Confessions of a Kinky Wife. Justine Elyot

Чтение книги онлайн.

       23 June

      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.’