautifully when I begin to caress her body. Except it was Sophie who had reached for my cock this time.

"Are you going to fuck me?" she had whispered in my ear.

That alone alerted me to something different going on. The 'f' word. Sophie does not use it. Ever. Until then. Which made me realise that this time, she was not asking if I was going to fuck her, but inviting me, asking me, telling me, to fuck her. Telling me, that this was what she needed, my cock, her cunt, right now.

Sophie climbed on top. My missionary wife actually mounted me, reached between her legs to guide my cock inside her, and lowered her body onto mine. Her cunt was saturated. Our bedside lights were still on, and her cunt lips were actually glistening with her own secretions. She leaned forward, her breasts pendulous, her hair falling to my neck and chest, and then she pulled forwards a little, and pushed back again, and did the same again, and then again. This was my delightfully demure Sophie fucking me, not the other way around.

"Oh, God," she moaned, another sign that something new was happening. She would never invoke the deity in any circumstances, except in prayer, real, on your knees, sincere prayer, and definitely not while we were making love.

She rode my cock, making little whimpering noises, and giving out muted moans and cries, before crying out loud enough for anyone in our suburban house to hear her, had there been anyone else there to hear.

"Oh, yes, yes!... Oh!,...Aahh!,... God, yes!..."

Then she pulled right off me, moved to her side of our bed, went on all fours, and pleaded with me.

"Fuck me,... like this,... just fuck me!"

Only the beasts of the forest and the field fuck like that. Those made in God's own image make tender love, face to face. At least that was the way it was in Sophie's mind. Until then.

It is just as much a husband's role to pleasure his wife as it is hers to let him fuck her and ensure that he is satisfied, so I played my part and knelt behind her and sank my cock deep into her cunt. She let out a loud groan. I took hold of her pelvic girdle, pulled out to the flange of my cock, and thrust into her again. She squealed. I fucked her steadily, and she gave out the kind of cries and groans and screams that I had never heard before, not in our marriage bed. This was new, different, and sublime. At least our house was what we English call detached. No adjoining walls. No sound transmission to our neighbours. No red faces next time we would meet.

When she came, she really fucking came. Her whole body was racked with the intensity of her orgasm. It shook and shuddered as she shrieked and groaned so loudly that she had me wondering if the walls, and the space between houses in our street, were really thick enough and wide enough. Demure Sophie had suddenly emerged as a sex craving harlot, like a butterfly escaping from its chrysalis, except not all fluttery and shy, but sex crazed, wild and wanton.

I came. I spewed semen into her cunt, hosed her with it. More semen than ever in the four years that we had been making love. Her craving had awakened something in myself, to be specific, in my ball sack, that made it flood her cunt, wads of the baby-making, creamy semen firing through my shaft, hitting the inner nerve packed surfaces of my cock head as it passed through, and discharging from the eye in an explosion of exquisite sensation.

So, of course I asked. Something had flicked a switch in my wife. That something, as a secondary consequence, had raised my own libido by several notches in one hit. I wanted to know what that something was.

"That was some seriously good love-making," I said to her. "What brought all that on? Have you been tracking your time of the month? Optimal opportunity?"

She stayed silent for a moment, before she told me. Not that her explanation made any sense at all.

"I was at Deborah and Pete's today," she told me. "She showed me round their loft conversion."

Deborah and Pete are good friends of ours, near neighbours, just several houses up the street. Dinner party friends, call around for coffee friends, and no need to call ahead just ring the doorbell friends. Pete and I play golf together. Deborah and Sophie shop together, clothes and make-up, not groceries. Grown up friendship. Neither they nor we have kids. Not yet at least. Their house is similar to ours, modern, open plan kitchen, diner, lounge, glazed doors sliding open to their rear garden. Good roof-space. We had boarded ours for storage. Just an access hatch, in our landing ceiling, with an extending ladder, but great space once up there. Pete and Deborah had put in a stairway to make their access easier, but their space would have been pretty much the same. So I knew about their loft conversion. It just had never been a thing worth mentioning, or not til now, and I still did not get its significance to Sophie, or to the exquisite sex that we had just enjoyed.

"Okay," I said, still wondering what it was about a two-bit loft extension that had led to the intensity of Sophie's lovemaking hitting such a high.

"It was just Deborah," Sophie said. "She showed me round what they had done."

"Okay," I said. "And?"

I was totally perplexed. We had been round there pretty much once a fortnight since we had got to know them, just as we invited them over to ours, and while we had seen the staircase when it was put in, it was never a feature of anything.

