The Contract on the Envelope - Ch. 01

The Contract On The Envelope

Tags:

BDSM, female submissive, cheating wife, slave, reconciliation, oral sex, anal sex

Author's Note:

I am publishing this chapter and all other chapters in Loving Wives because infidelity and the subsequent reconciliation are the central themes of the story, but many chapters could have been published in Anal, BDSM, Fetish, Group Sex, or Lesbian Sex. This chapter contains infidelity, anal sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, and a female submissive.

This work is copyrighted, and not to be altered, duplicated, copied or published anywhere, including alternative media, without the written consent of the author. © Copyright 2025.

Chapter One: The Stag and the Rabbit

I wasn't looking for proof. I didn't want it. But there it was--a video of a beautiful, nude woman on a stage at... was that a BDSM club? The video showed a stage with dark velvet curtains and dramatic red lighting. There was an ornate, throne-like chair at the center of the frame. On one side was a pommel horse, and on the other side there was a large X-shaped Saint Andrews cross. The video started with a middle-aged man wearing a gold stag mask with silver antlers leading a beautiful, younger woman wearing a white rabbit mask, a black leather corset, black thong, and towering heels onto the stage by a chain attached to a collar around her neck.

He stripped her on the stage, leaving her in just the mask, heels, and collar, and then he cuffed her to the pommel house. He whipped her naked ass with a cat o' nine tails. Then he forcefully took her from behind while her hands were cuffed to the pommel horse. The woman pressed back into him, moaning and then shuddering in climax from a massive orgasm. Then the same woman was on her knees at the front of the stage while the man rammed his cock down her throat. The room was loud but I could still make out the sound of the woman gagging. The finish was dramatic as he climaxed inside her ass on a throne and they stood up to take a bow.

I thought maybe I recognized the Stag. But I definitely recognized the Rabbit. I knew those full breasts and hips. I recognized the way she walked as the Stag pulled her out on stage by a leash. I knew the lips wrapped around his cock. I knew that warm olive skin and dark hair. That was my Daphne.

She was my wife. The love of my life. But apparently, she didn't feel the same way about me. She had been having an affair. And you don't just start an affair on stage at a BDSM sex club. That doesn't just happen overnight. This had been going on for a while.

The video was sent to my work email from an anonymous email account. The text of the email was short, "I thought you might like to know what your wife has been doing at work." There was no name on the email. It was just signed "The Stag." He wanted me to see it. He wanted to humiliate me.

I didn't rage. I didn't break anything. I just felt the sickening jolt of a bridge collapsing beneath me. I thought of the woman gagging on a cock while a crowd cheered. My wife. My Daphne. On a stage. Leashed. Masked. But not anonymous, not to me. I watched the video again and again to dwell in the pain. To press the bruise until it went numb. It didn't work.

The video was the last piece of a puzzle I didn't know I was assembling. The shape I'd been circling for a year. She used to keep her pubic hair neatly trimmed. She'd get waxed once in a while as a treat--for both of us. But around a year ago, she went completely bare. It looked like she started to shave in the shower every morning. Of course I noticed. I just thought it was... maybe for me. Other things slotted into place, too. All the late meetings, the way she'd stopped kissing me goodbye in the morning, how she dressed, how different she had been after returning from that two-week trial in New York City last month.

I waited a day before I said anything. I rehearsed what I would say in my head. I worked from home, and Daphne had recently left her firm without a new job lined up, so she was home all day. I saw her sitting by the kitchen counter drinking a cup of coffee and scrolling on her phone. She wasn't made up, just sitting barefoot with her hair pulled back, but she was so beautiful. Even after seven years of marriage, her beauty struck me. A soft but toned physique from years of consistent exercise. Her fabulous breasts. Yes, she was beautiful. Maybe too beautiful. I ached with what I needed to do, and what I needed to say.

"How long?" I asked.

She looked up, startled. "What?"

"The affair. I know about the Stag and the Rabbit. I saw the movie you made."

