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A Picture In Black And White (part 2 0f 3)


I'm sure the words ran through Brigitte's mind more than once, as well. Heck, my guess is that she thought of little else. To say she seemed a trifle distracted after that weekend in Boston would have been an understatement.

As I might have expected, she was more than inordinately shy after our most excellent little adventure. I can't honestly say whether it was out of respect for me, or genuine embarrassment about her deportment, or confusion at the emotions and sensations brought to light by having been shared with another man. My suspicion was that it was a combination of all three, with perhaps a very large dose of old-fashioned Catholic guilt – not to mention erotic curiosity – thrown in for good measure.

Several times I tried to extract some comment from her about it – to draw a bead on how she truly felt about the experience. But she remained even more circumspect than normal – giving little, if anything, away. My teasing questions prompted blushes, but no verbal response other than the odd monosyllable. I would have given a thousand dollars to read her mind.

By contrast, the experience had a significant effect on our lovemaking. I confess that the memory of the night had the power to arouse me almost instantaneously, and any embrace or caress of Brigitte, when I was feeling that way, seemed to do likewise to her. I did, I confess, have the good grace not to ask her what she was thinking about when her passion flared up, however.

Of course, how could an experience like that simply go ignored? Unacknowledged between the two of us, at least in the short term, but not ultimately ignored. There was no denying or forgetting Charles' parting comment to us – not anytime soon, at least.

And so, in fact, we waited.

Neither of us mentioned to one another the fact that we were, in fact, waiting, aside from my occasional teasing comment to Brigitte: "When do you think Charles is going to call?" But that was as much to make her blush as anything, and I never pursued it beyond that one remark. In truth, I was as nervous that he WAS going to call as I was about the fact that he might not.

And so the waiting continued. Four days, five days, six days, seven . . . The tension increased subtly but steadily, and although neither of us admitted it to one another, the anticipation was growing unbearable. At the end of a full week, I was beginning to wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing. There was no sign of Charles' interest, no communication whatsoever. Perhaps he had just been teasing the two of us with that last, parting remark. Perhaps it was just a way of having the final say.

Then, the following evening about 8:30, as we were finishing dinner, the phone rang.

Brigitte, sitting closest, reached for it and answered. "Hello?"

I knew in a split second that it was Charles. My heart skipped a beat, and I began to watch her reaction intently.

"We're well, yes," she stammered out, and paused, her cheeks coloring bright pink. She turned away so I could only see her back, but I could still hear her words, and the tone of her reactions.

"No . . . fine . . . Just finishing dinner." a pause "No, um, yes, I mean. We had a great time." I recognized and even deeper blush from Brigitte with this comment – one that turned the back of her neck bright red.
"No, we haven't really talked about it." There was another, longer pause. Obviously, Brigitte was getting some sort of instruction.

"Tonight" she continued. It wasn't a question. "Um . . . yes."

I could just hear Charles' muffled tones from the earpiece, and then Brigitte replied, "Yes. You have directions already?" She paused again. "Yes." And then Brigitte lowered her head slightly and tried to turn even further away, coloring even more brightly.

"Yes, Sir," she whispered.

And then, in response to his brief reply, responded again, softly, but more firmly: "Yes, Sir."

Brigitte hung up the phone, still blushing furiously – practically shaking – and turned and sat down. She studiously avoided my glance.

"I assume that was Charles," I said, grinning wickedly. Brigitte nodded, still refusing to look at me. I rose from my seat and went and stood behind her chair. Slowly and affectionately I leaned down and nuzzled her neck, putting my arms around her waist. Slowly I slid my hands up over her breasts. Her nipples were stiff and erect, poking out sharply through her white turtleneck, unrestrained by the soft cotton, or even by the nylon of her bra.

I hardly needed to acknowledge that I knew how aroused she was – to add to her embarrassment – but the devil was in me. Without effort, I took both her erect nipples between my thumbs and forefingers and gently tugged on them. "And what does he want?" I asked her quietly, whispering into her ear – continuing to pull and roll the tender flesh between my fingers.

I teased her: "Does he want to fuck you again?" She sucked in her breath.

"Have you suck his long, hard, cock?" Brigitte shook her head slowly, moaning slightly over the rough handling of her breasts – or maybe it was over the prospect of whatever Charles had just told her, or what I was suggesting.
"He's coming over in an hour," she began, stammering. "He told me . . . He told me . . . "

"Yes?" I asked, eager with anticipation.

Brigitte barely whispered the words. "He told me to prepare for my first lesson."

My cock hardened instantly, and my heart beat faster. "Did he, um, tell you what it involved?" I asked.

"He . . . " Brigitte began, then stopped, obviously reluctant and embarrassed. "Not really," she began again, but something in her hesitation gave her away. I was suddenly sure that Charles had been more specific than she was letting on.

"An hour, huh?" I answered. I wasn't sure I could wait that long to see what was going to happen. "Good thing the kids are in bed," I said, as much to myself as to her. "Why don't you run upstairs and shower, or whatever," I added. "I'll clean up the dishes. " Brigitte smiled gratefully, still blushing, and headed upstairs.

The next hour passed agonizingly slowly. I looked at the paper, but the words refused to sink in. I flicked on the TV, but couldn't concentrate on the images. I heard the shower run, then the hairdryer whirr, and then the sounds of her clattering around with make-up. Still she refused to come downstairs. I didn't push it.

Suddenly, I heard a car in the driveway and then, mere seconds later, the doorbell rang. My heart jumped.

I opened the door. Charles stood there, good-looking as ever, dressed immaculately in a black turtleneck and gray wool slacks. A slight grin creased his face.

"May I come in?" he inquired.

"By all means," I replied, returning his smile. Nervous, a bit, but returning his smile confidently, nonetheless.

"You don't mind my coming over at this hour?" he inquired graciously.

"Are you kidding?" I answered. "I'm glad it's so late. The boys are in bed already."

"That's good. I’d hate to disturb," he answered, stepping in.

I couldn't see much need for small talk – I couldn't think of much, honestly – but I asked if he'd like a drink. Bourbon on the rocks, he answered, and we walked back to the kitchen. I poured him a fairly stiff one, and handed it to him slowly. I poured myself an even stiffer one. "Brigitte is waiting upstairs," I said simply.

A brief look of concern crossed his face. "You . . .” he began. For a brief second, I saw Charles at a loss, and smiled inwardly. However, he quickly regained his composure. He looked up at me.

"You're okay with this, aren't you, Bruce? With whatever I may ask her to do?"

I was about to reply quickly, but I realized my words were probably not going to come out as cool and collected as I would have liked. Taking a second to quickly regain composure myself, I looked him straight in the eye.

"Charles," I began slowly, "I believe you're a gentleman. That's of paramount importance." He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as he heard me out.

"And I believe, because of that fact, that whatever you have my wife do will ultimately be both safe, and focused on her pleasure." I looked him straight in the eye. "Am I right about that?"

"Without a doubt," he replied. "You have my word." He paused for a moment, and I sensed he had something else, of great importance, to say. I waited expectantly, my heart beating faster.

"You have some idea of what might be in store, I think," he began slowly, then paused to take a sip of his drink. "I don't think you're exactly a novice, I mean." He smiled. I began to nod. I decided to take it as a compliment.

He continued: "As I said to you last week, Brigitte shows great promise – enormous erotic potential. A certain, natural . . . oh, never mind. But, if it's brought out in her, it will lead to intense pleasure. But she's ultimately shy and conservative by nature. No doubt a Catholic upbringing, yes?" He smiled at his own joke.

"I plan to take her into many new areas that I doubt she's ever thought of, or fantasized about, let alone considered trying," he continued.

Then he paused again briefly, choosing his next words carefully. "Intimate . . . extremely personal acts. Some might even call them taboo."

My lips were dry. I took a long sip of my drink, saying nothing – but he had my full attention.

"Because I sense in her a great curiosity and willingness – a sense of adventure, however well she may normally keep it hidden." I was nodding as he said this. He paused again, obviously noting my agreement.

"But I'll need your help."

I swallowed hard.

"Are you willing to participate in this training as well?" he asked me pointedly. "Will you do as asked, or as told?"

He waited for my answer.

I couldn't bring myself to reply. I simply looked at him. So, he continued.

"Bear in mind that my focus is Brigitte's pleasure – and that your participation is critical to it. She needs your involvement – your approval, if she is ever to be comfortable with the things I'm going to have her do. You understand that, I'm sure." I nodded. He went on. "And don't forget something absolutely critical to this."

He had my full attention.

"You know that women –and particularly wives – want to be respected, first of all. Then, they want to be loved. Sex comes third on the list."

He chuckled. "Unlike men."

"So before she's comfortable with any of this, she'll have to be perfectly assured of both your respect and love. Only then will this work. You know that, don't you?"

I nodded again. "That goes without saying," I said simply.

Charles paused again, then continued. "There's another element to your participation, of course," he went on – now with a twinkle in his eye. "Sexual pleasure is unsatisfactory if it's singular – you know that. It has to be shared. We want things done to us, but we want to do them to others. We want to participate, but we want to watch, too." Here he smiled broadly. "Most importantly," he went on, "we're all made up of a varying mix of dominant and submissive traits."

He went on, looking sharply at me, and continued with even greater confidence. "In some, the dominance trait rules 90 percent of the time; in others, the opposite is true. But the key fact is both are present in all of us; it just depends on the moment, and the circumstance, to determine which will rule."

He paused and looked at me intently. "Do you see what I'm getting at?"

I did, but I wanted to hear him say it. He knew that, so he made it easy for me.

"So, Brigitte will not only be more comfortable in her own training if she senses that you're involved, and supportive, but I guarantee it that she'll also take enormous pleasure in knowing that you, too, are, um, shall we say, being trained as well?"

He paused for effect. "Do I make myself clear?"

I swallowed hard again. "I think I understand what you're getting at," I murmured, quickly draining the last of my drink.

"Good," he answered. "Let's go upstairs and begin."


Brigitte was waiting for Charles. She sat on the edge of the big bed, legs crossed, nervously playing with her hands – and looking ravishing.
Obviously, Charles had indeed given her particular instructions, because she never would have dressed in such a manner of her own volition. She had put on make-up – more than I could normally recall her wearing – and her dark eyes, rouged cheeks and deep red lipstick brought out a sultry, sexy look that I couldn't recall ever having seen before.