"Well, it wasn't what I expected," was all that my wife said in answer.

"What wasn't?" I asked.

"I mean,..." Sophie started. Then she stopped.

Her head was on my shoulder, and she was talking softly, right up close to my ear, so what I heard when she paused in what she was saying, was her gentle breathing, as she tried to figure out how to tell me what she was trying to tell me.

"So you know they had the new staircase leading up," she finally said. "It turns around, and then there is a door, and she had to unlock the door with a key."

"Weird," I said.

"And it was dark inside," Sophie went on. "It's not just boarded. It's been dry walled and painted too, but everything is painted black, the walls and ceiling. Even a black carpet. Everything."

She hesitated again.

"I mean,..." she said. "It's really not what I would have thought,... I wouldn't have realised,... not from anything Deborah ever said,... not even when we talked about,... you know,..."

Knowing Sophie, hearing her reticence to tell me what it was that Deborah and she talked about, I guessed it might be their respective sex lives, since women do that, probably more than guys. But I could not figure what Deborah might have said or not said when they had talked about whatever it was that Sophie could not actually bring herself to say.

Then my wife cut her explanation short.

"They 've made a kind of play-room," Sophie said.

The only play-rooms I have come across in other people's homes are for the kids. They have toy boxes and untidy floor space, and brightly coloured walls with pictures of rainbows and princesses, or space gladiators and racing cars, or a mix of both, if kids of both sexes share the space. Deborah and Pete do not have children. While we had been trying to start a family, they seemed to have no plans to do the same. Plus, the room was painted black. Not the usual stimulating primary colours that adults impose on kids. It seemed like this could be a different kind of play-room.

"With a swing, and a horse," she added," and something else,... a kind of cross."

Kids sit on swings, but usually outside, beneath a metal frame or tree, not in a playroom, and girls can love horses, or mostly girls, but they are either toys or kept in stables, not in the loft. A cross sounded potentially religious, and out of place where kids would play, but there are other kinds of crosses, and other kinds of swings, and other kinds of horses. I guessed which kind of each she meant.

"You're serious?" I said.

"I'm serious," she said.

"And that made you,..." I searched for the right word to use. "..., frisky?"

"I'm sorry," Sophie said. "I couldn't help it. I just,... I mean,... she told me what they were for,... and they had straps and things,... so you can't get free,... and I could see different kinds of,... she called them tawses,... and paddles,... and,.... well,... you know,... toys."

I guessed she did not mean Bob the Builder toys, or Barbie or Lego.

"It got you wet?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm really, really sorry. I know it shouldn't,... but,..."

"But it did,..." I said.

"Do you hate me?" she asked.

Only Sophie would ask a question like that. Any other woman would know that her husband wanted sex like that. Sophie's brain worked differently. Thinking explicit thoughts of sex was wrong, especially thoughts about swings and horses and crosses and paddles and adult toys. In Sophie's head, those thoughts were sinful.

I let her wonder what the answer to that question was. For several minutes. Saying nothing, I just thought about what she had just told me. I would never have guessed it about Deborah and Pete. More to the point, I would never have thought that it would turn Sophie on like that. I was fascinated, intrigued, and curious, and my mind was going into overdrive, about how to answer, and how to be a loving husband to my wife, without losing this new side of Sophie, the one who got so turned on just by thinking about a loft conversion, and what can happen there.

My cock, which should have been resting peacefully after the love making we had just enjoyed, gave an understanding twitch. It knew what I was thinking. Cocks do. They have a symbiotic relationship with the male brain. Think about sex in your head, and your cock reacts. Mine was reacting. It slowly came back to full erection. That was good enough to tell me that I could risk what I was thinking.

"Babe," I said finally. "I want you kneeling over the end of the bed."

Sophie did not move. Not straight away, which was natural, because I had never told her to do that before. But she moved all right when I added one more word, in the kind of voice a parent would use to a recalcitrant child.

"Now!" I said.

My wife obediently got up from where she had been lying cuddled into my side. She walked to the end of the bed. She knelt on the carpeted floor. She bent forwards with her upper body resting on the duvet. She used her elbows to support herself, so as not to crush her breasts with her own body weight. She then stayed like that while I went to the bank of wardrobes opposite our bed and opened the one that held my shirts and trousers and jackets and tees and jumpers and ties and belts. I chose one of the belts, thick black leather, cut wide for jeans, and I walked back to where my wife was waiting.

