Beneficially HIS

Author’s Note: This is a retelling (from the woman’s point of view) of my husband’s (Lime) story, “The Benefits of Reading,” so if it seems familiar, please bear with me.

Yes, I admit it. I’m a slut, but not a drop to my knees for any hard cock slut. No, I’m his slut, my husband’s slut, George’s slut. But it’s our secret.

Walking down the street, everyone would take me for the conservatively dressed, former librarian I appear to be, although they might be perplexed by the contented smile, as opposed to the overly serious disposition I ought to wear.

Only Superman could see that I’ve shaved my pussy and replaced my dowdy underwear and pantyhose with a lacy demi-cup bra, hi-cut panties, garter belt and stockings. I tried wearing a thong – once – but I couldn’t get over that feeling of having a permanent wedgie; even tried going pantyless, only to learn of the dry cleaning bill that would run up.

Woops! I lied (sorry). My best friend Jane (and I suppose, her husband Bill) know my wicked ways, but she is the one responsible for my enlisting into this secret slut society, thereby doubling the membership. Since she is the founder and president, what does that make me? The recording secretary?

It started so innocently just a few months ago, although it seems a lifetime.

Jane and I got together weekly with my mother and some of mom’s friends, whom I’ve known as long as I can remember. We all have an interest in the crafts of sewing, needlepoint and knitting. So it was convenient to meet weekly and dedicate time to our projects in a social atmosphere. We rotated hosting these little gatherings and a few weeks ago at Jane’s, I stayed behind after the others had left to see some curtains she had made for her bedroom.

While I was up there, I noticed this very plain looking book, entitledAt His Command on her nightstand. Normally she read science fiction and best selling novels. Curious (and naïve), I asked her about it. Unabashedly, told me she and Bill had read it and that it had revolutionized their sex life.

“I had no idea sex could be this great!” she raved. “Sure, some of it seemed over the top at first, but once we got started, we became more adventuresome, and now…Well, why don’t you borrow it? Maybe you’ll see what I mean.”

“Our sex life doesn’t need improvement!” I protested defensively, perhaps too vigorously.

“Okay. Fine. Be that way. But wouldn’t you like George to be home more? You certainly moaned about that earlier today. Did you ever think that maybe he was bored? Honestly, how often do you guys have sex? Once a week?”

I was speechless. And pissed off too. Best friend or not, who the hell was she to meddle in my marriage?

“Once a month?”

No words would come, and the feeling was like bringing home a bad report card – you stand there, defenseless, knowing they’re right and nothing you could say would change the awful truth. And the awful truth was that I couldn’t remember the last time George and I had made love.

I mean, I knew it was about ten days ago, but was it Saturday or Sunday? Even worse, it was the same as the time before and the time before that. A little cuddling, some kissing and ..poof!...done! It’s not that I didn’t achieve orgasm, oh no, George always made sure of that, but it was routine, almost scripted.

“How long does it last?”

I could not tune out her words; they bore into me, invading territory that I was afraid to explore, but was now forced to venture.

“Are you trying to drive him into an affair, that’s where boredom…”

So there I stood, dreading each word, conjuring up painful scenarios of George’s ‘working late,’ paralyzed by the realization that my complacency was something much more significant than that D I gotten in French from that witch Madam Villiers.

I’ve always admired you’re ability to speak your mind, but damn it Jane, just this once, can’t you shut up?

I suppose it was inevitable, that unmistakable stab in my throat right before the tears filled my eyes.

At least Jane finally stopped hammering me.

“Oh god, Lyn, I’m sorry. I was hoping to share something wonderful with you and all I did was upset you. Guess I touched a nerve. My big mouth got me in trouble again!” She smiled slightly at our old joke.

It helped, but mostly freed my tongue. Slumping down, I sat on her bed. Then, blubbering and sobbing, I released a torrent upon Jan of all the thoughts, fears and doubts that moments ago had held me mute.

I am attractive, aren’t I? I may not be as thin (some said skinny) as when I got married, but I’ve still got a good shape. I exercise at home, maybe not as regularly as I should, but going up one bra size and adding an inch to my hips in our fifteen years of marriage isn’t so bad, is it? My tummy’s still flat, so I might even be more shapely. George had often remarked that he likes my shoulder length brown hair and the smattering a freckles across my small, slightly pointed nose and under my dark brown eyes. He still said I had the best legs in town. But those compliments came much less often these days.