She wore very little in the way of clothing. It was clear she had been ordered to dress for Charles' pleasure, and combined with the heavy make-up, the effect was stunning . . . A black lace bra, one of her everyday ones, but striking nonetheless when seen this way and black, lace, high-cut bikini briefs. These, too, I'd seen her wear on numerous occasions, but considering the context, they, too, looked new and different – and far sexier than I had recalled.

Most unusual for Brigitte, however, was the fact that she wore heels – new, black ones that she'd recently purchased for a wedding, and at least three inches high. Without heels, my wife would have merely been dressed in her underwear; wearing them, she was suddenly on display.

Charles walked over to her, took her hands, and leant down to give her a long kiss. As he did, he gently ran his hands up her arms and across to her full breasts, cupping them in his hands. Brigitte made no move to resist.
In fact, it looked from where I stood that she pressed herself harder and closer to him, both against his lips, and against the hands that caressed her tits. If I'd had any doubt about my wife's willingness to follow Charles' requests, it was evaporating quickly.
Charles stood up. "Stand in the middle of the room, Brigitte," he said simply and firmly. She did as he said, resplendent in her black lace and heels, her erect nipples poking through the thin material of her bra, her dark pubic hair just visible through the transparent lace of her panties. She waited for his next order.

He then turned to me and told me to sit in the chair to observe. Carefully I sat down, my erect cock making it difficult to move quickly. Charles sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Brigitte," he began, and she looked up at him. "What a woman wears under her clothes – what you're wearing now, for example – speaks volumes about her. How she thinks of herself, how she feels about herself, how practical or impractical or adventurous she feels on any given day. Maybe most importantly, what she wears says everything about how she wants to be seen by men."

Brigitte blushed again, but it was clear he had her full attention. Mine, too.

"From here on in," Charles continued, "I'm going to want you to be seen in a particular way." Brigitte caught her breath – as did I.

"By that I mean simply that you're lovely, and it's a shame not to be able to see such a lovely woman." Charles paused. "Do you know where I'm going with this?"

"Nooo . . . " Brigitte said softly. Charles went on.

"From here on in, I want everything that you wear – yes, I mean what you wear under your skirts and sweaters and jeans – to show you off. I want your bras, and your panties, and all of your lingerie, to accent your lovely body. I don't want anything hiding you, or covering you up in any way. I want your underwear to reveal you – to highlight you." Charles paused for a moment and Brigitte – and I – waited with rapt attention.

"So tonight, you're going to put on every bra, every pair of panties . . . every teddy and garterbelt that you own, so I can see you in it." Brigitte sucked in her breath.

"And if I'm not satisfied with them," Charles went on without hesitation, "however practical or comfortable they may be, you'll throw them out immediately. Do you understand?"

Brigitte looked shocked, and looked over briefly at me. But she quickly turned back to Charles and nodded her assent.

For the next three-quarters of an hour, my beautiful wife dressed, and undressed, as her master watched.

Each time she took off an article of clothing in exchange for another, it looked as though her skin grew more flushed. As though her nipples got harder, more erect.

Charles had her start with her bras. And regardless of how fabulous she looked in each and every one, he had her discard all but one . . . a black one, with lace cups whose transparency revealed fully half of her breasts.

"Put that aside," he said quietly. Of the others, he said only on having her throw them out, "They don't show enough of you." Brigitte gulped, but did as he ordered.

After he had her finish trying on all her bras, he had her put on every pair of panties in her drawer. . . All of them . . . He wasn't satisfied. He had her throw out every pair except for two black, lace bikinis; including the pair she in which she had met him.

"Do you have any others?" He asked her simply. Brigitte shot a quick look at me before replying. I felt compelled to tell him the truth.

"She has various pairs that I've bought her over the last few years," I said quickly. "Panties, garter belts, sheer thongs . . . . Things she never wears. I think she's a little embarrassed by them."

Charles' eyebrows shot up on hearing this. He looked at my wife. "Go get them," he said to her quietly. Brigitte's blush suddenly took on an even deeper hue, but she did as he asked.

She went into the walk-in closet and rooted around for a minute or two, finally emerging with a handful of black, red and white lacy lingerie. It was hard to tell what she was holding, but I was sure we'd soon see. At least she had the good grace to look sheepish at not letting on about her little trousseau.

"Well, well . . . " Charles began. "What have we here?" He turned to me. "You mean to tell me she never wears these things?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yes, that's what I mean," I said. I added, "Only when pressed."

Charles went 'tsk-tsk', then smiled. "Put them on, Brigitte." Brigitte blushed again, more deeply, if that were possible. But she did as he said.

First she gracefully leant over and pulled on a sheer black thong. She stood up, bare-breasted, to show Charles. Unbidden, she turned around slowly, so that he could see her all of her. The thong hid nothing. She really looked fabulous.

"Very well . . . You may keep that. Next," was all Charles said.

For another 20 minutes, Brigitte tried on the rest of the exotic lingerie: A red lace bra and panty set; a black basque; one or two more sheer black thongs; a black lace garter belt with black stockings – what a lovely image to see my wife's dark triangle of pubic hair so lovingly framed by the black lace, the straps, and the stocking tops . . . !

Charles had her keep them all.

Finally, she had only a pair of black, lace crotchless panties left to try. Slowly, reluctantly, she removed the last of the tiny panties he'd had her display, and put them aside. Then, unbidden, she stepped into the tiny, revealing panties.

They hid nothing. By contrast, they showed off everything, making my beautiful wife look even more naked than had she been entirely undressed. Although artfully and tastefully decorated with lace at the waistband and front panel, even to the point of a tiny black bow, discretion stopped there. They were completely open, in a wondrously revealing vertical flash, from the waistband in front to the waistband in back. Nothing was left to the imagination – not the soft curls of her dark pubic hair, or the lovely, tempting crease of her round bottom.

While she stood and blushed, Charles and I drank in the sight of her. "Turn around slowly again," was all Charles said, and Brigitte complied, showing us her lovely body. She was obviously embarrassed, but at the same time a sparkle in her eye belied her excitement. Her skin was flushed, her pink nipples once again stiff and erect.

Charles regarded her with admiration for several more minutes, then told her to put the black lace bra on once again.
Brigitte nearly pouted at the request, but, once again, and without argument, did as he said. She fetched it from where it lay in a pile of lingerie, and slowly she brought it up around her waist, turning it around backwards in order to fasten the three tiny hooks. Then she slid it around, and gently, cupping her breasts, lifted the cups up and around them. Then she slid the shoulder straps up and, finally, looked up at Charles.

"Very good, my pet," was all he replied, and stood up. My heart began beating faster, wondering what was to come next. Charles walked over to her. She stood, looking at him, waiting expectantly.

"Kneel down, Brigitte," was all he said – quietly, but firmly. I could feel my already-hard cock twitching. Brigitte looked up at him and immediately got to her knees. She looked up at him again, her nearly naked body lovely in the subdued light of our bedroom. He reached down, and gently took her chin between his fingers, lifting it up, urging her to look him in the eye. She looked up at him.

As she did so, Charles began unbuckling his gray wool trousers – slowly, teasingly, undoing his black leather belt. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Brigitte whispered something softly too herself, too quiet for either of us to hear.

Charles continued . . . undoing the belt, then unbuttoning the waistband of his slacks. Then, again, slowly and provocatively, unzipping his pants for Brigitte. He looked over at me with a subtle smile and an unspoken comment: Your wife is going to suck my cock.

Brigitte looked at him unzipping his pants, her stare laser-like in its intensity. She reached up, and grabbed the waistband of the slacks, and tugged. Suddenly they slid completely down his black, muscular thighs. He stood before my kneeling wife in nothing more than a pair of sheer, black bikini briefs..

It was a stunning sight. The filmy material hid absolutely nothing. In fact, the briefs did nothing more than to frame his magnificent cock and balls, seen from my perspective in sharp, exquisite profile. The view from Brigitte's angle must have been even more impressive. His cock was already stiff, pushing hard against the thin material that sought to constrain it. The dark purple cockhead was clearly defined and visible through the sheer fabric.

Brigitte wasted no time in freeing his penis. Without hesitation, she reached up and grabbed the waistband of his thong, yanking it down. His long, black cock sprung free, hardening even more quickly as it was released from its restraint. Then, simultaneously, Brigitte and I sucked in our breath. As the tiny briefs slid down his thighs, revealing his manhood in its glory, it was immediately obvious that Charles was wearing a harness. A leather cock and ball ring, studded with silver.

I suddenly found it hard to breathe. I can't imagine what my wife, kneeling before him, felt.

The harness was made of black leather, just a shade or two darker than his skin, and was comprised of several parts. One leather ring completely encircled the base of his shaft and the soft skin at the top of his sac, snuggling it up gently, but securely. That particular ring was designed to keep him from reaching orgasm, as it pinched off – gently, but surely – the surge of any ejaculation, while still allowing him to remain hard.

From the base of the ring, under his scrotum, stretched another, T-shaped strap. It was pulled up tight between his two balls, and snapped back onto the base ring near the top of his penis.

The effect was electrifying. The harsh tightness of the strap served to separate, tighten and lift each of his big, heavy balls, putting them virtually on display. They stood up and out proudly under the long black shaft, which stretched out obscenely in front of my kneeling wife. The profile of the big, tight balls and thick, bobbing cock was absolutely stunning – nearly impossible to resist. Brigitte stared at it in fascination. Even I was impressed, to say the least.

Charles did not need to tell Brigitte what to do. She leaned in toward his long, hard cock, and opened her mouth, looking up at him all the while. Then, she closed her eyes, and took the round head of his thick penis gently between her lips.

For the next quarter-hour, my wife attentively performed oral sex on her new, black master. Her attention and devotion were shameless, her ministrations to his pleasure exquisite to watch.

I studied her in awe as she alternately slid her lips over the massive purple cockhead and down the shaft itself, endeavoring to force as much of him into her mouth as she could. Then she drew back, leaving the hard flesh of his thick penis glistening with her saliva.
The contrast of his black shaft against her red lips and white teeth was outrageously erotic – and, I'm shocked to say, enormously beautiful. Gently, surely, she slid him in and out of her mouth, taking an inch, then two, then three – even as much as four inches before the pressure of his cockhead against the back of her throat proved too much.

Then she would pull back gently, but only so she that she could run her tongue over and around the helmet of his cock, licking it slowly, wetting it thoroughly, over and under, teasing the tender frenum on the underside of the head with quick, gentle flicks.

