Confessions of a Kinky Wife (12 page)

I was genuinely curious, too, to know what dimension the plug would add, so I crawled over his thighs. Every move kept me conscious of the invader at my rear, but no position made it more conspicuous than being over Dan’s lap with my bottom raised and my legs apart, as ordered.

I couldn’t face him. I was far too embarrassed. He knew what was in me – he had put it there. And he knew I was getting a form of pleasure from it, or I would be putting up a fight. He knew, in short, exactly what kind of sick pervert I was.

At least the spanking distracted me from my mortification. In a way, the pain – crisp and sharp and clean – made me feel better. But it wasn’t long before I began to understand how the plug altered the sensation. As the smacks became harder, they sent a quake down inside me, resulting in a series of pangs that spread outwards around the plug and through my bottom. I was being punished inside and out. The plug jiggled constantly and I knew it was getting me wetter than ever.

Dan knew it too. He must have known from the way I bucked and moaned, and if that hadn’t given the game away, it was clear when he put the knuckles of his free hand up against my clit. He continued to spank with one hand and rub up and down between my pussy lips with the other at the same time. It meant he had to use his unaccustomed arm for the spanking and the strokes were a little lighter and clumsier than I was used to. But the stroking made up for it, oh, yes, how it made up for it.

Any self-control I had was slipping away, rising up from the crown of my head like steam. I clung to the duvet, then clawed at Dan’s leg, bumping and grinding into his knuckles.

‘You’re going to come, aren’t you?’ he said, as if it were inevitable.

It was.

I came with my bum hot and spanked, my back passage plugged up, my husband’s fist pressing into my soaked pussy lips and swollen clit. I was so blown apart by the intensity of it that I started to cry.

‘No, no, no, no,’ whispered Dan, rearranging me into a tight embrace and kissing the tears. ‘Don’t cry, please, I didn’t mean to …’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, getting a wisp of sense back into my head. ‘It’s good. Just a bit too good … you know?’

He sighed with relief.

‘Right. You’re sure? You’re OK?’

‘Much more than OK.’

‘Good. Because I really, really want to fuck you now.’

‘You mean …?’

Was he going to do IT?

He shook his head.

‘I’m building up to it. But I’m going to leave the plug in. I want you to feel what it’s like to be double-stuffed.’

Hmm, well, in the interests of science, I supposed I could go along with that.

‘You’re sure you’re OK?’ he fussed, kissing me again.

I nodded.

‘Take me, officer.’

His wicked smile chased away the anxiety lines around his eyes.

‘You asked for it.’

I found myself forthwith upon all fours, thighs wide, plug still making its presence known at my rear.

Dan made short work of his clothes, then his hands were on my shoulders, his thighs flush against mine, his cock warm and hard between my pussy lips, bathing in their juices.

‘Mm, lovely red bum,’ he said appreciatively, stroking the heated skin with one hand. ‘I hate not being able to fuck you after I’ve punished you. I always want a piece of that red arse. Oh, God.’

He pushed me down between my shoulder blades so that my face was low and my bottom as high as could be, then he was inside me, so quickly and effortlessly that I yelped.

He kept one hand firmly on my hip, the other on my shoulder, so all I could do was take the thrusts and try not to crumple in a heap on the bed. Such thrusts, powerful and strong, each one a jolt.

‘I’m … going … deep,’ he panted. ‘You’re … getting … it … hard.’

Didn’t I know it?

I moaned and whimpered into the duvet, feeling the extra sensation every time his cock tip glanced against the tip of the butt plug. I had never realised how close the two passages were, but it seemed that only a very thin barrier separated them.

The double penetration was exquisite and, even though I had come so recently and so hard, the friction struck sparks of new arousal very quickly.

‘I can see your plug,’ he muttered, still fucking me as if his life depended on it. ‘I can see it inside your arse. I can feel it against my cock. You need it. You love it, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes.’

I could barely keep my limbs in position now. I was streaming with sweat and my bones wanted to collapse. If I shook any more violently, my teeth would fall out.

‘God! Yes!’ he roared, giving my bum a hearty smack as he rode into his climax. He fell on top of me, squashing the breath from me, but didn’t pull out.