She had been waiting with her head down, looking straight at the duvet beneath her, if her eyes were open then, but sensing my coming back to her she turned her head. Now her eyes were definitely open. She could see what I had in my hand. Seeing it, she looked a little scared, her eyes opening just that fraction wider. Those beautiful, brown eyes looked from the belt in my hand to my own eyes, and I could read the instinctive sense of apprehension.

"You deserve this, don't you?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said, so quietly that I could only just make out the word.

"I didn't hear," I said.

"Yes," she repeated, more loudly this time. Loud enough to be acceptable.

I had never done this kind of thing before, but I knew that all it would take was a flick of the wrist, and the end of the belt would gain momentum in the air as it swung, that would make the impact more or less severe, depending on the precise timing and flexing of that wrist flick. I went for hard. Seriously hard.

With the buckle in my hand I turned my wrist backward so that the belt hung loosely behind me, and then I flicked it rapidly, the belt swishing its arc high, then down and smacking with a loud thwack onto the duvet right beside my wife's soft, white, creamy butt.

Sophie jumped with shock. Not literally, but her entire body shuddered and rose from the bed an inch or so before collapsing back down is sheer relief that what would have seriously hurt and marked her with a long red line across both her buttocks, had been aimed, not at her, but at the bedding just beside her. You could sense the air exhaling from her lungs as she dared to breathe again.

I drew the belt back again, angling my wrist ready for a second strike. Her eyes widened. She knew what to expect this time. She knew just how hard the belt would land, and that it would land on her. She knew that it would hurt. But she stayed immobile. Tense and apprehensive, but unmoving.

"You've been thinking about yourself in that play-room, haven't you," I said.

"Yes," my wife admitted, her voice a little hoarse and throaty.

"Naughty thoughts," I said.

"Yes," she admitted again.

"So you deserve this," I said.

This time she delayed answering, as if she was gathering herself in anticipation of the inevitable outcome when she answered.

"Yes," Sophie finally whispered.

I flicked my wrist. Just enough to get the leather moving upwards, reaching its apex, and then falling down, this time on her butt cheeks, but so, so lightly that no way would it have hurt a fly, had one been resting there.

She still gasped. A gasp of sheer relief.

"Get back in bed," I said.

Silently, my wife got up from where she had been kneeling and climbed back into our bed and under the duvet. I got in with her, moving over her, my legs between hers. All this time, my cock had been rock hard, telling me something about myself, my sexual psyche, that I had not known before. I touched my cock to Sophie's cunt. The head slipped inside as easily as if her cunt were melted butter, and I eased it deep into the wetness that was now a sexual blend of my previously ejaculated semen, and yet more of Sophie's copious secretions, instinctively released from fear, excitement, and desire, while kneeling at our bed.

This time we made love. Face to endearing face, glorious, missionary love. It lasted longer than before, partly the slickness of her cunt, partly the fact that I had come already and therefore needed yet more stimulation before my cock would want to come again, but in lasting longer, it brought us closer. Sophie, her clit permanently ready to reach another orgasm, this time shuddered quietly, whimpered, and I continued to make gentle love to her as her cunt twitched and spasmed gloriously around my cock head and it thick and rigid shaft. Eventually I released more semen, not so violently as before, but emptying all that was left in me, my gift to her.

"I love you," I whispered in her ear once I had come in her.

"I love you too," she said. "I'm sorry."

It was time to say it clearly.

"There's nothing to apologise for," I said. "You can't help how you react. And you told me. We always promised there would be no secrets between us. Besides, maybe it was meant to be. Maybe there's something we should explore a little."

"As long as you still love me," Sophie said.

"I still love you," I reassured her. "Everything about you."

********

Pete and I talked about it that Saturday. On the golf course. Walking between strokes. He brought it up, not me. Of course I had been thinking about it, about the room that Deborah had shown Sophie, that I had not yet seen, and Sophie's incredible response to it. To just seeing it. I had been thinking about my wife a lot. She had always been demure and unassertive, and conservative in bed, but I adored her, and I did not need my wife to be some kind of incredible sex goddess. The way she had been so turned on, however, had been eye opening. Maybe there was more to the unassertive side of her personality than I had ever imagined. I had wondered if Pete would mention Deborah having shown Sophie the room, if Deborah had even told him. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, I had even hoped she had, and that he would casually bring it up in conversation. She had. He did.

"So what did Sophie think?" Pete asked, as we walked the fairway.

I saw no reason to play games. We were already playing golf. One game at a time was enough, without making talk about Deborah showing Sophie around their loft conversion into a game of who would be just how direct in saying that the sexy little play-room in their loft was what Pete was referring to, in asking me what my wife had thought, or told me.