Lynne’s Story 04

I realize, when looking back over what I have written, that it sounds as if Robert was single-mindedly pursuing my humiliation. While there were times that I believed that, it was not true: rather, his demeanor would change from day to day -- being, at times demanding, at times even affectionate. I came to suspect that he had far less experience than he intimated; that he was finding his way as much as I was and played out a role to prevent this from slipping away. As much as he became an object of desire to me, I eventually understood that he prized the control he exerted -- not just because he wanted to control a woman, but because dominating my matronly, white conformity represented something aspirational for him -- either for political or personal satisfaction. He certainly was not the demon he pretended to be, even though I doubt that he understood it himself.

I also recognize that my behavior warrants some examination: for as much as I was afraid of all of this becoming public, I had emotionally succumbed very quickly. More than that -- my initial reluctance would repeatedly slip away into desire. I had grown up believing in core conservative values; the idea that a white wife would stray, would allow a man to control her, would -- worst of all -- cross the color line was unthinkable. It troubled me; I remember sitting alongside Richard in church vowing to find a way out of this predicament, only to willingly yield to Robert's will when next he demanded.

I don't pretend that what I did was acceptable, or -- as Robert would claim -- that all women want this kind of relationship. But I do acknowledge that it very quickly became part of my psyche. I would never publicly admit to my desires; but I came to admit them to myself with an emotional response that varied from lust to distaste. I started this journey distrusting Robert -- I would come to understand that he only held a mirror to the longings in my own life; that as much as I would submit to his will physically, ultimately he became the unwitting provider of my own satisfaction. I would ache for the struggle, the reluctant submission, the exploration, crossing my emotional and sexual boundaries, "forced" to perform the acts I openly decried -- and privately desired. I remembered an old quote: "A man wants a woman to be a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom." But for me, I realized, it was I that wanted to play those roles.

All of that was still to become apparent; the first time that I drove to Robert's house I still had little self-awareness about the journey I had embarked upon. I was frankly afraid. I had made an excuse that would give me an afternoon on my own, and Robert had given me his address. His home had not been easy to find; he lived in one of those semi-rural areas, his house set apart from anything else.

I entered through a gate that swung open with a weighted preponderance. That gate would acquire a meaning for me; each time I passed through it I left my ordinary life behind; and each time I would be unprepared for the new experience that awaited me.

Robert opened his door, looking cool and relaxed in chinos and a cotton shirt, greeting me with assurance and bidding me into his home. I should tell you about his house because it reflected his personality and would have a bearing on the events that occurred there. Firstly, there were no hints of the feminine: the decor was stark, heavy and utilitarian, with large chairs, tables and television screens. It was simultaneously more stylish and expensive than I would have expected -- and I still believe that it had been decorated by a professional. The lounge area, where he now led me had two large loungers surrounding a coffee table, facing a clearly expensive array of technology dwarfed by a huge screen which was silently playing music videos. His home gleamed and sparkled; I would learn eventually that he had two domestic workers attending to the house and the kitchen. The sun reflecting off the pool, just outside of the window, projected calming waves of light into the room. He beckoned me to sit alongside him, where a tumbler of whisky (I assumed) awaited him, and a bottle of white wine breathed in an ice bucket, one glass already filled and waiting for me. I sat as demurely as I could, crossing my ankles away from him, sitting in the corner of the lounger with a clear space between us.

He smiled. "Thank you for coming Lynne."

"I hardly had a choice, did I?"

He took a slow sip of whisky. "We always have a choice. Have some wine -- I selected it quite carefully."

I shook my head and responded with some deference: "No thank you. This time I stay sober." He pursed his lips, the lips I would eventually come to watch, imagining them running so softly across mine. "You wouldn't want to offend me, would you?" Bending forward, he handed me the wine glass. I took it carefully then, as he watched, took the first slow sip. Placing his hand on my elbow he pressed upwards, forcing me to swallow more, holding it there until most of the glass was empty. There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he finally released me.

I took a deep breath: "That wasn't very nice!"

"Sometimes a lady needs persuading."