Physically, George was the about same as the day we met and those soft hazel eyes melted my heart (and still did). His light brown hair had thinned a bit, but he’d kept his lean body in pretty good shape. At six-foot and around 190 pounds, he worked out several mornings a week to keep himself fit, but he wasn’t the well-chiseled body-builder type either; nor did I want that. So why didn’t I feel the same physical attraction I once possessed?

Did leaving work to become a fulltime housewife – what I thought I always wanted – and making lists of things in need of tending turn me into a boring nag? Is that what made work more attractive to George than me?

I know I still love him, but sometimes it seems the only things we share are an address and phone number!

Best friend that she is, Jane listened attentively, feeding me tissues. She reassured me that I still look great, but I wasn’t alone and that she had had similar feelings, just not as explosively.

Men, well what could she say, they’re funny creatures sometimes. That ‘breadwinner’ syndrome can sometimes drive them to obsess about work and lose sight of other equally important issues. With George having started his own business, it was a double whammy since he was responsible not only for my well being, but those of his employees as well.

Fortunately, Jane and Bill had found a solution before it became a crisis. But then again, she was also bold enough to go buy a book like that, while I surely would have died from embarrassment.

Finally, I stopped crying and managed to pull myself together. I apologized to Jane and started to leave. She pressed the book into my hand.

“Give it a try. If you don’t like it, just give it back to me next week.”

We said our good-byes. I drove home with my mind in knots. Part of me wanted to break loose and consider what Jane had said, while the sensible, respectable me strove to dismiss the whole matter and conveniently forget about it. By the time I was home, I had lost my nerve and promptly buried the book in my dresser.

It seemed that I had no sooner closed the drawer when the phone rang. It was Jane, just checking to see that I was okay. I assured her I was. She again apologized for upsetting me and told me all that she wanted was to try to share her newfound happiness, but I was in no mood for discussing it further. Fortunately, the call waiting tone sounded so I ended our conversation, but just before hanging up, Jane made me promise to read the book.

I just didn’t say when.

The other call was from George. He was going to be working late (again!). “Sorry, hon.”

Damn it! Why is everyone apologizing to me all of a sudden?

“Probably not until nine, maybe ten…No, don’t wait for me. Go ahead and eat. I’ll figure something out when I get home….Bye…Love you too.”

And so began my roller coaster journey into slutdom. My first response was to cry some more, feeling very sorry for myself. There it is again, “sorry.” God how I suddenly hate that word! Sorry your sex life is so boring, sorry you’ll have dinner alone again, sorry…Fuck it! I’m tired of being the object of so much sympathy!

With that, I took out the book. What the hell did I have to lose?

It was far from a Pulitzer Prize winner. The writing was simplistic and profane – very different from the subtlety of the romance novels I was accustomed to reading. But George was never going to be the hero from one of those, and truthfully, I could never play the part of the heroine either. So where does that leave me?

Maybe it was my self pity, maybe I was jealous of Jane, or maybe even pissed off at George, but the story (such as it was) gradually took hold of me. Mary, a sexually inexperienced, newlywed wife whose husband aggressively, but slowly, took her on a carnal journey. Each chapter detailing a progressively kinkier encounter and, initially, I could not bring myself to read more than the first chapter.

George couldn’t, wouldn’t want a woman like that!

But over my seemingly endless lonely nights, I grew bolder, wondering what it would be like to be forced to masturbate in front of my husband. To satisfy him orally – not just a little licking and sucking, but taking him deeply (into my throat?!) and swallowing?

It seemed so unnatural, and yet, I felt an increased sensitivity in my breasts and that unmistakable tingling between my thighs.

I started masturbating, at first just every few days, but then it became daily, and eventually several times per day. Not as I had done as a young girl, just impatiently diddling my clit and climaxing quickly.

Oh no, I explored my body, much as Mary’s husband was doing to her. I intentionally ignored my breasts and pussy, discovering sensations previously unknown. I let my fingernails slowly and lightly scrape down my sides, up my thighs and around my hips and tummy sending shivers and thrilling waves throughout my body, generating a greater awareness of my swelling breasts, hardening nipples and the damp blossoming of my pussy.

