My hands are uncuffed and I am led over to a high-backed wooden chair, made to kneel before it and bent over so that my upper body is supported on the cushioned seat. He fastens my wrists again to the top strut of the chair back, then I am instructed once again to lift up my head and watch myself on the ceiling mirror. I stare mutely up as my husband undresses behind me, then he kneels down at my rear, takes my calves in his hands and pulls them upwards and towards him so that I am half-suspended, secured to the chair but with my lower body held by Sinclair. He surges forward and quickly, unceremoniously impales me on his large, thick cock, moving his hands up to my hips and clinging tightly to them, pushing himself up as far as he can while he pulls my body downwards. Thank God for padded cuffs or my wrists would be lacerated by this, but I manage
to curl a few fingers around the chair strut and hold on for dear life as he pounds into me, making me yell with the intensity of it. It is quite a sight to behold, my upturned face and upper body sloping down to an angry red bottom and split-open thighs, between which Sinclair’s engorged manhood bangs in over and over again at such a frenetic pace that the chair tips this way and that, knocking against the wall until I fear the plaster will be damaged.
“This…” puffs Sinclair as he works me over vigorously, “is how I deal with wayward wives, Beth, and don’t you forget it. You are mine, always mine, forever mine….”
I begin to climax, waggling my legs furiously, pushing back on to him.
“…And you won’t be allowed to forget it.”
“Aaaaaaaaaah,” is all I can say to that, and he mirrors the sentiment, digging nails rather painfully into my hips while the orgasm rocks through him.
I am limp for an hour afterwards, lying helplessly on the bed in his arms, covered in sweat, with aching muscles, wrists and a fiery sore bottom, but everything is as it should be.
“Kendall’s commissioned a follow-up book,” mentions Sinclair, yawning and reaching out to the fruit basket on the bedside table.
“Really?”
“Mmm. Proper academic text this time, not a cobbled-together rush-job. History of kink or something. And they want me to write an introduction for a reprint of The Story of O.”
“Cool. Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes. You’re vital to my research. I may well need to re-enact a few scenarios for the sake of…historical veracity.”
“Yeah. Veracity is key.” He tightens his arm around me, pops a grape into my mouth.
“Wait till you graduate,” he warns. “I’ll put you to work as my research assistant proper. You won’t know what’s hit you.”
“I’m sure I will,” I say with a giggle. “You can’t mistake Sinclair’s stroke.”
“No,” he agrees. “Perhaps you’ve had the best education imaginable in that regard.”
“You’ve educated me all right.”
He smiles. “Oddly enough, I think it’s you that’s educated me in a way. It only remains to use that education to its best advantage.”
I don’t think that will be a problem.
Do you read adverts in the back of books? Or are you like me and skip them completely?
Just in case you do, I thought I'd let you know that I've written other books. Lots of them. If you want to look for them, all good bookshops are your friend! (Not Nook, who don't seem to stock them at all.)