Confessions of a Kinky Wife
Read Confessions of a Kinky Wife Online
Authors: Justine Elyot
Justine Elyot
Table of Contents
OK, tonight’s the night. It really is. It has to be.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve
almost
brought the subject up.
I’ve rehearsed the words seventy-three times while I’ve cooked ‘special’ meals or clipped my stockings on to my suspenders or even just lain sprawled with his head in my lap watching something vaguely sexy on TV.
I always start with some kind of mention of how I’m a ‘bad girl’, just to see what he might say to that. But he always says, ‘Just the way I like you, love,’ and there we are, taking the vanilla fork in the road again, while he reaches for another handful of popcorn and pats my thigh absent-mindedly.
This makes me sound like some kind of unsatisfied horn dog but I should stress that I’m not unhappy with our sex life, and he can be prevailed upon for some slap and tickle when the mood’s right and we’re in the thick of things. It’s always jokey and short-lived and self-conscious, though. A couple of quick swats on the bum when I bend over for rear entry, for instance, because he likes the way my cheeks jiggle. I always moan over-dramatically, encouraging more, but he must think I’m just desperate for him, because he never repeats the move.
Yeah, I know it’s ironic. Communication. Exactly what I spend all day teaching troubled teenagers about. Yet, when it comes to translating my fantasies into words for my lovely husband, I’m useless.
But tonight I’m taking the bull by the horns. (Please provide your own rude joke.) Could any night be more perfect? Our third wedding anniversary. And what’s your third wedding anniversary? Oh, yes – leather!
I’ve heard all the bawdy suggestions, thanks. Catwoman outfit, check. Strap-on, check. Gimp mask, check. None of these are what I had in mind for him, though.
I went to a little shop in town that specialised in leather goods. It was surprisingly hard to find exactly what I wanted. Everything was the wrong colour or gimmicky, over-designed with stupid monogram buckles.
What I wanted was a plain, old-fashioned man’s belt, tan leather with that authentic cowhide kind of look and feel. Smooth on one side, suedey on the other, and with a big brass buckle. And the weight had to be right. I don’t mean right for sitting around his hips and keeping his trousers up either. I mean right for wrapping around his fist and giving me a good thrashing with.
I browsed dozens of the wrong kind, wrinkling my nose at their unsatisfactory smell. They were too light, borderline plasticky. I needed that good, deep leather aroma that travelled like lightning from my nostrils to my clit.
When I found it, I had to take a moment, look over my shoulder to make sure nobody saw me, and breathe deep and long.
Oh, yes. That was the one. Right colour, right weight, right buckle, right feel, right smell. This was the belt my husband could whip me with.
I felt ridiculously coy taking it to the counter. I had to keep telling myself that it’s perfectly usual for a man to receive a belt as a present and nobody’s going to assume I’m a pervert. But I just felt that the man who untagged it and wrapped it and took my money knew perfectly well what I wanted it for. And he thought I deserved it too.
By the time I left the shop, I was in a stew of arousal. I walked to the car with wet knickers and nipples punching their way out of my bra cups. When I got home, I took the belt out of its bag and lay on the sofa, sniffing it, while I slipped my hands inside my knickers.
I fantasised about Dan coming home early and catching me at it. In my fantasy he was still wearing his uniform, even though he has to change at the end of each shift in real life, and he strode over, snatched the belt off me and ordered me over the back of the sofa.
‘What have I told you about that?’ he said sternly, pulling my knickers down to my knees. ‘You don’t do it without me. You don’t come when I’m not around. Is that so hard to understand?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘So why can’t you behave yourself?’
‘I guess I’m a bad girl, Sir.’
‘Yes. And you know what happens to bad girls.’
He was wrapping the buckle end around his fist.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What?’
He trailed the V-shaped end over my bare bum cheeks, cold and ticklish.
‘They get punished, Sir.’
‘That’s right. You’re going to learn your lesson, Pip. It’s going to be a hard one, but that’s what you need.’
That’s what I need. Oh, yes.
He was only halfway through the spanking, the leather falling full-strength, heating my arse like fire, before I came, really hard. I jerked around so much that the belt slid off my face and on to the carpet.
No sign of Dan, though. Hardly surprising because his shift didn’t finish till nine.
My orgasm had ironed out the knots a tough day’s work had added to my spine, though, so it was all good. I headed for the shower and thought, yet again, about how I was going to talk him into what I had in mind.
So, anyway, wedding anniversary. Tonight’s the night and I’ve got champagne on ice for when we get home from the restaurant. I’ve also got the dark red silk underwear on underneath this dress. I’m waiting for him to change into his best suit and then we’re off out. The Talk will happen. Wish me luck.
It was a lovely night, amazing food and the most romantic setting, overlooking the river, but the restaurant was a little … intimate. By which I mean that it was very difficult not to overhear the conversations taking place at other tables.
