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Message-ID: <34300asstr$1009426208@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: februarywife@hotmail.com (Wifey)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 27 Dec 2001 00:42:00 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Behind The Scenes of Raping Michael (MF-- refs to BD, Fdom, Ff, Mdom, NC, rape)
Date: Wed, 26 Dec 2001 23:10:08 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

This story contains MF.  The links included regarding my original
stories contain Fdom, Mdom, nc, rape, Ff, BD, anal, and some reference
to Mm.


Behind The Scenes of "Raping Michael"
by Wifey c2001
email:  februarywife@hotmail.com


**
I originally wrote the story because I was jealous.

Thanksgiving Day, and I was grateful for the football game that would
keep him occupied for a few hours, freeing me to start working on my
Christmas lists.  Michael happened to leave his computer running on my
dock with an Internet browser open, and I decided to take that
opportunity to snoop.  Peeking at his bookmarks could give me some
insight on what to get him for Christmas-- plus, I just might discover
the online purchase I knew he had made for me a week before.

At first, when I saw ASSTR on his Explorer history, I was confused. 
He's so logical, so pragmatic...why would he visit an astrology site? 
So I clicked on the link, and behold-- erotic stories.  At first I
felt angry, not betrayed exactly, but I started to think about all the
evenings he worked late...had he really been getting off on this stuff
instead?  Did he lock himself up in his office and read while I waited
alone for him in bed?

But then, as I followed the links he had visited, I became more and
more intrigued.  And fascinated.  And turned on.

Michael and I had both played at dominant roles in previous
relationships, each of us making some significant investments in that
lifestyle in years past.  But as everyone knows, B&D scenes can be
fraught with emotional peril and power-plays.  I had given it up
because the choices became too painful, the distinctions were blurred
and I stopped trusting myself.  For Michael, the act was becoming
almost out of control, and he walked away from it because he felt it
was no longer a fun and sexy game but an unhealthy addiction.

Or, at least, he tried to walk away.  But it was obvious to me, from
looking at his links, that the desire was still there.  And like it or
not, I still craved it too.

We're newlyweds.  We rarely argue, we speak openly and respectfully,
he still helps with housework, etc.  Michael is an attorney, and I
understand his necessity for late nights, for reading until dawn
sometimes when preparing for trial.  And I like that he has an office
in our home and doesn't work at the firm til all hours.  Still, it
irks me sometimes when I can't get my new husband to join me in bed,
when I feel needy and he's preoccupied with work.

But to discover that he's not always working, that I toss and turn
while he's masturbating to erotic fiction...the idea infuriated me at
first, made me feel rejected and vicious and insecure.  I considered
confronting him by leaving all his bookmarks open, or bursting into
his office some late night after he thought I was asleep in an attempt
to catch him in the act.  I considered silent revenge-- hiding the tv
controller or just one golf shoe from his best pair.  I considered all
sorts of nasty things before I recognized how neurotic it was, how
petty and distasteful to punish my husband simply for masturbating. 
After all, I reasoned, he isn't my sub.

And then I considered writing a story.  

It seemed perfect.  Other than 'fessing up about the general nature of
our sexual pasts, Michael and I had never discussed in detail our B&D
experiences.  We had deliberately agreed not to disclose them, in
fact-- we were both starting over when we got involved and decided
that, for this particular chapter of our independent histories,
ignorance was bliss.

But if I wrote a story, and could somehow get him to read it, I could
divulge to him some of my fantasies without breaking the rules.  And
let him know I was onto him.  And get him to come to bed on time.

The plot poured forth easily, a year's worth of oppressed fantasy
typed itself out that night.

"I'm working", I said, when Michael asked what I was doing.  I
littered my story with clues, knowing if he saw it he would have to
suspect his wife as the author.  At the end, I left one little line,
an inside joke, just to haunt him.  I applied for an author account,
and started formatting.

Then, thanks to Titmouse's fabulous step-by-step instructions, I FTP'd
my file.  And I left it here:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/raping_michael/www/rapingmichael.html

A week went by.  I made sure that I had things to do in the evenings,
worked a little late, did some shopping, went out with the girls. I
was tense, wondering what his reaction would be when he read it. 
Michael is a very masculine man, and even though he's incredibly
liberal and open-minded, I knew my reference to hiring a man to
sodomize him would fuel a strong reaction.

Out of the blue one night, he shook me awake, asking if I had "written
anything lately".

"My Christmas letters, you mean?" I asked innocently.  

"No, a story," he said, his voice quiet and serious in the dark.  It
was 2am, I was sleepy and he couldn't really see my face.  It was easy
for me to fuck with him.

