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From: Night Writer <night_writer99@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Persephone in Winter - Chapter 8 (Wife, cheat?, MDom, Fsub) Night Writer
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Date: Sun, 08 Apr 2007 12:10:02 -0400
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                         Persephone in Winter
                            by Night Writer


                               Chapter 8


They sat facing each other in a room unfamiliar to her.  He had led her
past the library to the back of the house where bright lights no longer
spilled through the towering windows.  It was a room of secrets, dark
and quiet, lit only by shrinking tongues of flame and dying embers
sputtering in a nearby hearth.  She thought it smelled of man-smells,
of leather, tobacco, and the charred wood of a campfire.

For a brief minute, just after he took her hand, led her through the
door, and then closed it, she felt as though she was transported back
in time - she in her elegant gown, he in his perfectly tailored jacket,
standing together, awash in flickering sienna.  Now she felt so small,
barely able to reach the armrests of the wide leather chair.  Sitting
forced the open front of the dress higher, nearly to her navel,
exposing everything below it - the soft pillow of her lower belly, her
naked thighs pressing into the leather of the seat cushion, and the
pouting, freshly shaved cleft between them, glistening at its center
with a hint of expectation.  She knew by his smile that he approved.

He moved forward in his chair, edging closer to a small, round table
that stood between them.  Lifting an oddly square bottle, he turned
the peeling label toward the fire to read its faded letters.  She
watched quietly as he poured an inch of emerald liquor into each of two
heavy crystal goblets.  The liquid seemed to glow and sparkle through
the many angled facets of glass.  She grew more curious when he
balanced a long, slotted spoon across the top of one of the glasses,
then lifted a single cube of sugar from a small porcelain bowl,
centering it on the spoon.  After preparing the second glass in exactly
the same way, he placed it beneath the narrow spigot of a silver tureen
which stood atop a tiny but steady flame, warming its contents to just
above body temperature.

"And the third angel sounded, and a great star, burning like a lamp,
fell from Heaven, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers and
fountains of water; and the name of the star is called Absinthe."

He hadn't looked up from his work, and his voice, suddenly so loud and
at the same time somber, startled her.  Not knowing whether he expected
an answer from her, she sat without a word, eyes now wide and glassy in
the firelight.

He stopped and looked up across the table at her, pausing a second
between her legs before meeting her nervous stare.

"La Fe Verte. The green fairy. Such a contradiction - once so
prized, then so despised - how can such a simple thing be weighed in
such extremes of human desire and aversion? It's only a drink, after
all. Have you tried it? Absinthe?"

She had heard the word, but knew little of it.

"No," she replied, just louder than a whisper.

As he eased the spigot open, warm droplets of water fell, one by one,
onto the cube of sugar, then after wetting it to the core, dripped
steadily into the waiting glass.  Like some sort of strange alchemy,
the green liquid changed slowly to a murky, opaline yellow before her
eyes.

"Aside from 'visions borne of the loins of angels', it's said that the
ritual of preparation is much of the seduction of absinthe.  I believe
you know something of the seduction of ritual, don't you my dear?"

"I - I never thought of this as a ritual, Simon."

"But of course it is - a ritual to be played out, then dismissed until
whatever brings you back to me laps at your little cunt once again."

"So, I'm nothing more than a slave to this 'ritual', as you put it?  My
only true existence is here with you, bridged by week after empty week
of waiting anxiously for your cock inside me again?  I'm much more than
that, Simon.  As sure as you are of me, you've dismissed my strengths -
my capacity to love my husband, and much of what I am."

She expected some sort of retaliation - a scathing look, or words laced
with enough sarcasm to put her in her place.  Instead, he concentrated
quietly on his work, waiting patiently until a second cube of sugar
completely dissolved into the remaining glass. Then, with a slight
flourish, he added an equal amount of cognac to each goblet, topped off
with a bit more warm water, and extended a glass toward her.  She edged
forward to take it, the heat from the fire on her bare thighs reminding
her to keep them open for him as he moved closer.

"A toast - to a young wife's strengths - and to the green fairy, with
strengths of her own."

The drink burned her throat, leaving behind a slightly bitter
aftertaste.  She struggled to keep pace with his own progress, emptying
half her glass in just minutes.  As it warmed her from the inside out,
she opened her legs wider and moved forward in her chair, a gesture
made to assure him that her naked cunt was completely, shamelessly,
his, and to show how eager she was to have him use her body in some
new, perverse way.

"So, shall we talk a bit about the strengths you seem so proud of
tonight?"

His voice hinted at mischief instead of the sarcasm she had expected,
his smile as warm and genuine as her husband's might have been. She
felt her defenses melt away and a sudden gush flow from between her
legs.