In any other circumstance I believe I would have stormed out; but I still had not understood my complicity in this relationship and I felt trapped. I sat in frustrated silence. I was to recognize this progression so often during this relationship: in the first stage of any meeting I would feel outraged; although, I did come to realize later that the outrage would be directed as much at my collusion as at Robert.

"I meant what I said. Thank you for coming. I am pleased you are here. You do know that I have found you attractive from the beginning."

The comment surprised me -- I am nothing if not self-aware; and I am no Venus. Robert was fully ten years younger than me; I was definitively a conservative wife in my appearance; and in a fit of pique I had dressed down for the day: I was in an shapeless and loose patterned skirt that reached past my knees, topped by a plain buttoned blouse. I had worn comfortable ballet flats and the barest of makeup. I retorted with some spite: "You already have me here; you don't have to persuade me."

"You think I'm leading you on? I don't have to, do I?" He sipped his whisky slowly. "The world portrays one type of woman as desirable -- but for many men that's not the case. I like many kinds of women -- I think that most men do."

It was a strange discussion to be having at this point -- Robert was applauding feminist values like a crusader, and notwithstanding my mistrust he appeared to be sincere. He continued: "There are deeper issues. You must know that a white woman -- particularly a married, slightly older white woman -- is unattainable for most black men. And that makes the idea very desirable."

So there it was. I was a token. Robert spoke with a surprising eloquence and clarity; but the primitive undertone to all of this had been laid bare. He lived a life of elegance and ease, clearly; but at heart he still wanted the same thing.

"I can see that annoys you. But there is a contrary argument as well: some of those women are equally titillated" -- he lingered on the word -- "by younger black men. The fantasy of ... how shall I describe it ... primal lust? The demanding sexuality that is missing in their comfortable soccer mom lives. The desire for a big, hard ... man."

I should have eaten more before I had driven to Robert's home: the wine was already having an effect. I tried to remain in control and coherent: "I would like you to delete the photos I sent you."

He barely registered the comment. "That's not happening. They are way too interesting and valuable." He laid his hand softly on my knee, through the skirt. "In fact, I'm going to enjoy seeing what you sent me in the flesh, so to speak." His hand was gently, softly massaging my thigh, with Robert aware that I was in no position to stop him; while I was becoming conscious of how my body was reacting. It was inconceivable that just that touch -- now moving one finger up my thigh slowly, hard enough to raise the skirt slightly -- should palpably be changing my heartbeat. He trailed a line up the length of my thigh, inches away from my panties, the white "mommy" panties he had insisted I wear in his presence. "Your breathing is changing, Lynne. You give yourself away so easily."

I reached for the glass of wine and emptied it; the situation was ridiculous; I needed to just get up and leave and let the cards fall where they may. But I didn't move -- I put the glass down and leaned back into the chair, and Robert could see the conflict on my face, knew that I was succumbing already to the demon that he controlled. His finger trailed inwards to the inside of my thigh, and I closed my legs tightly, shutting my eyes. He leaned in close and his voice had reduced to a whisper: "Unbutton your blouse Lynne."

I couldn't speak for fear that he would hear the tremor in my voice. After a moment he repeated it: "Unbutton your blouse now."

I silently, eyes still shut, heart racing, breath strangled, unbuttoned from the top, almost at the neckline, feeling the blouse loosen, my breasts shifting in the brassiere as it opened, until the last button had capitulated and I opened my eyes as the two sides of the blouse fell apart. Robert opened the blouse, placing each side alongside my breasts so that my brassiere was openly exposed to his view, then cupped my right breast through the bra, squeezed me, and started frankly, openly fondling them in turn. He found an erect nipple and pinched it through the fabric, hard enough for me to moan softly but he didn't stop teasing, torturing, exquisitely controlling my every breath until I could take no more and jerked away, panting. He pulled the material of the bra down, straps pulling into my shoulders, exposing the breast, the tortured nipple finally exposed to the cruel relief of his tongue, the hard blade stroking against me, drawing me in to his suckling, biting grasp. I was gasping now, arms around his shoulders, leaning into him as he used me. He continued for long, sweet, painful moments, then drew back and put his hand along my cheek, fingers in my hair in a gesture that -- at any other time -- would be affectionate. He ran his cheek along mine, smooth, shaven, a fresh scent suddenly apparent when he was that close -- until his teeth found my earlobe, softly bit down, and he murmured again: "Pull up your skirt."

