“You know, your wife tells me every time she sees you staring at us.”
At the sound of Monica’s rich, seductive voice, I snapped back to attention. It was hard to say exactly how long I had been entranced by the sight of my wife, Jennifer, passionately riding Monica’s husband, Eric, on the couch nearby, but it felt all at once like a brief moment and an eternity. It was a hard sensation to explain, and, at the moment, I didn’t exactly have much time to explain it. Monica currently held my leash in her slender, tanned fingers, meaning she was in charge of doling out whatever punishment she saw fit, if I supplied an answer she found unsatisfactory.
“I was not aware of that, mistress,” I said sheepishly, barely able to raise my head to look away from my naked and bound body tethered in totality to the whims of the small woman whose husband was currently claiming my wife. As I spoke, Monica, turned her head purposefully away from the rhythmic thrusts of Eric’s long, veiny cock and looked directly at me with an inquisitive expression. It was a look I knew well, by this point: she was setting me up for one of the “impossible questions” she and Jennifer had gotten so good at crafting.