Diary, the following day, the housewife bondage events at Hawke’s print shop replayed in a daydream.
A shifting expanse, a realm where flesh blurred into light and shadow. Time bent—stretching and contracting in rhythmic pulses, like the universe’s breath. Three men and one woman—woven together in an erotic dance that was neither constrained by bond nor defined by love. It was something else—more about command, relinquishing control, and transgressing taboo. We moved in lewd currents, limbs, members, and breasts dissolving into gold-threaded mist, reforming with the pull of unseen sexual tides. Powerful hands glided over my glistening body, tracing ephemeral patterns that lingered as molten amber afterimages. Warmth spread through my genitals. Our orgy was less a meeting of bodies and more an unraveling, a dissolving of separateness—a dream filled with several erect penises and a score of powerful hands.
While I showered, the daydream overtook me, and my husband sat in his office, working late. The heated water inflamed my skin as I replayed the events of my life. Although Hawke and the two strangers had been magnificent, I was already itching for more, not even twenty-four hours later. My husband is a wonderful man, but he doesn’t understand me—not one bit, Diary. I want a man to make me feel like a true woman—submitted, controlled, and taken care of in every way. I want a teacher of the taboo, the forbidden, to give me what I need.
I turned off the water, exited the shower, and gazed at myself in the foggy mirror, trying to shake the daydream and memories associated with it. I glanced at the sink as these words left my mouth.
“Darling, I confess.”
“What is it, my love?” My husband’s voice was absent, like usual.
“Honey, I have a dark side. I need it sated.”
I turned off the faucet, debating about this. I met my gaze in the mirror. “Yes, a dark side, and I need your help.”
“How can I help you? I’m trying to finish this project. They need it tomorrow.”
I sighed. “You’ve been distant,” I said with sorrow.
“I’m sorry, darling, but you know the pressures of my work. It’s difficult for me, too. But I want to try. Tell me more about this thing you’re worried about?”
I rubbed moisturizer onto my skin as I said, “I don’t know, dear, but sometimes I’m not a good wife. I want to do more for you.”
“I’m glad you’re trying. Remember, you can’t please everyone. I want your happiness. God, these damned numbers won’t balance… What could you do?”
“More for you in the bedroom.”
His fingers stopped typing. “What?”
My lipstick rounded my full lips as I answered, “I want to … try something … new. Something … different. Something—”
“What are you saying?” The typing returned.
“I don’t know. I don’t—”
“Tell me what you mean?” he pressed me.
I placed the lipstick on the counter and turned to the empty doorway, speaking to the air. “It’s something I hear about. Something I consider.”
“Well, tell me, darling… Dammit. I’m getting distracted… Can we talk about this tomorrow or later?”
“Sure. It’s just that I’ve heard some men have different tastes.” I paused, afraid to say the next part, but I pressed forward. “Preferences like mine.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Different tastes and pleasures. You know, things like toys.” I almost said “regulation” but chickened out.
“Darling, I need your help.” I moved into the hallway. “I need someone who can satisfy my dark side. How can I do these things to myself? Sometimes I can’t help myself. Maybe I’m going crazy. I’m not a typical housewife.”
“Tell me, dear. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t. It’s just that some men have different kinks.”
“Like what?” He stopped typing again.
“Like tying up a woman.” I heard my words from far away.
His voice lowered. “You mean like a dominant-submissive relationship?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But darling, that’s not something I’d ever want to do.”
And with that, Diary, I shut my mouth. I nodded in understanding and disappointment, but my mind returned to the print shop. I left the bathroom, went outside to the backyard, and called Hawke. He didn’t greet me. Instead, he said, “High stakes poker game. 712 Roosevelt. One hour.” He hung up before I could respond.
I yelled to my partner, “Going to the supermarket. See you later.”
My husband barely responded, so I slipped on some pants and a blouse and ducked out the back door. It took me minutes to reach 712 Roosevelt—a towering, brutalist monstrosity in the city’s aging heart. Its concrete facade loomed, weathered and lifeless, a place no one called home by choice.
I parked the car and walked to the door, glancing up and down the solitary street. I shouldn’t visit this part of town, I thought. Hawke must own derelict buildings all over the city. The door opened before I could ring the bell.
