We’d been married for three years before my husband finally admitted that he wasn’t all that thrilled with our sex life. He must have been sure I’d be terribly hurt, because he kept apologizing. But I stopped him and made the same sort of admission. I knew I wanted a lot more than I was getting, and Mark looked completely flabbergasted when I said that.

“But you always have a good time,” he protested. “You have orgasms.”

“Not always, honey. Not always.”

He stared at me. “So what am I doing wrong?”

I thought about that for several seconds, then replied, “It isn’t about being wrong,” I said. “Just different.”

“Different how?”

“First, tell me something. Have you been with anyone else since we got married?”

“No,” he said firmly, and I believed him. “But...”

“But what?”

“I do some other things.”

“Such as?” I asked, feeling a little temper rising.

“Nothing like cheating. Just fantasizing, you know, with magazines, some films, like that.”

“You mean pictures of naked women and porn movies?”

“Like that, yeah.” He was squirming a little.

“And what makes the women in those magazines and movies so special?”

“They’re not,” he said quickly. “I mean, they’re not special like you are. It’s just that you wouldn’t ever want to be ... um ... act like they do, I mean, do certain kinds of things, and I’d never expect you to. I mean, you’re not like that kind of woman who would do certain things.”

“What, exactly?”

He turned slightly red in the face. “I don’t think we should discuss that.”

“Why? How kinky is it?” I asked him point-blank.

He just stared at me. Then he cleared his throat. “I think you’d find some things offensive; I mean, they’re not very ladylike, you know?”

I had to laugh, and he was thoroughly puzzled. “Mark, you treat me like some sort of stuck-up Victorian lady who barely likes sex, as if I’d go all to pieces if you said the word fuck in front of me.”

He looked as if I’d slapped him. “I never thought you were stuck-up at all; that’s ridiculous. I just wanted to treat you right and I thought, well, the things that turn me on aren’t what nice girls do.”

“Isn’t that a little old-fashioned? It sounds like my mother talking. We girls can do whatever turns us on, too, you know. But I never talked to you about it because I was so worried you’d think I was not the woman you thought you’d married. You know, Mark, I wasn’t a virgin before I met you, and I told you that up front.”

“Well, of course. I mean, we were both in our twenties. It would be silly to expect that you hadn’t been with anyone.”

“But you never asked.”

“I didn’t really want to know.”

“Then I may as well tell you the whole story of my college days, and grad school too. But first I want you to tell me what it is that really turns you on, what makes you hot and makes your dick hard.”

He blinked several times, since I’d rarely talked that way. “I ... that is ... no, I can’t.”

It took almost half an hour to convince my dear husband to come clean about his particular inclinations. Even then he wasn’t all that specific, but reading between the lines I began to realize that Mark wanted to be sexually dominant and he was holding back those desires because he thought it wasn’t right to behave that way toward his wife.

I decided it was time to let him off the hook a little. “You know, honey, it’s the same old story. Women never know quite what to be. Is it true that you want us to be whores in the bedroom and lacy, frilly homemakers the rest of the time? If we act like sluts in the bedroom, do you think less of us?”

“No,” he said, “it isn’t a bad thing if you enjoy yourself. I want you to enjoy yourself. I didn’t realize you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t all that honest about it, so what I’m going to tell you might come as a shock. I’ll take that chance, but before I start I want you to get some of those magazines and videos of yours and bring them in here from wherever you’ve been hiding them. I won’t look at them yet, but I will afterward.”

He didn’t look pleased, or really even willing, but he went out to the garage. After several minutes he came back with a paper bag and put it on the coffee table.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “First of all, I masturbate every day ... in the shower, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the laundry room. I even sometimes do it at my desk at work with my office door closed...” his eyes widened, “ ... and some days more than once if we didn’t make love the day before. But here’s the thing, Mark. Mostly I’m not fantasizing about you when I jill off, and I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings. When I’m actually with you I focus on you, but when I’m alone I get aroused by mentally replaying some other experiences and imagining ones I’d like to have. I told you I’d had lovers; how many did you suppose there were?”

“A few,” he said cautiously.

“More than a few,” I paused for effect, “and not all individually.”

He swallowed hard, but I couldn’t quite gauge his reaction yet.

“My first couple of boyfriends in high school were totally inept at sex and I was disappointed, wondering what all the hype was about. Why was sex supposed to be so great when it was just these boys, so desperate to get into my panties that they’d beg for it, and then they’d fumble around trying to touch them or do even more?” I sat back on the sofa and got comfortable.

