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Englische Story im Netz gefunden , Autor unbekannt
-- Marks of Possession, 1 --
Marks of possession. That was when it really started to get to him. When her lover, Donny started giving her things, getting her to change her hair, wear things he liked. Gifts. Jewelry. A necklace she wore all the time that he’d given her.
It had started as an exciting game. She’d always loved flirting. She’d asked him, early on in their marriage, did it bother him that guys came on to her, that sometimes she led them on a little bit. If it really bothered him, she would try not to do it. But if he didn’t mind… Because the fact was, it was exciting for her—even more exciting now that she was married. The risk of it, the illicitness, the guy thinking maybe she would cheat—it was all very spicy. Very often the rewards for him in bed, later, were worth the discomforts he had had to endure earlier. Watching her let things go a little too far, maybe even disappear for a while at a big party or reception with some guy she’d met.
Innocent, at first, he was quite sure. But then, after a while, he began to suspect maybe not always so innocent. There began to be excuses—having to work late again—unexplained absences, phone calls hastily terminated when he came into the room.
“Would it be so bad?” she asked, when he’d finally confronted her after one of these incidents. “If it didn’t mean I wanted to leave you, if I promised. If it was just about, well, sex.”
His stunned silence, finding it hard to breathe. Here it was, the reality of what he’d only suspected. Somehow he’d expected a denial, or tearful admission, not this serene request for his acceptance.
“Would it really be so terrible? If you were sweet about it, if you just loved me and let things… not bother you too much. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
One of those unexpected decision points that change everything, suddenly upon you and past before you’ve had a chance to deliberate, to decide what would really be the best thing. Here and gone and then it’s too late.
Somehow, in the moment, her cheerful shamelessness and expectation that of course he would be okay about it—he found himself just accepting that this was who she was, what she expected of him, how could it be so bad, really? Like she was comfortable with it, like it was no big deal, like she’d worked out ahead of time how she was going to handle him. Caught him off guard, without an adequate response, playing on his need for her, her incredible sexiness—why he loved her, and this was part of that, of who she was. He found himself agreeing: maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t like she didn’t love him. She just had this thing for other guys, this need for adventures, variety. He should love her for that too, for the totality of her.
And so after that, well, she had his permission. What it came down to.

--Marks of Possession, 2--
He never quite managed to tell her what a torment it was for him, the fact that she went with other men. The fact that she had lovers. That of course it bothered him, of course he felt almost physically sick with it at times, knowing she was out with some guy. That if he had his preferences, a large part of him—a very large part—would withdraw that permission he seemed to have given almost unwittingly. A very large part. Just not quite large enough.
For another part of him—the increasingly dominant part—seemed to get off on all this. Yes, he liked it when she flirted. He always had. It was sexy and fun. And now with this added, knee-weakening edge that when he saw her teasing back at some party, when he saw some guy whispering in her ear and her looking scandalized and saying “Honestly, Peter, I am a married woman” (a favorite line)—that it was probably going to end there (it often did) but on the other hand it might not. That a day later there might well be a phone call, a date for coffee or lunch, just getting to know the guy, and maybe going on from there. And then absences again, and little discoveries—a packet of condoms carelessly left on her bed table, panties gone astray and later to be found under the car seat, or between the sofa cushions.
Within two years of the thing beginning there had been a number of these episodes. Some he knew about, others he only suspected. A few lovers, four to be precise, that she had seen on a longer-term basis, plus however many one-night stands, little spontaneous flings. The latter he might or might not know about, but with the longer-term affairs, well, it was easier for her if he knew. So she could tell him not to come home early on a certain afternoon, or that she and David (or Jerry, or Mark, or Thomas) had plans on a certain evening; she might not be home till late. Or not at all. Or occasionally—it happened a couple of times—away for a weekend. Jerry took her skiing, and with Thomas once there had been an invitation to accompany him to an exclusive resort island where he was attending a professional conference.
Just something he had to deal with, get used to. Though there was never, really, any way to get used to it.
