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A Picture In Black And White (part 3 Of 3)


David did not disappoint us – nor did he disappoint Evan. Who knows whether he'd ever had any experience with this before, but he took to it like a natural. Perhaps he knew he had no choice.

Perhaps he felt he owed it to his new wife, whose own discipline had far exceeded the bounds of decency. Perhaps he simply and quickly discovered he enjoyed it.

Who knows?

There was no denying, though, the eagerness and thoroughness – the accomplished and ready skill – with which he took the big, black cock.

Evan started out by having David lick just the helmeted tip. David momentarily held back, but perhaps it was merely to retain some tiny little shred of independence. It was not long, though, before his eyes closed and his tongue darted out and began to flick the deep purple-colored head of Evan's magnificent penis. Around the top and sides, and then, unbidden, flicking at the sensitive frenum underneath, as though he knew instinctively exactly what Evan liked and wanted.
Which, of course, being a man, he would.

Diane watched in frustrated fascination as her husband performed oral sex on this handsome black stud. She stared as Evan gently took David's head with both hands and pulled his mouth firmly onto his bobbing shaft. She sucked in her breath sharply as her trainer then slowly but surely guided David's head up and down on the thick, black penis, his lips stretched wide around the hard flesh. And she continued to watch, spellbound, as Evan unceremoniously – and obviously with great pleasure – fucked her husband's mouth.

At that point Evan added insult to injury to the poor, young man now so obviously in his control. He leaned down – his cock still deep in David's mouth – and began to address him in a hoarse whisper, just loud enough for Diane to hear. Not surprisingly, the microphones in the room picked up every word.

"You're very good at this, David," he began. "Obviously you've done this before, yes?"

David shook his head vigorously, without letting go of Evan's dick.

"Oh, I think you have," Evan continued. "Either that . . . or you simply love doing it. Would that be right?" Again, David shook his head, but without the same vigor. Evan pressed on with his teasing.

"Have you sucked big cocks before? Maybe just a few times? I'm sure you have. You know how to do it just right – not too hard, not too soft. And look at how much of it you can take down your throat at once – it must be four or five inches, at least!" David moaned softly.

Evan pressed on. "Something you've never told your young wife about, right? How you've secretly practiced getting black men ready for her? Isn't that right?" He paused again, sliding David's head slowly up and down on his big rod, which glistened from his wet mouth.

"What else have you been practicing, my lovely young man? Maybe how to be taken like a woman . . . from behind?

"Dressed just like one, perhaps?" he went on "In tiny lace panties . . . maybe in a black, lace garter belt and stockings and heels? Would you like that? Hmmm?"

Diane craned her neck around even further and whispered urgently, "Yesss!"

David paused for half a beat as the implications of Evan's words and Diane's agreement sunk in. And then, amazingly, he began licking and sucking even harder, trying to urge the thick black dick as far down his throat as he could. He slid it out of his mouth for a second – but only to push it up towards Evan's hard belly, in order to get access to his heavy, chocolate-brown sac. Evan's big, tight balls, so smooth and round, beckoned David's waiting mouth.
Without a second's hesitation, he began licking them both fervently, running his wet tongue around and across each one, making them shine with his saliva. Then he gently sucked the left one into his mouth, rolling it around carefully, like a fragile egg, before letting it slip out, reluctantly, and taking the right one in just as carefully.

"Ahhh . . . my exquisite bitch," murmured Evan. "You do that so well!" And then, more harshly, "Take me back into your mouth . . . quick!" David did as ordered, sucking three or four inches of the big dick back between his lips. Evan pushed hard, trying to get even more of it in, and as he did, grasped David's head tightly. "Every drop, my little bitch," he bent down and ordered. "Swallow every drop, or Diane will pay."

We looked up briefly at Diane, who nodded eagerly, transfixed by the scene before her. David nodded obediently and grabbed Evan's hips with his hands, waiting expectantly. Evan lost no time. With barely a moan, the handsome black stud let loose with stream after stream of hot semen.

David, to his credit, did his best. Perhaps if this hadn't been his first time, he might actually have been able to handle Evan's tribute. Perhaps not. Evan's raw manliness and the state of his excitement might have been too much for anyone to take, however accomplished.

At first we could see David's Adam's apple bobbing frantically, trying to cope with the gush of sticky cum pouring into his waiting mouth. It was quickly apparent, however, that he was physically unable to swallow such a torrent.
Evan's sperm leaked from David's mouth and slid down his chin and cheeks, despite frantic efforts to swallow the thick, creamy load. There was just too much. Soon the drops on his chin turned to rivulets, then streams, dripping onto his naked chest, his belly – and even onto his thick cock, now long and hard, standing up straight and proud and jerking with excitement.

"Naughty boy," Evan said to him quietly, still holding David's head firmly, the sperm-slick shaft deep in his mouth. "Show me how well you clean up, and I'll consider going easy on Diane," he continued.
David merely nodded meekly and, swallowing the last mouthful of cum, did as Evan said. Slowly and carefully he licked up and down the black shaft, lapping up the long, sticky tendrils of semen that trailed from Evan's magnificent penis. Over, under . . . even down to Evan's tight balls, David sucked and licked every drop of sperm from the black man's dick. Diane watched in rapt attention, the glistening of her stretched pussy belying her enormous excitement at the scene before her.

Finally David was finished, and looked up at Evan expectantly. Evan regarded him. "Not bad, my sweet little slut. Not bad at all." He turned to Diane. "Your husband sucks cock like a pro, Diane, doesn't he?"

Diane nodded. Evan smiled softly.
"Perhaps he does other things just as well. Do you think?"

Diane nodded again, but this time had the courtesy to blush. Evan pressed on.

"What else do you think he does well?" Evan asked rhetorically. "Do you think he would take a cock like a woman?" Diane and David both gasped softly.

"Maybe dressed up as I described?" Evan went on. "In panties and stockings . . . taking it up his tight ass? Would you like to see that, Diane?"

David moaned, and looked down. Diane was beside herself. "Oh, oh . . . yes. Please!" she finally managed to stammer out.

David's face was a picture of confusion, concern and deep, shameful excitement, if such a mixture of emotions were possible all at the same time. Evan looked at him and merely laughed.

"Looks like it's shaping up to be an interesting marriage." He paused. "Well, there will be time enough for that, I can assure you. Now, though, I need to finish with Diane. After all, David" – here he looked pointedly at the unfortunate young man – "you didn't really do a very good job, did you? So Diane has to be punished."