“Come,” Hawke’s voice came from inside the shadowed foyer.
I entered the lobby. He closed the door and pulled me into a stairwell, where he commanded me to strip. I obliged and stood naked before him. He yanked me by the arm, leading me into another stairwell and up another flight of steps. The stairs croaked as we ascended them.
When he stopped me, he whispered, “Are you ready for another lesson, M? Are you ready to go all in?”
I nodded. I was.
“Answer me,” he barked.
“I’m ready, sir. I want to go all in.”
“I want you to use me, sir, however you see fit.”
“Explain it to me, M? In detail.”
“I want you to use my sullied holes, sir. All of them. I want you to fuck my ass, blast in my cunt, and I want you to fuck my mouth, sir. I need you to ravish my body, take me, and use me.”
“Good, M, because you’re an appalling woman who deserves punishment. The things you did in that print shop were unladylike.”
“Yes, sir, I’m a bad girl.”
Hawke whirled me around, revealing a massive window and a rusty radiator coated in flaking paint. I glanced out the glass at the nighttime sky and wondered if homeless men could see my naked body. He turned me around and tied a blindfold around my head. He knotted it tightly. The world went black as he seized my hands and tied them together with jute. My master took the jute’s end, led me to the correct spot, and knotted it to the encrusted radiator.
“That’s good. You look bound enough for what we need.”
My pussy dampened at his disembodied words. His talk made me horny, and my nipples hardened. Unannounced, the sounds of men entering the room filled the space—their deep voices booming as they greeted Hawke.
“Is that her?” One of them said.
“Yes, that’s her. Sit down, fellows. Let’s get to it.”
Chairs slid across the tiled floor. Men sat, and I heard them play poker. I stood there, waiting, naked, hands tied to the radiator. The men laughed and talked, drank, and ate. The shuffle of cards was crisp and deliberate. The clink of poker chips stacked, sliding, scattering. A chair creaked as someone leaned forward. Fingers drummed on the poker table, impatient. A quiet inhale, a slow exhale. The rustle of a sleeve as a hand hovered, hesitated, then committed. Ice clinked in a glass, followed by a slow sip. A muted cough, a throat clearing. Silences stretched—then the sudden slap of a card on the table. A chuckle, dry and knowing. The rattle of chips pushed forward. The sharp flick of a lighter. Exhaled smoke. A single word, low and steady: “Call.” I waited there naked while they played. I couldn’t believe none of them mentioned my naked body or made any comment about my bound state.
Hawke’s voice came. “I need to raise the stakes.”
The scrape of wood against the floor was abrupt and heavy. Footsteps—measured yet firm enough to carry intent. The air shifted; the faintest trace of cologne and cigarette smoke drifted closer. A pause. Then—a breath, just within reach. Two hands settled on my hips. After about twenty seconds, I heard. “I bet her. I bet M. She’s all in.”
His words surprised me, but the group’s chatter demonstrated interest.
“Come now, men, you must want variety. This little thing is quite the slut,” Hawke said from behind me. His breath hovered near my neck. Warm, slow, deliberate. A ghost of heat against my skin, carrying a whiskey and smoke bouquet. Silence, weighted, and expectant. The space between us shrinking, inch by inch.
“You’re right. I could use something new,” one man agreed.
“That’s true. M is a fine lady,” another one added.
A flush crept over me, warmth blooming beneath my skin. My breath hitched; my pulse quickened—a slow, insistent heat unfurling deep within as my pussy dripped in anticipation.
I heard the soft slap of cards hitting the table.
“Fifty in,” the first man said.
“Call. Fifty,” the second man echoed.
“Raise it,” the third added. “Make it a hundred.”
“Good. That’s good,” Hawke said, his voice steady. “Now, gentlemen, the stakes just got higher.”
My breath caught, shallow at first, then deeper—ragged, uneven. Each inhalation fueled my yearning; each exhalation was a quivering, suppressed release. The space between us felt charged and smaller; every breath I drew was filled with him.
They went around the table betting more and then Hawke said, “Well, let’s see what you got.”
Silence ensued until I heard one man utter, “Shit.”
Silence again. Then Hawke said, “Go ahead then, Sam.”