At one point, looking over at me to ensure I was watching, she slid her lips off his cock. Slowly she took his long hard, shaft in her hand and pressed it up against his belly. The action served to bring his heavy, black balls, stretched tight by the black straps, up and out even further. Thoroughly and shamelessly revealed, proudly and outrageously displayed by the harsh discipline of the harness, they could now be admired in all their magnificence.

The color of dark chocolate, each was easily the size of an egg, and stretched so taut by the harness that that is exactly what they looked like – a pair of beautiful, black eggs. Brigitte could not keep her mouth off of them. Again shooting me a look, she proceeded to lavish the most careful, intimate attention on them that she could. She began by gently and languorously licking the entirety of each one, until they positively glistened in the soft light.
She then proceeded to take first the left one, and then the right, entirely into her mouth – and then gently, teasingly, closed her lips around each one as she did. Each time she did, she looked up at Charles tauntingly, tantalizing him with the implied threat of a bite – walking the thin tightrope between wondrous pleasure and sharp pain.

Obviously, however, it was merely a tease, for as Charles continued to watch her intimate caresses rapturously, the only sound emerging from him was an occasional low growl of pleasure from deep in his throat.

Obviously eager for Charles' tribute, Brigitte turned away from his tight, black balls and back to the thick shaft stretching out before her lips. Sucking it back in eagerly, she proceeded to slide her mouth up and down it faster and faster, taking as much of it down her throat as she could manage. It was clear to both Charles and me that she was aching to satisfy him – and to taste his thick, creamy sperm.

Still wrapping her warm, soft mouth around his dick, she went so far as to reach up and unsnap the leather harness at the base of Charles' shaft. She withdrew it reluctantly – stopping for a second to once again admire the tight heavy balls she had just finished licking – before she let the strap fall to the floor. She knew it was preventing him from coming – keeping him from the pleasure she was certain he desired. As she did so, she reached up with her left hand and began rubbing his sac, quickly making it taut with excitement, harness or no harness.

It was clear Charles was not going to be able to hold out much longer. He moaned more loudly, and I could see his entire body stiffen as Brigitte teased him toward orgasm. Feeling his muscles tense, seeing how close he was, she began sucking even more earnestly, more quickly, endeavoring to take as much of his long, thick penis down her throat as possible.

Then, an instant before I was sure he was about to spray his semen into her mouth, he pulled back suddenly. He slid his dick out from between her lips, trailing long threads of saliva. He grasped it quickly and firmly at the base, encircling it with his long, strong fingers. Then he looked down at my wife.

"Undo your bra," he ordered. "Fold the cups down – but don't take it off altogether."
Brigitte looked up at him questioningly, but did as he said. She reached back and undid the tiny hooks, slipped the straps slightly off her shoulders, and then slowly folded the black, lace cups down, exposing her stiff, pointed nipples. She waited there, kneeling, still wearing her tiny, crotchless panties, which thoroughly revealed her lovely pussy and the crease of her firm, round ass.

"That's far enough," Charles said, still holding the base of his thick cock. "Hold your breasts up for me," he commanded. I held my breath. Brigitte hurried to comply, cupping her big, beautiful breasts and holding them up and out for him, still cupped at the base by the folded lace .

As she did, he pointed his long, thick cock down toward her chest and simultaneously released his tight grip on the base. He closed his eyes. Then, sliding his hand up, he gave his shaft one or two slow strokes, and moaned once softly. I watched, fascinated.

Charles' beautiful black cock exploded in response to my wife's lavish attention. With a harsh moan, he sprayed hot, thick streams of semen across her chest. His sperm shot out once, then twice, then three times, each jet nearly as thick and forceful as the last. Sperm flew everywhere.

Finally, by the fifth or sixth ejaculation, his powerful torrent began to relent. I looked at my wife, kneeling in front of him. She was thoroughly covered in Charles' tribute. His sticky sperm coated her full tits. It ran down in rivulets between the soft valley between them. It glistened on her skin. It dripped off her stiff, pink nipples, and pooled in the cups of her black bra.

Brigitte looked down, obviously surprised at what she had been able to coax from Charles. Then she looked up at him, waiting for his next command. His eyes remained closed for several seconds, until, finally, composure regained; he opened them and addressed her.

"Put your bra back on," he said without ceremony.

Brigitte looked at him in confusion, but did as he said. She reached up and pulled the lace cups over her cum-covered breasts. She slid the shoulder straps up, and then reached back and refastened the three tiny hooks in back. Then she looked up at Charles again.

"Yes, Sir?" she asked.

"I'm leaving now, my pet. You've done well tonight. You've proved to me again that you show enormous promise, so I've decided to take your training to the next level."

Charles' words made Brigitte moan softly, and made my cock and balls ache. He went on, briefly. I'll contact you shortly."

And with that he was gone, suddenly, swiftly. I heard the door close, and his car start and pull away.

Like a thief in the night . . . a thief of love.

Brigitte whimpered in frustration. Slowly she stood up, still clad only in her black bra and tiny, revealing panties.

"Come here," I said, and she came to me at the edge of the bed. She looked so forlorn and frustrated, it made my heart break. I stood up, and wrapped my arms around her, kissing her deeply. Her breath was deep, and musky, tasting of Charles' cock. I slipped my tongue into her mouth.

Then, I reached up and unhooked her bra, letting it slide down her arms and drop on the floor. Her breasts still glistened, sticky with Charles' semen. I leaned down.

Slowly I brought my hands up, cupping them under her full tits. I lifted each in my hands. I brought her left nipple up to my lips, and sucked it into my mouth. I ran my tongue around it, feeling it harden quickly again, and flicked my tongue across her aureole, back and forth. Charles' cum was salty to the taste. Then I did the same with the right, feeling it, too, harden quickly under my caresses. It, also, was salty and sticky with semen.

And for the next 10 minutes, I gently licked over, under and around her stiff nipples. I licked every inch of her full breasts, cleaning the sticky cum off them. Brigitte moaned softly and slowly, no doubt in part due to the intimacy of the act I was performing. That she was excited was indubitable: When I reached my hand down to her open panties, my fingers came away soaking wet.

Unable to resist any longer, I pulled her onto the bed. There I fucked her: in her soft, welcoming mouth for nearly a quarter of an hour, and finally in her hot, tight, wet cunt, not even bothering to remove her panties. She came, and came, shuddering and shaking, wrapping her arms around me tightly, finding release at last.

And I – I sprayed jet after jet after jet of hot cum into her, finally collapsing into utter exhaustion. I looked over at her minutes after she fell into a deep and profound sleep. A smile creased her lips.

We didn't speak much about that encounter, either. But that was okay. I'm not sure either of us would have known, exactly, what to say.

Several mornings later when I checked my emails, I found, to my surprise, a message from Charles. I noticed that Brigitte had been copied on it. How did he know our email addresses? I wondered, then figured, why not? He certainly knew his way around things, you had to give him that.
The message had no salutation or signature, other than simply "—Charles". It read as follows:

"The demographic for this particular segment of the research comprised [U.S.] Caucasian, married women, aged 35-45. Further, it focused specifically on those who confirmed a previous or ongoing extramarital affair – a surprising 53% of the total survey base of 15,582. Of that 53%, fully 86% asserted a 'significant' or 'major' increase in sexual experimentation, and 'significantly increased levels of satisfaction' with their extramarital partner as opposed to their spouse.
The vast majority reported that this was due to a 'perceived release from codes of expected behavior and/or propriety' implied in the marriage contract. For example, 47% of the survey base – more than 7,320 women – reported that they 'regularly performed oral sex on their lovers and willingly swallowed their ejaculations', as compared to only 17% who would regularly perform the same act for their spouse.
Furthermore, and more compelling, 45% of the survey base confirmed that they "willingly and eagerly agreed to their lovers' requests for sexual experimentation, even when they knew that those requests were considered taboo by either their religious upbringing or by conventional societal norms."

--Inside the Secret Garden:

Exploring Women's' Sexuality, 1999

I tried to imagine Brigitte's reaction as she read it: A wry smile? Relief? Exoneration? I mentally thanked Charles for sending it.

That night I asked Brigitte if she'd seen it. She smiled and blushed but, in typical fashion, refused to comment other than a nearly-monosyllabic, "Mmm, yes." We didn't mention it further.

Charles' next email, however, sent several days later, was far more provocative. I found it on my PC at the office when I came in.

I noticed, again, that Brigitte had been copied. I would have loved to see her face as she read it.

"Fully 61% of the American women we surveyed reported that their strongest and most sexually satisfying fantasy involved situations with multiple male partners simultaneously. Furthermore, fully 88% of those elaborated specifically upon the fantasy, stating that their imagined partners were large, dominant black men, and that the scenario most often involved them being taken roughly or forcefully, almost always involving simultaneous oral, vaginal and anal penetration.
Asked if they would, in fact, act on such a fantasy, 42% responded affirmatively – regardless of the attendant risk to their marriage or to their societal position, should knowledge of their experience become public."

--Today's Woman:

A Nationwide Study of Female Sexuality, 1999

Of course, I had to ask her when I got home that night if she'd seen it.

"I can't believe he'd send something like that to the office!" were the first words out of her mouth. "What if someone in I.T. got a hold of it?" she fumed.

"I think they'd probably look at you in a somewhat different light, don't you, honey?" I answered, smiling. Then added: "But what did you think about it? Is it true, in your experience?"

"What do you mean? Is what true? What do you mean, my experience?" she shot back.

"Do you think most women have that kind of fantasy?"

"How do I know?"

"Uh, because you're a woman?"

"I'm just one. I can't answer for everyone woman on the face of the planet."

I pushed harder. "Well, then, do you?"

"Of course not!" she answered. She paused, though. Then she added, "I mean . . . " She started to blush – and to fidget. Clearly, she seemed uncomfortable.

I looked directly at her. "Something you want to tell me?" I inquired, disingenuously. She shook her head, but continued to redden.

"Are you sure?" She shook her head again.

"Come over here," I said quietly.

She came up to me. I reached up and unbuttoned the four buttons on her gray blouse. She didn't resist. Gently I pulled it open and off her shoulders, revealing her bra. Her nipples poked out fiercely through the thin, white fabric, fully half an inch erect.

"Would it be fair to say that the prospect excites you a little bit," I teased, whispering in her ear.

She knew I had her. And, incredibly and totally uncharacteristically, she did not deny it. In fact, she nodded her assent. I decided to push it a bit further.