Meanwhile, between them, things were pretty okay. Sometimes, in the heat of an affair, she might neglect him a little. He learned to take care of himself, those times. She actually thought it was kind of cute and sweet that he “took care of himself”—it was her phrase—while thinking about her with someone else. That yes it tormented him, but it also aroused him in some terrible way he couldn’t control, and it wasn’t fair to tease him about it though sometimes she just couldn’t resist. The fact that she was married yet promiscuous, “a bit of a slut,” as she put it, was part of the turn-on for her; and when she was really hot, when they both were, rubbing his nose in it was also a kinky bit of fun. “You’re not very big, you know. Compared to some. But I like that—I think it’s proper in a husband, don’t you? Just not in a lover.”
All this was held somewhat in check, though. The delicate balance of enjoying her freedom while not taking things too far, so that he would feel a line had been crossed beyond what he could tolerate. To be sure, that line had been slowly pushed back over the course of two years. But it was still there, at least in principle, in theory.
Then Donny happened.
--Marks of Possession, 3--
Should it have mattered that Donny was black—her first interracial fling? Surely not. Not in any objective sense. Donny was well-educated, good looking, charming—no less so than Sharon’s other lovers. She had excellent taste in men. But it did. The stereotypes were there in the culture, after all. None of them had invented those ideas, but their existence gave a special flavor to the relationship. White wife with a black lover—that simple. And that complex. For, the roles being there, they were available to be toyed with, played with, teased about. Denied, at times. At other times, acted up.
And Donny, it emerged, more than her other lovers, was interested in this whole phenomenon that they had an arrangement, that Jeff knew his wife took lovers and accepted it.
It ended up going a lot further than any of them might have imagined, but it began with that: that Donny thought it was interesting, and that she was white and married and he was black, and there was a certain dynamic there, a certain dimension of play that hadn’t existed before.
“You’ll be pleased about one thing, I think,” Sharon told Jeff early on, shortly after she began dating Donny.
“What’s that?”
“He doesn’t want me to see anyone else. My little one-nights. He said I can’t do that while I’m dating him.”
“That is good,” he replied, only grasping the irony of it it after he’d spoken. Her black lover was instituting a rule of fidelity that her own husband had failed to enforce.
Seeing his look, she laughed. “I know, I know,” she said. “But it’s different. It’s kind of a power thing, sort of, I don’t know, primal. It excites me that he’s so possessive.”
And that was why he began giving her things. As an assertion of, well, ownership. So that when they were out on a date, if they were out among the crew he hung out with, she had his anklet on and everyone knew it meant “private property.” So that even if she flirted and couldn’t help herself, the others knew better than to take it too far; she belonged to Donny.
At first it was just that: he hung with a fairly rough crowd at times, and it was for her own protection. Then it began to encroach on her relationship with Jeff.
The tattoo was the first thing that, in spite of all he’d endured, he really felt was over the line. Nothing too blatant or anything: just a tiny rose, with thorns, in red, just above her panty line where it would show when she wore low-slung jeans or one of those tiny spandex miniskirts—“flirt skirts” she called them. “Little Rose” was a nickname Donny had given her—a fairly obscure one, Jeff thought. Turned out he’d been raised in a religious household, she explained, and her name reminded him of “Rose of Sharon.” Cute. Well but a tattoo? Jeff said. I mean, what’s with that? Kind of permanent isn’t it? Well, yes, she replied. That was what made her hot about it. When he’d taken her to the place and told her he was giving her this as a gift. His mark on her, pretty much permanent. Took it to a level she hadn’t experienced. Something about it was just so hot. Permanent, yes, and her husband would see it when he went down on her and would know what it meant.
