The man was naked, sweating, red-faced. His hands were cuffed behind his back as he knelt in front of a woman, his face between her spread thighs. She was wearing a black bustier, opaque black thigh-highs, a tiny sheer black thong, and spike heels. He was licking the front of her crotch, pushing his tongue against the nylon to pleasure the swollen clit within. As the camera came closer, there was a glint of gold, apparently from a piercing in the woman’s clit. The only sound was the man’s labored breathing and the licking of tongue against fabric. Then the woman said, “See, even a faggot can learn to lick a pussy.” The sound on the computer was turned way down, but Brandon was listening carefully as he stared, fixated, at the scene. His right hand held his pink and purple, stiff cock. He always turned the sound down, even when he was alone in the house as he was now. Alana would not be home for another hour. As the man’s tongue licked the wet, warm, black fabric, Brandon was imagining himself into the scene. He could actually feel on his own tongue the warm, tangy pussy juice, and his shaft was already throbbing, he was entering the ecstatic phase when the orgasm is just about to start… Just then, a sound caused him to turn and look over his shoulder. His heart pounded. He shouted, “Oh shit!” He knew that his life would be changed forever. It was Brandon Smith’s worst nightmare, and it had happened. At the door of his home office stood Alana, staring in disbelief at what she saw. Deep in his mind had been the lurking certainty that some day, some distant day, his collection of downloaded pornography would someday be discovered. He kept it on a set of external hard drives. As each one filled up, he disconnected it from the USB port on his computer and put it in a special place with the others in his small home office. It’s not that his tastes were especially unusual, he thought. Mostly the videos he downloaded were of pretty women making love with other pretty women, but sometimes there were groups—two men with one woman, two women with one man. More recently, out of curiosity, he had subscribed to a site where very beautiful dominant women would tie up men and treat them roughly before allowing them to have an orgasm. The exquisite torment of the teasing, the bondage, the combination of sexy tenderness and brutal humiliation was something totally new to him. It aroused him in a way he found difficult to describe. These videos were the ones he wanted most of all to keep secret. Secret from whom? Well, obviously from his pretty, intelligent, and loving wife Alana. They shared everything. They were soul mates as well as lovers. Since their marriage three years before, Brandon had never been happier. Their conversations, their disagreements, their shared arrangements for cooking, cleaning, gardening their small property, their very physical and uninhibited lovemaking—everything was good! But, as Brandon felt sure, each had some little place of secrets, innocuous secrets. Still, without feeling guilty, he did feel a twinge of shame, especially about the bondage videos. He had subscribed for three months, and already he knew that he would not renew the subscription. Enough almanbahis şikayet was enough. It made him hard to watch, it thrilled some part of him that was sensitive to shame, the part that his Catholic boyhood had shaped to feel that the best sex was the most nasty, mortally sinful, forbidden, and loaded with punishment. As he grasped his shriveling cock in his ice-cold hand, he watched his wife walk towards him in her blue and white halter-top sundress, her sandals clicking on the vinyl floor tiles, her natural light blond hair brushing her bare tanned shoulders. Too late he realized that the video was still running, and now, on the screen, in full color, the woman had pulled the thong to one side so that her slave could lick her flesh directly. Her dark-pink and tan labia glistened wide open and now there was a big close up on the gold ring in her clit, wet with saliva and pussy juice. Alana stared at the screen and exclaimed loudly, “Pure filth! Pure filth is what you’re watching. You’re sick, Brandon! I feel sorry for you!” She turned and ran out of the room, her steps loud on the stairs down to the first floor. His hands were shaking as he pulled up his briefs, zipped his jeans, and tried to buckle his belt. By the time he got downstairs, Alana had disappeared. He got himself a beer from the fridge. When she returned, several hours later, he was completely drunk. Without even looking at him, Alana went up to his office. He heard her opening and closing drawers. She came down, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. Brandon heard the latch being locked from inside. When he woke up in the guest bedroom next morning, still fully clothed, he went to his office. As he feared, all the hard drives had disappeared. Alana, who knew the master password for the computer, had apparently changed it. He couldn’t log on at all. Hearing Alana down in the kitchen, he went down, feeling defeated, ashamed, and full of foreboding. It looked as if Alana hadn’t slept well at all. Her eyes were red—she’d been crying—and her hair disheveled. She looked at him without saying anything while he poured himself a coffee. “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what to say. Whatever you want, I’ll do. I just want it to be like before.” “Like before? No, absolutely not!” she said. “It has got to be different, got to be better. You’re not going off to jerk yourself behind my back, looking at that porn. I’ll think of a way to cure you. It will take a while, but I’ll find a way.” “It’s not like I’m the only man in America who watches porn. We have a great sex life, so porn hasn’t harmed us at all.” “The stuff you were watching yesterday was, was… just unimaginable. I’ve been through your collection, and some of it is pretty mild—all those girls with girls—but that bondage porn… that’s just sick.” “I’ve only watched a little, Alana, and lots of men do like it. I was just checking it out…” “Checking it out for three months, according to the subscription information. I’ve been through your computer, I know all about it. And, by the way, I’ve changed all the passwords. You’re cut off from your drug.” “But if I’m sick, as you say, I need help. I’ll get help.” “I’ve had a sleepless night almanbahis canlı casino to think about it, Brandon. In a few days I’ll have a plan. Meanwhile, you can keep sleeping in the guest room. And, by the way, I’m not so much angry as sad. Judging from the video, you’d like me to be angry. But I’m sad, and I’ll find a way to love you again, somehow.” He knew that once Alana had conceived a project, there was no stopping her. She was self-confident and independent. She liked solving problems. