Do You Want To See My Diary?
Posted 29 January 2006
Last Monday night Martin and I were sitting at the kitchen table, having not long finished dinner (which I had prepared you may be surprised to learn, though Martin tends to do most of the cooking). Martin was reading the paper which he had spread out in front of him and I was tapping away on my laptop on the other side of the table. We'd opened a bottle of wine at the start of dinner and both of us were now on our second glass. Martin occasionally commented on some news item, usually citing it as another example that the UK was on the road to rack and ruin - a Potemkin economy propped up by an ever-rising spiral of consumer debt. I was only half listening and would just utter the occasional 'yes', which probably at times should have been a 'no'.
My diary gives a false impression of our everyday relationship. The dialogue between us is captured in moments of passion, when I am sexually excited and become the cruel domina who wants to humiliate and torment her wimpish, limp-dicked husband; and when Martin becomes the slavish, pathetic inadequate who is forced to confront his failure as a lover, his failure as a man. Admittedly we are both in this state more often nowadays, primarily because I am becoming ever more sex driven. I now have a real lover - a gorgeous man with a gorgeous prick; I have a real cuckold to humiliate - the reality being a thousand times more enriching than the fantasy; and I have a public diary - an immortal record of my unfaithful deeds and debased longings which is inexorably revealing the inner whore that I have hitherto managed to keep suppressed.
When I'm aroused and Martin is under my whip, I do truly despise him for his failings. I want to punish him, to see him suffer physically and mentally for once gently taking my hand, looking into my eyes, and saying softly: "Maria...will you marry me?" Without those five fateful words I might now be married to someone like Matt. I might be able to lie in the same bed as my husband and enjoy his manhood every night instead of having to drive ten miles to get a cock that can satisfy me. And I wouldn't have to look down upon the miserable boot-licking specimen who has the effrontery to call himself my husband.
But in more normal moments, when I'm not looking through the distorted lens of lust, I know just how lucky I am. If it were not for Martin I would not be what I am today, and I do truly like the person I have become. Even more, I love what my life has become. Even though it has been only a few weeks, I now know that a cuckold marriage is an incredibly fulfilling one if the bond between the husband and wife is profoundly strong. I get to have the most wonderful sex, and there is no rule that says I must stop at one lover alone. But it's the psychological manipulation of the husband that is the most fascinating and thrilling aspect. The scenarios and permutations that are possible with one or more lovers and a submissive spouse are just mind-blowing. It's only since that first night with Matt that my eyes have properly been opened to the games that we now can play.
That Monday evening, after some initial brief homage when I first arrived home, was very much a normal one. Martin and I talked like any other married couple. We conversed as equals and as friends, not as domina and slave. I can't imagine what it would be like to try to keep the ritualistic dialogue of domination going twenty-four hours a day. It would drive me insane. Although there's no fraud when I become Maria the Domina (I really do become that mean, sadistic bitch) I find my way back again after a few orgasms.
So now we come to the point of this somewhat rambling introduction. I wanted you to appreciate that the subject that I raised as we sat at the table was discussed at an everyday conversational level, not with Martin under my boot heels.
"By the way, Martin, I've been meaning to tell you..."
He was as bad as me. He didn't even look up.
"...I started writing a diary back in October when I made the decision to go after Matt. I did it in HTML so I could add some pictures and video."
That stirred his interest. He even managed to look up from the newspaper.
"I couldn't show you earlier because I put down my thoughts about what I was going to do, and I didn't want you to know. There're still some things that you perhaps shouldn't read - discussion about how I play you - but it's nothing that's going to be a surprise. Do you want a look?"
He moved his paper to one side as I turned my laptop around and slid it over to him.
"It's written exactly as it would be if I published it on the Web for everyone to see."
The version of my diary I was showing him was the offline one, kept on my private laptop which always stays at home (I have a separate one for work). This diary is essentially the same as the one you've been reading but the graphic content is more explicit and of course the pictures don't need to be blurred. Also the text has been changed in places to remove sections where I address my readers directly, and the Feedback & Requests post is completely absent.
I watched Martin as his eyes scanned the top of the screen from left to right. I presumed he was looking at the small thumbnails on the page banner. Five of the miniatures are different from the ones in the public diary. They're very revealing.
"God, I love that picture," he sighed.
"Which one?" I asked, and he swivelled the laptop round. I saw that he'd scrolled down a little and had the first full picture on the home page in view - the one of me standing away from the camera in platform thigh boots and a rear-laced rubber skirt.