"How much does it excite you?" I whispered, gently cupping her breasts. I then reached up and took both nipples between my thumbs and index fingers, and whispered to her again.

"Do you want to be fucked by three or four black men at once?" I teased softly. As I did, I gently but firmly grasped each nipple and pulled them, stretching them out straight, as far as I could. I whispered to her again: "This is what they'll do to you, you know? And this is just the start . . . " Brigitte moaned.

"Do you know what else they'll do?" I went on, continuing to play with her breasts, rolling the nipples and pinching them sharply. Brigitte just groaned, then whispered, "What?"

"Well . . . " I whispered, "first they'll make you undress slowly . . . "

We did not have long to wait before the object of Charles' emails became obvious. The next night the phone rang as we were eating dinner. Brigitte, once again closest to it, picked it up. Although I could only hear murmurs from the earpiece, Brigitte's blush told me everything I needed to know. "Yes," she said several times softly – obviously receiving some sort of instruction. "Yes, sir."

Then, still blushing, she hung up. Without saying anything, she got up from the table, rummaged around in the drawer for a minute, then returned to the phone with a piece of paper. She dialed the number written on the paper, and after a few pleasantries, quickly arranged to have Anne baby-sit for us the following evening. And all of this with barely a glance in my direction. Finally she sat down again.

"Going out tomorrow, are we?" I inquired.

"Yes," Brigitte replied. "We're going out to dinner with Charles, then to a club," she explained.

"And he wants me to go, too?"

"Oh, yes," she answered. "He said, 'Make sure Bruce can come, too. He needs to be there." She blushed again.

Oh, boy, I thought. This should be interesting.

I could barely get through work the next day, my mind swirling with imagined scenarios of what was to come. Finally, 6:00pm came, and I turned off my computer and headed home.

Brigitte had arrived home before me, and was upstairs dressing when I walked in. Anne had arrived sometime earlier, too, and was playing with the boys in the family room. I chatted with her for several minutes, fixed myself a drink and waited for Brigitte to come down. Already dressed in a suit, myself, I saw no need to change.

Brigitte descended a few minutes later. When I saw her, I nearly fell off the couch. I can't imagine what Anne must have been thinking.

Once again, she had applied eyeliner and dark red lipstick. She looked sultry and sexy in the extreme. But that was only the start.

She was dressed in an obviously brand-new black leather skirt – one that was fully 8 inches above her knee. It was short enough to reveal a glimpse of the lace tops of her stockings when she sat down on the loveseat – stockings I knew that Charles must have ordered her to wear. Black, three-inch heels made my statuesque wife even more so. The effect was stunning. But that wasn't what took my and Anne's breath away.

Years before I had purchased Brigitte an utterly sheer, black silk blouse. She'd never worn it, being far too modest. It had hung in her closet since the day I'd given it to her . . . Until tonight.

Tonight she wore it proudly, and with not a trace of the hesitation or embarrassment that I would have expected. She wore it as though it were a sweater, or ski parka – and not something entirely transparent. As though you couldn't see the sheer, black lace bra that she wore underneath – the one which seemed to draw immediate attention to her dark aureoles and erect nipples.

"Mummy," giggled one of the boys, "I can see you!"
Brigitte didn't miss a beat. "Yes, I guess you can, honey." Without hesitation, she turned to Anne and rattled off a few last-minute incidentals – cell phone number, pizza in the freezer . . . All without the slightest embarrassment. I nearly fell over.

This was my wife? This was my shy little girl? Yikes!

I had to admit, though, that she had my full, hard attention in a way she'd never had. Wow! I thought to myself. What a woman!

Brigitte grabbed her coat and asked me if I was ready. Ready? Eeesh. We got into the car and began the drive to Boston – me shooting glances at my enormously sexy wife, wondering what I'd finally gotten myself into. Brigitte cut into my reverie.

"We're supposed to pick up Charles at the Four Seasons," she said, simply. I looked over at her. "Okay," was all I could think of in reply.

We drove in silence. I kept stealing glances at my wife. She gave remarkably little away, in her own, subtle fashion. We drove on. We hit downtown Boston. I found the Four Seasons without trouble. I pulled up under the portico, next to the revolving front door, and looked into the lobby. Charles was standing there waiting for us. He came out to the car, an empty champagne glass in his hand. He came around and opened the rear, driver-side door, and got in.

"Good evening, you two," he said with a flashing smile. "Thanks for coming out at such short notice." Brigitte looked back at him, beaming. "Always a pleasure," I answered, with more than a trace of irony. Brigitte giggled.

"Brigitte, come here and sit in back with me," Charles said quietly. "Bruce, you can drive." I sucked in my breath, but said nothing.

Finally, I had to say, somewhat lamely, "Well, I hope you know where we're going." Charles chuckled at my comment. Then he continued with his instructions.

"Bruce, we're driving to Providence. I'll give you directions when we get to the outskirts of the city." Then he turned to my wife. "Brigitte, take off your coat."

Brigitte hurried to comply, slipping it off her shoulders and tossing it over the back of the seat, to land beside me. To sit there in silent mockery, reminding me of what was happening. I looked in the rearview mirror, to see my wife in her sheer blouse, cuddling up to her black lover. I said nothing, but turned onto Arlington Street, found the connector, and then pointed the car down the South East Expressway. Toward Providence and who knows what else.

For the next hour, I drove. I looked back in the rearview mirror regularly, but saw nothing, only the edge of Charles' handsome profile.

For that hour, my wife had her head between Charles' legs. There were no words exchanged between them. Whatever was happening seemed to be pre-arranged, with no need for direction.
There was only the occasional soft moan from Charles, and what sounded like gentle, rhythmic sucking, so soft and distant that it almost sounded like waves on the beach at night. Three or four times it seemed to build to some sort of crescendo, accompanied by a rustling of clothes and shifting of position on the leather seats, but nothing more.

My mind raced. What was he making her do? What was she agreeing to? And, more importantly, why was I letting this happen? I drove on, still shooting glances in the mirror, but seeing nothing. I tortured myself with the pictures and implications that my imagination created. Finally, we reached the outskirts of Providence, to my mental relief.

"Turn left here and right at the next light. Now . . . straight ahead through that intersection." Charles' directions came regularly and infallibly. I heard a soft sigh from my wife. We drove through increasingly bright and busy streets. Finally, Charles said, 'Pull up here." I looked over at the subtle, hand-painted sign above the front door of the restaurant he'd directed us to: "Calin".

I'd heard about this place. It was one of Rhode Island's best restaurants; very French, written up everywhere. I smiled; you had to admire good taste.

We got out of the car, and I handed the keys to the valet. As I did, I was pleased to see that Brigitte had put her coat back on, and wasn't going to be completely exposed to this high-school kid parking our car. She held something in her hand, but I didn't really notice, being too busy with the idea of what sort of image we were going to present as we entered: A black man, an extremely attractive white woman, and what was obviously her white husband. Yikes.

Nonetheless, I soldiered on, breaching the front door, and the lobby, with my wife and Charles. Much to my dismay, he took this moment to reassert his control. He reached over and gently slid Brigitte's leather coat off her shoulders. And although there were only four or five people in the lobby, I felt like the entire restaurant had turned their eyes on us.

My wife let the coat slide off her shoulders and stood proudly in front of the maitre d'. I could see him suck in his breath, studying her long legs, her full breasts so obviously on display. He shot subtle glances back and forth between Charles and I, trying to figure out what was going on. And he did it all in a nano-second, discreetly, barely missing a beat. The consummate professional.

"This way, madam, gentlemen," he said quietly, leading the three of us through what seemed the entire restaurant, passing what appeared to be every table, before reaching ours.

You should have seen the stares we got – most of them discreet, as it was a tasteful, expensive place. But stares nonetheless. The men looked on enviably. I'll bet a few of them got kicked under the table by their wives and girlfriends. The women stared, too, even more openly – although more than a few looks could have best been translated as either a hiss or, "Bitch!" Ah, women. There was no denying it: My wife was definitely the life of this party.

Finally, much to my relief, we were seated in a dim corner, looking out over the restaurant. If we looked left, we could see, through a large picture window, the skyline of Providence, the capitol dome glistening gold.

The waiter wasted no time in attending to our table. I couldn't help but notice how, as he approached, he kept subtly darting glances at my wife's chest, all the while maintaining the picture of decorum.

"What can I bring you for cocktails?" he inquired. Charles wasted no time.

"The lady is all set. I'll have a Bombay martini, straight up, extra dry, with a twist. Bruce?"

I looked over at him with curiosity. Why wasn't he going to ask Brigitte what she wanted? This was odd. Perhaps he knew something I did not.

"A Crowne Royal Manhattan, straight up," I replied in some bemusement.

"Very well," he answered, stealing one last glance at my sexy wife before turning away to fetch our drinks.

I looked over at Charles and Brigitte. "You're not having anything to drink, honey?" I asked in innocence.

"She's all set. Aren't you, Brigitte? Charles said quietly. I looked at him, surprised, then looked down at the table, where a champagne flute already stood. I suddenly realized that she had carried it in with her from the car. Brigitte blushed, but said quietly, "Yes, sweetie, I'm all set." I looked at her glass. It was already full, nearly to the brim.

"But," I said, "You didn't tell me you had champagne. That's not fair! I love champagne!" Charles merely grinned. Brigitte blushed again. Their silence made me suspicious.

I looked more closely at her glass. I suddenly realized that it couldn't have been champagne. It was too thick, too white . . . too . . . creamy. Oh, my God! My heart felt like it would burst from my chest. No!

With the sudden, sinking realization one experiences upon facing the more awkward moments of truth, I realized that I, perhaps, might no longer be in charge. I understood now why things had been so quiet in the back seat of the car. Why Charles had brought the champagne flute with him. Why Brigitte had had her head in his lap for an hour.

On Charles' order, I quickly realized, Brigitte had spent the hour in the car milking his cock. I realized now that he must have made her suck him constantly.

I could imagine her red lips around his black dick. Her tongue licking his balls. And how, each time he was ready to cum, he made her slide her lips off his dick and push his thick cockhead into the champagne glass, to catch every drop of his semen.

I looked down at the glass again. He must have cum four or five times. It was nearly full to the brim. My head was swimming.

At that moment the waiter returned with Charles' and my drinks. He set them on the table and departed, but not before stealing another glance at my wife's breasts, clearly visible through her sheer bra and blouse.

