Fiction: We Got a Sub!

TheBigAwfulWolf · 06-23-2016, 09:53 PM

Chapter One - The Fight

The following story is true, or true enough. I’ve changed a lot of the details, and the names, of course. It starts with a bad argument, and ends bittersweetly, but a lot of the in between bits I found pretty fun and amusing, though I should warn that they are all jumbled and out of order. This isn’t so much an intentional choice as an inevitable one. My thoughts aren’t terribly organized, and any attempt at getting everything out in the proper order and sequence would result in nothing ever being written.

If it helps, think of it this way: Robert Howard once said that he imagined the Conan stories as being written as though he had encountered the aged barbarian in a dark tavern, and that he would keep telling stories so long as Howard kept paying for drinks. There have been attempts to put the stories into order, but there are missing parts, bits that don’t quite fit into sequence, things that seem strange in retrospect.

Such is memory.

This is how I remember it.

Anyways, onto the story.

The best starting point is the night that my wife and I had a huge fight over something small and inconsequential. I was lying in bed, eating tortilla chips with a small bowl of salsa, and she just exploded at me, a torrent of profanity and criticism the likes I haven’t (thankfully) seen since. I just lay there stunned as words I’d never seen came out of her, phrases I’d expect out of a machine shop foreman or able seaman, and, honestly, a few very valid things that were wrong.

Because, quite frankly, our marriage sucked. Sucked hard.

We’d been growing apart from one another for years. We’d been married for seven, and the past five had seen the distance between us just widen further and further. It was one of the many problems that comes with having two dominants in the same house. It hadn’t been something we’d discussed or even explored much before we’d married, but upon discovering our interests independently, our various attempts to be good, giving, and game had not been successful. We just didn’t want to switch. It did nothing for me: I couldn’t stop flinching, I couldn’t stop laughing when she tried to be extra serious, I felt like shit afterwards… She did her best, but afterwards just felt depressed and lonely. Pretty soon after that, we stopped. And soon after that, we stopped having sex altogether.

It wasn’t a decision we actively made; it was just something that happened. Soon, she was putting more hours in at the library. I was finding excuses to take weekend trips to conferences. By year three, we had a long discussion, and tried marriage counseling, but couldn’t manage the assigned homework. Sex felt like a chore. We kept getting annoyed by the petty little transgressions that we had used to let go: a chore left until the next day, a cup without a coaster, laundry improperly folded…

And then there we were years later: me on the bed, reading on my tablet, eating salsa, being shouted at because she hated the way the salsa smelled. Her reaction seemed so out of proportion to what I’d done. I would have covered it if I’d known she hated the smell. I’m not an active jerk.

When she finally ran out of breath, we stood staring at one another for what felt like forever. When I opened my mouth to speak, I realized that my mouth had gone dry, so I swallowed to rewet it.

“Do you want to get divorced?” I asked. It came out very quiet.

She didn’t say anything for a long time.

“No,” she said. “But this isn’t working.”

“It isn’t.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked, covering my salsa and rolling up the chip bag.

“Hit something,” she said, smirking. “Or someone.”

“I bet we could arrange that,” I said. “Let me check the personals on craigslist.”

I was joking, of course, but this was a way we would blow of steam sometimes, scrolling through page after page of guys with their cocks on display, begging women to dominate them, men to come suck them off, people to be real and not dramatic and not fakers… Well, it suddenly didn’t seem like such an impossible idea. And it took our minds off all our other problems. We're very good at not talking about our problems.

“These guys are all awful,” she said. “Don’t they know how to take a flattering picture of their dicks? Do they just flip their sweatpants down, flop it onto the bathroom sink, and say ‘good enough?’”

“I guess. I suppose if they’re posting on craigslist, putting in more effort wouldn’t be worth it.”

“What you see is what you get?”

“Once you see this picture, you know right away if you’re into this or not.”

The women were only marginally better. A lot of single moms in their twenties who wanted someone to be nice to them, a lot of women in their mid-thirties and early forties who were only looking for friends (so why were they posting in the personals section?), and some with very low self esteem begging for someone, anyone to be nice to them. But then there was one particular ad that caught our eye.

“Jess, lives one town over. Looking for an experienced partner to show her the ropes. Your face pic gets hers,” my wife read out loud.

“Looks sane. So she’s probably the most dangerous of all.”