Her phone slipped from her hand and landed on the tile with a sharp noise in the now totally silent kitchen. For a moment, she didn't move--just stared at me, face drained of color, lips parted.

"It's over," she whispered. "Please... let me explain. It's the reason they made me quit my firm."

I didn't give her any time to explain. Not right then. I went into our room and quickly packed a bag and my laptop.

"I'll call you about the rest," I said. "And then I guess you'll hear from the divorce lawyer I need to hire. Goodbye, Daphne."

I heard her shout "Peter!" as the door closed, and I got into my car. How could I stay when the woman I love let another man claim her in front of strangers?

The motel room was clean enough, quiet, anonymous. I dropped the suitcase on the luggage rack and put my laptop bag on the desk. I laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Ten years of memories. Seven years of marriage. Of trips, jokes, diplomas. Graduation from undergrad. Watching her walk across the stage to get her diploma. Being mortified when she brought an air horn to my graduation. Law school. Our trip to the beach in Mexico when I asked her to marry me. Studying for the bar together. Our European tour honeymoon. Her laugh. The shape of her body. Her hand in mine. The way we used to be.

She used to love me. I know she did. I still loved her. I thought we had something rare. But then came last year. And finally that video.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? The signs were there. She had been different for months, maybe a whole year. There was that day when she wore that black skirt and no panties to work. I noticed before she left, and it turned me on all day waiting for her to come back. When she returned, I pounced on her, desperate to feel her. I told her how sexy it was. She said it was just for fun and to feel a little naughty during the day. I believed her. We made love that night for the first time in a month. It was fantastic sex, at least to me. I realized now that she probably lied. She probably did it for him. And she probably had sex with both of us that day.

There were other changes too. She used to wear jeans or slacks to work. Then suddenly it was skirts or dresses every day. She said it made her feel more feminine. She used to almost always sleep nude. Then one night, the "usual" became satin pajamas. I asked if she was cold. She said she just said it made her more comfortable. We'd only had sex maybe a dozen or so times in the last year. I thought we were just in a lull. Too much going on at work. Well, I guess I was right about that. Fuck me, how deep did the rabbit hole go?

I couldn't see a path back--not then. Sure, sometimes people deserve second chances. But I didn't think there was any coming back from this. Was I even interested in trying? I had no idea what he wanted.

I couldn't have imagined how much she needed to stay. Or what she'd be willing to give to try. And I didn't understand, not yet, just how much I still loved her. Especially the version of her I hadn't met yet.

Daphne

The house was silent. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, having just washed off the last mascara I hadn't cried into running. Peter was gone, and for the first time in years, I had no idea if--or when--he'd come back.

I spent the next week waiting for the other shoe to drop. No conversation. No discussion. Just a process server verifying my name and handing me a petition for divorce. I wallowed in the house barely feeling anything. I was so numb that I didn't even feel the guilt or recrimination that would soon overwhelm me. Why had I done it? Peter was everything to me.

We had met in a Texas state government class in college. He was a junior, and I was in my second year, but the overachiever that I was, I had more credit hours. Peter majored in electrical engineering and was a bit of a nerd, but he had a quiet confidence that intrigued me. I majored in psychology. I was immediately attracted to him, and one day I asked him out to lunch after class, scared that he was already seeing someone. He wasn't. It wasn't love at first sight, but I knew very early on that this boy was different from all of the others I had been with. He was someone who could love me the way I needed to be loved. I came from a very conservative and often repressive background, and when I was finally free in college, I went wild. Too wild. Peter's love for me filled me in a way I hadn't felt before. I finally felt... safe. Our bond strengthened through late-night study sessions and shared dreams. I increased my course load to make sure we graduated together, leading us to attending the same law school. Surviving the grueling 1L year together, we believed our relationship could withstand anything. I knew I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life. To bear his children. To grow old with him.