This made me nervous, and so did Dan, because he looked so bloody gorgeous. He had on the dark suit he wore to my sister’s wedding and he knows I can’t resist him in that. He knows because he got to shag me up against the register office back wall while the groom’s family photographs were being taken on the front steps. He looked utterly, unbelievably, mouth-wateringly sexy, with his two top shirt buttons undone, so a little chest hair tantalised the eye.
Dan looks good in everything, mind you, whether he’s patrolling the streets in his uniform or mowing the lawn in ripped jeans and a tight T-shirt. He makes my tongue hang out. I have to keep remembering to put it away. He’s tall and dark and all the running after criminals keeps him fit. He has a face that can do anything, as well. I’ve seen him go from boyish twinkle to roguish glint to 100 per cent wicked in the time it takes to raise an eyebrow.
I remember how he bowled me over the first time we met. I sat there on that orange moulded plastic chair, watching him in a trance. I’m not sure I breathed once in the twenty minutes it took for him to question and charge the kid I was acting as Appropriate Adult for. The only thought in my mind was Who? Is? That?
Obviously I stayed professional, much as I was dying to play footsie under the battered, cigarette-burnt old desk. The way he flicked his eyes over me from time to time made me think there might be a little bit of something similar going on with him too.
When I left the station, he caught me on the steps, all breathless and tousled. God, I wanted to wrestle him to the floor then and there. I restrained myself, what with being in the company of a furious fifteen-year-old, and simply nodded and smiled while he volunteered to give a talk on police/community relations at my Vulnerable Young People’s group.
I think I actually said, ‘Awesome!’
The fifteen-year-old teased me about it all the way back to the children’s home.
‘He wants you, Pip. Better watch out if you don’t want Plod in yer knickers.’
I blanked this line of conversation, but inside I wanted to hear more.
He came and did the talk to a group who started out hostile and ended up charmed and positive. He has the knack of making people want him to like them, so that they strive to please him. It’s a neat trick – I wish I had it.
Anyway, he’d won them over, so just imagine how I felt. He’d seduced me already – the physical side of it was a mere formality. We sat in my office after locking up the building and shared a bottle of wine and talked very earnestly about the social issues affecting my Vulnerable Young People until the switch flipped and every single thing we said seemed to be a form of verbal foreplay.
We kissed against my filing cabinet and ended up at my flat. I don’t think we’ve spent a night apart since, shift patterns permitting.
And now here we are, three years married, and he’s still the funniest, sweetest, kindest, most capable and sexy and sometimes slightly annoying but not that much man in the world.
So why the hell was I contemplating asking him for more?
In the low-voiced, elegant atmosphere of the restaurant, I panicked. I couldn’t go through with it. What if I scared him? Why would I risk my marriage to this man?
The first thing he said on sitting down was ‘I’ve got a little something for you.’ And he rustled a package inside a shopping bag.
‘Can’t we … do the presents at home?’
‘But you’ve brought mine.’ He looked puzzled. I love his puzzled face. Just adorable.
‘I know, I just … it’s a bit … it’s not very
private
here, is it?’
‘Oh.’ His eyes lit up. ‘
That
kind of present, eh?’
Fuck. Now he was expecting something from a sex shop. Oh, God. I wanted to bolt from the restaurant, take the belt back to the shop and exchange it, quickety-quick, for a lacy basque and a set of nipple tassels.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I said.
‘It’s my wedding anniversary,’ he said. ‘If I can’t get my hopes up on my wedding anniversary, when
can
I get them up?’
‘Good point,’ I said, then, suddenly inspired, ‘So, what are your hopes?’
What if I could bring him to confess his own hidden desire for kink? What if he longed to redden my bottom but was just too worried it would appal me?
‘For tonight?’
He was about to lean over the table and murmur into my ear, but the waiter appeared with our champagne cocktails and menus, so the moment was lost.
‘I really want to give you your present,’ he said, sipping and watching me.
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘I know
you
don’t. But I want to give you it now. I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘Oh …’ I looked around. Everybody seemed pretty involved with their own conversations. ‘Go on, then.’
He beamed and handed over his bag, then retreated into his champagne glass, sipping with measured calm.
I opened the delicate tissue wrapping and had to clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself screaming.
‘Happy anniversary, my darling little Twinkletoes,’ he said, flushing with pleasure at my reaction.
‘Is this genuine?’
‘It’s not a bloody knock-off. What do you take me for?’
‘A genuine Mulberry Alexa? Christ, Dan, these cost a fortune.’
‘Well, I got it from an outlet store,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ I turned the deliciously soft tan leather every which way, putting it up to my face and sniffing, just the way I did with the belt. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever been given.
He was perfect. Why would I want to change him? I felt guilty and cheap for even considering it.
‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s written all over your face.’
He sat back and basked, while I became conscious of the indulgent good wishes of the other diners. Suddenly the parcel at my feet became my nemesis, a terrible mistake. I should have got him something else.
Too late.
‘So, come on then. Hand it over.’
He held out a palm. Lately, he couldn’t do that without me imagining how it would feel cracking down on my bum. Tonight was no different.