Charles raised his glass. "To a wonderful night out," he toasted. I lifted my glass, but really wanted to see what Brigitte did. She lifted hers, too, with alacrity. It was poised at her lips. "Nooooo . . . " I wanted to say. While the devil, sitting on my other shoulder, whispered, "Yessssss . . . ."

My beautiful wife touched the flute to her lips, opened wide, and took a long swallow, draining nearly a quarter of the glass. As she set the glass back down on the table, she looked at me and slowly licked her lips, which glistened in the soft light. She smiled at me, completely uninhibited, completely confident.

And for the next quarter-hour, as we made small talk, and studied the menu – as Charles toyed with his martini, and I sipped my Manhattan – my wife drank her black lover's sperm from a crystal glass.

For the first time in my life, I was short of small talk. I wasn't very hungry, either. In truth, I was more than a little preoccupied with the dynamics at play before me.

I'd asked myself before whether I was biting off more than I could chew by encouraging this tryst. I was always sure that I had it all in control. Now, watching Brigitte sitting there so provocatively, I was far less certain of myself. And that realization was making me just a bit uncomfortable.

Yet, a thought suddenly dawned on me as I sat there, alternately staring into space and playing with the cherry in my drink. A reverse – more positive – side existed to this. The realization crept into my head like a warm, little glow.

By relinquishing the strings of control – if, indeed, I'd ever truly held them – I was also, in large measure, relinquishing any responsibility.

After all, where does the fulcrum of accountability for others lay? Where does my responsibility for my wife's actions – her own exercise of free will – begin and end? I stirred my drink thoughtfully.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that I might be looking at the entire situation the wrong way. Put simply, I theorized that it wasn't really Charles who had taken control from me – although there was some truth to that, it had to be said. It was dawning on me that, in fact, Brigitte was perhaps orchestrating this to a much greater degree than I had considered.

We tend to avoid things we don't want to do, and pursue those we do. My wife was no different. I would never be able to make her do something she didn't want to. But if a wink or a nod of approval was the only thing holding one back from something new . . .

And so, having quickly – if somewhat too neatly – found a rationale for my own personal absolution, I sat back and took another sip of my drink. Slowly I tuned back in to Charles' and Brigitte's ongoing chat.

Although I quickly realized that the discussion was somewhat one-sided. Charles was doing the talking. Or, more appropriately, the ordering.

"I'll tell you when it's high enough," he was saying quietly, glancing down at my wife's lap. I looked over, and my heart skipped another little beat. Brigitte had just placed both hands at the hem of her leather skirt, and was gently sliding it up her thighs. She had already tugged it up an inch or two. I could see several inches of the lace tops of her sheer stockings. She had also raised herself a fraction of an inch off the chair so the skirt wouldn't catch. The action caused her to arch her back a bit, forcing her bust up and out.
I glanced nervously around, wondering if anyone could see us, and when the waiter was going to make his next round. Fortunately, we were in the corner, and the other diners didn't have a particularly good line of sight. I wondered briefly if Charles had requested this specific table for a reason – this reason. I turned back to the two of them.

Brigitte took another sip from her nearly empty champagne glass, and licked her glistening lips once again, smiling at me as she did so. Then she placed it back on the table, looked around the room quickly, and let her hands slip down to her skirt once again.

My heart beat more quickly with each promised inch that it might rise. I hadn't been paying attention to the first exchange between the two of them, so I don't know what Charles had asked. But not knowing was somehow more erotic.

Brigitte sat up straighter and gently slid the skirt up further. Two more inches revealed the very top of her stockings and the clasps and black satin straps of her garter belt – as well as the soft white skin of her upper thighs.

At that moment, our waiter turned the corner and headed straight for our table.

Charles whispered quickly to Brigitte, "Stay as you are." I caught my breath.

Brigitte looked at him questioningly, but remained as he had ordered: her skirt hiked up high on her thighs. Fortunately – or unfortunately? – our waiter paid no heed, content to throw a quick glance, once again, at Brigitte's sheer blouse. He left a basket of rolls on our table and was gone.

"You may continue," was all Charles said. Brigitte looked over at me briefly, and set about revealing herself even more.

I noticed, now, that neither of them asked my permission to continue in their dangerous games. Neither Charles nor Brigitte sought it. I was hurt.

But I was excited, too. Let me be honest. To watch a Dom in action was truly a sight to be seen – an erotic thrill and education at which to marvel and from which to learn.

To watch his sub bend to his command was even more thrilling. Regardless of the fact that it was my wife.

Perhaps more so because of it.

Brigitte's hands slid down once more to her skirt. She glanced quickly around, then slid her skirt up. Past her stocking tops. Past the black straps of her garterbelt. Past the black lace of the garterbelt itself. Past her tiny, lace-trimmed, sheer panties. All the way to her waist.

Her leather skirt sat bunched around her like a belt as she waited for Charles' next order. She sat on the hard wooden chair clad only in her filmy string bikini.

Charles looked at her admiringly. "You are lovely, of course, my dear." Brigitte blushed.

"Now pull your panties down."

Brigitte sucked in her breath. Then, without hesitation, she grasped the waistband with her thumbs.

I couldn't believe what was happening. My wife was literally stripping for her master in one of New England's best restaurants . . . Dressed in a see-through blouse . . . Pulling her skirt up, her panties down. She was showing everything.

I imagined the ramifications: To see the police cruiser lights flashing . . . the handcuffs . . . to face the microphones and tape recorders of the Providence Journal . . . to be profiled on NECN.

But that was me. Brigitte, almost tauntingly, did exactly as he ordered.

In one, smooth action, she slid her tiny panties down to just above her knees. Then she leaned forward, nonchalantly, and reached for her champagne glass. She lifted it to her lips and drained the last of Charles' thick sperm in one swallow. She looked over at me and smiled – and licked her lips. Then she leaned back in her chair. My heart did flip-flops.

I looked at her. Her full breasts obvious to anyone who cared to look the nipples stiff and pointed. Her black leather skirt, sitting bunched around her waist and her bare ass against the hard wooden seat. Her tiny wisp of panties were a mere thread of material, hanging tauntingly around her knees. And her stockings and garterbelt framing the lovely, dark curls of her bush, now so outrageously on display. I found it hard to breathe.

At that moment, our waiter chose to return. I watched him approach as if in slow motion.

We were all underwater, swimming. I couldn't catch my breath.

Whether to my edification, or to her eternal credit, I will never know. Maybe it was a command from Charles. But Brigitte elected not to cover up, or act demure, or shrink in even the slightest from the situation. She sat there proudly, beautiful.

At first, our waiter didn't notice what was happening. He was obviously trying not to stare at Brigitte, and in so doing, did not even look at her. While regarding me intently, he asked what 'Madam' had selected for dinner.

"I'm not sure," I replied with a twinkle. "Perhaps you should ask her directly." He turned his attention to Brigitte and nearly dropped his pad and pen.

My wife sat open to his gaze. No – more than open. She was utterly exposed. Her breasts poked out proudly from her blouse, her nipples stiff and pointed, displaying her excitement at being shown off.

But that was nothing.

She sat with legs spread on the hard wooden chair. Naked. Her dark pubic hair framed in black lace and nylon. A deep, erotic blush spread across her chest, neck and cheeks. She looked up at the waiter, as if urging him to speak.

He gulped. He, too, blushed deeply.

And then he said, very quietly, "I am honored. Madam is exquisite." He paused. "But Madam should be as discreet as possible." He paused again. "And your secret" – he looked at both of us – "is safe with me. "

"Now, what will we be having for dinner?" He stole another quick look at my wife's dark bush, and then turned his attention to Charles and me.

We ordered, and he returned to the kitchen to place our request. I looked over at my wife. "You are lovely, honey," I said.

Charles nodded in agreement. "As I said," he began, "Brigitte shows enormous promise as a sub, don't you think?"

He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Let me correct myself. She's already demonstrated that. She IS a natural sub, yes?"

Yes. It only took a black master to bring it out, I thought to myself.

"That she is," I answered, looking over at Brigitte. She blushed.

"What shall we do next?" Charles asked, his eyes bright with anticipation. I looked at my wife, and thought for a moment.

"You mentioned a club," I replied. "What sort of club?" Brigitte sucked in her breath.

Charles smiled broadly. "A very, um, naughty club," he replied, almost rhetorically. Brigitte glanced up at him quickly, a look of – I swear it – anticipation on her face.

"A place . . . " he began . . .

I held my breath. I'm sure Brigitte did, too. Finally he found the words he was looking for.

"A place where married white women . . . " He paused, but this time for effect.

He had our attention, you can be sure of that.

"A place where married white women are trained, by black men, in discipline."

He turned to look steadily at Brigitte. "Are you ready for that?"

I looked at her, curious – fascinated – to see what she'd say. She paused for a moment before replying. My stomach did another flip-flop.

"Yes," she finally answered, simply and quietly, a quiet blush suffusing her cheeks.

White wives trained by black men. In discipline. I marveled, again, at the weight of language.

Training and discipline . . . They ran around and around in my head in a permanent loop. What did they mean, specifically?

Did it matter?

The words were pregnant with meaning and symbolism. They immediately brought forth an explosion of images. All of them intimate, private, personal.

No, that's wrong. They were far more. Provocative, outrageous . . . extreme. All the images that flooded my head in that instant made conventional sexuality look like a church service.

And, I wondered, what did they mean to Brigitte? What was she envisioning? Why had she agreed so readily? What was motivating her? I turned to look at her, and was once again stunned by the woman I thought I knew.

A bright glow seemed to emanate from her, as if she were being lit from within. Not just from the bright pink blush on her cheeks – the one that illuminated not just her face, but her chest, her arms . . . all of her skin. It came from much more deeply inside – something from the core that made its way up, to her dark eyes, and out. Her eyes glowed with a fierce, bright light that I only vaguely recognized . . . An excitement . . . A fascination . . . An eagerness.

No, that was not it. It was something even more.

An enlightenment.

I sat back, shocked and deeply reflective. I could think of nothing to say – so, for once, I said nothing. I turned to the food on my plate, and tried to concentrate on eating. I knew that Charles would not rush his explanation – if, indeed, there was to be one – and so I waited. In truth, I still had yet to regain my appetite. I looked over at the two of them and noted, with some distress, that they were both tucking into their expensive dinners with gusto. Brigitte had already eaten fully half of her salmon; Charles was nearly done with his confit de canard.

How could they eat at a time like this, I wondered? I was beginning to feel a bit foolish. And a bit extraneous.

