The Submission of Sophie

The height of the horse that Sophie was strapped onto was exactly as it should have been, at least for a guy my height, six one, average ratio of leg to torso, placing her cunt precisely level with my groin. No need to bend my knees or go on tip-toe. Perfect for thrusting, screwing, nailing, driving my cock relentlessly, again and again, ravaging my wife's delectably succulent cunt. As I fucked her, she drew back her head and gasped as loudly as her gag allowed. I gripped her pelvis, using it for leverage, and she used her thighs and arms, and the fractional buttock movement left available to her, just enough to meet each thrust.

When she came, it was a confined explosion, semtex in a padlocked vault, a volcano capped with leather strong as steel, her body straining against her bindings, writhing and jerking and heaving against the strap around her back, legs pulling at her ankle and knee straps, testing their strength as she struggled to contain the orgasm that racked through her body. The gag suppressed my wife's uncontrolled moans, muffling her involuntary cries and shrieks, but neither the gag nor the leather mask stopped her head from rearing wildly, shaking from side to side with the exquisite agony of climaxing while mercilessly restrained.

I stopped thrusting, allowing her body to deal with the intensity of sensation that had set off her climax, but I stayed deep inside her, holding her now by her shoulders, pulling her against me, as if she might escape, not that she could move by other than that fraction of an inch with which she had previously pushed back to meet my cock. Her cunt pulsed around my shaft. I felt every twitch and spasm. It played deliciously at the flange of my cock head, teasing the frenum, stimulating the nerves, taunting them, taking me to the point of no return.

Sexual stimulation is not only through nerve endings just below the surface of the skin. It is in the head. Not the penis head, exquisite as those sensations are, but the thinking, conscious head, where synapses fire in pyrotechnic episodes, and flare incandescently from all the erotic and sexual thoughts that come, invited or unbidden, to the testosterone fuelled mind.

A woman's body, naked, will light up those connections in the brain. Strap that body to a wooden horse and use a tawse to turn the buttocks red, and any male who watches will be stimulated all the more. My keen awareness that this was not just any woman, but my wife, had turned the neurons in my brain into shooting stars. That she believed the cock inside her to be someone else's, but still was climaxing to its assault on her, produced a meteor shower within my skull. So, it was not just the sensations of my cock plundering her cunt that drew me towards ejaculation, but all that other mental stimulation, neurotransmitters firing in every direction, sexual grenades exploding, sending electric signals to my groin, that it was time to empty semen into my wife's all too receptive cunt.

So, when Sophie told me as she lay with me back in our own room, that not only had she climaxed, but he had come inside her, I had known about that all along, because the 'he', had been myself, not Pete. When she had said that she had not thought that I might want Pete fucking her, if not in quite those words, she had been right. I had not wanted Pete, or any other guy, to fuck my wife. I love her way too much for that. All that I had wanted was to let Sophie discover what it was to be submissive, how it might feel, and I had wanted, for myself, to know what lay beneath the surface of the woman whom I love so fully.

A wise man once said that it is better not to ask a question, if you might not want to know the answer. I had asked the question of my wife, just how submissive she would be, and now I had my answer. In her head, at least, she had allowed Pete to fuck her. That was major. I still loved her, but it was still massive. It would take some thinking about.

In the meanwhile, Sophie thought that I had allowed it. Had wanted it even. I had a choice. I could tell her the truth. Tell her that I had discussed with Pete that there was no way that I wanted things to go that far. That we had agreed that if anyone was going to fuck her, then it would be me. That Deborah telling her that Pete would fuck her had been a game that Deborah played, without my knowing in advance, to test my wife, to see if Sophie would let it happen. I could tell her all of that, or not. The other way to go was not to say that it had been my cock, my fucking her to orgasm, my coming in her cunt, and let my wife continue to believe that it had indeed been Pete.

Truth matters in a relationship. I told her. I made it clear that it had been my cock that had drawn her to that climax, not Pete's. It had been my cock that had come inside her, not his. It had been my semen that had been spewed deep within, not someone else's. I made it clear that loving her included wanting her to be exclusively my own. That I did not want any other man making what they call love to her. That I wanted her for me, and for me alone.

Which I know she loves me for. I know that the loving, caring, woman that I married wants to be loved and cherished in that way, not shared with other men. Which is why we have not risked returning to the playroom Pete and Deborah showed us. Because the genie is out of the box. Much as I know that Sophie loves me, we both now also know that there is a deeper place where she could go again, where it would not matter whose was the cock inside her, or whose semen would explode into her cunt.

Meanwhile, as I write, my wife's breasts are fuller than they were then, as is her belly, and if the calculations on the timing are correct, the egg was fertilised while Sophie could not neither move nor see nor speak, because of straps, ties, the mask over her eyes, and the rubber ball gag lodged in her open mouth. It may not seem romantic, but conception choses a time convenient to itself.

While we have been waiting for the addition to our family to arrive, I have been busy with tool and materials, preparing one of our bedrooms as a nursery, and decorating a bright and primary coloured play-room downstairs, and another, sound-proofed play-room in our loft, for later, after the birth, when everything has settled, and Sophie is ready to enter that much darker place again.