Precisely at seven, I heard his car pulled into the driveway; thirty seconds later, he rang the doorbell. Stomach turning, hand shaking, breath ragged, I opened the door.
Matthew and I just stared at one another for a moment, perhaps neither of us sure what to do, what to say. But I was the maid, he was the guest, and even though he was so clearly the dominant one, I knew I should break the silence first.
"Please...please come in, Sir," I said, barely audible. As he walked past me, I stared at him in his charcoal suit, silver tie, white shirt, impeccably tailored to his muscular, athletic body. He was dressed like a man who would frequent a high class prostitute, that is, the client for my whore wife. "Emily...Mistress...is finishing up," I said, looking at the floor. I could feel his gaze on me, all over me, judging me, appraising me.
"Sara," he finally spoke. "Finally...Sara."
"Yes...yes, Sir," I looked up at him. Finally for me, of course, but finally for him, too?
"Well, well, well, I'd say you look quite pretty in your costume, Sara, but I'd be lying." My eyes went wide, his seeming rebuke stunned me and I looked down, wanted to flee. He chuckled, wounding me even more...for the moment.
"So sensitive...just like a girl...I'd be lying, Sara, because this isn't a costume, is it, this pretty thing is the real you?"
I looked up again, met his eyes, wanted to cry. "I...yes," I said.
"Let me say it again, then, without the qualifier. You look quite pretty...Sara."
"Thank...thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome...it explains so much."
"What Emily sees in you...why she needs a man...what you seek...why you and Emily don't...very often. Seeing you explains everything...Sara...everything." He continued to look at me, I didn't know what he thought, what he was attracted to, but I knew I looked pretty, knew I looked feminine...not like my wife, but still, I knew.
"I..." I started to reply, but couldn't form my thoughts into words.
"When did you last try to be a male with your wife?"
"Dressed as a male," I asked, confused.
"No, no," he looked irritated. "When did you last screw?"
"Oh," I said, "I..." I thought for a moment. "I don't know, actually, it...it's been awhile..."
"Since before the wedding? Since before we met," he asked impatiently. "Think...it's important to me."
"I don't remember when, exactly," I said, "but...yes...before the wedding..."
"Good, good," he said, sounding relieved, a rare display of anxiety for him. "You're locked, I assume?"
"Yes, Sir," I kept my eyes lowered, it was a difficult thing to admit, especially to my wife's boyfriend.
"She told you we talked about it, didn't she?"
I blushed, knew what he meant. "Yes."
He moved slowly behind me. "It's important to her, Sara, to hold it, I understand that, but I would if she didn't. I never have, but I would, I like the symbolism." I swallowed, felt the familiar swelling; I liked the symbolism, too, the control, the surrender. He was watching me, chuckled. "Something tells me perhaps you'd like it, too."
I was breathing heavily, so many emotions and thoughts going through my mind. I felt him behind me, close, so close the hem of my uniform and petticoats moved when he moved, his body wasn't touching my body, but inch or two and it would. "Surrendering to me, just like Emily."
I pictured his hands on my legs, between my stocking covered thighs, reaching between them, touching the cage, demanding the key, surrendering to him. Perhaps he pictured it, too, but I didn't know, perhaps he wanted it too, but he didn't say. As quick as he was to take my wife, his pattern with me was slower, taking small steps only when I could not longer stand it.
He moved his hand up, touched my bare arm; I shuddered, tried not to flinch. "Go get your mistress, Sara," he said, "go get your wife...bring me my whore."
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting impatiently; but she had a concerned look when I walked into the bedroom. "Sara, you're shaking."
"I...I'm okay," I said.
"Are you sure," she stood, walked to me, reached for me. "Sara, was he...what did he say."
"He...he said I looked pretty," I whispered.
"Oh, honey," she embraced me, obviously relieved. "I...I knew he'd be okay."
"He...he sent me to get you..."
"Does he know...my costume?"
"General...not details...just...just that your dressed as...as..."
"As a whore," she said softly, voice shaking with excitement.
"Yes," I said.
She looked at her wrists, looked up at me. "There's more, isn't there?"
I wasn't terribly surprised, Emily was no fool. "Yes, but...after...after he sees you."
"You're an incorrigible tease."
"I...I wasn't sure if...if you'd...say no," I admitted.
"But you know I wouldn't to him...right," she accused.
"I...I don't know..."
"You know, Sara, you know, don't try to fool me. Just remember, two can play at that game." She looked down at the hem of my skirt. "You might not tell him no, either."
"Come now, take me to him."
I looked at my wife again, at her lingerie, everything so sheer, her nipples hard, visible, her pussy barely covered, the mask adding a sense of daring, adventure. She was the most beautiful woman I'd even seen, ever been with, the kind of woman that caught a man's eye when she entered a room. She was mine, my wife, my lover.
And I was giving her to him.
Matthew, normally reserved, normally completely in control of him emotions, cracked for several seconds when we walked into the room, his eyes went wide, in surprise, in appreciation. What did he think? Did he wonder how he came to be here, in the living room of a couple's house, came to be in possession of someone's wife? "My god," he whispered before regaining control of his emotions, before regaining control of the situation.
We stood there, Emily in the center of the room, me slightly to the side and behind. I had my moment, now was hers alone.
"Look at you," he said taking a step towards her.
"I..." She stopped, waited for his direction.
"Just look at you," he said again. "Perfect...so perfect." He glanced at me, back at my wife, his comment was meant for both of us. Emily, for her beauty, me, for my decisions. "I..." His voice froze again, "I don't know if I can..."
"Sir, if I may," I interrupted, having already thought what I knew he was thinking. He looked at me, nodded. I went to the guest closet, opened it, took out Emily's stone colored Burberry trench, held it up for them both to see. "For the car ride."
He nodded, smiled. "Perfect," he said, took a step towards me.
"Sir...if...if I may...there...there's more..." Now my nerves started to fail.
"More," he raised an eyebrow.
I went back to the closet, picked up the silver serving tray I'd put in there when Emily was bathing. On the tray were three things I was afraid took things too far, afraid pushed sexy to slutty to way, way beyond, afraid was past anyone's comfort zone.
On the tray?
The gold chain that connected her wrist cuffs:
A gold chain/leash/lead to clip to her choker:
And a crop, playful but serious riding crop:
I watched him, and for the second time that evening, Matthew looked stunned; Emily, I knew, expected the chain for her cuffs, or something like it, but not the other things and she gasped. A hot, sexy, 'I'm fucking soaking wet' gasp.
"Well," Matthew again composed himself quickly, "well, well, well." He looked at Emily, judging, read her, read me, "is my whore intending on misbehaving?"
"I...no...no, Sir," Emily said almost playfully. "I...I don't plan on it."
"Come, over here," he said to me, "we'd better make sure, shouldn't we?"