This time I did not have the will to hesitate: I raised myself slightly and drew the skirt up under me, until I felt the cool air touching my thighs. Robert pulled himself away, leaning forward so he could see up the skirt, pulling the front up with one hand and suddenly my panties, legs slightly parted, were visible.

Robert pushed my legs apart, examining me freely. In our first encounter he had touched but not seen me -- and although I had sent him naked pictures of my womanhood, this was the first time that I sat, legs open, allowing any man other than Richard to look at me. I was aware that the panties had pulled up, as they will when sitting, and I could feel them pressed against my flesh. Although the fabric allowed nothing to be seen, the shape of my lips were clearly visible -- enough to see that the mouth of my womanhood was slightly open against the pressure of the material. Without thinking, I started to cover myself with my hand, but Robert grabbed both my wrists and held them together behind me in one large hand. "Keep your legs open," he growled, turning his attention to examine me at his leisure.

I wanted to close my eyes again, but couldn't -- transfixed by the experience of being so openly studied. He trailed fingertips slowly down the line of the opening, that soft touch awakening my senses with a studied delicacy. Glancing briefly at my face, he found the leg-hem of the panties and pulled them to the side, exposing me completely for the first time. I know that I murmured, a sound that failed to express the complex shame and desire that was suffusing my ... lips, everything focused on that small, private, sensitive area that was normally hidden from everyone.

At first he was satisfied to run his fingertips along the outside, but within moments he started an intimate exploration, prying the lips open gently, running a fingertip up the length, finding a profusion of moisture, causing my breath to descend into ragged pants. Even now that image is clear in my mind: him holding me helplessly, breasts exposed, my slit openly examined for the first time outside of my marriage. Even now it causes that the same conflict in my heart, leaving me in a state of ignominy and want -- and when I would later relive this experience in my private moments I would often return to this point, for it came to express so much about what this relationship was to be: Robert satisfying himself with the use of my body as I provided obligatory resistance that barely hid my need to be exposed and used. I found myself unconsciously opening my legs wider, pressing my hips forward, offering myself to his gaze, his touch, his manipulation at the same time as I buried my face in his shoulder, hiding the vision of my surrender from myself. He had found the nub of my clitoris and varied between pinching it slightly and running one long, straight finger slowly into me, each causing my hips to respond of its own accord. And then, as was his way whenever I had succumbed to his control, he would make me admit my desires, a humiliation as profound as anything he would physically do: he knew that my self-image was as important to me as my soul; that making these admissions was often more compliant and shameful than stripping myself bare.

"You're wet, Lynne. You may pretend to be objecting, but your cunt gives you away, doesn't it?"

I buried my face deeper into his shirt, avoiding the honesty that he demanded from me.

"Tell me Lynne. Your cunt gives you away, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I said, still hiding my face.

"You've been thinking about my cock, haven't you?" He said this as he slid his middle finger deeply into the heart of me. "Tell me."

"Yes," I acknowledged. "I have."

"What have you been thinking?"

I remained silent -- it was one thing to follow his lead but to describe my thoughts would be an acquiescence too far. His forefinger was now making languorous, slow circles against my clitoris, progressively harder, uncompromising. "What have you been thinking about my cock, Lynne?"

I had to answer. "I've been thinking about touching it."

"And...?"

"Kissing it." Each phrase punctuated by irregular breathing as he fondled, squeezed, pinched my clitoris into life.

"You mean sucking my cock, don't you?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"It's hard now, Lynne. Would you like to see it?"

I nodded silently, and he released my wrists, then lay back. "Take my cock out and suck it Lynne."