He pulled the screen back round and began to read. I watched him for a moment, but then picked up the paper and began to look at it. I didn't want to rush him.
There was silence then for quite a while. He made no comment whatsoever, just pausing now and again to take a sip of wine. I flicked through the newspaper but I wasn't really able to concentrate. I was too interested in getting his reaction.
He suddenly broke the silence for a moment, though he didn't look up: "This is really good. I mean, really good. I always said you could write. I like the format too."
That was it again for a while. He was engrossed, and hadn't even noticed that he'd emptied his wine glass. A puzzled look crossed his face when he raised it towards his mouth and saw there was nothing there.
I refilled it for him.
"Where are you up to now?"
"Just about to start part two of the history... it's really interesting getting it from your point of view. I think you've got it wrong though. I never went out of my way to manipulate you."
This I wasn't going to concede. "Well, I do say that I don't think you had any grand design. But you did work on me, Martin, you know you did."
He just shrugged and carried on reading. A minute or so later he gave a small snort.
"Selective memory," he said.
"You say that when you came home after you'd worn stockings and suspenders to work for the first time that I asked you whether you'd found yourself wishing that John T------- had put his hand up your skirt."
"You did ask that."
"No, I didn't. I asked you whether you'd found yourself wishing that Neal W-------- had put his hand up your skirt. Remember Neal? He was only there for a couple of months. You really fancied him."
"Yeah, well, maybe it was him."
"Not maybe, it was definitely him. And consequently you didn't just 'pander to my fantasy' as you say here. As soon as I mentioned Neal and started talking about him playing around with your underwear you got really turned on, remember? You couldn't stop playing with yourself."
For a moment I tried to look indignant but I couldn't hold it and began to giggle. Martin laughed with me.
"Look, it was years ago," I pleaded in self defence. "I can't remember every little detail. The broad brush strokes are correct. I've tried to be completely honest."
"Yeah, that you have," he agreed absently. "Disturbingly so."
He went quiet again but had to adjust himself in his chair when he got lower down the page. I guessed he was looking at the first video clip in the diary, inserted within the section where I talk about my sex toys. This is a short montage from three separate sessions where I'm playing with toys on my own. I was expecting Martin to make some comment about these, especially as he had never seen two of the sessions, and in the last one you see me having an orgasm using two stimulators in a very unusual way. But he remained silent, and I can only conclude that he wasn't sure whether he should be looking at video that I don't normally allow him to see.
A few minutes later he did finally speak:
"Jeeze, those skirt pictures are awesome, aren't they? Even so, they don't capture what you look like when you're walking in it. The actual video's better."
I'd had enough of wondering what he was looking at and went round to his side of the table and sat next to him. He hadn't scrolled further down the page. He was still staring at the picture.
When he began to read again I now read with him, tending to look ahead to see what he would be coming across soon. I wondered what reaction I might see when he got to this part:
"I quite like the idea of developing a reputation as being available, with it becoming quietly acknowledged that Maria's husband isn't able to give her all she needs."
...but as far as I could see his face didn't change.
When he moved on to the third entry (Maria The Loyal Wife) his breathing began to get a little more laboured. There was the picture of me dressing for a meeting wearing thigh boots, the sort of preparation he loves to watch. Then when he'd got a little further down the page he gave out a muffled groan.
"Oh, yeah," he said.
"What? Alan H----- groping me in the restaurant?"
"Yes," he sighed. That was all he could say.
I reached with my hand and gently pressed it against his crotch. He was hard, as I knew he would be. I very slowly began to rub his prick and squeeze his balls.
"I know," I said. "That still does it for me. I wish he'd gone higher with his hand. He'd have felt how wet he'd made me. You never know, he might have asked me to go to a hotel room."
"And would you have done?"
I considered this for a moment before answering.
"I think so. You know me when I'm in that state. He'd definitely got to me. I wouldn't have let him screw me or anything like that, but I'd have given him a hand job, maybe even sucked him. Then I'd have wanted him to finish me off as if we were still in the restaurant - I'd have got him to sit next to me, put his hand up my skirt again, and grope me till I came."
I eased off with my massage, just letting my hand rest in his lap. If he got too excited he wouldn't be able to properly take in the text, and I wanted him to carefully read everything that I'd written.
"I didn't realise the Josh thing had upset you so much," he said when he got towards the end of the page. "You never told me."
"I didn't want to. I knew you were getting off on it and I wanted you to think that I was just disappointed. If I'd let you know how cheap I felt it would have dented your fantasy. I wasn't very proud of myself that night."
"How come it doesn't bother you now then?"