"Tell me, what do you tell your husband when he asks what we do here?
Where is this inner strength each time he asks why you return, so
desperate to be fucked by another man?  How does this infinite capacity
to love your husband serve you when he looks deep into the eyes of his
sweet wife as another man's semen leaks slowly from the depths of her
belly?  Does he see it, this strength of yours?  Or is it regret, pity,
or even depraved lust that looks back at him?"

"I've told you before, Simon.  I tell him as little as possible.
There's no need to make him suffer, no need to punish him more than I
must each time I ask him to bring me here."

He studied her expression as she spoke, examining the smallest of
gestures, searching for truth in the arch of a brow, or the corners
of her mouth where full lips met to reveal fleeting glimpses of those
things she tried hardest to conceal.  Now no longer comforted by his
sympathetic smile, she clung in vain to her strength as it slowly
slipped away, her resistance broken, her pride violated by his knowing
grin.

"You speak of your husband's punishment.  What of yours?"

"Mine? Mine is seeing the pain in his eyes when I return to him.  Mine
is knowing what he thinks of me, and knowing no matter how I try to
prove my love for him, that he questions it when I take him inside me,
even as I whisper his name over and over when I cum. As painful as it
is, at times I feel I deserve much worse."

"And what might the proper punishment be for a wife that cheats not
just once, but openly and regularly sluts before her loving husband's
eyes?"

She sipped the remainder of her drink slowly, using the time to think,
knowing a certain answer was expected of her.  The taste of the warm
liquid seemed less bitter now, and she scarcely noticed as much of what
she was began to slip easily away into Simon's confident grasp.

He knew her answer would not come easily, and he took pleasure in
watching her labor to invent a suitable punishment that was sure to
please him.  He went to work creating a second set of drinks,
pretending to be absorbed completely in repeating the ritual, one much
like the one she fought to deny.

But still she sat quietly, afraid any punishment she might devise would
be impossible to bear, yet not severe enough to satisfy him.  So she
waited, with cuntlips pulsing and wet, until she took the second glass
from his hand and drank.  He sipped his glass, while she drained hers
in long, deliberate portions, all the while feeling his eyes on her,
watching him devour her body from mouth to cunt as a predator studies
its prey before feasting.  Suddenly, all defenses, pride, modesty, and
shame melted away in a single swift rush.  The need to offer herself
totally, to become nothing more than an object used for the carnal
whims of anyone who might want her, became so overwhelming, that she
trembled as though balanced on the brink of a terrifying abyss.  Her
nipples hardened urgently against the fabric of the dress, and her
hands found the insides of her spread thighs, stroking the smooth flesh
as near to her naked cunt as she dare go without his permission.

He rose and went to her, cupped her chin in his large hand, and tilted
her face up to meet gaze.  He waited a full minute, savoring each
tremor of her body, each second of lust and indecision helplessly
revealed in her wide eyes.  When she didn't answer, he answered for
her.

"Might I offer a deserving punishment, one guaranteed not to leave you
wanting?"

His words seemed so distant, his hand so hot - almost electric -
against her face.  Whatever punishment he offered was something she
would gladly take from him, fearlessly, even greedily, if it was to
become the key that would unlock his every expectation.

And then, somehow, she was on her feet, walking beside him, her hand
wrapped in his, the urgency to give herself to him never fading.  As he
led her into the darkness at the back of the room, a soft amber light
began to glow overhead, revealing the framework of an imposing
structure, until then hidden in obscurity behind her chair.  The
scaffold was made of polished mahogany beams, a foot thick from floor
to ceiling.  They rose from a large matching base, raised a foot off
the floor, with a short step in front.  As they climbed the single step
together, she struggled to make some sense of their destination's
purpose.  The precise fit of the intricately carved trim and the
flawless sheen of its finish brought a surprising image to her mind -
that of a pulpit, where a clergyman might go about the task of
unburdening those with impure thoughts and deeds.  She shivered,
ashamed of the bizarre association, but within seconds the absinthe
shuttled her thoughts elsewhere and the image was lost, forgotten in
less time than it had taken to form.

She offered up each arm, one at a time, as he fastened her wrists in
heavy loops of cloth attached to the inside of each vertical beam.  Her
heart pounded as hidden ratchets within the beams stretched her upward
until only the balls of her feet touched the smooth mahogany floor.  He
stood before her, a foot away, admiring her body, letting her know with
words graphic enough to make her twist slightly, impatiently, against
her bonds.  As he spoke, he unfastened each of the four catches down
the front of her dress, letting it fall to the floor after the last was
opened.  She knew what he saw would excite him - her body hanging naked
before him, the light from the fire flickering over her satin skin.
She opened her legs shamelessly, unconsciously setting her hips
forward, writhing with lust for him, but completely helpless to find
relief until he wished to give it.