I could no longer lean on him -- instead of passively allowing him to use me, I now had to actively participate. I sat motionless, mind churning, both of us holding eyes, recognizing the crossroad that lay before me, then cautiously reached for his trousers, undid his belt and clip, unzipped him, and reached in to draw him out.

His manhood was everything I had imagined. In the glare of daylight it seemed larger, prouder than my impressions from the shadowy previous encounter -- he was still becoming erect; as I touched it slowly hardened in my hands, the epitome of male desire, longing, unashamed craving. My hands were, incredibly, trembling as I held him, examining him as carefully as he had done to me. It would be unfair to compare him to Richard: Robert's member was rapacious, arrogant of its size, and Robert was aware of how transfixed I was. "Suck it, Lynne."

So much sex with Richard had been perfunctory, shadowy, behind closed curtains or quietly done so as not to wake the children -- this brazen, demanding organ before me apologized for nothing. I wanted it; I wanted the liberation of unconsidered lust; I wanted to feel his ... cock ... inside of me, inside my mouth, between my legs; to do so without contrition. I leaned over and for the first time, in daylight, took a black man into my mouth.

How long did I suck Robert for? It's hard to say. For the first time in my life I experienced the luxury of succumbing to the wonder of unqualified lust, holding him in my mouth, slowly licking the length of that glorious shaft, running it against my cheek, teasing open the slit with my tongue, sensing the throb of his heart as I let it fill my mouth. He was too big for me to consume; but that allowed me to explore all of him in parts, running him through my lips, moistening the entire extent of him down to his shaven origin -- because I learned that Robert's elegance extended beyond his clothing, to the way he exercised, tautened, and cleansed himself. For those minutes I entered a disembodied state, concerned only with the wonder of this moment, this cock, this experience, these murmurs of pleasure from his lips, those fingers in my hair, holding me close, pushing him into me until I could take no more. I felt him expel a slight pre-release into my mouth; with Richard I would have pulled away in disgust -- but now I took, cleaned him with my tongue, swallowed my man's juices willingly. I was lost. I was lost, my reverie broken by his voice: "I want you. Sit on my cock."

I pulled his trousers down, seeing all of him now, flat stomach, muscular legs, then placed my knees on either side of him, reaching down to position him -- but he stopped me. "No ... no, do the slide."

"The slide?" I was patently lost.

"Slide your cunt lips along my cock."

And so I lowered myself onto him, and ran my slit along the full length of his cock, in the first of many subsequent exchanges of this stolen pleasure. I don't know why this excited Robert so, but he would instruct me to do it often in our future liaisons and I came to identify it as a part of our secret intimacy, changing the angle at which I moved against him to either constrain my pleasure, or shifting forward so the head of his cock would find my clitoris, tease it, leave me anxious to feel him inside. He finally placed his hands on my hips, adjusted his posture, moved me, and with a last adjustment of his cock from my hand, slowly, slowly, so slowly slid into me.

There are those moments when all of sex, all of lust, everything is distilled into one sensation. I can never relive that moment because I had never before had someone that large inside me; as he pressed himself deeper, as I felt him not only between my lips but inside, this presence filling me, I knew that I had never experienced anything of this sexual intensity; and more, that having done so I would never give it up. I had been virginal in the ways of longing before that moment -- I had measured all of sex by the polite penetrations of marriage, and a lifetime of illusion suddenly dissolved. He penetrated me and at first we lay, immobile, me adjusting to his size, him watching my face, breath slowly slipping out through my opened mouth. And then his hips started moving, penetration followed by release, each movement stealing more of my breath, leading me deeper into the lost, focused state of want. I could no longer contain myself -- for the first time in my life I cried out with a pleasure that I could not contain, abandoning modesty, driving him into me, feeling his explosion and his cries as we both discarded restraint in the mist of orgasm. Afterwards I lay on top of him, my cheek in the curve of his shoulder, while he slowly moved in and out of me, in a satiated expression of intimacy. "I can feel you," I said. "throbbing inside me."

His eyes were closed. "You're mine now. You know, that, don't you."