"You mean with Matt? Because he knew what he was signing up for, whereas Josh was being set up."
As Martin clicked the link to the "Object Of My Desire" post I felt myself getting excited. I knew this entry would be highly poignant for him. He was being directly compared to Matt and I had been quite candid about his inferiority. I turned and studied his face as he read the first three paragraphs. His features tightened as he took in my words.
I stroked his hair affectionately. "Painful?"
"Yes, I suppose," he said. "Yes, it is."
I didn't stop stroking. "I said I'd tried to be truthful."
He made no comment, his expression now unreadable. In fact he didn't speak again for at least fifteen minutes, except to say "great pic" when he saw the photo accompanying the "Planning My Affair" post. I didn't interrupt him. I just read along too, my chin resting on one hand. I spotted a mistake - a missing word - even though I'd maybe read that particular entry a dozen times. Funny how the mind ignores these things. I'm sure there must be plenty more.
It wasn't until he came across my shopping list of fantasies in the "Girl Who Loves Cream" entry that the silence was meaningfully broken.
"So you say you're considering turning your top ten fantasies into reality," he said. "Any ones in particular?"
I turned the laptop towards me a little so I could see better, then scrolled back up a few lines so the full list was in view. I ticked off the items in turn:
" 'Forcing my husband to watch me have sex with another man' : You know the answer to that one.
" 'Kissing, licking, and sucking big pricks' : Already done it, don't think Matt will be the last.
" 'Being groped and molested' : Will definitely be groped. Don't really know why I put molested - makes it sound like I don't want it. Anyway, whatever, men are going to have their hands up my skirt and in my bra. This year, if I can make it happen."
This prompted a groan from Martin and I reached again for his crotch, gently squeezing him as I carried on through the list.
" 'Whipping men' : Hmm. Doubtful. Very tempting... but best left a fantasy. What I really want is to be mouth-worshipped by several guys at once. You know, not just two or three, but six or more. Just kissing, licking, sucking all over me while I whip them. Also I've got this thing about owning a pack of 'dogs'. I'm in thigh boots with a big whip and I walk them in their harnesses around the garden on leads, lashing them forward like a team of huskies. Yes, fantastic... But I don't like the idea of having subs permanently around the house, and where am I going to find them anyway? Nah, it's a fantasy. Scratch that one.
" 'Having my boots licked in a public place' : I mean somewhere like a busy shopping centre where a guy just drops to his knees and starts licking them. I don't back off, and just nonchalantly watch him doing it. Will never happen.
" 'Becoming a prostitute' : Ooh, interesting... If you made me pick my number one this would be it - just seeing the word 'prostitute' turns me on. I just think I'd be really good at it, don't you? The sort I mean is one who dresses for work as I do now and has sex with her business clients. Not vaginal intercourse - that's reserved for my lover - but everything else, including anal. It would have to be in the client's office too - always in an office, not a hotel room or at his house. There'd be an unwritten menu of services for the client to choose from. A grope and feel plus hand job is fairly reasonable, but if he wants anal, with me bending over his desk or just lifting up my skirt and sitting on his cock, then it costs a pretty penny. The currency wouldn't be cash - it'd be business contracts, with me getting bonuses as a result. I mean, think about it - when you watched me get dressed in the morning you'd know that later I'd be playing around with some guy's prick, and you know I'd climax doing it. Imagine how you'd feel while you were at work... the torture of wondering what I was up to that day. It's just such an awesome prospect for both of us. 95% fantasy, but... well... I can imagine it happening. As I said, I'm going to try and get certain special clients to feel me up occasionally, and one thing could lead to another..."
I was squeezing Martin's cock even harder as I said all this and he began to lose control, moving his body back and forth in his seat as he tried to induce enough friction for proper masturbation. I hadn't said the above to wind him up though. What I said is exactly how I feel about this.
" 'Being double- or triple-cocked...' : Definitely think I'll be double-cocked some day. I've just got to know what it feels like. Triple is less likely though.
" 'Being bound and disciplined by a dominant, charismatic man' : Already half done, and you'll be seeing this done to me one day.
" 'Sperm ejaculating inside me, or over me...' : Not really applicable is it? The fantasy I've got of four or five men masturbating over me, leaving me writhing in spunk-saturated leather is almost certainly just that: fantasy.
" 'Making my husband swallow his own or another man's semen' : Been there, done that."
I looked down at my hand on his groin. "Better stop that, I think. I don't want you having an accident. Anyway, there's a lot more to read yet."
