My husband was almost done with his work, fumbling around with his computer as I glanced at him from my spot on the couch. He was an architect, tall, smart and funny, and didn’t have a dominant bone in his body.
Looking down at my phone, I reread the task I’d been given to commit it to memory. I couldn’t fail. I wouldn’t. Even if he seemed reluctant or tried to give me an excuse, I wouldn’t let him. I had to make him fuck me just like I’d been ordered to.
I let out a breath and closed my eyes, thinking about Him instead. I pictured his dark eyes staring me down as his lips moved with ease, calmly telling me to get myself used hard for his pleasure. I imagined him leaning down, his beard tickling my cheek and then my ear as he whispered: “Be a good little slut for me, Isabel. Make him fuck you and pretend it’s me, have him pound you hard on all fours so you can’t see his face. Because it won’t be him fucking you tonight, it’ll be me filling your cunt to the brim with my cum, it’ll be my seed dripping down your thighs when you’re done.”