I was grateful for this. I hadn’t quite reached my own orgasm and wondered if a little bit of wriggling underneath him might just …

He knew what I was doing and he slipped his hand beneath his stomach and my bottom and began playing with the plug, making the flange move around in a circle, while I ground my hips and pushed back against his still-hard cock.

‘Once wasn’t enough, eh, greedy girl?’ he murmured into my hair.

I flushed but wasn’t ashamed enough to stop now. I was going to get that orgasm and nothing else mattered.

Half a minute of jerking and bucking got me there, huffing into the duvet, enjoying the solid weight of my husband and the way it restricted my movements.

‘That’s it,’ I said after a minute or so more. ‘I’m dead.’

‘I hope not,’ he said, rolling off me. ‘I couldn’t do without you.’

We drifted swiftly into a snooze and didn’t really revive until we were in the shower together a couple of hours later.

‘That was a valuable exercise,’ said Dan, soaping my bum. He had pulled out the plug while I knelt on all fours on the bathroom rug. It had been the most humiliating part of the whole experience and I side-eyed it as it rested in soapy water in the washbasin, taunting me from afar.

My bottom felt a little sore, inside and out, but that was probably more to do with falling asleep with the plug inserted than anything else. I should remember not to do that in future.

In future.

That meant that I accepted that butt plugs were going to be part of my life. It was a done deal. No going back.

‘Valuable?’ I said with a yawn. ‘Why valuable?’

‘I learned that there’s no point spanking you with a plug in unless I want you to get wildly turned on. I’ll have to leave the plugs for afterwards. When you’re in the corner, maybe. Or use them separately, without spanking you at all. Hmm. I wonder …

‘I don’t like the sound of this wondering. What are you plotting?’

‘That’s for me to know,’ he said, parting my bum cheeks and dripping shower gel between them, ‘and you to find out.’

‘When will I find out?’

‘Behave yourself and perhaps you never will.’

‘You make me want to be bad, just so I can find out.’

He grinned and kissed my neck, smoochy and slow.

‘I dare you,’ he said.

I know it’s been a long time without a diary entry – three weeks – but we went away for a fortnight in the sun and all domestic discipline arrangements were deferred while I read blockbusters on sunbeds, sampled every different cocktail on the menu and tried to fend off Dan, who seemed obsessed with the idea of having sex on the beach. Not for me. The sand, ugh.

My natural tetchiness only lasted a couple of days after touchdown and for the rest of the holiday I was as relaxed as a cat stretched out on a sunny patio. Dan really had nothing to reproach me with, and besides, the Mediterranean climate didn’t seem suited to rules and routines. I expect it’s all in my head, but I think of all that as being a northern European thing.

It had been hot in town before we left, but heat at home is different. It means sweating in your work clothes, polluted air, stinking bins on collection day. It makes everything more stressful.

Lucky, then, that on the day we landed at Gatwick the British summer was well and truly over and we ran from the terminal to the car park through a gauntlet of hailstones.

And now, on Bank Holiday Monday, weather conditions were no better, which boded badly for the barbecue we’d been invited to by one of Dan’s police mates.

It’d been weird since we got back from Spain, as if one of us was waiting for the other to bring up the subject of our dodgy pre-holiday activities, but nobody wanted to be the one to break the silence. The two weeks away seemed to have re-set us back to our defaults. Me snappy. Him sighing. The odd silent stand-off, a few instances of under-the-breath muttering and passive aggression. I was creeping slowly back into my old, unwanted ways.

I didn’t want to go to the barbecue much and I did my hair and make-up grudgingly, wishing I could stay home and watch TV instead. After all, it was back to work tomorrow and I didn’t want to be drinking and staying out late. I was already in a mood of high dudgeon by the time I got into the car.

‘We aren’t staying late, are we?’ I griped as Dan turned the key in the ignition.

‘No, no, not late. I can’t drink anyway, since I’m driving … unless you want to …’

‘Drive home? Oh. OK.’

There were advantages to this course. I could leave when I wanted, as the designated driver, instead of waiting for Dan to finish an interminable round of cop anecdotes. They were good anecdotes, but I’d heard them all before.