Charles cut into my reverie. "Are you enjoying your meal, Bruce? This is, after all, Rhode Island's best restaurant."

"Mmmm," I replied. "Delicious." Both Charles and Brigitte looked at me and smiled. I could feel them looking through me, straight to the wriggling little bug of discomfort that was stealing my appetite. I put on a brave face.

"No, it's great. Yours?"

"It's delicious honey," Brigitte answered. "Do you want to try some of mine?"

"No, thanks. I'm not really in the mood for fish."

She pressed on. "Have you lost your appetite? You've hardly eaten a thing." As she asked, she reached down and picked up her champagne flute, and ran her tongue around the lip of the glass, all the while looking directly at me.

"No, I'm fine," I answered. "Probably too many appetizers." I smiled wanly. They continued to eat their meal with gusto.

Charles finally put down his fork and looked at the two of us. "Well, then. Shall we call for the bill?"

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say no. Yes, because I'd lost my appetite. No, because I wasn't sure I was ready for whatever was going to happen next. And I knew that something – something profound – was going to happen after we left this restaurant.

Brigitte answered for me. "Yes, Charles. I think we're all set here, don't you?" I caught my breath at her directness . . . At her impending curiosity.

Charles called for the bill. The waiter wondered if everything was okay. Charles assured him it was, but that we had a theatrical engagement we had to meet.

A 'theatrical engagement' I liked that.

Our waiter brought the bill. I paid. I added a large tip for his 'attentiveness' – and for his discretion.

Before we stood up to leave, though, I glanced over at my wife, to see whether she was still in flagrante delicto, or was modest enough to walk back through the restaurant without risking too many stares, or too many kicks under the table. I noticed with relief that she was as modest as her outfit allowed. She had pulled her skirt back down and, presumably, her panties back up. I heaved a sigh of relief.

We stood up, and headed straight for the foyer. I took up the rear – deliberately – to see what sort of reaction my beautiful wife was having on the other patrons.

I wasn't disappointed. They hadn't turned the tables over, so almost everyone who'd seen us come in, saw us go out. The men stared at my gorgeous wife, dressed so provocatively.

She was exquisite. Not only was she provocative, she was proud. Statuesque. She knew they were looking at her, and she didn't shrink from it. In fact, she seemed to revel in it. Her deep, dark eyes, still glowing. Her bright, red lips . . . Her short black skirt . . . Her black heels . . . Her sheer blouse and bra . . . Her nipples standing out proudly. Look at me, she seemed to say.

Look, they did. I actually saw one woman pour a glass of ice water into her husband's lap as he stared, shamelessly, at my beautiful wife. I laughed quietly, and said to him in passing, "That will serve you."

"What, honey?" Brigitte turned to ask as she heard me speak.

"Nothing, sweetie. Just saying hello." I smiled inwardly.

And then we were on the sidewalk, waiting for the valet to bring our car. Waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

Waiting for training and discipline.

Charles turned to the both of us as we stood on the curb waiting for the car. "You're feeling adventurous?"

I wasn't sure to whom he was really addressing the question. I looked at Brigitte. In her typical fashion when aroused, she put her arm around me and hugged me tightly, kissing me lightly on my neck. But she said nothing. Waiting for some approval from her husband, no doubt. I looked at Charles, and said as evenly as I could, "Yes, we're ready."

"Good," he answered with a satisfied smile. And then, almost to himself, "Let the games begin."

We got in the car when it was brought to us. Charles and Brigitte, once again, sat in the back, and I drove. Charles gave directions. I was beginning to feel like a chauffeur.

The route took us away from the center of town, toward increasingly darker streets. Through low-rent neighborhoods, past tired old wooden shops, and into what looked like a forgotten industrial section. Brick warehouses, now dark, lined either side of the streets, protected forlornly by sagging chain-link fences. I glanced back in the mirror, wondering if this was safe. But Charles was indefatigable.

"Left here. Right here. Left up ahead." Obviously, he knew where he was going.

Finally, after I had long given up on the civilized world, he had me pull up in front of a non-descript, warehouse-like building, nearly dark except for a lone fluorescent bulb above the door. The entrance was several steps up from the street, via concrete steps and standard pipe-like railings. The door itself was formidable: Heavy steel, with a small, grill-covered viewing window in the center at eye level. It looked like something out of a cheap novel.

"The car will be safe here, don't worry," Charles said, reading my mind.

We got out, and approached the door. I noticed a small, engraved sign just to the left of the door: "MWW Training." It could have meant anything, but I decided not to ask. Instead, I looked over at Brigitte. I could detect a certain nervous edge to her, and a bright flush on her skin. Charles must have noticed the same thing. Almost simultaneously, we put our arms around her.

"I'm sure it's okay, sweetie," I assured her. Charles echoed my sentiments. "You're both safe with me; don't worry. If at any time you find you don't want to continue, just tell me. We'll leave, and that will be that."

I looked at Brigitte. Charles' words seemed, somehow, to disappoint her. Her face fell, just a fraction of an inch.

"I'm okay. Don't worry," she answered, and I marveled, once again, at her determination and curiosity.

Charles rang the bell. I held my breath.

It opened quickly – too quickly, as if we were expected. Which, I realize in retrospect, is exactly what we were.

A tall, handsome black man opened the door. He must have been 6'2", and muscular, and was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a tight, silk, light gray t-shirt that showed off his toned body. A tiny diamond earring sparkled in left ear. His head was shaved. His eyes shone.

"Good evening, Charles," he said by way of introduction. "You're late," he added with a wide smile, looking us over. His gaze dwelled on Brigitte, eyeing her short skirt, her sheer blouse. Appraising her.

"Yes, well," Charles began. "Dinner ran late. But here we are."

"Yes, here you are. Finally. Come in."

We entered slowly, I with a mix of both trepidation and excitement. As we did, I looked around, and marveled at the place. No warehouse conversion was this. Oh, no.

The foyer was expensively decorated. Extremely expensively decorated. Marble floor. Rich, dark brown wallpaper. It looked like suede. I ran my hand over it. It was suede. Subtle, indirect lighting cast a soft glow, and tasteful, tiny spotlights illuminated discreet, expensive prints and paintings mounted in ornate gilt frames.
I looked closely at one, a bathing nude at a window, sunlight on walls of blue. I studied the thick brushstrokes of paint. It rang a distant bell. I looked down at the signature and caught my breath. A Bonnard, signed by the artist. An original, it seemed.

I suddenly realized that this wasn't some casual, fly-by-night club, but something far greater – much richer in both its reality and implications. Something that had been built over time, with care and attention, and lots of money. Lots of money.

But before I had time to study any of the other prints and paintings, our host, who'd introduced himself as Damon, took our coats and led us down a long hall. Toward music, and flashing lights. It was becoming obvious that we weren't the only ones here. Of course, I'd never doubted that. I looked over at Charles, and saw only confidence in his face. I looked over at Brigitte, and saw what I'd anticipated: Nervousness, but excitement and anticipation in even greater measure.

I wasn't sure how I felt about this.

We turned the corner and came into what was a large dance floor and bar. Tasteful red, blue and green strobe lights matched the rhythm of the slow, funky music, lighting the floor intermittently. I noticed that several couples were swaying to the music, but it was too dark to make out any details. There was a bar to our right, subtly lit, and manned by – not surprisingly – another large, handsome black man. He, too, had a shaved head, and wore a gold earring in his left ear, and an iridescent smile.

The seats were tall, and plush – dark leather, I noticed. And the top of the bar was marbled black granite. The money was obvious, but tasteful.

We sat down at the bar and ordered some drinks, not sure what was to happen next. The bartender brought them quickly, still smiling, and, without any apparent embarrassment, appraised Brigitte as he placed the cocktails before us. He eyed her up and down, studying her lovely face and body. Brigitte blushed and avoided his eyes, and began toying with her drink.

Then, whether to avoid his gaze, or perhaps due more to her deep and abiding curiosity, she turned to study the room. At first it was difficult to tell what was happening, due to the low lighting. But gradually, as our eyes adjusted, we began to get a hint of the true nature of the place.

Three or four couples swayed slowly on the dance floor. White women with black men, I noticed quickly. Off to the sides, on the banquettes and small cocktail tables that lined the room, sat single, white men and a few solitary black men – all of them watching intently.

And what were they watching? We turned our gaze back toward the dancing couples. I realized with a start that the dance was more intimate than I'd first noticed. Many of the women were provocatively dressed – short skirts and low-cut blouses, and not, apparently, particularly concerned about how much flesh they were showing. Several of the men were gently kissing their white partners – or sliding their skirts up their legs.

At that point, one of the black men sitting to the side got up and approached us. He was – surprise – tall and good-looking, and dressed in a black shirt and black leather pants. I sucked in my breath. He looked at me intently as he came up to us.

"May I dance with your wife?" he enquired. His gaze bore into me, then he turned to shoot a quick look at Charles. Finally, as if assuming my answer, his look bore into Brigitte, studying her, assessing her, admiring her lovely, revealing look.
"Of course," I said, wondering whether I really had a choice.

He took Brigitte's hand, as though her opinion didn't matter, and led her out onto the dance floor. I noticed she followed him without hesitation.

The music suddenly slowed, to a romantic '60's tune I knew well. Brigitte's dance partner drew her into him, sliding both arms around her. Charles and I watched closely.

His hands slowly caressed her back, and she nestled her head into his shoulder. Then, he slowly slid his hands down, past her waist, until he was cupping her firm buttocks. He didn't ask for permission, or assume that anyone would say no. He just began, simply, to caress my wife's ass. I notice Brigitte snuggling into him a little more closely.

He wasted no time. He slid his hands down further, to gently grab the hem of her leather skirt. And slowly, in rhythm to the music, he slid it up.

Up past her stocking tops. Up past her garter belt. To her waist. Her tiny panties revealed everything as they danced.

And, just as deftly, her found the clasp on the waistband of her skirt and undid it. It came off in his hands easily, and he tossed it to the side. My wife danced with him clad only in her sheer blouse and sheer panties.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse, one button at a time, slowly, to the music. In what seemed like a heartbeat, it was undone, and he slid it, without resistance, from her shoulders. That, too, he tossed aside.

Brigitte now danced with him in her tiny, revealing bra and panties. I could see her dark bush and erect nipples, even from where I sat. Effectively, she was naked.