We all, once again and collectively, caught our breath.

Evan was the picture of efficiency. He stood up, and without ceremony, went over to Diane's upturned bottom. He reached up, and began toying with the plug that filled her tight anus. "Do you enjoy this, my sweet?" he asked as he twirled the thick dildo in her bottom.

Diane merely nodded.

"I think there's something you'll enjoy even more," he said with another smile, and grasped the leather base of the intruding phallus. Slowly he began to pull it out. Diane moaned, but reluctantly began to let it go . . . to relax the tight muscles of her ass that kept it captive, and let it slide out.

With a sigh, she let the thick, latex dildo slide from her stretched hole.

Evan wasted no time. He grasped the artificial penis by the base and walked around to face Diane. He looked meaningfully at her. "According to David, you liked the exchange of cock between your ass and mouth," he said imperiously. Diane shook her head from side to side. "Noooo . . . " she murmured.

"Not good enough," Evan said. Diane whimpered. "Open wide," he ordered.

"No!" Diane exclaimed.

"Yes," Evan answered firmly and authoritatively. "Open up."

Diane whimpered again. And then, as we all watched in fascination, she opened her mouth widely.

Evan hesitated not one second. With one, quick movement, he slid the thick dildo into her open and waiting mouth. It slid home, until the leather base fit snugly around her lips. She looked up at Evan, partly in alarm, partly in subjugation. It was an odd, erotic look. Evan ignored her. With innate authority, he grasped the dangling leather strap and looped it around her neck. Then he grabbed the tiny clasp at its end and fastened it back onto the leather base. Diane was his – now, and forever.

Diane was held, strapped and firm, the thick dildo in her mouth, which prevented any further protestations. We all looked on in awe and admiration.

"It's time for Diane's discipline," Evan said. "The discipline she's going to get as a result of your failure, David," he added wickedly.

"No!" he replied. But his tone held a certain air of inevitable resignation.

"Yes," Evan answered simply.

With that he walked over to the cabinet at the rear wall, and began to remove things, rummaging through a variety of implements. Finally, he found what he was looking for. Slowly, he turned back to us, and to the poor newlywed, now lying so naked, and open, before him.

In his hand lay a long, black leather whip.

As we waited, as we so breathlessly anticipated the next move of this dominant black master, Alan cut in.

"It's time," he said, without ceremony. "We've seen enough of this little display. It's Brigitte's turn."

My heart fell at not being able to witness Diane's further discipline – then soared at the prospect of what might come.

I looked over at my wife, still dressed so provocatively in her tiny bra and panties. She looked nervous, agitated – yet excited at Alan's words.

"This way," he said. Alan then walked down the hall about 20 paces, all of us trailing behind. He stopped at yet another door, then turned and pressed a small button set into the doorframe. Within seconds, the door opened, and a 'hostess' stood there, waiting expectantly. She looked at Alan with a wry grin, knowing all along why we were here.

"Yes?" she inquired.

"Ellen, I'd like you to prepare Brigitte for us, please," was all he said. Ellen smiled at looked Brigitte up and down, obviously happy to oblige.

"It would be a pleasure, sir," she replied. "Was there something special you had in mind for her?"

Alan pondered for a brief moment. "Something revealing will do," he answered, and smiled at the irony as he cast an eye up and down my already nearly-naked wife. "Your pick today, " he added with a smile.

We saw Brigitte gulp, and catch her breath. Surely she must have somehow felt more naked in front of this woman than she did in front of the men who'd been playing and teasing with her. It was just in keeping with the competitive nature of the sexes. I knew how much more critical women were of one another – how many comparisons they would make between one another's bodies.

Ellen was obviously not one to keep waiting. "Come in," she demanded somewhat harshly, and Brigitte complied. Ellen beckoned Brigitte in. She urged Charles, me and Alan in, as well. We obeyed quickly, eager to see what was to come next.

It was a small dressing room, its hardwood floor carpeted in rich oriental rugs, its walls decorated in tasteful, dark-red-flowered Victorian wallpaper. It was an anachronism to all the modern décor we'd seen so far, but I wasn't really surprised. I was beginning to feel that each individual involved in this club had their own little quirks and freedoms. This homage to John Russell and the naughty Victorians was just another little ironic twist.

Soft lighting came from two or three small gilt lamps with dark shades. To the left was an ornate, built-in dressing table and mirror. To the right, a heavy wooden door, but where it led to neither Brigitte nor the rest of us had a clue.

What was most unique about this room, however, were the clothing racks built in to three of the walls. All women's clothing -- and most of it, I suddenly realized, lingerie -- or something close to lingerie. Sheer chiffon blouses and skirts, leather halters, black satin demi-bras, white, 1950-style girdles with garters, seamed stockings in a score of styles and colors; vinyl garter belts, half a dozen styles of crotchless panties . . .
Brigitte's jaw dropped open. Mine did, too. It was an adolescent boy's dream of heaven. Hell, it was a grown man's idea of heaven. There must have been enough outfits here to dress 40 women. My wife's eyes jumped from one outfit to the next. Astounding!

Ellen wasted no time. "Sit down," she ordered. Brigitte sat. Ellen swept along the racks, taking out this and that, shaking her head. Finally she stopped, reached up, and removed a hanger. She slowly unhooked an ensemble from it, and held it up.

"This is perfect," she said simply. "It will flatter you enormously."

Brigitte gulped again as she looked at it: a black satin, quarter-cup bra, trimmed with dark blue lace. A matching satin and lace garter belt, a mere wisp of material, with four garters. And a pair of black satin panties -- although that was stretching the point a bit. Just an inch or two below the waistband, in both front and back, they opened in a wide vee, and the leg bands were mere straps. She could see even from where she was sitting that they would expose her completely, both back and front. She blushed, once again.

Ellen handed them to Brigitte, then turned away to fetch another hanger, this with a pair of black, seamed silk stockings. Finally, she asked Brigitte what size shoe she wore. Brigitte answered, and Ellen turned to a small closet set into the wall. She looked through it carefully for a moment, then turned and stood upright, handing Brigitte a box. "These will do," she said laughingly.

Brigitte took the box and lifted the top. Inside were a pair of 4-inch black patent leather pumps.

"About what I expected," we heard Brigitte mumble to herself.

