The Submission of Sophie

Deborah had kept my wife waiting, but she did not disappoint. Another flick, a loud swish through the air, and then a hard, unforgiving thwack. Sophie yelped again, muffled, involuntary, but an audible articulation of inflicted pain. From where I was standing, I could not see her other buttock quite as well, but it too began to colour. Yet once she had given out that second, stifled yelp, my wife stayed still again. Unmoving. Not squirming. Not straining against the straps that held her. Acquiescent. Accepting. Compliantly consenting.

"Two more," Deborah said. "Then Pete is going to fuck you."

Still, Sophie did not move. She did not strain against the leathers. She did not raise or shake her head. She did not make a sound. Not a moan, or cry. No attempt to articulate a word or phrase of any kind, to defy the rubber held within her gaping mouth. Not a single whimper. Acquiescent. In her compliant stillness, the woman that I loved was silently consenting.

Deborah had been so absolutely right about my wife. I remembered Pete's words on the golf course, that she suspected Sophie to be naturally compliant. Unbeknownst to me, and probably also to herself, Sophie was indeed a natural born submissive. It was a massive revelation. Not yet fully tried and tested, because Pete had not yet slid his cock inside her cunt, and in theory there was still time for her to come back to reality and make some kind of signal that all of this should stop, but right at that moment it seemed as if that was not what would happen. My wife had signalled by the absence of any sound or movement saying otherwise, that she consented, that not just her torso and her upturned buttocks, but her very cunt, wet and available as it so clearly was, that cunt now belonged to Deborah, to give to whom she wished.

Another loud thwack drew me from my thoughts, even louder than before. Even with a rubber ball inside your mouth, you can groan and gasp, and this time Sophie's groan lasted for long seconds. Yet somehow she controlled the urge to buck or writhe. I had not seen the tawse's fronds strike her buttock, but I saw her left butt redden even more. It had to have hurt her. Except something told me that she wanted it. She needed it. There was absolutely no resistance. No sign that she was in distress, or wanted it to stop.

These were now punishing blows. They were not teasing, play strokes with tickling fronds, but strong, slashing, fearful punitive thwacks on vulnerable flesh. Yet Sophie took them as if they were deserved. They talk of taking your punishment like a man. This was my wife taking her punishment like the submissive woman that had all the while been lying dormant deep within her straight-laced shell. Punishment for what she wanted more than the pain itself. Punishment for wanting and needing what Deborah had said would happen next.

"One more," Deborah said. "Then Pete."

Sophie waited, again unmoving. This time I saw Deborah use the tawse. She drew her forearm back and to the side, flicking her wrist as she brought her forearm forwards, like a tennis player slicing the ball to hit it hard and long, except it was not a sprung racquet but a crop of leather that she used, and it was not a ball she hit, but soft, forgiving, already reddened female flesh belonging to my wife. Seeing it, I felt it. My whole body tensed. Sophie's seemed to do the same, but she controlled it this time too. Hardly even a whimper.

I was mesmerised. I barely registered what Deborah did next, until she turned and led the way towards the door leading to the staircase back downstairs, the tawse no longer in her hand. Sophie was still firmly secured to the horse, still crouched over it, knees on the lower two soft pads, torso on third, head partially raised, still blindfolded and gagged, still compliantly accepting of her role as Pete and Deborah's plaything.

Except the play was about to get serious. That is, if you can describe being strapped naked to a wood and leather horse, and having your butt reddened by a leather tawse, as play. Just as playfully, Deborah had left the tawse for my wife to hold, if you can call it holding, when it was in neither of her hands, but inserted in her cunt, handle deep, black fronds draped from that orifice to form a pony's tail.

In my head the distinction between play and getting serious, was where being caressed, stroked, restrained, and thwacked came to a natural end, and fucking started. That had been the discussion with Pete, back on the golf course, just that afternoon. I was interested in exploring this newly discovered, compliant side to my wife, but I had real reservations about anyone else, good friend or otherwise, actually fucking her. On the other hand, I have always believed that people should be free to be themselves, and if Sophie was indeed a natural submissive, then perhaps I should make the necessary adjustments in our relationship to allow her to be that person.