As he moved further down the page he came to another of the video clips. He clicked on the 'play' button, and I felt myself tense up as the image came into view. This clip is a particular favourite of mine, one that I view on a regular basis. It's very short, but it never ceases to arouse me.
I'm sitting on the edge of Martin's bed and I'm dressed fairly normally (for me anyway) - plain black miniskirt, black stockings, and a sleeveless cashmere top - but I'm also wearing a highly polished pair of black leather opera gloves. This is a style of outfit that I have worn many times in public, particularly in colder weather. I like to go with Martin, or occasionally alone, to a reputable restaurant at lunchtime, my clothes largely hidden by a long, stylish overcoat which is undone at the front so that my legs and short skirt can be glimpsed as I walk (I also wear a longer skirt with a split sometimes).
It's important that our coats are taken in full view of the diners, or even better if the restaurant has the sort of lunchtime informality where coats can be removed and just draped over one's seat or an unused chair. For me it's a highly erotic moment when I remove my coat and onlookers first set eyes upon my arms encased in the shiny, expensive black leather (it's essential that no other leather items are worn, allowing the gloves to become the single focus of attention). As usual I don't for a moment look around to see if anyone is staring. I act as though the wearing of such gloves is the most normal thing in the world for me. I talk distractedly to Martin or the Maitre d' as I unbutton each glove at the wrist and then slowly pull on each finger to loosen it from my hand. Then I gently pull, allowing the glove to slide seductively off my arm. I always take my gloves with me to the table - having them in view serves as a constant reminder of the initial sight of me in them, and in any case they are too expensive to misplace.
This is an example of an action that fosters considerable sexual arousal in men, but has no direct associations with 'the oldest profession'. Some perceptive women will understand what the glove wearer is doing but it would be hard for them to try to articulate this to anyone else. It's a prick-tease with no downside, apart from maybe looking a little unusual due to the rarity of such gloves these days.
For any female readers (and surprisingly I have quite a few) who have been attracted to my descriptions of wearing thigh boots in public but who haven't got the courage to take such a bold step (and you do need an enormous amount of self-confidence), this is an act that you can try as a less ambitious but very effective alternative. There are three things you must ensure though:
First, you need a high quality pair of gloves (my public wear gloves are much better than the 'bedroom play' gloves you've seen in my pictures). This doesn't necessarily mean paying a ridiculous amount of money, but in general price is a good indicator. You really need to see and try on the gloves yourself rather than buying them blind online. The glossier the leather the better, but shininess can always be created by working on the leather, providing it's high quality (sorry, but I haven't got time to explain how).
Second, you must know how to properly care for and clean the gloves as they'll likely get regularly soiled, much more so than boots or a skirt. Either your husband will want to be masturbated by the gloves after seeing you wearing them, or as in my case you'll end up massaging yourself. After experiencing the restaurant scenario above, I like to pleasure myself with my gloves in the car on the way home or discreetly in the taxi on the way back to our hotel. You'll trash a pair of leather opera gloves in no time at all if you're not diligent in looking after them.
Last, and by no means least, you need to practise putting on the gloves and taking them back off again. The latter is fairly easy to master, but the former is more difficult if you want to create the maximum effect. It's unlikely you'll ever be able to do this in the way that I can, simply because you won't be prepared to put in the hours that I have in front of a mirror (if prick-teasing became an Olympic discipline, I'm pretty sure I'd be on the team). But you must practise enough so that you can put the gloves on without thinking too mechanically about it. If you start to struggle in front of onlookers you'll lose self-confidence and your aura of elegance may disappear.
Because of the sexual associations of black leather, a man who watches a woman working a shiny leather opera glove on to her bare arm will often become highly excited by it (a man's eyes tell you when he's becoming aroused). This is at a conscious level, but you can magnify that man's excitement considerably by stimulating him at the subconscious level too. The thought that you can put into his head is that of him being masturbated by your gloves. What you need to learn to do is to treat one arm (the one the glove is being put on to) as the 'penis' and then make masturbatory movements with your other hand (the one that works the glove up your arm).
You have to be subtle. I like to work the glove normally so it's a fair way up my arm and then I go through the process of smoothing it out so it's fully fitted. Instead of just doing this in one direction (up the arm) I do a series of back and forth movements which are predominantly in the up-arm direction. I start at the wrist, taking hold of it as if it's a phallus, and do a series of forward-and-back jerks with my hand getting higher and higher up my arm, pulling the leather as it goes. With practice you can make this look totally natural, but the subliminal effect is there - you're wanking a cock - and a very erotic phenomenon it is too, both for your male audience and for yourself.