Ellen heard her, and her tone grew less playful. "Get dressed," she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Brigitte, nearly naked already, hurried to comply. First she took the tiny panties and began sliding them up her legs. She blushed again at the picture she was creating. The panties, once up to her waist, were little more than a dark frame for her soft, pale skin. Her round buttocks were completely uncovered. Worse still, the panties were cut in front so that not a shred of material covered her dark triangle of pubic hair. She marveled -- embarrassed -- at the image of herself in the mirror.

"And the rest . . . ?" Ellen asked impatiently. Brigitte hurried to comply. She removed the already skimpy bra she was wearing and took the even-skimpier bra from the hostess, sliding her arms through the straps. She pulled the tiny slivers of cups up around her breasts. Then, she reached up behind her back with both hands to close the fastening.

She looked back at herself again in the mirror. The blue lace trim at the top edge of each cup did not even reach the lower edge of her aureoles. Her nipples were completely exposed. The shelf design of the bra worked well, she noticed with embarrassment. Each of her breasts was lifted up and out, raising the nipples, too, and making them point slightly upward.
She had to admit to herself, however, that the sight was titillating, however embarrassing. Her nipples stiffened as she watched herself in the mirror, pointing out sharply. Ellen smiled as she saw the effect the bra was having on Brigitte.

"There's more," Ellen continued, and handed Brigitte the matching garter belt -- again, black and trimmed with blue lace. Brigitte only recently accustomed to such things, fumbled with it for a minute, before Ellen stood up and came over to help. She stood behind Brigitte, took both the hook end of the belt in one hand, the eye in the other, and pulled them together, fastening them at the small of Brigitte's back. As she did so, she gently ran her fingers across Brigitte's exposed buttocks, and teasingly ran a finger down between her cheeks.

She stopped, however, and Brigitte, to her chagrin, let out a soft moan. It made Ellen laugh.

"You're not for me tonight," she said softly. "We have bigger plans. I'm sure there will be other opportunities, however . . . "

Brigitte flushed bright pink again.

Ellen then reached over, took both stockings, and gently slid one, then the other, up Brigitte's legs. She fastened each of the four garters, and them smoothed and straightened the seams in the back. Finally, she took the black, patent leather heels and, bidding Brigitte to sit, slipped one, then the other on her feet.

"Stand up," Ellen ordered. "Turn around. Walk slowly up and down for me."

Brigitte didn't dare disobey. She did as she was told, and watched herself in the mirror. It was remarkable. She was dressed in a complete outfit -- an expensive one, too, to judge from the feel of the material and the quality of the garments -- and yet, she was completely naked! Her full breasts with their stiff nipples, her round bottom, her dark tangle of pubic hair, slightly exposing her moist, swollen lips . . . all completely exposed! She blushed again at the sight, but Ellen was impatient.

"Sit down, we need a bit of make-up," she ordered again, and produced a dark red lipstick, eye shadow, some rouge -- the latter of which she also applied lightly to Brigitte's nipples. A quick combing of Brigitte's dark hair, and then she leaned back and studied her handiwork. She smiled.

"Not bad . . . not bad at all, if I say so myself," Ellen said with a quiet laugh. And then quickly added: "Come on. They're probably getting impatient." She grabbed Brigitte's hand, and led her toward the door in the corner.

They? Impatient? Brigitte moaned quietly to herself. Now what? she must have wanted to ask, but surely didn't think she'd get any proper answer. She obliged without resistance, following Ellen as she opened the heavy, unmarked door.

It was dark on the other side, or nearly so, so it took our eyes several seconds to become adjusted. As we strained to look, however, we still weren't sure what we saw, or where we were. Slowly, we watched as Brigitte began to make out a type of platform, onto which she and Ellen had emerged.
She could see the edge of it several feet away, where it dropped down to a lower floor level. To the right was a sort of gymnast's leather horse, and then several ropes and some sort of loops hanging from above. A wooden trestle stood against the back wall -- the wall she had just come through via the door.

As our eyes grew more used to the darkness, we could see beyond the dais on which she stood with Ellen. Suddenly we realized with a collective gasp that Brigitte and Ellen weren't alone. We began to make out 10 or a dozen people in the room, lounging on banquettes, or leather chairs. The floor was tiered, so that those in the back were up much higher than those in front. Some were couples, men and women. And then, we realized with a gasp, many of them were either naked, or nearly so.

And more, as we looked back at the platform on which she stood, at the various 'props' and out at the room, we understood. So did Brigitte. She let out a quiet 'Nooooo . . . ..' and nearly sank into Ellen's arms for support.

Because she had realized, suddenly, fatefully . . . that she was the show. That this was a stage, and those in front of her the audience. And that the 'props' surrounding the stage were for her, and expressly her.

Ellen looked over at her, saw her face, and realized that she had figured it out. She smiled wickedly.

Brigitte stood transfixed on the stage, looking about her in confusion and concern. We could see her blush at what must have been the thought of the picture she presented to the darkened 'theatre': full breasts, nipples stiffened, held up and out by the expensive, revealing bra, her shapely legs and curves shown off by the black heels she wore on her feet.

What next? she must have wondered to herself. Before the thought would have entered her mind, however, her new master came to stand beside her.

"What do you think?" he asked with a devilish grin. "Remember that I told you that it was 'show time'?"

"Yes, but . . . but . . . this," was all she managed to say before he cut her off.

"Yes, this," he replied. "What you've been through so far – tonight, and in the last few weeks – was a mere initiation compared to what you'll now be asked to do," he began to explain. "This is rather different. This involves a degree of submission and discipline that pales in comparison to what you've been subjected to."

My beautiful wife gulped, shaking her head slowly.

"You have an opportunity to say no," he went on. "This requires your agreement. Without it, there is no pleasure – not for me, not for those who are watching, not for Charles, nor for Bruce . . . Not even for you."

He sounded almost . . . clinical . . . in his explanation. Brigitte merely nodded, then shook her head, as he explained what was happening.

"You will do things here you have never done." Saying that, he grinned slightly, as he must have realized that, in recent days, she had already done things she hadn't even imagined before. As if he knew all about Charles and the lessons she'd been put through.

"Well, never mind," he continued with a smile. "You know what I mean. But we will take you to new levels of intimacy, and you may not – no, I guarantee you will not – be the same when we are done. Are you ready for that?"

Brigitte could only moan softly.

"I need your answer," he said quietly.

"I . . . I . . . " she began.

"You are free to leave," he cut in curtly. "Shall I call for your clothes?"

