Virtual Slavery Ch. 18bywltedford©
Winston, Lynn, Brad
Almost miraculously our lives were rejuvenated.
For three or four months, Lynn and I were closer than we had ever been in Boston. And it was all due to those electronic images. The man I knew as 'B' and I vied with each other in inventiveness. I told him what I wanted him to do with his slave and he told me what to do with mine. And the results were stunning. The women beautiful. The situations extremely arousing.
Often Lynn would come home from the office and, excited by a new series of images that had come over the Internet that afternoon, I would all but pounce on her. She probably was as tired and preoccupied with work as ever, but I refused to accept that limitation, and she accepted, even responded to my rediscovered assertiveness. I must admit that as I fucked her, I would usually arrange her body as much as possible in the same positions B had arranged his slave and I fantasied that I was fucking her rather than Lynn.
Lynn responded to my taking pictures of her again too. She seemed to really get into posing and role playing. She really seemed to want to please me, to find and share pleasure together again in every way. Even a simple thing like B suggesting I take her out in public wearing just a dress and photograph her, which I did with her sitting on a bench in Boston Commons with her legs spread apart where she might be seen by passersby, ended with her sucking on me while I drove back to Cambridge and explosive sex when we got home.
I eagerly looked forward to receiving new pictures from B, which unfortunately only came at random intervals, and I enjoyed reciprocating, showing off my beautiful wife to him.
For a while I felt like a ping-pong ball, being batted back and forth between then, though, of course, Winston didn't know it.
Brad had almost completely erased Winston from my life. In one way or the other, one place or the other, Brad and I were managing to meet almost every week. I arranged far more trips to the west coast than were actually necessary for the conduct of business, something that I knew had come to the attention of and was an increasing matter of concern to my fellow partners. And when it was impossible for me to travel, Brad usually managed to spend at least one night in Boston. But now, Brad resurrected Winston. Brad taketh away; Brad givith. Glory be the name of Brad. And I feared why.
Largely out of guilt--for I had long forgiven him for sending out the pictures of me that had been the proximate cause of all this--In fact I was grateful to him--I tried to be kind to Winston, to be sexy and willing. And there was, I admit, a certain perverse pleasure in knowing what was happening, in exposing myself to his camera, knowing that Brad would view the image. And hoping that he--Brad--might be jealous seeing me giving pleasure to my husband.
I knew it could not go on. Not the way it was. Not at Broadthroup and Brown. Not with Winston. Not with Brad. None of it was stable. But I, who had once been celebrated for decisiveness and initiative, had no desire, no intention, no will to make a change. I did not even know what change I wanted. Which was real: the person I had seemed to be all my life, who excelled at school and work; or the person I was with Brad? The only indicator was that I remained passive.
One evening though, half hysterically, I did confront Brad.
We were in his suite at the Meridian in Boston.
I was half dressed. He was bending over his laptop. His back toward me, attaching the cable from his digital camera, with which he had just taken several pictures of me with my hand up my cunt--something which I frankly said was impossible, but changed my mind when he showed me photographs of other women doing so, declared that what anyone else could do I could do, and asked if I wanted him to have Jefferson help open me up. The shots had been from the neck down.
"There," he said, straightening and turning. "He'll have it before you get home."
"Why are you doing this?" I found I was half crying. "Are you getting bored with me? Is this your way of breaking it off, of sending me back?"
I was relieved to see that he was clearly surprised.
"No. I'm not bored with you. I am doing it because it amuses me, and because I can. That's all. It's not for you to question, but to comply."
Even among the bizarre, this was bizarre. Like the diplomat in the play M BUTTERFLY who claims not to know that his lover of many years is actually a man rather than a woman. I saw the play in London. Apparently it was based on a true incident. Did they never have intercourse? Did she/he always give head, in which case it was easy? Or did he/she take it up the ass with such facility that the diplomat thought it was a cunt? Or did he/she find some excuse for never having traditional intercourse? Genital malformation perhaps?
But here I was sending pornographic pictures to this man of his wife doing things of which he had no idea she was capable, or would even consider doing. Certainly it is easy to come up with a Darwinian explanation why any man wants his sperm to conquer anothers. Studies demonstrate that spermatozoae swim faster in the presence of 'foreign' semen, instinctively trying to win the great race to the egg; and other studies demonstrate that the amount of ejaculation dramatically increases when multiple men successively share one partner.
Yet I do have an inquiring mind. I was curious. I studied Lynn's naked body and the pictures I took of it and wondered how he could fail to recognize her, despite the face never being shown, the blond wig, and the initial I drew on her ass. So much of what we see and understand is context, I guess that in the end it is not surprising. From the neck down bodies are more similar than dissimilar--and that from me who is as dissimilar as anybody can be. A lot of women have breasts the size of Lynn's, and a narrow waist, a great ass and long elegant legs. Not in percentage of population, but in sheer numbers when one takes even a fraction of one percent of hundreds of millions.
I know she liked it too, liked spreading herself open for me through him and for him through me. But the truth was that she liked everything. The truth that we both had stumbled across was that she was an extremely sexual woman, who had been repressed and remained undiscovered until chance brought her to me.
Although everything was random at the beginning when I simply took pleasure in dominating and humiliating her at my whim, it is not by chance that I have created my wealth and life. My mind cannot help but absorb information, calculate, and devise plans to achieve goals. And I had a goal: I wanted Lynn. Not just the way I had her. Not the way I have had others, either by buying them or having them given to me as punishment by other dominants. Not by blackmailing her. For once in my life I wanted a beautiful, intelligent woman to come to me freely. Great, blubbering fool, I wanted Lynn to love me for myself.
So I sent her back, a little; breathed life into Winston again, a little, and, I hoped, only for a little while.
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