"Like gossip?" I asked.  He sighed, said no, and started kissing me. 
We made love that night, his love-making more urgent and aggressive
than usual, and we fell asleep without talking afterward.  I felt a
little disappointed that he hadn't pressed me more on the issue.
 
The next morning I asked him about his question casually, but he just
shrugged it off.  A day later I found him on my computer, but since I
had composed the story in Hotmail and deleted all my text files after
FTPing them, I knew he'd never find anything.

Unlike my husband, I *always* delete my cache at the end of each
session.

Michael said nothing more about the story, though I knew he was
suspicious.  I imagined him re-reading it, asking himself it if could
possibly be me.  In retrospect, it wasn't writing the story that
baffled him...it was the idea that I would take the time and effort to
publicize such a thing that he couldn't work his mind around.

So a few days later, I added a second chapter, this time making it
absolutely obvious.  My "clues" were blatant references to our
domestic life, and the descriptions of ourselves were too accurate for
him to deny.  I posted it here, and waited:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/raping_michael/www/michaelpart2.html

Immediately after I uploaded the story, I ordered an outfit for
myself.  I loved going online and looking at all the possibilities,
and loved imagining his reactions to them. Ultimately, I found the
perfect black corset, lace-up thigh-high boots, and black gloves.

In my mind's eye, I had it all planned out:  Michael would find my
story on ASSTR, confront me, I'd tell him to hold on a minute because
I had to go to the bathroom...and I'd change into the outfit, which
I'd stash before-hand in my bathroom closet.  Then I would make a
grand entrance back into our bedroom, completely decked out in my new
Domme gear, confirming all his suspicions in one spectacular moment.

And I'd be a bitch to him, make him call me "Mistress", make him
apologize for beating off when he said he was working late.  Just
fantasizing about that moment inspired me to countless orgasms.  A few
days later, my outfit had arrived via UPS-- but my gloves were on
back-order.

Fuck.

The days crept by and I waited, anxious and aroused.  I started
worrying that he wouldn't see it...I was acutely aware that new
stories only show up in the new story archive for seven days, and I
was running out of time.  I sent an inquiry off to the newsgroup to
see if I had done something wrong, possibly posted to the wrong site.

But that same evening, I came home loaded with Christmas gifts,
exhausted from shopping, and found Michael naked on the couch.  Our
eyes met the moment I walked through the front door, and I instantly
knew that *he* knew.

Michael, a 35-year-old former rugby player, is the strongest man I've
ever known.  Mentally, physically, emotionally...everything about him
is virile and powerful and alive.   Seeing him ready for me like that
made me quake inside.  I felt taken aback, unprepared, and vastly
intimidated.

"I have to, umm, go to the bathroom," I said, stilted, because my
mouth was dry.

He smiled, eyebrows raised, mocking me.

"For these?" he asked, suddenly throwing my new thigh-high boots
across the room.  They landed with a soft thud on the carpet in front
of me.  I was speechless.  Michael *never* goes into my bathroom
closet.

He advanced on me as I watched, his cock full and erect, his big hands
gripping my shoulders as I dropped shopping bags all over the place. 
He pulled off my coat and started to undress me, roughly, and then he
grabbed my face and demanded to know if I was threatening him.

"No, I just-"

"Because you better think twice before you hire some guy to fuck me in
the ass."  Michael's eyes were menacing, dangerous, and it wasn't
until I heard the sound of my blouse ripping open that I started to
react.

"Don't you DARE" I warned, my anger rising, all the emotions of the
first ASSTR discovery hitting me simultaneously.

He kissed me hard, bending me almost backwards in his arms, and I
teetered for a moment before fighting back.  Michael cussed as I raked
my nails across his shoulders, and he lurched back, nearly dropping
me, as I tried to knee him in the balls.  I immediately found myself
face-down on the floor as he yanked up my skirt.

Panting, enraged, I turned my head to bite at him, but it only earned
me a healthy slap on the ass.

"Stop", I called out.  I couldn't handle it, not like this. "It was
only a story."

He hesitated for a long moment before turning me over and helping me
up.  Michael was breathing hard, his eyes glazed over in a way I
understood, a symptom of emotions I remembered all too well.  I
recognized the self-control it took for him to stand back in the heat
of this, and as I removed my winter boots and stepped shakily into my
new thigh-highs, I felt a little wistful knowing that from this moment
forward, nothing would ever be quite the same.  To my suprise, he
knelt before me and began to lace them up.

"Did you like it, my sweet bitch?" I asked, finding courage at the
bottom of those boots, flushed with power and lust to see my beautiful
husband naked and kneeling at my feet.  Michael knew I meant the
stories.

He chuckled then, not playing, refusing to submit.  "I don't know," he
told me, rising.  "You haven't written the ending yet."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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