"I . . . nooooo . . . .." was all that emerged from her pouting lips.

"I take that as an affirmative – that you will stay," he answered.

"Yessss . . . .." Her answer was a whisper. Surely mad at herself and the way he was playing her . . . knowing what she would say.

Is this what having a master meant, she must have briefly wondered? Someone who took over your thoughts, who made any degree of independent thinking silly and futile? He gave her no time for further thought.

"Good. Come here." He took her hand, and led her to the center of the stage. He placed her against the leather vaulting horse, turning her away from the yet-unseen audience, toward the mirrored back wall.

Suddenly he barked at her: "Bend over the horse."

It was only two or three feet high. She leaned over it, and we could see her suck in her breath as she felt the cool leather touching her naked belly. On the front side of the horse, on the floor, were fastened two handles. Before she could think, he ordered her to grab them. She obeyed promptly. As she did, he locked her wrists into place with a silver handcuff attached to each handle.

He then reached down, grabbed her left heel, and with a quick 'click' fastened it with a short metal chain and a snap to a ring in the floor. He followed suit with the right, but not before yanking her legs open, nearly as far as they could stretch.

My gorgeous wife was outrageously exposed.

Then, slowly, teasingly, he reached over and grabbed a small metal lever, at the left side of the horse, which protruded up from the floor. And looking Brigitte in the eye, he quickly he began to ratchet it back and forth.

Suddenly, we could see the leather bolster begin to rise – while Brigitte's hands and feet remained securely strapped to the floor by the handcuffs and chain.

The movement served to raise her bottom and, simultaneously, to spread her as the horse rose higher. She moaned, imagining the picture she was beginning to present. Her bottom spread slowly, inexorably, as the leather horse inched upward relentlessly, exposing her cheeks in all their firm roundness.

As it continued to rise, as he continued to work the lever, she was opened wider, exposing everything in between. Slowly but inexorably, with her head nearly as low as her feet, the physics of the maneuver dictated that not only her ass, but also her pussy, would be displayed – and it was. Her lovely pink lips came into view, spreading slowly, too, as the horse rose. Moisture glistened on them.

Worse than that, however – surely at least to her mind – was what the stretching was doing to her bottom. As the horse rose, as her cheeks spread, as her bottom parted, her lovely pink hole became even more exposed to view. And as her new master cranked the horse even higher, more painfully, her anus became even more exposed . . . And then, so intimately, the rising of the bolster and the inexorable stretching even began to open the rosy hole . . . She was powerless to resist . . . the stretching became almost impossible to bear . . .

And there her black master stopped.

"Look at Brigitte's lovely bottom," he said in a commanding voice to the darkened audience. "A beautiful sight, don't you agree?" he continued.

"It will be put to good use – good, thorough use -- before we're through here tonight." He smiled again.

Brigitte blushed furiously. She knew she was blushing even without feeling the warm heat that spread itself upward across her chest and face, because she could see herself and the vague shapes of the theatre, thanks to the mirrored back wall. She could see the colored spotlights above the stage, highlighting her; she could see her master as he worked the lever. She could see the darkened shapes of the men in the audience as they watched in fascination. She could see the small, red, blinking light off to the left as she . . .

What? What is that, she wondered as her eye caught the tiny light. For some odd reason it called to her, focusing her attention. Out of character, she turned her head slightly toward her master. "What . . . what is it?" she asked, nodding her head toward the steady, blinking pinprick of red.

He stopped cranking the lever, and chuckled. "So – you've noticed that we're recording this for posterity, have you? His grin was positively wicked.

Brigitte literally fainted for a brief moment as the significance of what he said sank in. "Nooooooooooooo . . . ..!!!!" she moaned. "How COULD you!"

Her distress merely caused him to smile again.

"Yes, my dear, this will make an exquisite video, don't you think? Just imagine: our little video of the proceedings safely in my keeping, for those unexpected events – say, when one of my colleagues wants to sample a new woman, and wants a preview . . . or sold to a chain of adult video stores . . . or held in reserve in case you fail to obey my future orders. What do you say – rather ingenious, no?"

Brigitte's protest echoed around the tiny theatre. "Noooo . . . ." was all she said as she shook her head back and forth, disbelievingly. "You can't!" But we could see, even as she said it, that her nipples were stiffening.

"That's enough," her master said to her quietly, but firmly. "You are here of your own volition, but this is part of the price. And there is no negotiating this part." Brigitte fell silent, her face still pink with her blush.

Her master had stopped cranking the lever for the horse. Instead, he now depressed a small pedal in the floor, and grabbed the bolster. It turned easily and soundlessly in a half circle, then stopped with a click, leaving Brigitte facing the audience. He then walked over to the corner of the stage, and returned with a short metal rod, at the top end of which was fitted a small, leather-covered cup.
He placed the lower end into a small fitting in the floor, and brought the cupped end up under Brigitte's chin, raising her face slightly as he did so. It fitted perfectly, and served to keep her head level and facing outwards toward the crowd. He then cranked the lever again, but in the opposite direction, lowering the horse and bringing Brigitte's raised bottom down until her knees rested on the floor. We wondered what was to happen next.

"Who is first?" was all her new master said, addressing the audience.

A man – tall, black – heavy-set – stepped up to the stage. We could tell that Brigitte could see little of him, the spotlights nearly blinding her. We knew that she could see only that he was naked, his erect penis bobbing in front of him. Abruptly, he stepped in front of her and, without ceremony, thrust his hard shaft into her mouth, saying nothing. The thickness and length of it made her gag several times and stretched her mouth widely. No doubt she could feel it banging into the back of her throat.

"You will service him," her master said quietly, "and any others who care to take advantage of your services." Brigitte blushed again furiously.

She sucked him, as ordered. He said nothing, only moaning quietly as his cock erupted into her mouth, filling it with hot semen. She swallowed nearly all of it, only a few drops escaping from her eager mouth to run down her chin.

A second man followed, as large as the first. He, too, said nothing as she coaxed the sperm from his balls with her tongue and soft lips. She swallowed him, as well, licking the final drops from his swollen purple cockhead as he withdrew, a thin string of cum trailing from his cock to her full lips.

A third stepped up, and then a fourth, and a fifth. The fifth man chose not to ejaculate in her mouth. Instead, as his balls tightened and his cock began to jerk, he pulled out from between her soft lips, grabbed her dark hair with one hand, his cock with the other, and spewed his cum across her face as she looked up at him. It ran down her cheeks, and dripped from her chin. She licked her lips.