I loved her, after all. True love does not want to mould the other person. It gives them space to be themselves, to grow into the person that they wish to become, to unveil the person within, their true selves. It is unconditional. That was why I had allowed Deborah to bring my wife upstairs a second time, not just to show her the room they had created, but to enable her to find herself, if this new, submissive Sophie was indeed who my wife really was.

I will be honest and admit that the way that Sophie and I had fucked when she came home that previous night, and the way that she had so obediently knelt at the end of our bed, had opened a door to my own psyche. Imagining her, as she was now, secured to the horse, exposed, helpless, defenceless, vulnerable, had been a turn on. Talking with Pete, I may not have exactly been erect, but I could sense the sexual excitement coursing through my blood.

Watching Deborah using the tawse on her, I had felt the same. Seeing her, with the handle of the fronds of the black tawse emerging from her nether region, was just amazing. If something within my wife was acquiescing to this kind of play, accepting punishment and permitting penetration, then so too, something inside myself wanted her to be this willing plaything, not for our friends, but for myself.

What left me stunned, concerned, possibly alarmed, definitely uneasy, was Sophie's apparent acceptance that, now that Deborah had finished using the tawse on her, Pete was going to fuck her. His cock, her cunt. Penetrate, occupy, and thrust repeatedly. Thrust and thrust and come. Ejaculate within. Deep inside. Real semen. Flooding her. Surging into her womb. Living sperm. Not mine. His. Yet she had heard Deborah say this twice. She had had time to take it in. Even restrained and gagged, she could now be shaking her head to indicate that she did not want to go that far, but was instead just waiting, breathing steadily, compliant, accepting that this was exactly what was about to happen.

"Let's go downstairs," Deborah said, picking up my wife's clothes and shoes. "We can have some more wine while she is getting fucked."

That was when it really hit me, a lightning strike of reality in the sexual depravity of the darkened play-room. Family aspirations. Letting nature take its course. Allowing it to happen. That was where we were at. No pill, no patch, no nothing, and yet my wife had just accepted that someone other than myself would fuck her, nothing said about protection, condoms never mentioned, and nothing she could do about it anyway.

We had not used protection ever. Always skin on skin. Latex being tight and thin and slick these days, the chances were my wife's wet cunt would not know a bare cock from a protected one, maybe not even when the semen started spewing. Yet she was acquiescing. This was so much bigger than I had ever thought.

Meanwhile, Deborah led the way downstairs.

******

It was something over an hour later that we walked home. Sophie had showered in their guest bathroom, coming downstairs where the three of us were by then drinking wine together outside on their patio, enjoying the late night summer warmth. She was still naked, for the simple reason that Deborah has brought her dress downstairs while she was showering, and it was draped over the back of the fourth of the outdoor rattan chairs. Sophie joined us, not yet putting on the dress, but standing naked to one side, waiting for permission, still in her submissive role.

"I'm impressed," Deborah had said. "For a first time that was quite a performance. Maybe you should leave your things here and walk home naked."

I wondered if Sophie would have complied, had Deborah insisted. It was a short walk, just several houses down, but even at that time of night, the risk was that she would be seen. Not that Sophie gave any sign of arguing. But Deborah had not insisted. My wife was allowed her dress. Just her dress, and her shoes of course. No underwear. That was no longer with her dress. Possibly disposed of, but definitely elsewhere.

"That was quite a night," I said, once Deborah and Pete had closed their door and we were on the pavement.

I took my wife's hand. We always walk like that, hand in hand, wherever we are walking. Loving means touching, being connected. She gripped mine tightly.

"You're not,... I mean,..." she started. "I didn't think that,... it's just,... when she,... I couldn't,..."

I had to guess at what lay at the end of each of those hesitant beginnings of sentences. Some kind of saying sorry, but trying to explain, to justify, so not entirely regretting, more not wanting me to be upset with her, wanting me to understand, to still love her, which I still did, and do, and which I told her.

"I love you," I said, to reassure her.

"I love you too," she said.

Then she stopped walking, halfway between the house we had just left and our own. She looked up at me with her beautiful, deep eyes, her hair no longer in the pony tail but framing her face.