And I wouldn’t risk a hangover. I know it’s easy to intend to stick to no more than two alcoholic drinks, alternate them with water, blah blah, but somehow two often seem to stretch to more, especially when people refill your glass without asking.

‘Really?’ Dan stared at me, delaying putting his foot on the accelerator. ‘You’re sure? Even though we have to go through Smash-Up Junction?’

‘Well, it should be OK later on at night. It won’t exactly be rush hour.’

‘Cool. Thanks, love.’

Dan was chipper as he guided us through Bank Holiday traffic to his friend’s place on the other side of town.

He lived in an apartment complex with an underground car park – the barbecue was on his roof terrace. At least, that was the idea, but the driving rain forced us all indoors and he had to make use of the oven instead.

I turned down all offers of wine and beer and stuck to Coke. These dos were even more boring without alcohol, though, and I couldn’t really join in with all the shop talk that was going on. I had to content myself with over-eating and smiling indulgently at Dan’s stories. Perhaps I should have brought a book.

After two hours of this, I suggested that perhaps we should go home.

There was a chorus of protest, in which Dan joined.

‘We’ve only just got here.’

I think he was on his third can of lager, or it might have been his fourth. He was at that stage where he wanted to hold forth to an avid audience, and delight in his eloquence and popularity. Two more cans and he’d be telling everyone how much he loved them.

I’m sure I’m just as annoying when drunk, but it’s nails down a blackboard to watch this kind of behaviour when you’re sober.

‘It’s a work night,’ I said, as calmly as I could.

‘For you,’ he said. ‘I’m on nights tomorrow and Wednesday. C’mon, another hour won’t hurt.’

‘Fine,’ I said, in my best ‘I mean the opposite of fine’ voice.

I left the group and went into the kitchen.

If I had any more Coke I’d turn into a gibbering, bug-eyed caffeine freak.

One
glass of wine. Not enough to take me over the limit.

I knew Dan strongly disapproved of drinking anything before driving, but I figured one wouldn’t hurt. He wouldn’t know, being beered up to the gills himself.

I poured myself a Pinot Grigio – because it wouldn’t give me a purple tongue, never accuse me of having no talent for crime – and sat myself on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. I took down a cookery book from the shelf and began to read as I sipped.

About ten minutes into this, one of the female cops from Dan’s division whom I vaguely knew came in and started chatting about recipes. The chat sort of drew me in, and by the time I realised she’d poured me another, I’d half-drunk it.

Shit. Now I was over the limit.

It was all Dan’s fault! Why did he have to stay another hour? Pure selfishness!

As was my old habit, I was converting my anger at myself into anger at him, but I couldn’t see it at the time. I was blinded with righteous wrath and wine.

I put down my glass and went back into the main living area. Hearty male laughter rang out from the corner sofa where Dan and his mates were settled.

As I entered, Dan looked up, put down his empty can and half-rose to his feet. He fell back, precipitating another gale of laughter.

‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Ready to go, my angel?’ he asked, putting his hand over his mouth to suppress a burp. Yep. Drunk as a skunk.

‘If I’m an angel already, yes, definitely,’ I said, to chuckles.

I didn’t want to confess my crime in front of all these people, though.

I waited until Dan had done all his elaborate goodbye rituals, slung a slightly clumsy arm around my shoulder and made his way to the lifts.

‘Good party,’ he said, obviously making a massive effort not to slur. So he wasn’t that far gone. ‘D’you enjoy yourself, babe?’

‘Er, yeah. Maybe a bit too much.’

He gave me a puzzled look as we stepped out into the basement car park.

‘Whass that?’

‘The thing is …’

We arrived by the car. There was nobody else around.

‘I can’t drive back.’

‘Oh, Pip, you promised. Look at me. I can’t.’

‘I had a drink. Two drinks.’

This seemed to sober him like a fingersnap between the eyes.

‘You did what?’

‘I know, but I was bored. And you were getting drunk. I’d had too much Coke. And I only meant to have the one …’

‘Philippa, one is too many. You know how I feel about that. How many times have I told you about the fatal accidents I’ve had to attend, thanks to some twat thinking they’re cleverer than the drink-drive laws? Eh? I can’t believe you’d …’

‘I know, I know, I only meant to have one …’