The sixth, by contrast, began addressing her before he allowed her to take his penis. He looked down at her as she waited with her mouth open, the thick shaft bobbing before her cum-covered lips.

"When I call for you," he began, and her heart must have skipped a beat, as mine did when I heard him.

"When I call for you," he resumed, knowing full well the effect his words were having, " . . . and I will, when your husband is home, and regardless of whether he gives his approval . . . you will service me as I'm about to explain."

With that, he slid his warm cock into her opened mouth.

"You will dress in an black elegant dress," he continued as she began sucking. "Underneath, you will wear a black lace demi-bra and matching panties.

"When I arrive at your house, I expect your husband to be there, and to greet me when you do. As he watches, you will proceed to the center of the living room, and unzip your dress and slide it down to your waist."

He paused for effect, his hard cock sliding in and out of my wife's mouth, relishing the service she was providing. Then he began again.

"You will then get down on your knees. As you are kneeling, you will unhook your bra and fold the cups of it down so that your breasts, including your nipples, are exposed."

Brigitte gasped, and began to suck him harder and faster.

"Once you have done so, you will unzip me, and begin to suck my penis like you're doing now. Your husband will be watching all of this." Brigitte moaned. We could hear her from where we sat.

He continued: "When I'm ready to cum, I will pull out of your mouth, and you will hold your breasts up for me. I'll shoot my semen over them. You will then pull the cups of your bra back up and refasten it. Once your dress is zipped, we shall leave for our dinner rendezvous."

Brigitte sucked furiously as he concluded his story, and as he began to ejaculate, he withdrew quickly from her mouth and aimed his cock at her full breasts. Stream after stream of semen sprayed across them, covering them with ribbons of his white, sticky cum. She nearly collapsed as he came on her, and we could see, even from where we sat, the effect of the orgasms that rolled from her hot, wet cunt and shook her entire body.

For the next two hours, we watched as my lovely wife was pleasured – and gave pleasure in return – to the dozen or so black men who comprised her audience. One by one they came up, eager and hard. They held nothing back – no act was too personal or intimate to perform with this beautiful white woman whom they held so exquisitely in control.
Brigitte's jaw dropped open. Mine did, too. It was an adolescent boy's dream of heaven. Hell, it was a grown man's idea of heaven. There must have been enough outfits here to dress 40 women. My wife's eyes jumped from one outfit to the next. Astounding!

Ellen wasted no time. "Sit down," she ordered. Brigitte sat. Ellen swept along the racks, taking out this and that, shaking her head. Finally she stopped, reached up, and removed a hanger. She slowly unhooked an ensemble from it, and held it up.

"This is perfect," she said simply. "It will flatter you enormously."

Brigitte gulped again as she looked at it: a black satin, quarter-cup bra, trimmed with dark blue lace. A matching satin and lace garter belt, a mere wisp of material, with four garters. And a pair of black satin panties -- although that was stretching the point a bit. Just an inch or two below the waistband, in both front and back, they opened in a wide vee, and the leg bands were mere straps. She could see even from where she was sitting that they would expose her completely, both back and front. She blushed, once again.

Ellen handed them to Brigitte, then turned away to fetch another hanger, this with a pair of black, seamed silk stockings. Finally, she asked Brigitte what size shoe she wore. Brigitte answered, and Ellen turned to a small closet set into the wall. She looked through it carefully for a moment, then turned and stood upright, handing Brigitte a box. "These will do," she said laughingly.

Brigitte took the box and lifted the top. Inside were a pair of 4-inch black patent leather pumps.

"About what I expected," we heard Brigitte mumble to herself.

Ellen heard her, and her tone grew less playful. "Get dressed," she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Brigitte, nearly naked already, hurried to comply. First she took the tiny panties and began sliding them up her legs. She blushed again at the picture she was creating. The panties, once up to her waist, were little more than a dark frame for her soft, pale skin. Her round buttocks were completely uncovered. Worse still, the panties were cut in front so that not a shred of material covered her dark triangle of pubic hair. She marveled -- embarrassed -- at the image of herself in the mirror.

"And the rest?" Ellen asked impatiently. Brigitte hurried to comply. She removed the already skimpy bra she was wearing and took the even-skimpier bra from the hostess, sliding her arms through the straps. She pulled the tiny slivers of cups up around her breasts. Then, she reached up behind her back with both hands to close the fastening.

She looked back at herself again in the mirror. The blue lace trim at the top edge of each cup did not even reach the lower edge of her aureoles. Her nipples were completely exposed. The shelf design of the bra worked well, she noticed with embarrassment. Each of her breasts was lifted up and out, raising the nipples, too, and making them point slightly upward.
I’m sure she had to admit to herself, however, that the sight was titillating, however embarrassing. Her nipples stiffened as she watched herself in the mirror, pointing out sharply. Ellen smiled as she saw the effect the bra was having on Brigitte.

"There's more," Ellen continued, and handed Brigitte the matching garter belt -- again, black and trimmed with blue lace. Brigitte, only recently accustomed to such things, fumbled with it for a minute, before Ellen stood up and came over to help. She stood behind Brigitte, took both the hook end of the belt in one hand, the eye in the other, and pulled them together, fastening them at the small of Brigitte's back. As she did so, she gently ran her fingers across Brigitte's exposed buttocks, and teasingly ran a finger down between her cheeks.

She stopped, however, and Brigitte, to her chagrin, let out a soft moan. It made Ellen laugh.

"You're not for me tonight," she said softly. "We have bigger plans. I'm sure there will be other opportunities, however . . . "

Brigitte flushed bright pink again.

Ellen then reached over, took both stockings, and gently slid one, then the other, up Brigitte's legs. She fastened each of the four garters, and them smoothed and straightened the seams in the back. Finally, she took the black, patent leather heels and, bidding Brigitte to sit, slipped one, then the other on her feet.

"Stand up," Ellen ordered. "Turn around. Walk slowly up and down for me."

Brigitte didn't dare disobey. She did as she was told, and watched herself in the mirror. It was remarkable. She was dressed in a complete outfit -- an expensive one, too, to judge from the feel of the material and the quality of the garments -- and yet, she was completely naked! Her full breasts with their stiff nipples, her round bottom, her dark tangle of pubic hair, slightly exposing her moist, swollen lips . . . all completely exposed! She blushed again at the sight, but Ellen was impatient.