“She looks sweet. Red hair, nice chest, good taste in clothes.”

“Sure, but I doubt she’s into--”

“Look at her bedpost.”

And, lo and behold, a pair of handcuffs, attached securely. “That doesn’t necessarily mean--”

“But it could,” my wife said. “So what the hell, right? I dare you to do it.”

What the hell indeed? I quickly put together a new email address, and we shot off an email with a flattering shot of my wife. It would probably amount to nothing, we assumed. Just a fun lark. Something stupid we did once for a laugh after a fight.

But then we got an email back.

Runesmith · 06-23-2016, 10:45 PM

Nice start to the story, and with well thought-out details. I will definitely be reading this one.

Lioness · 06-24-2016, 02:25 PM

Good start. I look forward to reading more!

TheBigAwfulWolf · 06-28-2016, 07:43 PM

Chapter Two - The Date

Surprisingly, it didn’t seem like a scam. There were no attachments other than a few pictures of a slightly curvy girl in her early 20s trying to find the most flattering pose she could. The letter itself didn’t contain any links to camsites or pay for dating. It simply laid out in fairly clear English that she thought my wife sounded lovely, looked beautiful, she couldn’t wait to meet her, and that she hoped that this wasn’t all a trick or a game. She included some details about our town, the names of a couple restaurants, and how many of a certain store we had, so prove that she actually lived here. She closed with the invitation to meet at a local coffee shop. Very public, very central in town. No phone number or other contact information, because, she explained, she’d had stalkers before.

So we wrote back, slightly flirtatiously, agreeing to meet. It wasn’t a difficult email to write, oddly enough, even though we hadn’t written any sort of love note since college. A bit of wordplay here and there, a bad pun, some more details about the town… What else would she want? And then an offer on Saturday to meet.

“Am I actually going to go through with this?” my wife asked, when she’d sent the thing.

“Why not? It could be fun.”

“Or I could end up chopped up in a dumpster.”

“I doubt it. That’s why you’re meeting in a public place.”

“I guess.”

“I dare you.”

“Shut up.” She crossed her arms, but I could tell she was trying not to smile.

“You know you want to.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

But that Saturday night she dressed up in a cute sundress and I drove her across town to the shop. I sat in the car in the parking lot while she entered, and was greeted a young redhead. She was a little older looking than in her photos, but not by much; they were taken perhaps a year or two back. They hugged, and sat next to one another by the window. I watched as they chatted away for the better part of an hour. I’m no lip reader, but the body language was pleasant.

The girl kept patting my wife’s shoulder and laughing. They shared a scone, drank tea and coffee, then sat with empty dishes talking for much longer than either my wife or I had anticipated. My wife played with a lock of her hair. She smiled and adjusted her glasses. My wife rolled a finger around the rim of her empty coffee cup. She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear that had multiple rings in it. My wife stroked a tattoo of concentric circles on her inner arm. She adjusted the strap of my wife’s dress. Altogether, they chatted for about two hours, much longer than the planned forty-five minutes.

My wife was smiling when she slid back into the passenger's seat of the car. “Follow that green Civic.”

“Where to?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re going to enjoy it.”

I raised an eyebrow, but did as she said. We hadn’t discussed any sort of plan beyond ‘see if she actually shows up’ and ‘maybe call the cops’. Instead, we were pulling into the parking lot of a Motel Six. I hadn’t stayed in one since a missed flight on my way out of the Navy.

I paid for a room with a single bed, and Jess met us at the door. The moment the card slid through the lock, my wife’s whole posture changed. She stood up straighter, her arms at her sides curved, her eyes narrowed. She grabbed Jess by the throat and shoved her through the door, pinning her against the bed, and slapping her across the face and chest multiple times while the girl gasped and struggled to keep herself from falling to the floor.

I studied the scene from the doorway, then shut the door behind us.

Neither seemed to care that I was there.

I studied them like a biologist observing a rare species of bird, or a chemist waiting to see if two substances have a favorable reaction. After a while, I tired of leaning against the door, and sat down in the faux leather chair, folding my hands behind my head and reclining comfortably.