Peter proposed during a beach trip to Mexico--spring break, 2L year. We got married that summer in a small ceremony in Plano, my hometown. My sister Rachel was my maid of honor. I was so stupidly in love I even got through wedding planning with my mother--the same controlling woman who made me feel ashamed of every desire I had ever had. After graduation and the bar exam, we finally took our honeymoon: a rambling, sun-drunk tour of Europe.

We made love constantly on that trip. Hotels, hostels, sleeper cars, a public bathroom near the English Garden in Munich after I suggested we sunbathe nude like the locals. I was so worked up I couldn't make it back to the hotel. The hostel in Paris where I was pretty sure the other couple in the room was also making love, and watching us. I whispered to Peter how much the idea of them watching us turned me on as I rode him.

On our second anniversary, Peter gave me a gift: a map of Europe in a shadowbox with our plane and train tickets, commemorating our trip. There are pins in the map that most people think represent the places we visited, but really it was the places we had made love.

Life settled into a routine. Peter became a patent attorney, mostly working from home, his days filled with video calls with inventors and meticulous documentation. I joined a corporate litigation firm, defending employers in wrongful termination and discrimination cases. The work was demanding and let's be honest, the clients were often in the wrong. Even before being "asked" to leave the firm I had been questioning my role in perpetuating injustices.

I wandered through the quiet house like an archaeologist examining the ruins of an ancient city. Everything reminded me of him. Of what we were. Of what I ruined. I sat on the edge of the couch like I wasn't the person who lived here, looking at the map of Europe. And all of the pins.

He'd seen a video of me as the Rabbit being taken by the Stag. I didn't know there was a video, but I know what Peter saw. He saw a woman desperate to please. To kneel. To be used. To be ruined.

It started so slowly. The affair. The undoing.

He was a partner at the firm--older, persuasive, and supremely confident. He said I had potential, but that I needed polish. He began commenting on my attire, suggesting changes: shoes, blouses, skirt lengths. At first, I chalked it up to office culture. The firm was intense, and I knew I didn't fit the mold of the other young associates. The women there were thin. Polished. Blonde, mostly. Women who looked expensive and never made mistakes. They wore their competence like armor, their bodies like afterthoughts. I wasn't like that. I tried. But I was too curvy. Too expressive. I wanted to wear florals, not navy. I was open and too easy to read. He saw it and pounced. Then came the compliments. Then the instructions.

"Don't wear a bra tomorrow."

"Sit across from me and lift your skirt."

I obeyed. At first because I was scared to say no. Then, because I didn't want to.

Once, he handed me a marked-up brief and gently slapped my wrists for making typos. I laughed, but then realized he wasn't joking. Then when a draft I submitted came back covered in red ink, he had me close the door to his office. He told me to bend over the arm of the guest chair. He pulled my panties off and spanked me, hard. I cried. Not just from pain. From humiliation. From the way it made my blood race and how wet I had become. After that, it happened again and again. His palm reddened and then bruised my ass. He said I was a bad girl. A disappointing slave. The instructions became more controlling:

"Always take off your panties when you come into my office."

"You will always wear a plug in my presence."

"You will refer to me as 'sir' or 'master' and you will refer yourself as 'this slave.'"

I did not love the partner. Hell, I didn't even really like him. I certainly didn't respect him. He thought he was a master litigator, but his arguments were sloppy and his filings read like student work. What I craved had little to do with him personally.

His commands made me feel exposed, small, obedient, and completely turned on. I loved the feeling in the moment. I never felt safe around him, but the control he had on me made me feel tethered. Like a longing inside me finally had an outlet. It wasn't about love, and it wasn't even really about sex. His commands gave me an escape from the mounting pressure of my job, and my life. Peter and I were talking about starting to try to conceive our first child soon, and I couldn't imagine adding being a mother on top of my responsibilities at work. On some level, I must have also realized I was destroying my marriage as well. Letting the partner take command of me let me step outside of myself and relax into letting someone else decide things or me. I thought I could compartmentalize. I lied to myself: it was okay to let him use me like that, as long as I kept all of my love just for Peter. As if I could keep my love for my husband clean while I kneeled naked in another man's office.