I saw her snuggle up even closer to him, and, to my chagrin, press her hips firmly against his, sliding them back and forth to the gentle beat of the slow dance tune. He leaned down, and lifted her face to his, and gave her a long kiss. I could see his tongue slide into her mouth. She did not resist. She leaned up eagerly to him, and took it into her mouth hungrily.

And then, finally, after what seemed like minutes, the kiss was over. Brigitte laid her head on his shoulder. Without missing a beat, he slowly reached down and undid his belt and unzipped his pants. Brigitte swayed against him, rocking to the music. His pants slid down, revealing a pair of white, silk bikini briefs. He pressed his hips – his hardening cock – against my wife's soft thighs. She pressed against him.

Then, with one deft move, he pulled the black leather belt from his pants as they slid to the floor. He kicked them away. They danced slowly in circles for several minutes. But then, eventually – finally – he guided her over toward the banquette, his head on her shoulder, one hand around her back.

His other hand grasped the belt.

He whispered in her ear. She looked up at him, momentarily surprised, but nodded. Gently he guided her hands to the seat of the banquette, and had her place them there, side by side. Then she leaned her head down, close to the red leather – so close that she placed her left cheek on it. The movement forced her to arch her back, and to push her bottom up and out, her legs stretched and taut. She looked magnificent in her tiny, revealing panties, lace garter belt and heels.

He leaned down, looked over at us, and grasped the waistband of her black, sheer bikini panties. He pulled them down slowly, almost to her knees. Her firm, white ass was naked and ready.

He whispered in her ear again, and she moved her legs apart as far as she could, exposing herself completely.

With that, he stood up and looked over at us again briefly. The black leather belt dangled in his hand ominously. He turned back to Brigitte and held it up to her bottom, slowly, teasingly, trailing it between the cleft of her cheeks, back and forth.

The contrast between the dark leather and her white skin was startling – both pleasing and terrifying. He looked over at the two of us.

"What shall I do with this lovely white bottom?" he asked, a wicked, bright grin creasing his face.

I swung round in my seat and stood up. This had gone too far, too fast. But before I could step over to intervene, Charles grabbed my arm.

"Wait," he implored, adding in a whisper, "This is just for show. He's not going to do anything; take my word. We talked about this in advance."

I looked hard at him. "You talked about this in advance?" The surprise and annoyance must have shown on my face.

Charles chuckled. "Are you saying you don't find all this, um, somewhat interesting?" he asked with a small smile.

I wasn't sure whether I should dignify his question with an answer. But he knew he had me. I was as aroused as he was about the prospect of my wife's spanking – just a lot more confused and embarrassed about admitting the fact.

Charles continued. "No, this is just to sort of set the mood."

I relaxed a bit, relieved.

"Of course," he continued, "you realize that the operative word of this place is 'discipline'? I mean, you and Brigitte aren't confused about that, are you?" His eyes twinkled, and I tensed once more. He knew he had me again.

"How far is this going to go?" I asked him, sounding naïve even to myself as I said it.

"How far do you want it to go?"

"That's up to Brigitte."

"Is it?" he enquired, arching his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. You know that. Her decisions to make, not mine."

Charles smiled wisely again, but said nothing, as if in acknowledgement of a correct answer.

And then suddenly the scales fell from my eyes.

I understood. At last, I saw what Charles – and no doubt Brigitte – had wanted me to see all along. Everything I had missed. How ultimately self-absorbed I had been.

All the time during these last few weeks that I thought I was in control – the one with the power to give, or to withhold. How foolish and presumptuous, I now knew.

I was in charge of nothing but my own life and my own actions. My wife was free to conduct her life as she saw fit – to make her own decisions, notwithstanding the common courtesies of married life. To exercise free will, to be adventurous . . . irrespective of my attitude or posturing.

A distant memory came suddenly to mind: Brigitte teasing me about our wedding vows. "I'm supposed to love you; I didn't say anything about having to 'obey' you," she would occasionally tell me.

Besides, it didn't hurt that I had encouraged her in all of this, I reminded myself. I reflected that she wouldn't have gone this far without my approbation.

That realization, too, brought both wisdom and comfort.

Of course, none of this precluded the basic fact that a muscular black man stood poised before my wife's naked and upturned bottom, belt in hand, ready to give her a strapping. I dragged my eyes away from this lewd tableau and turned back to Charles.

"And so, it can go as far as she wants it to. I get that. But who, exactly, is in charge here?"

Damon, our host, suddenly seemed to have appeared at my elbow. Perhaps he'd been sitting there on the next stool all along. Too preoccupied with my wife's display, I wouldn't have noticed. "I'm in charge here." And then, perhaps in reference to my sudden epiphany, added, "After Brigitte, of course."

I looked at him steadily, appraising him. "So, what's next?"

Damon looked at me equally steadily. I think he appreciated the challenge. He looked over to the tall, dark man who was so obviously itching to strap my wife – the man who'd been flicking the tail of the leather belt lightly across her bare skin for the last few minutes, whispering in her ear the whole while.

"Alan, that's enough. You've proved your point. Nous avons d'autres chats à fouetté."

The French idiom and double-entendre nearly made me fall off my chair. We have other cats to whip. I marveled at the irony – and discovered a new-found respect for our host.

Damon continued without pause. "Bring her here."

Our tall, black stud, belt in hand, looked crestfallen. But he gently leant over, pulled up my wife's tiny panties, and then took Brigitte's wrist, leading her over to us. She blushed, looking down, knowing how we were all admiring her near-naked form. But Damon was all business, staring first at me, then at Charles, and finally at Brigitte.

"Brigitte's here for training – let's not forget that. Charles brought her here for discipline, with Bruce's approval." I looked him, and nodded almost imperceptibly. And then I turned back to look at him, waiting.

"Alan, show her the rooms, then take her to the theatre," he ordered. "Have Ellen dress her for her performance."

Performance? Even Charles looked impressed and intrigued at Damon's order. To judge from the look of anticipation on his face, some of this promised to be new even to him. I could feel my face flush at the prospect of what was to come. Brigitte – well, she merely looked nervous. No, I must be honest. I saw a trace of excited anticipation on her face, as well.

Alan, still crestfallen about his lost opportunity as disciplinarian, wasted no time in assuming as much control as possible – although it was clear that Damon was in charge. Alan was merely a lieutenant. A very powerful-looking lieutenant, it must be added, however.

"This way," he indicated, pointing us around the end of the bar to the right, toward a dim hallway. As he did, I saw him run his big hand over Brigitte's bikini-clad bottom, assessing and caressing it. He whispered something in her ear. She blushed, but made no move to remove his hand.

We followed his directions, proceeding down a plushly carpeted hall, softly illuminated by expensive-looking silver halogen sconces. I ran my finger briefly over the wall again, now unsurprised to discover that the wall covering even here was a dark tan suede.

As we made our way down the hall, which appeared at least several hundred feet in length, and whose walls were interrupted only by the occasional closed door, it appeared as though the lighting was getting dimmer. Alan seemed suddenly to be able to read my thoughts. "Watch your step," he cautioned us. "It's not your eyes. It is getting darker in here. You'll see why in a moment." I saw his grin flash white in the dark as he said it.

Some 20 or 30 steps later he stopped, just before a door on the left-hand side. It was closed tightly, with no indication of what might lay beyond – or even how to open it. He turned to us.

"This is one of the pleasures of our little establishment," he began. "A sort of 'window on the inner soul,'" he added with a chuckle, obviously pleased at his own wit. I looked over at Charles, to see if his face gave away what was to come, but he volunteered nothing more than a small smile. Brigitte looked merely expectant.

With that, he pressed a tiny, discreet button to the left of the doorframe. Suddenly, the very wall before us began to slide quietly to the left. Within just two or three seconds, and marked only by a mere hum and a click, a glass window easily measuring four feet by five had opened right before us.

"Observe Training Room 2," Alan said dryly.

The scene before us took our breath away

As we stood staring, Alan began to explain. "Interesting little tableau, don't you think?" He grinned broadly, his smile bright in the dim light. "Ah yes, such understatement." He smiled again. "Let me describe what you see before you," he went on. We couldn't decide whether to look at him, or the scene before us. The scene before us won out, but we hung on every word of his explanation.

"Diane got married today – to David, whom you see there as well. And what, pray tell, are they doing here, tonight, you wonder. Well, it's a good question." He chuckled again, knowing we'd wait until the end of time to hear this.

"Well . . . " he continued, teasing us. "It's like this. Several months ago, David came to us – I can't remember how he heard about the club, though – asking us about our 'services'. Apparently he had friends in the right place, so he knew roughly what kind of establishment we are." He grinned again, pausing for dramatic effect.

"It seems as though his fiancé, the woman you see before you, had been making discreet inquiries about her bridal shower – bachelorette party, whatever. I think she was eager to have a last fling before her wedding day, and was asking her girlfriends about how to organize it. Well . . . David was fine with that. It's a new century and all that, and old habits just don't have much place in this day and age. David didn't care. In fact," he added, "he made his initial, discreet inquiries here."

We looked at him, curious, growing more fascinated by the second.

"So, we were sort of prepared for her, in a way," he chuckled. Then his tone changed slightly. "But she, um, sort of transgressed, shall we say – at least in David's eyes."

We were all ears.

"Yes. You see, although she had her last little fling – here, in fact, and it was a very pleasurable interlude, I can assure you – it didn't seem to be enough. In fact, David discovered her this afternoon, during the reception, in an upstairs bedroom, making love to two of the wedding party. Both of them good friends of his. You can imagine his chagrin upon discovering her."

I caught my breath.

He looked thoughtful and paused for a moment again, then said, "'Making love' is perhaps painting too fine a picture of it, though. In truth, it was bit more, ah, 'basic'. She was sucking one of the usher's cocks, while the best man was sodomizing her." He paused again. "Then, they would switch places – back and forth. I guess David watched for some time before he interrupted.

"Can you imagine that?" he added, incredulous. "On her wedding day!"

We looked at him, but it seemed that was all he was going to say. We turned back to the scene before us, both renewed and appreciative of the discipline being exacted upon her.

Poor Diane had been positioned on a leather bench, at a 45-degree angle to us, so that we could see all of her. She'd been placed on hands and knees, with both wrists and ankles strapped to the bench by silk-padded metal cuffs. She wore her wedding gown and her veil still – although I am taking liberties by saying she was still 'wearing' it.