"Sit down, we need a bit of make-up," she ordered again, and produced a dark red lipstick, eye shadow, some rouge -- the latter of which she also applied lightly to Brigitte's nipples. A quick combing of Brigitte's dark hair, and then she leaned back and studied her handiwork. She smiled.

"Not bad . . . not bad at all, if I say so myself," Ellen said with a quiet laugh. And then quickly added: "Come on. They're probably getting impatient." She grabbed Brigitte's hand, and led her toward the door in the corner.

They? Impatient? Brigitte moaned quietly to herself. Now what? she must have wanted to ask, but surely didn't think she'd get any proper answer. She obliged without resistance, following Ellen as she opened the heavy, unmarked door.

It was dark on the other side, or nearly so, so it took our eyes several seconds to become adjusted. As we strained to look, however, we still weren't sure what we saw, or where we were. Slowly, we watched as Brigitte began to make out a type of platform, onto which she and Ellen had emerged. She could see the edge of it several feet away, where it dropped down to a lower floor level. To the right was a sort of gymnast's leather horse, and then several ropes and some sort of loops hanging from above. A wooden trestle stood against the back wall.

As our eyes grew more used to the darkness, we could see beyond the dais on which she stood with Ellen. Suddenly we realized with a collective gasp that Brigitte and Ellen weren't alone. We began to make out 10 or a dozen people in the room, lounging on banquettes, or leather chairs. The floor was tiered, so that those in the back were up much higher than those in front. Some were couples, men and women. And then, we realized, many of them were either naked, or nearly so.

And more, as we looked back at the platform on which she stood, at the various 'props' and out at the room, we understood. So did Brigitte. She let out a quiet 'Nooooo . . . ..' and nearly sank into Ellen's arms for support.

Because she had realized, suddenly, fatefully . . . that she was the show. That this was a stage, and those in front of her the audience. And that the 'props' surrounding the stage were for her, and expressly her.

Ellen looked over at her, saw her face, and realized that she had figured it out. She smiled wickedly.

Brigitte stood transfixed on the stage, looking about her in confusion and concern. We could see her blush at what must have been the thought of the picture she presented to the darkened 'theatre': full breasts, nipples stiffened, held up and out by the expensive, revealing bra, her shapely legs and curves shown off by the black heels she wore on her feet.

What next? she must have wondered to herself. Before the thought would have entered her mind, however, her new master came to stand beside her.

"What do you think?" he asked with a devilish grin. "Remember that I told you that it was 'show time'?"

"Yes, but . . . but . . . this," was all she managed to say before he cut her off.

"Yes, this," he replied. "What you've been through so far – tonight, and in the last few weeks – was a mere initiation compared to what you'll now be asked to do," he began to explain. "This is rather different. This involves a degree of submission and discipline that pales in comparison to what you've been subjected to."

My beautiful wife gulped, shaking her head slowly.

"You have an opportunity to say no," he went on. "This requires your agreement. Without it, there is no pleasure – not for me, not for those who are watching, not for Charles, nor for Bruce . . . Not even for you."

He sounded almost . . . clinical . . . in his explanation. Brigitte merely nodded, then shook her head, as he explained what was happening.

"You will do things here you have never done." Saying that, he grinned slightly, as he must have realized that, in recent days, she had already done things she hadn't even imagined before. As if he knew all about Charles and the lessons she'd been put through.

"Well, never mind," he continued with a smile. "You know what I mean. But we will take you to new levels of intimacy, and you may not – no, I guarantee you will not – be the same when we are done. Are you ready for that?"

Brigitte could only moan softly.

"I need your answer," he said quietly.

"I . . . I . . . " she began.

"You are free to leave," he cut in curtly. "Shall I call for your clothes?"

"I . . . nooooo . . . .." was all that emerged from her pouting lips.

"I take that as an affirmative – that you will stay," he answered.

"Yessss . . . .." Her answer was a whisper. Surely mad at herself and the way he was playing her . . . knowing what she would say.

Is this what having a master meant, she must have briefly wondered? Someone who took over your thoughts, who made any degree of independent thinking silly and futile? He gave her no time for further thought.

"Good. Come here." He took her hand, and led her to the center of the stage. He placed her against the leather vaulting horse, turning her away from the yet-unseen audience, toward the mirrored back wall.

Suddenly he barked at her: "Bend over the horse."

It was only two or three feet high. She leaned over it, and we could see her suck in her breath as she felt the cool leather touching her naked belly. On the front side of the horse, on the floor, were fastened two handles. Before she could think, he ordered her to grab them. She obeyed promptly. As she did, he locked her wrists into place with a silver handcuff attached to each handle.

He then reached down, grabbed her left heel, and with a quick 'click' fastened it with a short metal chain and a snap to a ring in the floor. He followed suit with the right, but not before yanking her legs open, nearly as far as they could stretch.

My gorgeous wife was outrageously exposed.

Then, slowly, teasingly, he reached over and grabbed a small metal lever, at the left side of the horse, which protruded up from the floor. And looking Brigitte in the eye, he quickly he began to ratchet it back and forth.

Suddenly, we could see the leather bolster begin to rise – while Brigitte's hands and feet remained securely strapped to the floor by the handcuffs and chain.

The movement served to raise her bottom and, simultaneously, to spread her as the horse rose higher. She moaned, imagining the picture she was beginning to present. Her bottom spread slowly, inexorably, as the leather horse inched upward relentlessly, exposing her cheeks in all their firm roundness.

As it continued to rise, as he continued to work the lever, she was opened wider, exposing everything in between. Slowly but inexorably, with her head nearly as low as her feet, the physics of the maneuver dictated that not only her ass, but also her pussy, would be displayed – and it was. Her lovely pink lips came into view, spreading slowly, too, as the horse rose. Moisture glistened on them.

Worse than that, however – surely at least to her mind – was what the stretching was doing to her bottom. As the horse rose, as her cheeks spread, as her bottom parted, her lovely pink hole became even more exposed to view. And as her new master cranked the horse even higher, more painfully, her anus became even more exposed . . . And then, so intimately, the rising of the bolster and the inexorable stretching even began to open the rosy hole . . . She was powerless to resist . . . the stretching became almost impossible to bear . . .

And there her black master stopped.

"Look at Brigitte's lovely bottom," he said in a commanding voice to the darkened audience. "A beautiful sight, don't you agree?" he continued.

"It will be put to good use – good, thorough use -- before we're through here tonight." He smiled again.