“Then my first year of college began and I started dating a guy from a fraternity, Robert. He was a senior, years older than I was and good-looking. I was flattered, and there was something about him that made me excited, sexually excited. The first time we had sex was a little disappointing. He was very skillful, though at the time I wasn’t experienced enough to know for sure, and he took a great deal of time to ensure that I was enjoying myself.”

I paused and took a sip of wine. “But he wasn’t really all there, if you know what I mean. A couple of times he sort of stopped himself. Once he grabbed my breasts kind of hard and shoved me down on the bed, but then he immediately apologized. I said it was okay, and it was, but that moment when he got aggressive sent this electric shock through me.” I took another sip.

“A month or so later we went to a fraternity party, and he got a lot more drunk than he ever had with me before. He lived at the frat house and had a room to himself, so of course we ended up there, and I wasn’t any too sober either. I expected something to happen after we sat down and got comfortable, but as soon as we got through the door and he locked it he was all over me.”

Mark was starting to look very interested in what I was telling him. “There was no request, no sly fondling. He ripped my blouse open and the buttons flew everywhere. My first reaction was to be totally pissed off because I’d just bought that blouse and he’d ruined it. So I said something, called him a jackass or a son-of-a-bitch or some other name, and he did what I didn’t expect in a million years. He didn’t apologize, or offer to buy me a new blouse, or anything. Instead he kind of smiled and told me that if he wanted me naked he didn’t care how I got that way, and he was going to fuck my brains out because that’s what I was there for.”

Mark had turned pale, and then he turned red again. I wasn’t sure what to make of it until I glanced down at his crotch. I almost smiled as I continued my story. “He put his hand on his crotch and squeezed, drawing my attention to it; I could see the outline of his hard cock. He stood there, looking me up and down, and said, ‘What are you waiting for, bitch? Strip and then get on your knees and start servicing me.’ This is your reward, he told me.”

A man’s dick will give him away every time. My husband saw where I was repeatedly glancing and quickly crossed his legs. I didn’t comment, but I saw which way the wind was blowing and I had a good idea of what sort of materials I’d find in the paper bag. I was feeling the beginnings of relief, because for all I knew he could have been into boys, or underage girls, or something else out of the range of what I could understand or satisfy.

“So what did you do?” he asked, his voice sort of squeaky.

“Believe it or not, I did what he said. I took off my bra, and my skirt, and my pantyhose, and my panties, and I got on my knees.”

“But why? It was like he was going to rape you.”

“If I hadn’t been willing, it would have been rape and I would have screamed my head off. Of course, the cops would have snickered and winked and let him go anyway; date rape wasn’t even acknowledged back then, and Robert was a big shot on campus. But that isn’t what this was about, not really, although it took me quite a while to figure it out. I didn’t really want to say no and I never did. For all I know, he might have backed off if I had. Or he might have had me anyway. Of course, the next day I was mortified at what I’d done; I was ashamed, feeling like a traitor to the female gender.”

“But what did you actually do that was so ... traitorous?” Mark was breathing a little heavier, and I knew the instinctive voyeur present in most men was coming to the surface.

“I did everything he ordered me to do. I sucked his cock for as long he wanted and took him as deep as he wanted to shove it into my mouth. I swallowed his cum, even though I’d never done such a thing, because he told me to. I spread myself wide open and offered my pussy to him because he demanded it. And later I got on my hands and knees and begged him to fuck me from behind, doggy style. And when he asked me if I was a bitch in heat, his bitch, I said yes.”

Mark was really squirming now, trying to disguise his own arousal, but I could sense it. This was what my husband found erotic, arousing. He wanted to behave just like my college frat-boy had.

“You said you regretted it, though, the next day.”

“Naturally. I chalked it up to being drunk, and I decided he must have slipped me some drug or other to make me behave like a total slut. I couldn’t accept that I was the girl who’d literally begged to have her pussy raped. I thought I’d been a bad girl; as far as I knew, civilized, well-brought-up young women weren’t supposed to act like brazen hussies.”

“So what happened to change you?”

“Robert happened. He was mature for his age, and he knew he’d awakened in me a natural tendency, I suppose, to be submissive. In public he was polite, yet always firm. He no longer asked me where I wanted to go or anything like that; he simply told me what we’d be doing on our dates. When we were alone, he was never cruel, but he treated me like, well ... his personal sex slave, I guess you’d say.”

“How, exactly?” Mark asked, almost panting at this point.