In fact, that was something that she needed to discuss with Jeff. Something Donny had kind of pressured her about. That there were certain… conditions he wanted to impose on her with respect to her husband. It fascinated him that Jeff was aware of her infidelities and he’d been pressuring her to make that more of a part of their relationship. It was kinky and fun, Donny thought. They both did. Though she was a little nervous about how Jeff would react to what Donny had been suggesting—that was why she’d been kind of reluctant to bring it up. Whether this might be sort of a game they might play. If he thought of it that way. Something they might do together. Rather than just tolerating her affair. She knew he liked it when she told him things—how that excited him when the mood was right, even though as a matter of protecting his own ego a lot of the time he had to act as if he didn’t know what was going on. She knew there was kind of a difficult dance he had to do about all this, that her infidelity both aroused him and shamed him and that these things were hard to extricate from each other. But really it was healthier to talk about this—something they hadn’t really done before. And it occurred to her that maybe it was something he needed to get a little more in touch with. This other side of himself.
At any rate, she said, the simple fact was that Donny had told her he didn’t necessarily like the fact that he was sharing her sex with another man, that he’d be happier if he knew they were using a condom when they were together as man and wife.
“Jeez, I don’t know, that’s a little intrusive isn’t it? Presumptuous?”
It was, she agreed, but that was part of this fascinating possessiveness, this special way Donny had with her. Kind of a cultural thing, she thought, a black thing. Being kind of macho about it, liking the feeling of power over a white man’s wife, and over the white man himself. Not totally serious, but not totally a game either.
Jeff didn’t exactly agree to this—the topic shifted to something else. But after that, when he and Sharon were together, and he was ready to couple with her, out came the little foil packet from her side table. “I’ll put it on you,” she said. “I like putting it on you.” Well yes. Because it was this little ritual, wasn’t it, of her relationship with her lover increasingly imposing itself in her relationship with her husband. For him to be all hard and erect as she put the thing on him was a kind of ritual acknowledgment, a kind of helpless surrender to the part of him that was excited by all this. His role—to use the term he’d been denying for two years—as Sharon’s cuckold.
It was a source of great excitement and pleasure for her, there was no denying that, and it was something of a revelation to him too. That, really, to please her was the key to his own pleasure and happiness. That this little ritual of sacrifice—letting her put the condom on him—was in fact deeply pleasurable even as it was something of a torment. “Look how erect you are!” she exclaimed, both of them knowing what a betrayal that was—his own cock betraying him.
It wasn’t the end, though, was it, to the giddy pleasure and giggling thrill of surrender to this. To her little comments, her little comparisons. That half-lidded look in her eyes as he fucked her with his condom on—a look of amusement, cruelty almost—portended more intense things to come, if only he knew it.

--Marks of Possession, 4--
His acceptance of the condom seemed to open something up. With her other affairs, she’d always been discreet. He knew what was going on, of course, but the details were not his business. She had affairs, that’s all, and it was his part to stay out of it. Now, with the condom, there was this intimate acknowledgment that part of him was excited by this; it couldn’t be disguised. And it fascinated her, his response—it was a matter of almost scientific curiosity. How he could be so aroused by something that was, after all, quite humiliating. Wasn’t that interesting? Didn’t he think so? That the pain and excitement could be so interwoven.
Which gave rise to these talks they began to have as a prelude to sex, these frank discussions centering on certain aspects of her lovemaking with Donny. It amused her that he couldn’t help being aroused by it. What they did together, the things they could do because his prick was so big. Why that was so exciting—the psychological thrill of it as well as the feeling. Being able to hold it in both hands, marvel at it. The idea of it—the superiority of it—“Why should that be so exciting to you, do you suppose? I mean, look at you, goodness!” On reflection, though, it was appropriate that her lover’s cock was something that her husband should be concerned with, interested in. Its size, and the nature of her excitement about that, as well as just the kinds of things that could be done with it—methods and positions one could explore that were not possible in the case of something more like what her husband had down there. Things that, ultimately, as his interest and tolerance for these discussions was brought along, could best be illustrated photographically. She was quite a talented photographer—a long-time hobby of hers. She had, just for her own pleasure and satisfaction, done a few studies of the object in question. Some black-and-whites that she thought were particularly good. Perhaps he’d care to see them. Even, if he liked, keep one or two with him. To consult, as it were, at need.