The silence thickened, weighted with intent. I couldn’t see them, but I felt them—too close, their breaths deliberate, drawn-out ghosts in the dim air. The space between us was no longer mine to command.
A fingertip, featherlight, traced the line of my wrist—testing, measuring. The slow drag of something unfamiliar—leather? silk?—whispered over my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. My breath caught—a reflex, a betrayal.
A pause.
Lingering.
Calculated.
Just long enough to remind me that hesitation was no longer mine to offer.
Then the shift—a hand pressed against the base of my spine; it was steady and inescapable. I shivered, the heat of something unspoken curling low in my stomach. I felt vulnerable to the unknown, powerless against the inevitable. My genitals were ablaze.
Diary, I needed it badly.
Strong, calloused hands seized my face and pushed me lower. My legs wavered, unsteady, and I caught myself before sinking to the floor. Then—unexpectedly—something pressed against my lips. Warm. A deep, bitter scent curled into my senses. Rich. Sweet. The taste bloomed across my tongue, velvet-smooth and indulgent. Liquid chocolate from a fondue.
“Oh, my,” I whispered.
I licked again, the flavor deepening—rich, sweet, and irresistible. I kept going, savoring every drop, until suddenly, it was gone. A sticky warmth clung to my lips. I wanted more. But who had fed me? It didn’t matter. This was all part of Hawke’s game, and I lost myself.
Without warning, a thumb entered my mouth. Remnants of the chocolate coated the digit. I licked it. Then a coated finger entered my mouth. The sticky substance clung to my lips, and I cleaned it with my tongue.
Then, something hot touched my lips. It was a contradiction of texture—unyielding yet pliant, firm beneath the surface. It wasn’t quite muscle, not quite stone, but some unsettling in-between, like the tension of flesh stretched over something harder. Sinuous yet pliant—a penis.
I opened my mouth wider. My tongue extended, and I licked the heated flesh clean of the fondue that had coated it.
More chocolate was poured on the member. I suckled the penis across my lips before drawing it in, my tongue flicking over the smooth, fleshy surface. A slow pull, the penis gliding against my teeth before I let it settle between my lips again. My cheeks hollowed as I sucked—the chocolate sweetness blended with musk, blooming across my tongue, sticky and lingering. Each movement became unhurried, deliberate—savoring, teasing, lost in the slow dissolve of time and cacao.
I sucked it.
I licked it.
I worshiped it.
Until no trace of the chocolate remained.
Then, I blew the flesh with a frenzy, like this anonymous man ejaculating was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“That’s right, M, take it all in your mouth,” Hawke whispered near my ear.
The cock rested on my tongue, hardening more against the heat of my mouth. Hollow cheeks hollowed further as I sucked, the sharp pull of hunger making every drop of pre-come feel like both relief and torture. The man’s sticky fingers trembled around his rod as he offered it deeper into my mouth. I resisted the desperate urge to bite, to devour, to consume something—anything—more.
I sucked the cock until it exploded. The warm, salty juice hit the back of my throat in blasts, and a shiver ran down my spine. My tongue swept over the penis tip, catching rivulets before they dripped down my chin. A stream of ejaculation slipped from my lips, trailing down my face in a slow, gooey path. I caught it with my tongue, but more followed, dripping too fast to contain. A few drops clung to my mouth’s edge before slipping lower, tracing the curve of my chocolate-covered jaw. I didn’t mind—only licked my lips, savoring the lingering saltiness.
I lapped the penis clean. I wanted every single drop in my mouth.
“That’s good, M. You’re such a filthy whore. You like this tramp behavior, don’t you?”
I pulled away. “I’m yours, sir.”
“Did you like this, M?”
“Yes, sir. I want more.”
“No, sorry, M. I’m afraid that’s all for this evening.”
I heard him untie my wrists and then the footsteps of people leaving the room.
I slid the blindfold off and the room was empty.
My forearm swept across my mouth, smearing melted chocolate in a rough streak across the skin. The warmth of it lingered, sticky, half-removed but still marking its presence. The faint scent of cocoa clung to my skin, mingling with the salt of sweat and semen.
Diary, I didn’t even know who blew in my mouth.
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