When I could stand it no longer, one hand circled each breast, at first intentionally avoiding my nipples, but eventually finding them and discovering the delight of their being pinched and pulled forcing the contraction of my abdomen and a tug between my navel and pussy, summoning a hand to move lower, while the other continued its magic above.

I delighted in tracing my splayed, tumescent lips, taking their slickness between my fingers and ever so gradually uncovering my erect clit. My circling fingers quickly brought me to the most tummy tightening, thigh clenching orgasm I had ever known.

But once I had calmed down and my breathing returned to normal, I found these novel experiences did have their price. Deepening guilt ensued, followed by more sinister deception.

One night, in what had become his maddeningly regular routine, George arrived home late. I had already climbed into bed, and was feigning sleep, facing away from his side of the bed. I felt him climb in beside me and begin to caress my back.

I did not move, frozen with fear that he would discover the evidence of my earlier exploits and be repulsed if I confessed my ‘sinful’ cravings. So I gradually led him to believe his touch aroused me and, for the first time in my life, faked an orgasm.

Of course, this only fed my remorse and I lost interest in just about everything, except reading about Mary and what her next adventure would be.

Oh my god! He’s going to stick it in her backside! That couldn’t… and yet, there I was discovering the sensitivity…I never penetrated myself, but wondered if additional pleasure awaited me.

I swore I would stop.

Tomorrow.

I wish George would fuck me like that.

At the weekly sewing group, I was very quiet. Sullen would probably be a better description. Later in the week, Jane called and informed me I needed to go shopping to get out of my funk. I tried to beg off, but she would have none of it.

Jane has always had a voluptuous figure. As we walked through the mall, I noticed that, with her large breasts, full hips, long blonde hair and blue eyes, she still turned some heads. The sassy body language didn’t hurt either. However, no one seemed to be checking out the haggard brunette accompanying her.

She bought some trashy lingerie and suggested that maybe I should get some too. Inwardly jealous, I cattily told her she looked like a porno queen. She smiled. I didn’t.

I imagined her in it, filled with desire, her full breasts topped with hardened pink nipples poking at the lacy black camisole, dirty blonde curls trapped behind the clinging fabric of the matching boy-cut panty. I wasn’t repulsed by the imagery; rather, I felt a strange stimulation that only fed my loneliness.

Obviously disappointed that she could not elevate my mood, Jane lost her enthusiasm. At least she didn’t berate me this time and we drove home in silence. A quick good-bye and she was gone.

Fold some towels. Match the socks.

Fuck matching the socks!

Late again.

Fake another orgasm.

George, you bastard, look what you’ve driven me to! Can’t you see what I need?

“Tied to the bed, he teased her with his tongue, slowly working toward her most sensitive spots…licking then biting her nipples….trailing his tongue down her panting torso, teasing the hollow of her hips…”

Lying naked in bed, I let the book slide from my hands to give them reign over my body. One teasing my nipples, the other playing lightly over my dewy pubes.

“So this is what goes on while I’m at work!”

George’s voice stung and I flinched in panic, pulling the bed sheet over myself.

The peace offerings of champagne and flowers he clenched contrasted disturbingly to the dark anger held in his eyes. He flew into a rage about his busting his ass, the house being a mess, worrying himself sick that I might be having an affair, only to find I was merely here wanking off.

I unsuccessfully attempted to secret the book under my pillow. George yanked the sheet and pillow away from me. The book fell to the floor. He opened it at random and read briefly.

So discovered, and threatened with divorce, I agreed to tell all. As I did so, George’s disposition softened slightly and he poured some champagne. It was by no means easy for me to divulge everything – actually I omitted the phony orgasms; what purpose would that serve?

As I haltingly progressed, George’s anger ebbed and I saw a tinkling passion in eyes that gave me hope that all was not lost, but his transfixed gaze also belied that his mind was working furiously, which, after I had finished, he put as an ultimatum. “Do you want to be my sex slave or should I leave you to yourself and find someone else?”

As much as I had fantasized about it, the reality was still frightening, but losing George would be worse, so I cast my fears aside and agreed.