My wife struck her with a controlled savagery I hadn’t thought her capable of. Jess might have been a bit larger, a bit broader, certainly in better shape, but somehow my wife’s small frame towered over Jess’ body as she cowered into herself, averted her eyes, whimpered with a mixture of pleasure and pain that only seemed to egg my wife on further. Soon the girl was stripped bare and covered with red hand marks. My wife mounted her, only letting her up for air when she begged and struggled, her hands straining to escape my wife’s grasp.
They were both covered in sweat and body oil. Jess’ hair was plastered to her back. My wife’s short blonde mop was starting to curl from the humidity.

“Damn shame I don’t have my tools, or I’d show you what this could really be like,” my wife said.

“Yes, mistress,” Jess whispered.

“Is this what you thought it would be like, Jessica?”

“No, mistress.”

“What?”

“It’s better, mistress. So much better.”

“That’s the right answer,” said my wife, giving Jess’ ass a softer slap.

They both looked tired. It had been going on for nearly two hours, and Jess’ body was a mess of bruises and welts. But, I noticed, almost all of them confined to the areas that would be hidden by clothes.

“You want more, slave?”

“Reddington court,” Jess said.

“Alright,” said my wife, petting her hair gently. “You need some water? A shower?”

“A hug would be nice.”

My wife smiled, and curled up against her, the larger spoon of the two.

We stayed the night, and I ended up ordering us Chinese because they were the only place that would deliver that late.

Jess never joined us again -- she got out of the lifestyle, finding it much too intense for her liking, but she and my wife remained pen-friends for a while -- but the seal had been broken, and clearly our marriage could not go back to the way it had been.

Craigslist had been a fluke. Jess was a lucky break in a sea of garbage. But surely there were dating sites dedicated to folks like ourselves? We couldn’t be the only ones in our situation, could we?

Little did we realize how far deep into the forest this particular hunt would go...

06-23-2016, 09:53 PM	#1
TheBigAwfulWolf Junior Member Join Date: Jun 2016 Location: The TARDIS Posts: 23 Blog Entries: 3	We Got a Sub! Chapter One - The Fight The following story is true, or true enough. I’ve changed a lot of the details, and the names, of course. It starts with a bad argument, and ends bittersweetly, but a lot of the in between bits I found pretty fun and amusing, though I should warn that they are all jumbled and out of order. This isn’t so much an intentional choice as an inevitable one. My thoughts aren’t terribly organized, and any attempt at getting everything out in the proper order and sequence would result in nothing ever being written. If it helps, think of it this way: Robert Howard once said that he imagined the Conan stories as being written as though he had encountered the aged barbarian in a dark tavern, and that he would keep telling stories so long as Howard kept paying for drinks. There have been attempts to put the stories into order, but there are missing parts, bits that don’t quite fit into sequence, things that seem strange in retrospect. Such is memory. This is how I remember it. Anyways, onto the story. The best starting point is the night that my wife and I had a huge fight over something small and inconsequential. I was lying in bed, eating tortilla chips with a small bowl of salsa, and she just exploded at me, a torrent of profanity and criticism the likes I haven’t (thankfully) seen since. I just lay there stunned as words I’d never seen came out of her, phrases I’d expect out of a machine shop foreman or able seaman, and, honestly, a few very valid things that were wrong. Because, quite frankly, our marriage sucked. Sucked hard. We’d been growing apart from one another for years. We’d been married for seven, and the past five had seen the distance between us just widen further