“He started out slowly but kept escalating to see how far I could be subdued to his wishes. At first he was much like that night in his frat-house room, telling me to strip for him, offer myself, suck his cock. It was always behind a locked door, but he wanted it just about every day. Whenever he showed up at my room, or I came to his room, I knew what was expected of me. Before dinner, after dinner, whenever.”

Mark was now leaning forward, hanging on every word I spoke. “Next he began telling me what to wear, buying me certain kinds of clothes, demanding I go on dates without wearing panties. Then he actually started fondling me in public, at least in places where no one would make a scene about it. He took me to bars where people knew him and let me in even though I was underage. He’d comment on my physical attributes, ask the bartender what he thought of my breasts while he squeezed them. I was utterly embarrassed every time, but...”

“But what?”

“I was also aroused. Robert would reach under my skirt, even sitting right there on a bar stool where other people could see him do it, feel me up, laugh at how wet I was, and make me lick his fingers.” Even I blushed to relate this, but Mark was absolutely riveted by the story. He’d forgotten to try to hide his erection, and the front of his pants bulged in an appetizingly obscene way.

“He got even more aggressive as time went on, a little rougher. Never enough to really hurt me, but enough to make me feel he was in control. He found out it turned me on when he was rough with my breasts, spanked my ass, or slapped my pussy, and he knew the dirtier his language was the hotter it made me. I couldn’t help it.”

“But what did you mean about there being several at one time?”

I smiled, because I’d figured he’d get around to that question sooner or later.

“Well, as I said, Robert kept escalating. At first it was more-blatant exhibitionism, but he limited that to the frat house. There was a rec room on the lower floor, a big space with a bar and pool tables and a pinball machine. One night we were playing pool, and several of his fraternity brothers were watching or playing pinball. When I bent over to make a shot, Robert put his hand firmly on my back, pressing me against the table, and lifted my skirt. Of course, I had no panties on. ‘Hey, guys,’ he said, ‘didn’t I tell you this was the sweetest piece of ass on campus?’ Then he told them to come over to see for themselves.

“When he issued that invitation I felt my face go hot, but I couldn’t move. They all came to stand behind me and make every sort of lewd comment you can imagine. They asked Robert all kinds of questions: how good a fuck I was, whether I was a competent cocksucker, how tight my pussy was, did I do it whenever he wanted? He answered every one of them while fondling my ass and running his fingers along the lips of my pussy. It seemed like an hour before he let me stand up, but it was probably only a few minutes. When he told them the show was over, I couldn’t face any of them, but since my eyes were lowered I could see a lot of bulging pants and jeans.

“Robert looked at me defiantly, as if daring me to make a scene, or call the police, or whatever. But I just stood there confused, kind of outraged but also deeply aroused. I can’t explain it, really. He waited, running the pool cue back and forth through his hands. ‘Well?’ Robert said.

“I replied, ‘Well, what?’ and he continued. ‘You didn’t really mind, did you, me showing off your ass and that lovely cunt of yours? My brothers enjoyed the view. Of course they’ve liked the stories even more.’

“That shook me up. ‘Stories?’ I asked him, feeling a little nauseous because I thought I knew what was coming.

“He told me, ‘Sure. We tell each other everything. They know all about what a horny little slut you are. They know you suck cock better than any whore down on First Street, and I get it for free. They know you beg for it, creamed your panties when I told you to, back when I let you wear panties, and they know how much you liked it when I fucked you in the ass.’ He stepped closer to me. ‘They know, I know, and most of all, Linda, my little slut, you know.’

“Robert lowered the pool cue until it was horizontal, then slid it up between my thighs until it was against my pussy lips. He slowly slid it back and forth a few times and I almost had to stand on my toes to be able to straddle it. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it, Linda, and it’s just a piece of wood. I could stand here and masturbate you with it, and you’d come.’ He put the cue down, stepped closer to me, and squeezed my breasts hard, his thumbs and forefingers pinching my nipples. ‘Now are you going to run away, little girl, or do what you really want? If you tell me to take my hands off your tits and you walk out, you won’t hear from me again, I guarantee it.’ I didn’t run away.”

Mark looked as if he was going to burst with curiosity and his cock would burst through his pants. “What did you do?”

“I just waited and let him keep squeezing and rubbing. He smiled, this long, slow, knowing sort of smile. ‘I was right about you. I know what you want,’ he said kind of smugly, ‘and I’ll prove it to you.’ He stepped back and said that I should show his brothers those nice big tits that he so enjoyed slapping around.”