However, he did not take me then and there (as I had deeply desired, still having whatever the female equivalent of blue balls might be, brought on by George’s sudden appearance). Instead he sent me downstairs to clean the kitchen! Worse, he ordered me do it in the nude, compounding my frustration. Meanwhile, he just sat upstairs and read the book.

Sure, I found it embarrassing at first, but I was also extremely conscious of my body, trembling in anticipation over what George would do – careful with those dishes, you’ll break something! The swaying of my breasts as I scrubbed the kitchen floor was maddening, but I doubt we’ll see this in Helpful Hints from Heloise as a new way to end the drudgery of housework.

George appeared and informed me he was going out for a while and to call his cell phone when I was finished cleaning.

No, no no! You can’t do that! Take me! Please!

He took me alright, but not in my pussy. While George had me kneel with my hands behind my back, he brought his cock to my face. I knew what he wanted, but I must have admired it too long. The fire in his eyes was no longer from anger, but from naked, unbridled passion, and, calling me his bitch, shoved the head into my mouth.

Finally, I was getting some cock! A magnificently stiff, throbbing cock – so hard even the head had lost the spongy texture I expected – that sent an immediate jolt to my pussy.

I wanted to savor its fullness with my lips and tongue, but George had other plans. Seizing my hair with both hands, he repeatedly forced his cock in deeply until I gagged. I wasn’t going to suck him, he was fucking my mouth.

“Show me how much cock you can take!” he his throatily hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes burning into mine, melting any will to resist.

Just a few weeks ago I would have resented such crude aggression, but now it was a gloriously stimulating invasion that liberated my wicked lust, obliging my throat to welcome the intrusion, desperately yearning to taste his cum for the first time. His ragged breathing and chaotic thrusting indicated I would soon be rewarded.

George, I’m gonna choke on all this spit!

Thank god! Swallow. I can breathe again. No! Don’t pull out!

But then, with a deep moan, George grasped his cock and released bursts of cum, thick and hot; its heat coursed from my face into my body and continued as he painted my lips with the head, then forcing me to suck out the remain drops.

Hmmm..salty…slightly musty..or maybe musky…whatever! Definitely unique, and not so terrible, but most importantly, HIM.

George gave me a brief compliment. With a smile of contentment, and to my consternation, told me to carry on with the cleaning as he squeezed the object of my desire back in his pants. Reminding me to call his mobile when I was finished, he headed out the door.

What? That’s it?

My pussy ached. My face itched. Gathering what I could in my fingers, I sucked up the last of his essence, walked to the sink, rinsed my face and hastily dried off with…oh what the hell…a dish towel!

Back to work girl! No, you cannot touch yourself; you KNOW that would be wrong! Okay, we’ll just get the spots off the floor, because if that SOB is more interested in the floor than me, then we really DO have a problem.

Good enough! Now, what else? Countertops? That’ll do.

Dishwasher. Oh shit, everything’s not gonna fit. Alright, I’ll wash them, but set them in the drainer to dry.

Done! Finally! Now, how long ago did George leave? Oh good; almost half an hour. We don’t want him thinking I’ve done a half-assed job. Ha-ha!

I dialed.

“George?...Read the letter you left in my dresser?... Okay. Bye.” Click. “Love you.”

That certainly was brief and to the point. But what did he write? Run up the stairs. Ouch! Running naked can be hard on your tits! Rip open the envelope.

Dear Lyn,

Or should I now call you slave? If you are going to continue to live in my house there will be the following rules:

1. When we are alone, you will always address me as SIR.

2. You will follow my orders immediately

3. Failure to follow 1 or 2 will result in severe discipline

For tonight, go take a warm relaxing bath and while you are there shave off all of your pubic hair. Then put on a lot of make up – so you look like a slut. By time you finish, your outfit will be on the bed. Put it on and await my arrival. Be on your knees with your head bowed.

Call me again when you finish this letter.

Love, Sir

I’m in it now! What’s with this SIR crap? I know it was in the book, but all I really want is for him to fuck me – hard! And maybe a little bondage. And that mouth fuck in the kitchen was…what? Erotic? Whatever! I’ll gladly do it again.

But shaving my pubes? Now that’s a little scary. I know THAT wasn’t in the book - must be George’s ‘dark secret.’ Looks like I’m not the only one who might have repressed urges, hmm?