After disappearing into the shadows, he appeared before her again
stripped to the waist, his bronze chest gleaming high and firm above
the sinews of his flat, chiseled stomach.  In his hand he carried short
length of bamboo, no thicker than a pencil, a yard from end to end.
Careful not to brandish it as a weapon, he held it low against the side
of his thigh as he approached, allowing her to feast her eyes on his
bare torso, then, as he knew she would, lower her eyes to the swollen
rope of flesh straining at the front of his slacks.

She gasped when he brought the end of the stick close to her breast,
then again, repeatedly, as he moved it slowly back and forth over the
puckering nipple.  A short, sudden tap across her breast made her cry
out in surprise - a second more forceful strike brought a louder squeal
of pain.

"Please Simon - not this - you're scaring me!" she pleaded.  He
responded with repeated blows, each slightly more forceful than the
last, each making the darkened room ring with her shrill response.  The
bamboo fell across her breasts again and again until they were fiery
with heat and pain, until finally tears swelled along the lower lids of
her eyes, then spilled over both cheeks.

Just when she began to sob openly, he stopped.  Then his hands were on
her, cool lotion beneath them soothing the nagging burning, caressing
the tender nipples back to life with expert care.  He fondled her
lovingly, cupping the firm meat of her breasts with hands both strong
and forgiving, until the fire in her belly began to grow again, her
cunt again seeping with desire.  She had been terrified, but she had
taken his punishment, and now, puzzling as it seemed, she welcomed it.
In some small way, she had paid a price for what she had become, and at
the same time shed a burden that followed her here.  And now his hands
were welcome and comforting as he stroked her so intimately - those
beautiful, strong hands that took her in ways no other man could.

"I love you, Simon," she uttered in her smallest voice.

In an instant, he backed away, scowling as though she had intentionally
hurled the most obscene of insults at him.  Seconds later the bamboo
slashed across her stomach, sending a searing bolt of pain through her
body. She screamed and pulled back from him as far as the bonds would
allow, her mind a slurry of absinthe and agony.  Again and again the
slim crop whipped across her belly, doubling her over as she shrieked
in pain.

"How can you love me?" he snarled as she hung limply from the scaffold.
"You love your husband, remember?  Or do you?  Where are those
strengths now that you're so proud of, so sure of?  Gone!  So quickly!
So easily! So confident that you know yourself, that you understand
what you are! The faithful wife, the perfect lady, always so certain
they're more a part of you than the drooling harlot inside, screaming
to escape. You deny it, lie about it, every minute of every day,
totally convinced you're in complete control. And when you discover
that the control is an illusion, and that the illusion can't
possibly be sustained, what do you do? What? You seek out a phantom
to host your demons - a phantom with cock big enough and hard enough to
chase your demons into the shadows until they come clawing at you
again!"

He paced before her as he ranted, spitting the words at her as she hid
behind a curtain of tears.

"Look at me! Don't look away! Look at me!!!"

He took two long steps toward her and took her chin in his hand,
turning her face roughly to meet his piercing stare.

"You're a whore in a pretty wrapper - just like everyone else.  It's
time you admit it!  It's time to confess - to me, to your husband, and
to yourself!"

He waited, staring into her bloodshot eyes, his torso now etched with
lines of tensioned muscle glistening in the soft light as rivulets of
sweat trickled over him.

Suddenly, she could see herself as though she was watching from across
the room.  The curves of her body glowed with the color of firelight -
breasts, thighs, belly, all smoldered with a lust that demanded, then
raged for its existence outside the prison she had built for it.  It no
longer made sense to contain it, to block its escape with more guilt
and pain.

"W-whore..." she whispered.  "Yes - whore.  A pretty whore..."

He took her face gently in both hands and beamed at her.

"Yes, a very pretty whore," he answered.

He moved closer, between her legs, and she opened them for him eagerly.
When she looked down, she found he was naked, but only wondered for a
second when and how.  Then, as he held her in his arms, she felt the
warm fullness of his cock slide inside her, not pausing for an instant
at her slick, gaping entrance.  He fucked her slowly, just as she liked
it, never retreating far enough to empty her, but always filling her
completely with each precise, powerful stroke.  When she closed her
eyes, images of men formed in front of her - men from her past, and men
she didn't yet know.  They waited impatiently in line, erections
jutting forward, swollen and throbbing, driven to near frenzy by her
promise to service each and every one.  Then his lips touched her
neck, opened, and sucked, while the line of men behind Simon looked on
restlessly, stretching endlessly back into the darkness.

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