and further. It was one of the many problems that comes with having two dominants in the same house. It hadn’t been something we’d discussed or even explored much before we’d married, but upon discovering our interests independently, our various attempts to be good, giving, and game had not been successful. We just didn’t want to switch. It did nothing for me: I couldn’t stop flinching, I couldn’t stop laughing when she tried to be extra serious, I felt like shit afterwards… She did her best, but afterwards just felt depressed and lonely. Pretty soon after that, we stopped. And soon after that, we stopped having sex altogether. It wasn’t a decision we actively made; it was just something that happened. Soon, she was putting more hours in at the library. I was finding excuses to take weekend trips to conferences. By year three, we had a long discussion, and tried marriage counseling, but couldn’t manage the assigned homework. Sex felt like a chore. We kept getting annoyed by the petty little transgressions that we had used to let go: a chore left until the next day, a cup without a coaster, laundry improperly folded… And then there we were years later: me on the bed, reading on my tablet, eating salsa, being shouted at because she hated the way the salsa smelled. Her reaction seemed so out of proportion to what I’d done. I would have covered it if I’d known she hated the smell. I’m not an active jerk. When she finally ran out of breath, we stood staring at one another for what felt like forever. When I opened my mouth to speak, I realized that my mouth had gone dry, so I swallowed to rewet it. “Do you want to get divorced?” I asked. It came out very quiet. She didn’t say anything for a long time. “No,” she said. “But this isn’t working.” “It isn’t.” “What do you want to do?” I asked, covering my salsa and rolling up the chip bag. “Hit something,” she said, smirking. “Or someone.” “I bet we could arrange that,” I said. “Let me check the personals on craigslist.” I was joking, of course, but this was a way we would blow of steam sometimes, scrolling through page after page of guys with their cocks on display, begging women to dominate them, men to come suck them off, people to be real and not dramatic and not fakers… Well, it suddenly didn’t seem like such an impossible idea. And it took our minds off all our other problems. We're very good at not talking about our problems. “These guys are all awful,” she said. “Don’t they know how to take a flattering picture of their dicks? Do they just flip their sweatpants down, flop it onto the bathroom sink, and say ‘good enough?’” “I guess. I suppose if they’re posting on craigslist, putting in more effort wouldn’t be worth it.” “What you see is what you get?” “Once you see this picture, you know right away if you’re into this or not.” The women were only marginally better. A lot of single moms in their twenties who wanted someone to be nice to them, a lot of women in their mid-thirties and early forties who were only looking for friends (so why were they posting in the personals section?), and some with very low self esteem begging for someone, anyone to be nice to them. But then there was one particular ad that caught our eye. “Jess, lives one town over. Looking for an experienced partner to show her the ropes. Your face pic gets hers,” my wife read out loud. “Looks sane. So she’s probably the most dangerous of all.” “She looks sweet. Red hair, nice chest, good taste in clothes.” “Sure, but I doubt she’s into--” “Look at her bedpost.” And, lo and behold, a pair of handcuffs, attached securely. “That doesn’t necessarily mean--” “But it could,” my wife said. “So what the hell, right? I dare you to do it.” What the hell indeed? I quickly put together a new email address, and we shot off an email with a flattering shot of my wife. It would probably amount to nothing, we assumed. Just a fun lark. Something stupid we did once for a laugh after a fight. But then we got an email back.