Brigitte blushed furiously. She knew she was blushing even without feeling the warm heat that spread itself upward across her chest and face, because she could see herself and the vague shapes of the theatre, thanks to the mirrored back wall. She could see the colored spotlights above the stage, highlighting her; she could see her master as he worked the lever. She could see the darkened shapes of the men in the audience as they watched in fascination. She could see the small, red, blinking light off to the left as she . . .

What? What is that, she wondered as her eye caught the tiny light. For some odd reason it called to her, focusing her attention. Out of character, she turned her head slightly toward her master. "What . . . what is it?" she asked, nodding her head toward the steady, blinking pinprick of red.

He stopped cranking the lever, and chuckled. "So – you've noticed that we're recording this for posterity, have you? His grin was positively wicked.

Brigitte literally fainted for a brief moment as the significance of what he said sank in. "Nooooooooooooo . . . ..!!!!" she moaned. "How COULD you!"

Her distress merely caused him to smile again.

"Yes, my dear, this will make an exquisite video, don't you think? Just imagine: our little video of the proceedings safely in my keeping, for those unexpected events – say, when one of my colleagues wants to sample a new woman, and wants a preview . . . or sold to a chain of adult video stores . . . or held in reserve in case you fail to obey my future orders. What do you say – rather ingenious, no?"

Brigitte's protest echoed around the tiny theatre. "Noooo . . . ." was all she said as she shook her head back and forth, disbelievingly. "You can't!" But we could see, even as she said it, that her nipples were stiffening.

"That's enough," her master said to her quietly, but firmly. "You are here of your own volition, but this is part of the price. And there is no negotiating this part." Brigitte fell silent, her face still pink with her blush.

Her master had stopped cranking the lever for the horse. Instead, he now depressed a small pedal in the floor, and grabbed the bolster. It turned easily and soundlessly in a half circle, then stopped with a click, leaving Brigitte facing the audience. He then walked over to the corner of the stage, and returned with a short metal rod, at the top end of which was fitted a small, leather-covered cup.
He placed the lower end into a small fitting in the floor, and brought the cupped end up under Brigitte's chin, raising her face slightly as he did so. It fitted perfectly, and served to keep her head level and facing outwards toward the crowd. He then cranked the lever again, but in the opposite direction, lowering the horse and bringing Brigitte's raised bottom down until her knees rested on the floor. We wondered what was to happen next.

"Who is first?" was all her new master said, addressing the audience.

A man – tall, black – heavy-set – stepped up to the stage. We could tell that Brigitte could see little of him, the spotlights nearly blinding her. We knew that she could see only that he was naked, his erect penis bobbing in front of him. Abruptly, he stepped in front of her and, without ceremony, thrust his hard shaft into her mouth, saying nothing. The thickness and length of it made her gag several times and stretched her mouth widely. No doubt she could feel it banging into the back of her throat.

"You will service him," her master said quietly, "and any others who care to take advantage of your services." Brigitte blushed again furiously.

She sucked him, as ordered. He said nothing, only moaning quietly as his cock erupted into her mouth, filling it with hot semen. She swallowed nearly all of it, only a few drops escaping from her eager mouth to run down her chin.

A second man followed, as large as the first. He, too, said nothing as she coaxed the sperm from his balls with her tongue and soft lips. She swallowed him, as well, licking the final drops from his swollen purple cockhead as he withdrew, a thin string of cum trailing from his cock to her full lips.

A third stepped up, and then a fourth, and a fifth. The fifth man chose not to ejaculate in her mouth. Instead, as his balls tightened and his cock began to jerk, he pulled out from between her soft lips, grabbed her dark hair with one hand, his cock with the other, and spewed his cum across her face as she looked up at him. It ran down her cheeks, and dripped from her chin. She licked her lips.

The sixth, by contrast, began addressing her before he allowed her to take his penis. He looked down at her as she waited with her mouth open, the thick shaft bobbing before her cum-covered lips.

"When I call for you," he began, and her heart must have skipped a beat, as mine did when I heard him.

"When I call for you," he resumed, knowing full well the effect his words were having, " . . . and I will, when your husband is home, and regardless of whether he gives his approval . . . you will service me as I'm about to explain."

With that, he slid his warm cock into her opened mouth.

"You will dress in a black elegant dress," he continued as she began sucking. "Underneath, you will wear a black lace demi-bra and matching panties.

"When I arrive at your house, I expect your husband to be there, and to greet me when you do. As he watches, you will proceed to the center of the living room, and unzip your dress and slide it down to your waist."

He paused for effect, his hard cock sliding in and out of my wife's mouth, relishing the service she was providing. Then he began again.

"You will then get down on your knees. As you are kneeling, you will unhook your bra and fold the cups of it down so that your breasts, including your nipples, are exposed."

Brigitte gasped, and began to suck him harder and faster.

"Once you have done so, you will unzip me, and begin to suck my penis like you're doing now. Your husband will be watching all of this." Brigitte moaned. We could hear her from where we sat.

He continued: "When I'm ready to cum, I will pull out of your mouth, and you will hold your breasts up for me. I'll shoot my semen over them. You will then pull the cups of your bra back up and refasten it. Once your dress is zipped, we shall leave for our dinner rendezvous."

Brigitte sucked furiously as he concluded his story, and as he began to ejaculate, he withdrew quickly from her mouth and aimed his cock at her full breasts. Stream after stream of semen sprayed across them, covering them with ribbons of his white, sticky cum. She nearly collapsed as he came on her, and we could see, even from where we sat, the effect of the orgasms that rolled from her hot, wet cunt and shook her entire body.

For the next two hours, we watched as my lovely wife was pleasured – and gave pleasure in return – to the dozen or so black men who comprised her audience. One by one they came up, eager and hard. They held nothing back – no act was too personal or intimate to perform with this beautiful white woman whom they held so exquisitely in control.
They kept her strapped to the horse for much of the time, raising and lowering it and spinning it around depending on how they chose to take her.

And they took her every way imaginable. They took her gently and they took her roughly, depending on their individual temperaments and the passion she showed in return.

They raised the leather bolster until her round bottom was once again spread wide.

They stood in front of her and pulled their hard cocks up toward their bellies to make it easier for her to lick their heavy, black balls. They turned around when they were satisfied with her licking, and pressed their tight muscular cheeks against her face, ordering her to tongue their assholes.

They made her suck their long, black dicks until they were hard and slick with her saliva, and then they turned her around and slid their hard shafts into her tight rectum, probing deep in her bowels, making her groan.