I took her in my arms, and she pulled herself close. She angled her head to mine and I lowered mine to hers, our lips touching, and we kissed. Just how long we kissed, I do not know, but it was long. It was the kind of kiss that new lovers submerge themselves in before they have been truly intimate, but knowing that it will inevitably happen, but when do not want to break off from the closeness of that kiss, not even to undress, not yet at least. It was not just lips touching, but mouths opening, tongues engaging, swallowing the essence of each other, becoming one. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes passed, and we were still engorged with one another. Sod the neighbours. They could watch. I did not care.

Finally, we broke free. I felt Sophie shiver, not with cold, but with emotion. The new Sophie. The person I was married to, and loved, but who was now a different person, the same, but transformed by what had taken place, but still the woman that I loved, just as much as ever.

We walked on, past a few more of our neighbours' houses, and went inside our own. Ten minutes later, we were in bed. I lay on my back, Sophie snugged into me. Neither of us spoke. We just lay together in silence, each of us thinking our own thoughts about the events that we had just experienced.

"I didn't plan,..." my wife began, "for it to go that far. Can you,... can you forgive me?"

I had been thinking of her strapped onto the leather covered horse, knowing that Deborah had said that Pete would fuck her, waiting for it to happen. There had been ample opportunity for my wife to communicate her disquiet, but she had waited uncomplaining, her cunt so beautifully available, so wet, so ready to receive the cock that I knew had not just enjoyed that readiness, but once it was itself ready, had come inside her, semen spewing from it, a million sperm released, tails flicking, heads dashing randomly within her, each hoping by mere chance to be the first to nudge against an egg, to penetrate its outer layer, to kick start life inside her. Yet I still loved this woman, for all her frailty, her susceptibility to such extreme sexual submission, and I knew that she loved me. That had not changed.

Before I answered, she started to explain.

"I just,... I mean, letting Deborah strap me to that thing,... it somehow,... it was like,... I was someone else,..."

Which was how I had seen her, morphed into a human sex toy, not the person of my wife, the body, yes, but a strapped down plaything, punishable by tawse, fuckable by whomever Deborah chose. So I could understand that the same transformation might occur for her, nakedness and leather bonds removing all sense of fidelity, faithfulness, commitment, only her bodily instincts remaining, an automaton, responding by instinct to stimulus, programmed by desire to submit to anything required of her. Someone else.

Sophie was lying on her side, my arm around her, her head resting on my shoulder, a leg across both of mine, her groin against my pelvis, her thigh dangerously close to my erect cock, so close that she might realise just how aroused I was.

"It was like it wasn't me,..." she continued. "I mean,... when she was using the thing on me,... it felt like,... she was doing it to someone else,... even when it hurt,... it felt like it someone else's pain,... it was just so strange,..."

Her body felt so good against my own, her breasts warm and soft. I loved this woman, who was baring her soul to me, telling me how it had been for her.

"And it was kind of,...it seemed like I was being punished,... not me,... but yes, me,... for the things that go on in my head,... that I'm ashamed of,..."

She moved her leg, and it made contact. As if to confirm what she was feeling at her thigh, she moved her hand from where it had been resting on my chest and cupped my cock head with her palm. I waited for her reaction to this hard evidence that I was aroused by all that had happened, by what she was saying, however hesitantly, and by her body.

"Then when she,... when she said that Pete would,... it seemed like something I deserved,... and I couldn't see, or say anything,..."

She angled her hand to take hold of my cock shaft, angling it so that it was perpendicular to my body, a tent in the bedsheet, and moved her hand slowly up and down, just a half an inch each way, no further than the tautness of the skin would stretch, but just enough to pull on the frenum with each downward stroke.

I guess that she assumed that I was hard because of what had happened at Pete and Deborah's, which would be a fair assumption. From what I have read, it is far from unusual for a husband to get hard from allowing another guy to fuck his wife. Not that Sophie commented on my erection. She just played with it as she explained how things had been for her.

"I was waiting,..." Sophie then said. "I thought that,... knew you would be watching,.. would have heard her say that,... and if you had not wanted him,... then,..."

She paused.

"And if you were staying silent,... then,..."