This is a great way to introduce yourself to cock teasing at a much more subtle level than just wearing a low-cut top or a short skirt. I tend to be more daring by having prominent suspenders and seamed stockings as well, but there's no need for this - in fact I'd advise against it unless, like me, you want to raise the possibility in fellow diners' minds that you're a high-class prostitute.
Anyway, I seem to have digressed. Where was I? Oh yes, we were talking about the video clip and how I was sitting on the side of the bed. Martin is also on the bed. He's in a very contorted position which is hard to describe, but just imagine what a man would do if he were lying on his back and wanted to suck his own penis. He'd pull his whole body back over his head so it was supported only by his neck and shoulders, leaving his manhood just a few inches from his mouth if it's guided there (and I imagine some supple, well-endowed men are able to actually fellate themselves while doing this). It's a somewhat unbalanced position which leaves the man in a very vulnerable situation, giving him an idea of what it's like for a woman to have a prick staring her right in the face.
In one gloved hand I'm grasping Martin's prick and I'm masturbating it aggressively. With my other hand I'm working a vibrator back and forth in his bottom (think about it - his rear is pointing upwards). The steady buzzing sound from the sex toy is prominent throughout the clip, though it doesn't reduce the clarity of my own taunting dialogue:
[What follows are exact transcripted words.]
"That's it, that's a good boy. Come on, open wide. No, wider than that, come on. That's it. You want to make sure you catch all that spray, don't you? Because when I make you suck another man's cock one day, he's actually going to be inside your mouth when he comes, and you'll have to swallow everything. Are you ready for it?"
It's obvious that Martin is on the verge of ejaculation. He's making passionate involuntary grunts that coincide with my hand thrusts, and these are increasing in volume. His prick (I'm actually reluctant to admit) is also impressively erect.
"Are you going to come?"
"Come on then. Shoot it. Show me just how pathetic you are. Show me what a cocksucker loser does. Confirm what I already know... deep down you're a cum-swallowing little faggot. That you'd like to..."
And then he ejaculates.
The first burst of semen misses his mouth completely, hitting him on the left cheek just below the eye. The second missile is a bullseye, going straight into his mouth, and you can tell from his involuntary reflex that most of it went directly into his throat without touching his tongue. The third falls short, landing on his chin before beginning to drip on to the top of his chest. Then at least six or seven more squirts come out, with only a couple of them actually hitting the target.
As we watched this on the laptop Martin couldn't help make a comment:
"Good shooting," he said sarcastically.
"Hmm," I said. "But I soon solved that little problem, didn't I?"
"Unfortunately," he lamented. "You and your inventive mind..."
On the video I'm heaping him with praise, as if he's a dog that has just successfully performed a new trick:
"Good boy! Well done! That's it, that's right. Eat it all up, eat up all that lovely cock juice."
As I'm saying this I'm channelling together the sperm that missed his mouth and working it towards his lips. I end up feeding it to him with my gloved fingers.
"There, suck it all off, suck that leather. That's right. Doesn't that taste good?"
You may wonder why I find this clip so exciting, but essentially it's because the whole scenario is so appallingly degrading and humiliating for my husband. On the video he's excited, but that's because he's being brought to a forced climax, the combined stimulation of my hand masturbation and the anal vibrator being impossible to deny. But he doesn't enjoy this sort of discipline; he endures it. Unfortunately for him, now that he's a true cuckold I've very much upped this sort of punishment. When I return home from the brilliant sex I've had with Matt, my need to belittle and mock Martin is greater than ever. It's no more than he deserves for his inadequacy.
Martin read through the following two entries - "Training Day" and "A Green Light?" - fairly briskly. They're not very long and I was treading water somewhat with those posts, waiting for the meeting in London. Deep down I knew that was the big day, the day when I found out whether or not Matt would be mine. When Martin got to "The London Meeting" page, he studied the pictures for quite some time.
"You like those, don't you?" I said eventually.
"Yes, but I've got mixed feelings," he admitted openly, his eyes still riveted to the screen. "Seeing you getting dressed that day, knowing this time it was for real... It was so different than any time before. You were really up for it, but the video has only captured part of what was in your eyes."
He scrolled down to the shots taken outside.
"I remember when you got out of the car at the station and I watched you walk away through the entrance. Seeing those boots and knowing what was underneath the coat. Thinking of you with him all day... wondering whether you'd actually come home, or whether you'd book a room with him and stay the night. It was strange, because when you arrived home as early as you did, I was a bit disappointed. Relieved, but disappointed, if that makes any sense."
He started reading the narrative.