06-23-2016, 10:45 PM	#2
Runesmith Stranger with candy Join Date: Jan 2013 Location: Stuttgart, Germany Posts: 989 Blog Entries: 20	Nice start to the story, and with well thought-out details. I will definitely be reading this one. __________________ Male, Straight, Dominant Likes: Anal (giving), rough play, CNC, bondage, humiliation, degradation, objectification, obedience training, online control Limits: scat, underage, playing with males; text speak To play with me, you must be able to prove your gender. Runesmith's Forgiveness thread - you're gonna need this My stories: Non-consensual Roleplay With a Stranger The Cabin in The Woods The Shanghai Girl Palace on The Beach My poems (yeah, poems): The Winter

06-24-2016, 02:25 PM	#3
Lioness Member Join Date: Jun 2015 Location: Ontario, Canada Posts: 34	Good start. I look forward to reading more! __________________ 21 / f / bi / brat Likes- clit and nipple torture, spanking, wedgies, tease and denial, degradation, roleplay, pet play, objectification, humiliation, choking, hypnosis Limits- permanent, public, scat, blood, needles, pics, piss Kik: oh.my.lioness

06-28-2016, 07:43 PM	#4
TheBigAwfulWolf Junior Member Join Date: Jun 2016 Location: The TARDIS Posts: 23 Blog Entries: 3	Chapter Two - The Date Surprisingly, it didn’t seem like a scam. There were no attachments other than a few pictures of a slightly curvy girl in her early 20s trying to find the most flattering pose she could. The letter itself didn’t contain any links to camsites or pay for dating. It simply laid out in fairly clear English that she thought my wife sounded lovely, looked beautiful, she couldn’t wait to meet her, and that she hoped that this wasn’t all a trick or a game. She included some details about our town, the names of a couple restaurants, and how many of a certain store we had, so prove that she actually lived here. She closed with the invitation to meet at a local coffee shop. Very public, very central in town. No phone number or other contact information, because, she explained, she’d had stalkers before. So we wrote back, slightly flirtatiously, agreeing to meet. It wasn’t a difficult email to write, oddly enough, even though we hadn’t written any sort of love note since college. A bit of wordplay here and there, a bad pun, some more details about the town… What else would she want? And then an offer on Saturday to meet. “Am I actually going to go through with this?” my wife asked, when she’d sent the thing. “Why not? It could be fun.” “Or I could end up chopped up in a dumpster.” “I doubt it. That’s why you’re meeting in a public place.” “I guess.” “I dare you.” “Shut up.” She crossed her arms, but I could tell she was trying not to smile. “You know you want to.” “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll think about it.” But that Saturday night she dressed up in a cute sundress and I drove her across town to the shop. I sat in the car in the parking lot while she entered, and was greeted a young redhead. She was a little older looking than in her photos, but not by much; they were taken perhaps a year or two back. They hugged, and sat next to one another by the window. I watched as they chatted away for the better part of an hour. I’m no lip reader, but the body language was pleasant. The girl kept patting my wife’s shoulder and laughing. They shared a scone, drank tea and coffee, then sat with empty dishes talking for much longer than either my wife or I had anticipated. My wife played with a lock of her hair. She smiled and adjusted her glasses. My wife rolled a finger around the rim of her empty coffee cup. She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear that had multiple rings in it. My wife stroked a tattoo of concentric circles on her inner arm. She adjusted the strap of my wife’s dress. Altogether, they chatted for about two hours, much longer than the planned forty-five minutes. My wife was smiling when she slid back into the passenger's seat of the car. “Follow that green Civic.” “Where to?” “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to enjoy it.” I raised an eyebrow, but did as she said. We hadn’t discussed any sort of plan beyond ‘see if she actually shows up’ and ‘maybe call the cops’. Instead, we were pulling into the parking lot of a Motel Six. I hadn’t stayed in one since a missed flight on my way out of the Navy. I paid for a room with a single bed, and Jess met us at the door. The moment the card slid through the lock, my wife’s whole posture changed. She stood up straighter, her arms at her sides curved, her eyes narrowed. She grabbed Jess by the throat and shoved her through the door, pinning her against the bed, and slapping her across the face and chest multiple times while the girl gasped and struggled to keep herself from falling to the floor. I studied the scene from the doorway, then shut the door behind us. Neither seemed to care that I was there. I studied them like a biologist observing a rare species of bird, or a chemist waiting to see if two substances have a favorable reaction. After a while, I tired of leaning against the door, and sat down in the faux leather chair, folding my hands behind my head and reclining comfortably. My wife struck her with a controlled savagery I hadn’t thought her capable of. Jess might have been a bit larger, a bit broader, certainly in better shape, but somehow my wife’s small frame towered over Jess’ body as she cowered into herself, averted her eyes, whimpered with a mixture of pleasure and pain that only seemed to egg my wife on further. Soon the girl was stripped bare and covered with red hand marks. My wife mounted her, only letting her up for air when she begged and struggled, her hands straining to escape my wife’s grasp. They were both covered in sweat and body oil. Jess’ hair was plastered to her back. My wife’s short blonde mop was starting to curl from the humidity. “Damn shame I don’t have my tools, or I’d show you what this could really be like,” my wife said. “Yes, mistress,” Jess whispered. “Is this what you thought it would be like, Jessica?” “No, mistress.” “What?” “It’s better, mistress. So much better.” “That’s the right answer,” said my wife, giving Jess’ ass a softer slap. They both looked tired. It had been going on for nearly two hours, and Jess’ body was a mess of bruises and welts. But, I noticed, almost all of them confined to the areas that would be hidden by clothes. “You want more, slave?” “Reddington court,” Jess said. “Alright,” said my wife, petting her hair gently. “You need some water? A shower?” “A hug would be nice.” My wife smiled, and curled up against her, the larger spoon of the two. We stayed the night, and I ended up ordering us Chinese because they were the only place that would deliver that late. Jess never joined us again -- she got out of the lifestyle, finding it much too intense for her liking, but she and my wife remained pen-friends for a while -- but the seal had been broken, and clearly our marriage could not go back to the way it had been. Craigslist had been a fluke. Jess was a lucky break in a sea of garbage. But surely there were dating sites dedicated to folks like ourselves? We couldn’t be the only ones in our situation, could we? Little did we realize how far deep into the forest this particular hunt would go...