I had been thinking of how my wife had allowed it to happen, had not resisted, had not grunted her concern, had not shaken her leather masked head, and by the silence of her body had consented, not thinking that she, even blindfolded and gagged, had been aware that I could have intervened on her behalf, and that my own silence was to her, consent.

"Then,..." Sophie began again, "while it was happening,... I thought about you,.. downstairs,... allowing Pete to,..."

She paused again. I only that one other time, a few nights before, heard Sophie say the word 'fuck'. Even after what had happened, she still could not bring herself to say it again. She said something else instead.

"To make me come,..."

Another pause.

"And to come inside me,..."

Another.

"I never thought that,... that you might want that."

A longer pause while I was taking in the way that, now, it was for me to explain to her what had been going on for me. She said one more thing before I did.

"I still love you,..." she said. "Nothing is ever going to change that."

Which felt good to hear.

Except, Sophie did not know the full story. My wife knew what she believed had happened, that when Deborah had led the way downstairs, I had followed after her, while Pete had stayed to fuck her in the privacy of their converted play-room. In fact, it was Pete who had gone downstairs with Deborah, while I had stayed. They had had another glass of wine together, while I had fucked my wife.

It had been so very different, sliding my cock inside Sophie's wet and ready cunt while she was strapped onto the horse the way that she was. Not just strapped onto it, but gagged and blindfolded. With the leather mask that Deborah had used to blindfold her, and that ball gag strapped into her mouth, Sophie had been more a living plaything than my loving wife. Even before I had begun to fuck her, I had walked around her several times in sheer amazement that she had been transformed into this mere sex object, a living, breathing doll.

She had looked incredible, pure white flesh, the leather strap over her back, holding her down, more straps at her knees and ankles, securing her legs to the knee pads, arms stretched down, wrists tied to the legs of the wooden horse, breasts forced outwards to either side of the torso pad that she was leaning on, buttocks glowing pink from being flogged, the handle of that tawse still lodged inside her cunt, the fronds tail-like, a human horse riding a wooden and leather padded horse. Living, breathing, waiting to be fucked. By someone else, not her husband, but a friend, or so she thought.

Yet this was my wife, who I loved and adored, who until that week had seemed so reserved, demure even, possibly a little prudish, unassuming and always just that bit straight-laced. This was the woman I had married, and loved living with, slept with, ate meals with, went shopping with, went to restaurants with, to the cinema, to theatre, to concerts, to visit friends, whose hand I held whenever we were out together, but who in one evening had been transformed into a purely sexual, erotic fantasy made real.

The handle of the tawse slipped from her cunt with ease, emerging slick with her secretions. I used the leather tag fixed at the handle end to hang it on a vacant hook with the rest of Deborah's toys. She could clean it later. I went behind my wife and stroked her butt, palming the soft, warm flesh of her cheeks first, then turning my hand to slip two fingers where the handle of the tawse had just been. The muscles of her cunt clenched around those fingers once they were deep enough inside, a firm sexual handshake welcoming the intrusion.

My cock was hard and ready, and I had to manoeuvre it out of my fly with care. I then placed my free hand on her lower back, right where her butt crack started, as if that hand was needed to hold her still, when in reality the strap around her back secured her much more firmly than my hand. I slid my fingers from her cunt, and used that hand to guide my cock shaft, angling it to bring the head level with her protruding lips. I stepped just that bit closer, and the head slipped so deliciously inside the wetness of her cunt. Wet, and slick, but tight enough for the sensations as I entered her to be sublime.

Even with the strap around her, and my hand pressed at her spine, I swear that she pushed back as I pushed in. It was only fractional, all that she could do, but it was there, that movement, wanting the thick solidity inside her, the cock that she believed to be not mine, but the one that she had been told she would receive. This was not a forced fuck. Her cunt, if not her thoughtful, caring, loving mind, most definitely wanted this. Nothing had compelled her to push back like that, to want every fraction of an inch of shaft inside her, to want the cock head deep as it could go. She wanted this, wanted this other cock, as she believed it was, whether it was reflective brain or reflex body wanting it, my wife was actively involved. She clenched her cunt again, once the head was deep, another welcome.