"You're making out you were feeling coy and scared, but that's not what I saw at all. I thought you looked so confident. And look at your nipples through that blouse. That's not a woman with doubts. That's a woman who's ready for sex."
"The nipple rings helped," I said. "Embarrassingly so."
"Bullshit," he scoffed. "You weren't embarrassed, and you're deluding yourself if you really thought you were. You loved them being hard like that."
I shrugged. "Maybe."
He continued down the page, reading much more slowly than before. I wondered how difficult it must be for him to read his wife's thoughts about her infatuation with another man, one she openly describes as being superior to her husband.
When he reached the bottom of the page he winced - probably when he read me describing him as "an inadequate man with an inadequate penis whose wife prefers to be the sex toy of someone else."
It was the next entry, "A Night To Remember", that I was particularly looking forward to him reading. It was the night of his cuckolding, the night when his wife gave herself to another. I've taunted him with descriptions of the events many times since, but now he was going to get it in detail.
Again he read slowly, occasionally scrolling the page to bring new sentences into view. When he reached the five or six paragraphs before the pictures he seemed unable to get any further. He was looking quite emotional.
I put my hand on his. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm alright. It's just... just..."
"It was just so unbelievable. You looked so incredible. When you made me get on my knees... you were standing there, hands on hips just as you describe. Your face was just amazing. You had so much power... And that little speech. The words. You've got it just as I remember it. "Look at me dressed like this. The way you've always loved." That's just what you said, but it was the way you said it. You knew what was going to happen. "Not for you tonight, Martin." No, it was for him. I really did look at you like you told me to. I knew he'd want you. And when you drove away I knew... I just knew... that you would..."
I waited, but he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Maybe he was looking for some reassurance, but I wasn't going to give it to him. Martin will always have to live with the bittersweet memory of that moment and I don't intend to ease his hurt one little bit, because his pain feeds my lust.
He scrolled to the pictures.
"You haven't used the video we shot," he said.
"No, it just wasn't good enough. Bloody lighting. You can brighten it, change the contrast, but the leather just doesn't shine like it does when we film in daylight. I wish we could find an answer."
He shook his head as he studied each picture in turn. "You don't look as good here as you did that night. Doesn't do you justice. That top looks wrong, and you don't look as sexy from the back without the seams on the stockings."
"I know. But you can see the suspender clips well. It's captured that."
"Only from the side," he said. "In that front view you can't see them. When you were standing in front of me as you were about to leave, you could see your front suspenders as plain as day. The effect was amazing. So horny."
I reached down and squeezed his cock again.
"That's what everyone in the restaurant saw later when we were just about to leave. I made as if I was smoothing out the creases in my skirt and I ran my fingers right down the suspenders, making them really stand out. I felt so hot."
Martin's eyes closed slightly and he took a deep breath through his nose as he pictured that moment in his mind.
He continued to read. As he moved on down the page I began to get damp as the expectation of what he was about to read built to a crescendo. As we approached the point where Matt turned and kissed me I moved my hand away from his crotch. This was it. Another man kissing his wife. "Heavenly," she described it.
Martin's face muscles had tightened and he suddenly looked older, as if the anguish were taking its toll.
"You really said that in the car?" he asked.
" 'I want your prick in my mouth.' "
"You know I did."
I desperately wanted to play with myself now as the sublime, sadistic pleasure of hurting him with my words became overwhelming. But I knew I had to remain outwardly calm so I sat impassively as he read on, knowing that each sentence gave birth to new torment. He would not sleep easily for the next few nights.
Another man kissing his wife... his hands rubbing over her leather skirt... feeling her breasts... sucking her nipples... her hand massaging his awesome bulge... and those words: "You make Martin look tiny"...
And then reading of her kneeling down and making love with her mouth to this man's astonishing phallus. Twenty whole minutes of oral worship and devotion. Twenty minutes! In my husband's mind were now images that he could never eradicate - of his wife running her tongue up and down her lover's engorged shaft. Of her softly kissing this man's testicles, kissing them not just through lust, but also because of her submissive compulsion to pay tribute to the place where his sperm is born. And then the sucking - the thought of her mouth stretched wide, stretched as it has never been before as she attempts to accommodate the shiny swollen head of his prick. The thought of her mouth closing around the shaft and then greedily overfeeding, trying to take more and more and more inside, until she finally gags and chokes. The thought of her turning her mouth into a masturbation machine, it's sole purpose to pleasure her Master by milking him. He doesn't even have to move. Back and forth she tirelessly moves her head, the saliva in her mouth slopping and slurping, the tip of her tongue pressing against that special place just beneath the head of his cock with perfect timing. And she desperately wants him to explode; she wants him to empty his balls down her throat.