All of this didn’t happen instantly of course. It took a few weeks. Part of the terrible pleasure was the very slowness of it, the incremental approach. Knowing he was being brought along gradually, and seeing where things were going, yet not stopping it. That was the game. The terrible, exciting game.
That a husband should be interested in, or even fascinated by, his wife’s lover’s cock was not something she found at all surprising, she explained one afternoon. That he should find himself drawn to it, if it were a truly exceptional cock like Donny’s, was neither unexpected nor something he should try to deny or resist, in her view. Rather, such an interest should be encouraged, developed, explored. Life after all was full of transitions and transformations. As indeed she had just recently been discussing with Donny. How there was a natural progression of things, and sometimes true happiness, true contentment was really just a matter of perceiving that progression and doing what one could—or what one had to—to advance it, submit to it.
For instance, this matter of Jeff using a condom. Obviously there were better solutions than that, though he couldn’t be blamed for not perceiving them at first. And maybe it was too much to expect him to offer, spontaneously, what was surely the obvious next step. That really it would be a great gift and a natural way for him to show his devotion to her if they could agree, henceforth, that only Donny should have her in “that way.” Life was full of transitions and trade-offs, and it was appropriate that such a willing sacrifice on his part should be marked somehow, and that this thing he would be giving up would be replaced by something else. Which was in part why she had been working so hard with him, recently, on encouraging his interest in and solicitude toward her lover’s cock.
It was something she and Donny had been discussing. It was a major step, but hopefully not an entirely unexpected one. She had encouraged him to masturbate to the pictures of Donny’s cock—“Just as an experiment; just try it,” she had said. And with a kind of awful, sickening letting-go thrill he had done so a couple of times. His arousal, he admitted, had taken him by surprise, but she saw nothing to be surprised about. It was a beautiful and fascinating penis—why should he be immune to its attractiveness and allure? Men could be so funny about these things. Her thought was this: why not mark the occasion? To cede his conjugal rights to a superior cock was a beautiful thing, at once a perfectly natural and yet momentous event. What should be his reward, did he think? What could he do that would demonstrate his recognition, his appreciation, and also embark him on a new way of taking pleasure, a new source of gratification for his needs now that actual intercourse was not going to be an option? Perhaps he could give some thought to this. It would be nice, she felt, if she didn’t have to tell him, if he would just perceive the need and act accordingly.
Something he could do, perhaps something he had thought about as he masturbated to the pictures. The thought of what he might do—there was something that excited her very much. It would be the kind of thing that, once he’d done it, there’d be no going back, no denying he’d accepted Donny’s primacy in this aspect of their lives. The fact that he didn’t think of himself as gay only made it more fascinating, exciting and appropriate. She couldn’t wait to see him do it.
For Jeff, it was another one of those things where he got that terrible, tingling, floating feeling and couldn’t make himself say no even though what was proposed—if he understood her correctly—was a kind of ritual sacrifice of his male pride. It was precisely the fact that it was so drastic that made it so interesting to contemplate.

--Marks of Possession, 5--
Kneeling to Donny. Both of them—his wife and her lover—making soft, encouraging sounds. Soothing sounds. It was very emotional—he’d never felt so emotional during sex. Was that a tear rolling down his cheek, and was it one of gratitude, or sadness, or simply strain and nervous tension?
The benign confidence with which Donny asserted his possession of Sharon—it had been on display all evening. The first time the three of them had socialized together. Clearly what the two lovers had together was something very special. He wanted to be part of that. And it gave him a warm feeling that they wanted him to be part of it too. Reassuring that there was nothing to be overly scared about in this realignment of their lives. He had a role here, too, an important one. Sometime after the dinner and the drinks, they all felt comfortable together and Sharon finally addressed the subtext of the evening, the thing that he had almost managed to forget at times but then would come back with a tingling, terrifying rush of awareness and excitement.
