by ShyLynne 11/04/13
"Have you ever done anything like this for Richard?"
"Not all women need this, but all women should submit completely to at least one man in her life. The right man making her feel submissive and feminine."
I felt unsure and irritable: "That's nonsense!"
"Really? Can you honestly say that your cunny isn't a little bit moist, Lynne?" He was almost whispering now. "That you haven't thought of my cock sliding into you? Opening you slowly? Filling you?"
I murmured unintentionally and he heard it.
"You've been waiting your whole life for the right man, and now you have to come down from your position of white privilege and deal with a black cock, and you don't know how to handle it, do you?"
There was nothing to say. It was true that dealing with a black man made this all the more humiliating. But I was recognizing that on some level I was enjoying this ... this humiliation, this submission. It struck a chord. It not only aroused me, it felt inconceivably right.
"Your cunny is open for me, Lynne. Imagine me up close, kissing you, pressing my cock inside you." My murmur became the softest whimper. He heard it. He knew. "What do you have on your bedside table?"
My mouth was dry, my voice strangled: "A book, the light, my hairbrush, a coffee cup. Why?"
"Good. Take the hairbrush and run the bristles between your cunny lips, over your clitty. I want
to hear it."
It was an outrageous instruction; but I already knew it was futile. He would demand that I do it, and know if I hadn't. And worse, I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it. I didn't think about it – I just recognized it was true, placed the phone against my shoulder and reached across for the hairbrush.
I had grown up so conservative and naive that I had never used an object on myself before; the first stroke of the hairbrush was like a bolt of lightning, heat, bristles pulling, softly tearing into my nerve endings – my legs jerked, I cried out in shock twisting my hips, heart pounding as I gasped for breath.
"Good. Pleasure and pain ... it's all the same sensation for the submissive white wife. Keep stroking softly. I want to hear it."
With each movement I had to catch my breath, moaning softly, my voice jerking if a bristle stretched me, flicked against me. I drew the hairbrush up and down, slowly, each moment a revelation of joy and pain.
"Talk to me Lynne. Tell me what your cunny is feeling."
My words came in short breaths. "It's intense. I'm twitching. I'm twitching. I'm twitching."
"Keep stroking. I suspect your little cunny has needed attention for longer than you will admit, hasn't it?"
I whispered, with short breaths: "Yes..."
"I want another ten strokes, not too hard, don't hurt yourself, just keep yourself poised. Count them for me. Do it now."
"One ... two .. oh God ..."
"Keep going. I want you to remember this long after it's over; your cunny to be tender when you're with Richard."
"Three ... four ... five ..."
"Yes. Good girl. Now the last five harder. Spread yourself open and stroke as hard as you can."
I was gasping now ... each breath timed to match a stroke of the hairbrush: "Six ... seven ... eight ..."
"Now very slow for the last two ... "
"Nine ....." I drew it achingly slowly up my lips, heart pounding, perspiration on my brow: "Ten!"
I fell back, panting, legs still twitching, humiliated and alive, every nerve ending in my ... womanhood ... sensitive even to the movement of the cool air in the room. I lay prostate for a moment, letting my breathing slow, my legs closed now, defensive, hiding myself, soothing my senses down there.
"Good girl Lynne. I think your cunny has never been abused before, has it?"
"No," I responded, aware of the heat of shame in my face.
"But you did it. And you liked it. I could hear it."
I barely answered: "Yes, I did do it."
"And you didn't just like the feel of the hairbrush ... you liked being instructed. You enjoyed the submission. Didn't you, Lynne?"
My heart was slowing to a normal pace and I had caught my breath. I couldn't bring myself to answer the question.
"Didn't you Lynne? Say it."
I remained silent.
"White wife obeying a black cock. Not what you expected, is it?"
"No," I softly murmured, the confusion of the past moments washing over me.
"Masturbating in your marriage bed over my voice, Lynne. Put the hairbrush handle into your pussy, Lynne. Now."
I slowly, wearily parted my knees and carefully slipped the wooden handle into myself. My lips were tender, but it slipped up into me, sliding over the wetness that had filled me.
"Is it in?"
"Good. In and out now, slowly."
Holding the brush by the bristles, I did as I was told, caught up in the moment as if in a reverie. I had never done this before, not even on my own, not even in the bath when I sometimes ... touched. As Robert whispered filthy suggestions into the phone I started to feel that welling inside me, and suddenly my hips were jerking against the brush, I was moaning as I had never done before, I exploded as all the pent up lust from a lifetime of conservative want. I think I called out, but it was beyond my control; everything in those moments was about Robert's voice, vague imaginings of his manhood, and that feeling, that squeezing explosion between my legs and deep into me.
Later I wondered whether I had ever really had an orgasm with Richard. Nothing had prepared me for the intensity of those moments, alone with Robert's voice controlling me. I lay on my side, face buried in the pillow, hairbrush still inside, still moving slightly in that after-lust, softly moaning as I came down from the passion of the last moments.
Robert had listened, and now spoke for the last time: "I wish I could have seen that. I want to fuck you, Lynne. Before we go back to work. Find a time, work out how you going to escape your husband. And then let me know and I will work out the place. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I murmured.
"Let me know by the end of the day. I'll be waiting." And the phone went dead.
I lay immobile, strangely restless and content simultaneously. My life had undergone a sea-change in the past 48 hours; I would still grapple with my conscience and what this all meant – but I suddenly felt that the essence of my femininity had changed. The act of submission, which I would have decried before, had been more erotic than I could describe. I felt the contradiction of shame and lust had driven me to unthinkable behavior and unexpected excitement.
I looked across at the mirror, Lynne still lying like a wanton ... slut. And part of me approved of the sight.
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