It didn't get any easier for Martin. My words of passion to Matt kept turning the knife:
"One day you're going to screw me with a leather sheath on your prick. It's always been a dream of mine to be fucked by leather."
"I want your sperm in me. If you ejaculate in me you own me, and I want to be able to tell Martin that I'm your fuck-slut now."
He didn't really need to read the next part. That phone call must have been etched into his brain. I waited as he read about the divine moment of his cuckolding. That scream as I orgasmed would haunt him forever.
It's here that my fingers pause above the keyboard as I wonder whether to tell you what occurred next. It casts me in a particularly poor light. And yet if I conveniently omit the next few moments of our exchange then you will understand less of my true nature, and this is what this diary is about. You see, as I looked at Martin's face and saw the loneliness and confusion in his eyes, it still wasn't enough. I wanted more pain so that my own excitement would be greater. For no other reason than the indulgence of my own sexual appetite, I drew even more blood:
"Did I get that last bit right?" I asked. "Just there..." and I pointed to the paragraph where I'd quoted my last words before I killed the phone call.
He scanned the paragraph. "Yes," he said with difficulty, "that's pretty much it."
"I meant it, you know," I said spitefully. "I know it's like the fantasy talk we've always used, but I wasn't role-playing when I said that. I really meant it. I still mean it, and every time Matt ejaculates inside me I feel like phoning you up and saying it again.
Hurt him, Maria. Go on, crush him. Break him!
"He is a bigger, better man than you. And he does give me a fucking that you'll never be able to give me. I still can't put into words how fantastic it feels when Matt's prick is in me, and I never felt anything remotely like that with you. And he does leave me wanting more. Even when you used to screw me, I never wanted a second one, did I? But with Matt I can never get enough. Even when I'm just about to return home and he's kissing me goodbye, I can suddenly need him again. He lifts up my skirt and fucks me against my car. Can you imagine me ever wanting that from you? And you are an inadequate loser. You know you are. If you weren't, I wouldn't need another man to satisfy me, would I?"
If anything - just anything - had so much as brushed against my clitoris at that moment I would have orgasmed. Seeing Martin's defeated expression as I pulverised his ego was such a massive turn-on. And even then I had another sudden malicious thought: Make a recording of the phone ringing upstairs. Make sure you can always play that sound to remind him.
I needed a release, but there was no way I was going to let Martin be with me when I had it, so I left him to read the last entry on his own and went upstairs. I lay down on my bed and slid my hand down into my panties. I was saturated, and it wasn't going to take long. I closed my eyes and relived that moment again, that special moment of Martin's humiliation when Matt took me.
Could there ever be a more beautiful memory?
This entry's pictures were captured from some video I shot on Saturday morning after I returned from Matt's. I'm wearing the backless rubber dress that I wore the night before at Matt's house, although I also took another outfit to wear in bed (I find it almost impossible to sleep with nothing on - I can't remember the last time I spent a night in bed without some gear on, even if it's just a dildo harness).
Matt really loves the backless effect, and it's not just because of the spanking thing. He gets tremendously turned on just seeing me walking about like this, and when I arrive at his house I take off my coat as soon as I get out of my car, then walk slowly up to his front doorway with my rear completely exposed (fortunately his house is on a very large plot and is well screened from the road even though it's fairly new). He likes to kiss and caress me outside his front porch for a few minutes (even in the freezing cold!) before we go inside, and I love this too. I think for both of us it's the excitement of imagining that we're doing this in public, and indeed if someone walked up his driveway at just the right time they'd get a pretty unforgettable view.
In an earlier entry I said that I was going to encourage Matt to come round to my own house at weekends, with the incentive of being able to enjoy two days of much more varied sex with me. He always seems to get aroused when he hears of the humiliations I dish out to Martin after I've visited him and I originally thought that I wouldn't have much difficulty in eventually persuading him to screw me while Martin is listening in another room or watching us. However I've now had to backtrack on this. Whenever I've mentioned the subject Matt's become defensive and it's clear he's not happy about the idea. His basic argument is that he feels very comfortable with us together in his own home but he'd feel highly unsettled at my house with Martin there and this would correspondingly affect his performance and our enjoyment. After all, he argues, the sex we're having is just fantastic - why change something that's already working brilliantly? He only wishes he was seeing more of me.