The two of them had settled on the sofa and were being increasingly affectionate and playful as Jeff watched from his seat in the wing chair. Donny’s arm around her, little kisses, a hand on her thigh, sliding up under her skirt. Her nipples like little antennae, declaring her excitement through the stretchy blue tube top. Her hand slipping down as they lost themselves in a deeper kiss, teasing fingernail trails up to and away from the thickening bulge evident in the loose khakis, outlining the shape that began stretching impressively down his leg. Jeffrey staring at it, fascinated, letting himself go. Her eyes shifting over to him as she let one of those fingernail traces tickle its way up and over the thing itself. Now outlining it, now squeezing it. Looking at Jeff as she caressed the thing, her lips slightly parted. Donny leaning back, relaxing, offering the thing. Breaking her gaze with Jeff momentarily, she looked down at what she was doing: the languorous little complexities of unbuckling, unsnapping, unzipping. Now turning on her side to slide her hand in there and lifting her eyes again to Jeffrey, gazing at him past the gentle motions of her shoulder, the moving shape of her hand. Experienced motions as she shifted and adjusted things in there, moving the shape to a more comfortable, vertical position.
“Come closer,” she told Jeffrey softly. “Watch me.”
Jeffrey kneeling by the couch as she caressed her lover’s cock, her hand thrust to the wrist in his pants. Fondling and moving in there, then pulling back, moving up his belly to slide inside his undershorts. Donny grunting at the contact, beginning to breathe heavily. Kisses, deep ones, her eyes breaking contact, but then returning, wanting to share this with Jeff: her nostril-flaring, pupil-dilated, nipple-straining excitement as she did soft cooing exciting things inside the silk boxers. The wings of the trousers spread wide, shifting down her lover’s rhythmically rocking hips. Blue silk boxers, her hand disappearing into there, a moving shape under the material.
“Here, you help me honey,” she said, and he moved to comply as she pushed the trousers down, Jeff pulling down as she shifted the material off her lover’s hips. Boxers and khakis all coming off in a bundle, and the shock of the thing, the shock of it as it became visible, the thing he’d admired in the pictures now real before him. He felt himself very erect in his own briefs. Took reassurance at this. The excitement to which he must surrender.

“Isn’t it nice? Isn’t it beautiful? Look, honey. See? So pretty. So big. So hard,” Whispering things like that, exciting herself, Donny leaning back and groaning as she squeezed it, the head glossy with skin-tight excitement, swelling as she squeezed down at the base, her delicate white fingers around the stiff, heavy-looking shaft. “Closer,” she said. “Watch.” Her head descending, lips meeting the thing. Planting little delicate kisses, letting tongue tip lick along the length, down and up again. The head so smooth: kissing there, licking there, feeling the texture with soft lips and tongue. “See?” she said. “Now you.”
Bending it out toward him. The moment here, now. The tingling transition. Here. Offered.
Yet he remained frozen, unable to move.
“No?” she whispered. “Come on. It’s easy. I’ll show you.” Shifting around, holding it with her left hand, her right hand coming to the back of his head. Pointing it at him with her left hand, pushing him toward it with her right.
He felt weightless, like falling. Closed his eyes, felt her hand forcing him down. Sensed the warmth of it, first. Then the smooth, shocking contact against his lips.
Sharon’s little sigh. Satisfaction.
She held him there. Some amount of time passed. Just kneeling, eyes closed, with his lips pressed against the thing. Trying not to think, trying to ignore what he was feeling. The stiffness of it. Warm. Somehow rubbery and velvet soft at the same time. Pulsing, too, a live thing, clenching in a slow rhythm, flexing against his lips. In his own pants, his own organ fiercely, shamefully erect. And that smooth feeling down there—another shameful thing, a secret, what she’d made him wear, just at the last minute, as a reminder and an encouragement.
“Darling?”
“Mmmm,” he replied.
“I think you should kiss it, don’t you?”