In fact, the floor-length skirt had been pulled up around her waist, and the ruched, lace bodice pulled down, effectively revealing all of her. She was – had been – wearing a white silk basque, but that, too, had been pulled down, such that it exposed her full, pendulous breasts in their entirety.
While the basque remained untouched below her waist – still supporting her garter straps and the nude silk stockings she wore, not to mention the white heels, nothing remained sacrosanct, even on this special day of hers. Her tiny, white lace g-string had been pulled down to her knees, revealing the full, dark curls of her generous bush, and even a brief glimpse of the tiny roseate of her puckered anus. She knelt before her masters and her spectators, resplendent in all her womanly glory.

But that was not all. Oh, no. That was just the beginning. Her black masters had determined to teach her a lesson – that much was clear.

One of them stood beside her – completely naked, his tall, tightly-muscled body oiled and glistening in the light. His long, thick shaft bobbed in front of him, betraying his enthusiasm for the private discipline he administered.

"Evan is an expert at this, you'll see," Alan said by way of introduction to the stern taskmaster before us.

And discipline indeed it was. To her heavy, hanging breasts he had fastened a pair of silver clamps. Their tiny sharp teeth pinched her tender pink nipples outrageously. The erect flesh stood out swollen and proud, a full ¾ of an inch out beyond where the sharp teeth were fastened.

But that was nothing.

Unlike a conventional set, each clamp was connected to a second pair by a fine silver chain. The chains led down across her belly – down between her spread legs. And as we watched – as though he had been waiting for us to appear – her naked black master gently but firmly took the first of her swollen labia and pinched it between his fingers.

Brigitte gasped as she watched, surely in empathy of the tremors that must be coursing through poor Diane's body. I looked over at her – to see, with no small shock, that the gasps emanated not from empathy, but from Alan's teasing fingers. Standing directly behind her, he had parted her legs, and was at this very moment pinching my wife's own labia between his fingers. He used both hands, pulling the soft pink flesh apart and open, gently tugging and twisting the tender skin. Brigitte moaned in response.

I couldn't decide which sight held more appeal – but I turned back; the lewd scene in the window proved even more irresistible than Alan's ministrations on Brigitte.

The tender folds of Diane's outer pussy lips were ideally suited for holding the clamps' sharp silver teeth. Without any further ado, her black master squeezed the tiny jaws open of the first one, pinched the pink, swollen flesh for her labia between his fingers, and closed the evil-looking clamp onto her most private part. "AAAahhhhhhhhhh!" she groaned. Her master smiled.

Then he took the second clamp and fastened it, likewise, to the other side. "Aaaiiiiieeeeeee!! Diane yelled, this time even more loudly. The tiny teeth pinched the tender folds of her skin unmercifully. Evan smiled even more broadly, his thick, hard shaft standing out proudly in front of him, betraying the pleasure and excitement of his task.

Then he moved aside slightly, to give us a better view of the two pairs of clamps fastened with the fine silver chain. We sucked in our breath once more at the sight: her pink nipples pinched fiercely, her swollen pussy lips standing out proudly – all festooned with the wicked silver clamps.
What was even more intriguing, however – if that was indeed possible – was the small spring-loaded lever, maybe three inches long, that I noticed. It was positioned on the chain halfway between both sets of clamps. It had been invisible to us until Evan had moved aside to afford us a better view.

As though on cue, he reached down and took hold of it – looking back over his shoulder at us pointedly as he did so. "Diane, my love, let's show our friends what this does, shall we?" he whispered loudly. The microphones in the room picked up the sound clearly, relaying it through the speakers set into the wall on either side of the viewing window.

"Noooo . . . ." she moaned. "Please, no."

"Ah, but yes," he answered simply, and with that he took the small lever and began to ratchet it back and forth. "Nooo . . . " whined Diane again, more plaintively. Her disciplinarian ignored her entreaties.

It took no time to see what the ratchet was doing. It was designed to tighten both ends of the fine silver chain simultaneously, winding the tiny links neatly into a central spool with each levering of the small metal handle. It was a wicked and ingenious little instrument, the physical testament of a dark mind.
That said, I looked around and noticed we were all staring, fascinated – even my lovely wife – at the evil mechanism and the punishment it was beginning to exact on Diane's body.

With each crank of the lever, a quarter-inch or so of chain was wound in. At first there was little discernible change – merely the slack being taken up. But very quickly, the chain began to tighten at both ends. Very suddenly, all the slack was taken up. And then began Diane's true discipline.
The teeth began to tug sharply at both nipples and labia. Slowly, as her master kept moving the lever, Diane's nipples began to be tugged downward. Her swollen cunt lips, pinched bright pink by the tiny jaws, were pulled up, and out. Diane moaned, whispering, 'No,' and closed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth. Evan smiled – and kept working the lever back and forth.
When her nipples were stretched as far as possible – fully two inches – the tension on the chain began to pull at her pendulous breasts, tugging them downward, too. But that was nothing compared to the lips of her poor pussy, which now must have been stretched out and up to the maximum extent possible – three or four inches, at least. The sharp teeth held fiercely to the soft skin, turning it a dark shade of crimson where they bit in. Still her master continued to crank the lever.

With her pussy pulled open as widely as possible – we could see the dark, glistening hole of her vagina oh-so-clearly – the continued levering of the handle began to affect tension only on the upper part of the chain. Apparently some sort of slip gear in the tiny, watch-like movement could detect maximum resistance on one side, and shift all its leverage to the other. As a result, the chains focused their pull solely on Diane's full breasts.
With her nipples already stretched to the maximum possible extent, the lever began tugging resolutely at the firm flesh of her tits. In the blink of an eye, her breasts were distended two inches, then three – then four. Diane whimpered. Still her master did not stop.

'Click, click, click,' the little handle went, back and forth – until poor Diane's breasts were stretched down to her naval. Her taut nipples added another two inches to the lewd distension, until finally – painfully, shamefully, outrageously – two or three final cranks of the lever brought her nipples, at last, into contact with the stretched lips of her wet cunt. There her master stopped, turning around to grin at us wickedly.

Somehow I managed to tear my gaze away for a second, eager to see how Brigitte was reacting. I was not disappointed. Alan's fingers were deep in my wife's pussy, and glistened with her excitement as he slid them in and out. She accepted his probing with abandon, her hips gyrating on his big hand and her breath coming in short gasps – but her eyes remained fixed firmly on the lewd scene before her. I turned back to the window myself.

At that point, Evan stepped away from the bench, to fetch something from a cabinet on the wall behind. He walked gingerly, a result of his enormous erection and his thick, heavy balls, which banged against his inner thighs. He wasted no time in finding what he needed, and came back to her upturned bottom, both hands full.
I caught my breath again at the sight of what he carried. In his left was a tube of KY jelly; in the other, a short, thick, black latex dildo, an exact replica of the head of an erect penis. It was only three or so inches long, but easily that wide in diameter, and fitted to an oval-shaped leather base. A thin leather strap, maybe six inches long, dangled from the side of the base.

Slowly, almost lovingly, he removed the cap from the tube and squirted a generous amount of the lubricant onto the dildo, coating it liberally. Then, with a quick glance toward the window, he held the dildo up so Diane could see it, and addressed her briefly.

"Diane, my sweet, I thought I'd just say that because you seemed to enjoy the best man's cock in your bottom so much, I would try to replicate that a bit." With that, he reached over with one hand and spread the cheeks of her ass, revealing her puckered anus. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he took the tip of the greased dildo, pressed it against her crinkled hole, and pushed hard and fast.
The fat, black plug slid home without stopping, so fast it took Diane's breath away – and ours, as well. Before we could blink, the dildo sat nestled in her rectum, the tender ring of her anus stretched lewdly around the thick shaft. She moaned softly, but her trainer was unrelenting, pushing the last half-inch into her hot bowels, so that all we could now see was the leather base. He stood back to admire his work. Diane just whimpered softly.

"David, come over here," Evan then ordered, which took us all by surprise – no doubt David most of all, who had been sitting quietly to the side, almost unnoticed, watching Diane's training and discipline with mute fascination. Who knew what thoughts or confusion whirled in his mind?

But he did as ordered, coming slowly over to the foot of the bench on which his new bride now sat so flagrantly on display. He could barely tear his eyes from her body and the implements of training that now held it captive.

"Yes?" he asked, somewhat meekly.

"You seem to be getting far too much pleasure out of all of this, my man," Evan said with a grin. "Do you like what you see?"

"I – I'm not sure," David began to stammer.

"That hard-on you're sporting is giving you away, don't you think?" the black man then asked. David began stammering again, but was cut off.

"Take your clothes off," Evan ordered.

"What?" David choked out, looking alarmed.

"You heard me." Evan's voice had dropped in timbre, suddenly sounding more menacing.

David paused briefly, and then obviously thought better of it. Quickly he undid his bowtie and his cummerbund, threw them aside, and unbuttoned the black onyx studs that held his ruffled shirt. He slid it off his shoulders. We noticed he was extremely fit – well-toned and without an ounce of fat. His stomach muscles rippled.

He kicked off his shoes, and pulled his socks off. The he unbuttoned the waistband of his black trousers and slid them off. There he paused, standing only in his boxer shorts.

"Well?" Evan asked. David blushed, knowing he was undressing for an audience – and that his body would give him away.

Indeed it did; as he slid his shorts off, his cock sprang to attention, standing out stiff and proud. His excitement over his wife's discipline could no longer be denied. Or perhaps it was due to the prospect of what was to happen next to him -- who could tell?

Evan regarded him with a look of vague amusement. Then he said, very firmly, "Come over here to where Diane can see you without turning her head too far. Get on your knees."

"Huh?" was all David could stammer out. But the look on Evan's face was fierce, and David quickly did as ordered, sinking down to his knees at the front of the training bench. Diane had turned her head to the left as far as she could and was watching with fascination.

It did not take much to figure out what was about to happen. The question all of us had was why?

I looked over at Alan, who seemed to be anticipating my inquiry. He looked steadily at me and said quietly, "Regardless of the type of program, or a wife's specific requirements, we always train the husband as well. It's only fair. Surely Charles mentioned that to you?"

My heart sank. Suddenly I remembered Charles' comment the first night he came to the house – about how much more pleasure a wife would get from her own training if she knew of, if she could see, her partner's participation as well. My heart settled just above my stomach, where they flip-flopped together nervously. Swallowing hard, I turned my attention – way too eagerly, I'm embarrassed to say – back to David and Evan.

By Bruce163 ©
Continued in: A Picture in Black and White (Part 3 0f 3)
Enjoy!!!

End of Story