They came in her bottom, and her mouth, and her swollen, stretched pussy, filling her with their black seed. She gloried in the long ribbons of hot sperm she coaxed from each of them, her skin glistening with their sticky tribute.

And each time they took her, filling her with their thick, black cocks, they brought her again and again and again to rolling, shaking orgasms, her entire body trembling, her moans of pleasure reverberating throughout the small theatre.

At one point Alan stepped up on stage – no longer serving as Damon's lieutenant, but as a Master-in-training in his own right -- eager for the chance to finally discipline this beautiful young woman. He was stark naked, his hard, defined muscles rippling. His body was oiled, and glistened under the spotlights of the stage. His long, thick shaft, fully 10 inches long, stood out in front of him menacingly.

In his hand he carried his black leather belt.

This time, though, he demonstrated its true use as we watched in terrible fascination. Slowly, tauntingly, he strapped my wife's bare bottom. Between strokes he would lean down and whisper things in her ear, and we would watch, unbelieving, as she strained to spread her legs more widely apart, to allow the leather belt to reach her most intimate, tender flesh.

Finally convinced that things had gone too far, I stood up to put an end to this lesson. As I approached the stage, however, I stopped, suddenly catching my breath. Because I finally noticed that each crack of the belt on her upturned bottom generated in her a small spasm, and shake, and a soft moan.

Alan knew, too. No doubt he had known all along it would be like this. It was probably why he had been so eager to discipline her – the knowledge that every time he strapped her it would cause another little wave of pleasure to roll from her pussy out across her body, like endless waves breaking on shore.

I sat back down in my seat.

Finally, after a quarter of an hour, and with my wife's bottom and thighs bright pink from his ministrations, Alan stopped. He turned to the audience, squinted into the near-darkness for a second, and then singled out two men – two of the biggest I had seen all evening. He motioned them up, and they wasted no time in complying.
They came up on stage and quickly undressed. We all sucked in our breath sharply when they slid their briefs down, revealing cocks every bit as long and thick as Alan's.

And with that, the finale to the evening's show began. The three of them spent the next half-hour making love to my wife as we sat watching in awe.

First they unfastened her from the leather bolster, to have better access to her. Then they placed her on hands and knees. Alan laid beneath her, the second kneeled in front of her, and the third behind. And then they took her, all three of them together, at the same time.

Imagine it. Three enormous black cocks sliding in and out of your wife's mouth, stretching her pussy, filling her ass -- as you sit and watch. The size of the cock down her throat so great that it almost completely muffles her cries of pleasure. The way each of them rotate position, to taste first her pussy, then her anus, then her mouth . . . The seemingly endless streams of hot cum they spray into her, and over her . . .

And finally, with the four of them completely satiated and lying in a tangled heap of limbs, how you are ordered up on stage by Alan, and made to undress in front of the audience. How your own hard cock, to your embarrassment, reveals your own excitement. How his instructions are short, firm, unyielding.

The awareness of free choice, and the fact that you have elected, instead, to obey.

The salty tribute of her lovers as you bend to the ordered task, gently soothing and cleaning the soft folds of her tender flesh.

And, at her whispered, and very insistent command, the first, forbidden taste of your wife's new tools of pleasure.

Life – or should I say private life? – changed forever after that night. Certainly not for the worse. Indeed, we both entered into a new dynamic that remained forever electrifying, forever new – however morally or emotionally confusing it may have been at times. And those issues we managed to work out over time, able to analyze and dismiss petty jealousies, or insecurities, and eventually reach an emotional-intellectual plane that brought us even closer together, and not more distant, as conventional thought might dictate.

Charles slowly faded from our lives, but was replaced in the following years by other black masters of equally strong will and firm hand. We missed him, and wanted him back, but the last time we saw him he finally explained that he had other young couples to enlighten – that he had accomplished his mission with us. We were disappointed, but understood.

Brigitte discovered ever-higher plateaus under a succession of strict disciplinarians – as, I confess, did I. They took her – both of us – to new realms of experimentation and ecstasy, often at the club in Providence, but even much closer to home, becoming part of our workaday lives and not just the occasional Saturday night out.

A phone call would come in the early morning, as we were dressing for work. Noting the instructions carefully, I would then prepare Brigitte – putting her over my lap, lubricating a penis-shaped anal plug, and sliding it into her bottom, to be held in place by a sheer black thong. I would not remove it until she returned home from work that night.

Or taking her to a private rendezvous at the Four Seasons, or the Ritz, where we would be told a room number, and ascend to the appropriate floor. Upon entering the assigned room, we would be welcomed by a small group from that underground network of black Doms we'd come to know – those who specialized in training attractive young suburban wives. There, Brigitte would slowly undress until naked, and then be ordered to masturbate for them as they had her tell them what she wanted done to her.

Or returning home at dinnertime from the office, clutching a champagne flute full to the brim. Not, of course, with champagne, but instead with the rich, creamy semen of the master who'd met her in a motel that afternoon. And as I drank my bourbon on the rocks, she would look at me and sip her lover's sperm.

That was our life in the years following Charles, and very rich and rewarding it turned out to be. If I ever had any regrets, I did not let them linger. Whenever I had any doubts or confusion, I recalled that I, myself, had started all of it. And indeed, the pleasure I gained from it was, I'm sure, equal to my wife's.

Only once in all of it did I harbor a brief doubt, a tiny, niggling fear that I did not, in fact, control my life to the extent that I had believed.

Several months after our first visit to the club in Providence, we were home alone, making love. After a lovely, romantic hour, just as we were lying languorously entwined, Brigitte giggled a little.

"What's up?" I asked, awakening from my doze.

"I have a little confession to make," she said, giggling again.

"What's that?"

"Well . . . " she began sleepily "Remember all that time ago, when we met Charles at the Ritz? That November night?"

"How could I forget?" I answered. "That was the start of everything."

"Well . . . " she began again.

"Honey, you mean to tell me you have a secret after all of this? Seriously?"

"Just a little one," she giggled again.

"And that would be . . . ?"

Her voice drifted over to me, ever so slow and dreamy with impending sleep. She only whispered the words, so close was she to dreamland.

"I called him the week before and asked him to meet us that night at the hotel . . . "

I turned to look at her, astonished. Her eyes were closed, sleep finally having overtaken her.

A slight smile lit her face.


By Bruce163 ©


End of Story