Yes, he nodded, lips against the hot, throbbing thing. Part of him knew this was correct. Part of him knew that nothing in his life would be as exciting as surrendering to this, abjectly, willingly. And it was correct—his own throbbing erection assured him of this—to show proper respect, proper adulation to this massive, superior cock.
And while he thought these things, Sharon was whispering yes, yes darling, oh sweet, yes. Because he was doing it, actually. Letting his lips move along the thing. Kiss it. Little closed-mouth kisses.
Donny grunted. He felt another hand join Sharon’s on the back of his head.
To kiss the thing. To lick it. To fully accept this. To surrender utterly in this ritual of obeisance to her lover’s cock. Some part of him held aloof, witnessed what he was doing, shocked and appalled, even as he felt the slow crumble and dissolve of his resistance.
“That’s nice, isn’t it,” she whispered. “See how nice it is?”
The warm rush of her approval. He busied himself at his task, here. Experiencing the full length of the thing, sliding his lips wetly along the length of it, his job right now to demonstrate appreciation of its length.
Opening his eyes to look into hers, just inches away. Questioning her with his eyes: Is this right? Is this right?
“Oh yes,” she assured him. “Oh that’s so sweet, darling, yes. Kiss his cock for me. Lick it.”
“Uuunnnn,” he moaned, muffled against the cock.
“Will you do that for me? Lick it for me. So sweet.”
She held it out for him, and gazing trustingly into her eyes, he did as she asked. Let her see his tongue peep out and tentatively touch the shaft. Then he felt the dizzying thrill of surrender again and let his tongue all the way out, Slid it wetly, obscenely along the shaft
“Yeeeessssss,” she breathed.
Tonguing it, lapping at it. The thing rigid, powerful, deserving of this. She offered it to him and he was grateful, now, grateful. The slow-throbbing shaft, smooth and long. The head—smooth and taut. She was laughing now, giggling giddily. “Baby, oh. Oh yeah, Look at you, my god.” And Donny, hand firm on the back of his head, beginning to grunt and thrust at him.
It wasn’t just about pleasuring the thing, it was about worship, obeisance, fealty, submission. And part of him hated that, which is why—to prove the point, as it were—the other part of him made a little helpless moan and, gazing into Sharon’s eyes, open his lips around the head of the thing and slide down on it.
Happily, willingly, on his own.
“God,” she whispered, her eyes bright and avid. “Look at you, my god.”
Now sliding up and down, losing himself in it. Difficult, the thing huge, bulging into him. His own breath panting and choking, hard to breathe around it, and his erection flexing insistently in the slippery stretchy panties she’d had him wear, as a reminder, a mark of alteration.
“Mmmmgggg!” he moaned. “Unnnnggh! Ggggnnngg!” Wanting it now, the full, abject surrender of it.
“Cocksucker,” she whispered. “Look at you. Little cocksucker? Yes? Is that nice? Do you like doing that?”
Yes, he nodded, lips stretched wide around the thing, and that’s when Donny made a furious sound and began thrusting hard, the thing becoming supremely rigid. And they all sensed the onset of his orgasm, that highest good toward which all three of them were laboring. And Sharon, panting with excitement, said “Just hold it, hold still, let me do it.” And she began sliding the ring of her fingers up and down in short little strokes along the shaft. And he knelt patiently, the head in his mouth, feeling the skin between his lips go taut and relax, taut and relax. Donny’s hips gone rigid, trembling in locked-muscle tension. Her fingers light and rapid, her breath panting with excitement and the small effort of what she was doing, a little Ooh, ooh, ooh, oh, look, oh…
And Donny groaned, AAAaaaahhhh… And thrust up, once, hard. And then Ah, ah, ah ah ah, and it was spurting spurting spurting, hot spurts jetting out, and Sharon loving him for this, loving him so deeply for it, the look unmistakable in her eyes as she gazed into his and stroked the thing into him.
She was different with him after that. She’d always been relatively private about her affairs before, but now she seemed to enjoy involving him in what she was doing, almost as much as she enjoyed the affair itself.