For the moment I'm happy to let things run like this because I'm having such a wonderful time. I feel no need to rush things and I'll just have to take a much more considered approach to coaxing Matt into accepting Martin as an occasional third party at our sessions. One way or another this is something that must happen as far as I'm concerned, but it's softly, softly for now.
Because my plans have changed somewhat in the light of the above, I now intend to visit Matt earlier in the week as well as on Fridays. I too want us to have more time together, and I know he'll be delighted when I tell him. Martin on the other hand will no doubt be very disturbed by it and he'll feel extremely threatened. Good, that's exactly how I want him to feel.
Another reason I want a regular second night with Matt is because I want to enjoy Saturdays on my own as I always used to have them. At present when I return on Saturday mornings from my lover's attentions I'm very much in the mood to taunt and punish Martin, and this takes two or three hours at least. Martin hasn't been seeing his friends and I've not been able to play the sort of games I enjoy when I've got the house to myself. I told you earlier how important this time alone is to me, and I'm really missing it. If I discipline Martin earlier in the week after visiting Matt I won't be so desperate to humiliate him on Saturday and I can get home a little later, after he's left. I can torment him on Sunday instead if I still feel the urge.
When I left Matt's yesterday morning, I walked out of his house in my backless latex dress with no coat, just as I was when I arrived. Matt followed me down the steps to my car as he always does, ready to kiss me goodbye (although sometimes things don't end there, as I couldn't help bragging to Martin). I opened the car door, reached inside and pulled out the whip that you can see me holding in the pictures. I handed it to Matt.
"Whip me," I said.
Without waiting for any response I turned and braced myself against the car door, my hands on the roof and my legs placed as far apart as I could get them in the tightly buckled dress. My bare bottom was there for the taking, and it's significant that Matt didn't hesitate - no protestations, no questions, no doubts. He's becoming very well attuned to my desires and designs and I think he now understands the reasons why I want these sorts of things done to me. In any case, he loves my kinky games. No previous girlfriend has ever been anything like as wild and inventive, and it gives him a huge hard-on.
He judged the whipping perfectly - just hard enough to cause some temporary pain and reddening, but nothing too severe. It was a symbolic act more than anything, something which again confirmed his power and control over me and something which I could bludgeon Martin with later. A dozen lashes or so on my rear, and then to my delight he improvised with a few extra strikes across my bare back.
For my part I have to admit that I got off on the pain, and I don't in any way consider myself a masochist. I think women especially would understand why I felt like this if they could see the intensity in Matt's beautiful eyes when he's turned on. This was my first ever whipping by a man (I confess that I've used both a crop and a cat on myself in moments of passion on my own) and the sheer horniness of having it done in the open air like that was unbelievable. It was a bitterly cold morning and it was very still, the silence only broken by the awesome sound of the whip striking my flesh and my attendant moans of pain/pleasure when it did so.
When he had finished, Matt grabbed my buttocks and squeezed them hard, then shoved a finger roughly against my anus, almost forcing it inside. He pressed his face close to my ear:
"Enjoy that did you, slut?"
"Oh God, yes. Oh yes..." I replied, and I turned my head and gave him a passionate kiss, thrusting my tongue into his mouth.
Stop it... stop it! I remember thinking. I wanted Matt again, but also I wanted to get home and humiliate Martin by showing him my reddened rear and back before the stripes disappeared. So I found the willpower to tear myself away from my lover, put on my coat, and got into the car. With Matt still watching I called Martin on my mobile to tell him I was on my way. "Get the video camera set up in my bedroom," I added tersely.
The pictures show me using the whip on Martin, just as Matt had used it on me. I stress once again that Martin suffers no worse than a stinging back and bottom from this punishment. In any case, you only had to see my husband's erection to know that he, like me, had derived some sort of perverse pleasure from the experience. All the time I was goading him with my recollections of what Matt had done to me over the last twelve hours, and Martin would groan when he heard of the positions in which I had been penetrated.
At the start of this entry I said that I now realise how fulfilling a cuckold marriage can be. One of the reasons for this is that the orgasms that I'm currently enjoying when punishing Martin are almost as powerful as the stunning ones that Matt gives me with his sensational prick. Disciplining a husband for his inadequacy as part of fantasy bedroom games doesn't begin to compare to the eroticism of punishing a real cuckold. I'm now getting thrilling retribution for being stupid enough to give the best years of my life to a whimpering, arse-licking, half-eunuch who should have been cuckolded on my wedding night, not nearly a decade later. This is payback for the time I've lost.
These have been the most extraordinary and rewarding few months of my entire life. I feel like I'm walking in the clouds.
And I've only just begun.
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