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do.” “Yes, Brandon, I know you will. I’m going to take a few days of personal leave to work on this. You’ll be at the firm, so we won’t have to interact much.” In the next few days, every time that Brandon came home from work there seemed to be new cartons of things delivered by UPS or FedEx. He helped Alana by taking them down to the basement, to a large unfinished area that they were thinking of making into a recreation/exercise room. Then there was a batch of rubber mats, the kinds he’d seen in gyms in the weight area. Alana had him set them on the basement floor so that they formed a kind of industrial carpet. But the biggest shock was on Thursday. Alana had resumed work downtown that day, and when she got home, the beautiful, long blond hair that he so loved was gone! Vanished! All that remained was blond fuzz on the sides and back of her head, and on the top some tresses long enough to comb. “Surprised? Get used to it! You have more surprises coming.” Alana’s whole tone had changed. She was more assertive, dominant even, and she was smiling with a secret that she was keeping from him. Alana had spent most of her days that week at her computer in her study. Brandon tried to guess what she might be doing, and most of all he feared that she was going through all the hard drives she had found in his drawer. She asked him–no, she told him–to paint the basement room walls with flat black paint. He complied, of course, repentant as he was and hoping that she would once more smile at him as she always had in the past. The smile did not appear, but once he had finished the painting, working evenings after he came home from his office, he was told to mount a large flat-screen television on one wall. It was a used unit, he found, when he took it out of the carton. Alana must have gotten a good deal on eBay. After he installed the television, Alana locked the door of the room. By then it was Friday evening. In the past, when life in the house was normal, he would return from his firm to be greeted by Alana, in a pretty dress or nice jeans, ready for a good cool drink, before a tasty simple meal, then a film in their bedroom and then…Well, it was just too sad to think about that now. Alana did greet him at the front door, that was about the only “normal” thing. There she was, her hair shorn, and wearing sweat pants, an old t-shirt, and no make up. Without a smile, she told him that she was now ready to begin. “It’s going to be a long process, but if you want to have any chance at a healthy marriage, you had better comply.” “Anything, Alana honey. This cold shoulder business, I can’t stand it anymore. Sleeping alone, coming almanbahis casino downstairs in the morning to see you staring daggers at me…” “Brandon, one of the many things you don’t get–and there are many–is that everything I am doing is out of love for you. To rescue our relationship. As I said, I’m more sad than angry, but however difficult the process is, I am resolved to carry it through.” This did not reassure Brandon. In fact, it was so ominous that his hands were cold and clammy. “Downstairs,” she ordered. He walked ahead, Alana at some distance behind. He could smell the paint from the now black room and the rubber from the new mats on the floor. Down to the basement, to the left, he was standing in front of the locked door. On it were now painted in large red letters in runny paint, “Space of Infinite Night.” There she told him to stop and to strip. He complied. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she held in her hand a pair of handcuffs. With two clicks, his hands were fastened behind his back. She opened the door, pushed him inside, and then closed the door. He could hear her steps going up to the main floor, while he stood in the dark. Gradually, he was able to perceive the only tiny light in the room, the red button that showed that the flat-screen unit was on standby and ready to be turned on. He didn’t know how long he was there. Maybe the whole process was simply a variant of the old primary school punishment of standing in the classroom corner, facing the wall for an hour. If that was it, it wasn’t going to be so bad. But then he heard someone coming down the stairs. Alana, of course, but her steps were slower than when she had gone up, and there was something different about the sound. The door opened and then closed, and suddenly the dark was penetrated with a sultry, musky, intense scent, a scent so strong and unequivocally sexual that Brandon felt his penis stiffen. On the rubber-mat floor he couldn’t hear Alana’s footsteps, but he felt her hand on his back as she pushed him further into the room. He stumbled and fell on his knees. Fortunately the floor was now padded. When the light when on, it blinded him, although really there were only two bare bulbs in the ceiling. He heard a rustle behind his back and then he saw … he saw someone, a woman walk into his line of vision. It wasn’t Alana. That was the shocking thing! That she would involve a stranger in this business. It was a model or a hooker, wearing spike heels, sheer black stockings, a garter belt, a leather bustier… But when he looked at her face, it was Alana! Except that it couldn’t be! With all that dark, metallic eye shadow, the eyeliner, the bright red lipstick, what remained of her blond hair gelled and sticking up in golden spikes! “Alana, honey!” “Don’t honey me! And forget Alana, your heteronormative, traditional wife. Here I’m Artemesia. Do you know what ‘Artemesia’ means?” No, he admitted, but he said it was a pretty name. She laughed at his ignorance. “It means ‘wormwood’ and that’s bitter as it gets. So I’m Artemesia now, but you’re still pathetic, sick, wanking Brandon. And you are going to get the shock treatment you need. You are going to let go of all that you once thought was your everyday life, your normal life–you called it normal to go up to your study and sit there in the dark watching that mind-warping filth hour after hour….” “No, Alana…I mean, Artemesia, it wasn’t so many hours…” “Shut up! Don’t pretend.