I wasn’t used to this.
She cackled, repeating the question in an ever more demanding tone of voice. “Tell me your innermost fantasies.”
But I couldn’t; I knew why she wanted to know. I knew why my new wife was so keen to explore my hidden fetishes and fantasies. I knew why she wanted to go beyond the Bondage Starter Kit her sister had so helpfully provided for our honeymoon, but I couldn’t tell her.
I couldn’t for a number of reasons.
The shame was part of it. Admitting to your new wife that you’re not “normal” was hard. Admitting that you dream of wearing her frilly panties to work, or sliding her silk stockings up your hairy legs was humiliating. I was a breadwinner, a competitive tennis player, and I was a man. I shouldn’t wear, or want to wear womens’ clothing. I knew this, and I could not admit to her that I had tried on her underwear in secret. I just couldn’t; she would be disgusted.
Neither could I admit that I longed to be on the end of that paddle she was holding. The one she was threatening me with. How could a person want to be beaten? It was too kinky, it was a sold as a punishment device but yet I wanted to be punished. I wanted her to unleash the frustration in her voice against my bare, unprotected skin. I wanted to feel the full force of her anger smash down on my defenceless flesh for the first time. I knew I’d want more as I’d dreamt of dominatrices in dungeons, but she wouldn’t understand.
There were other reasons too: my bride was conservative and sheltered, and much unlike her wild sister. She would baulk at the idea of being part of a threesome, visiting a swingers’ club or going to a wife-swapping party. It would appal her; she would scandalised that I dreamt of other men seizing her young, fleshy body and causing her to writhe under their touch. But I dreamt of that so much; I often thought of what my gorgeous blonde wife would look like as cum leaked from her pussy and her body was adorned with finger marks and scratches, caused by others.
I knew she would be revolted by the prospect; angered almost. And if she found out that there was a gay story on my Kindle she would be horrified; there aren’t many marriages that fail on the honeymoon but I didn’t want to be one of the first.
But she repeated her question again and again; the faux-leather paddle and faux-leather whip being held out menacingly. She had used the rest of the kit, and my arms and legs were tied to the four-poster bed, defenceless and waiting for her next move.
What were my “hidden fantasies?” She promised to make some of them a reality. I had to tell her. What were my dreams and desires?
But I could not tell her, no matter how much she asked.
I could not communicate.
I could utter no words.
And there were many reasons for this. But the main reason? She had fastened the ball gag around my mouth; I literally could not speak.
These BDSM adventures? We have so much to learn!
The featured image comes from here and is used under a CC-license.