It escalated. One evening, he gave me a choker necklace: thin black leather with a silver ring at the center. He told me to wear it in court, so I wore it during the entirety of the two-week trial in New York. I touched the ring countless times at the counsels' table. The night after our winning verdict, he took me to a club. He didn't ask if I wanted to go. He didn't tell me where we were going or what he planned to do. I wasn't asked. I was brought. And once we were inside, I wasn't Daphne anymore.

I was a slut on a leash.

A BDSM club. I hadn't even known they were real. He led me through a plain, unmarked door. The air was thick with incense and the smell of leather. He had a membership. Everyone knew him. They greeted him by name and me with knowing looks. Several masked attendees shook his hand and slapped him on the back, but no one spoke to me.

He sent me to a dressing room and told me to remove all of my clothes, leaving only the choker and plug. There was an outfit laid out in the dressing room; a structured short cropped black leather corset and a pair of low-rise leather thong panties. I donned them both, smelling the leather against my perfumed skin. I looked at my left hand and slipped my wedding and engagement rings into my clutch. I put on the six-inch heels he set out for me, strapping them to my pedicured feet.

After I was dressed he came into the dressing room wearing a stag mask. He put a rabbit mask on my face and clipped a silver chain to the choker. "Follow me, slave." he said. I bowed my head. Was it shame? Arousal? Both? I didn't ask where we were going. He didn't tell me. He led me on the leash out of the dressing room and through the crowded club. People turned and watched. I walked behind him like property. And then I saw the stage. He didn't tell me what we were going to do. He never gave me a safe word. He never asked what I wanted or what my limits were. I had no instructions, no guardrails, and no consideration. Knowing what I know now, he did everything wrong. But then I was stupid, and I didn't protect myself. I didn't have any understanding of what I was doing.

What I did have was a leash, a mask, and a crowd waiting to watch.

That night, I became his "three-hole slut." That's what he called me on stage. He had never called me that before, but the crowd cheered. He started by whipping me with the kind of whip you see in old pirate movies. He didn't draw blood, but my ass blazed red. My cunt throbbed with every lash--angry, wet, aching for more. I was dripping arousal down my leg. He removed my corset and panties to a roar of approval from the crowd.

I was bare. He bent me over and handcuffed me to a pommel horse. After teasing my entrance once, he entered her roughly to more cheers from the watching masked audience. I felt their eyes on me. I was so exposed. Despite my shame, I pushed my pussy back against him. The feeling was so intense, I couldn't help myself, and my body betrayed me with a massive orgasm. He pulled himself out quickly and slapped my red ass with his hand. Unclipping my wrists, he led me still shaking to the front of the stage and had me kneel. Knees wide. Back straight. Head bowed, the way he trained me in his office. Holding my hair, he pushed his cock to my lips. I spread them eagerly and started to suck. And then he used me. Both hands on my head. Facefucking me until I gagged. Wet. Loud. Messy.

After what seemed like an hour, he pulled out and stood me up. I was gasping for air, mucus slick across my mouth, throat, and chest. I didn't wipe it away. He led me to a throne in the middle of the stage, sat down, and spread his legs. Patting his thigh, I knew what he wanted. I straddled him, knees wide, reaching for his cock. I tried to guide him into my pussy. He grabbed my hips, shifted me around, pulled out the plug, and pushed into my ass instead. I was momentarily shocked, but I wasn't surprised. He had trained me for this too. After all, he had made me wear a butt plug consistently for months. He'd lubed and plugged me before dressing me tonight in the outfit that now lay in a puddle back in the dressing room. This had always been the plan. Just not mine. I rode him, taking his entire length. My back arched. My body trembled. I was close. So close. Then, with a cheer from the crowd, he erupted inside me. He held me there deep while he pumped into me. I could feel the heat. The possession. When he was finished, he stood me up, and told me to take a bow. I did, with his cum leaking out of my ass. I had been used. I had become his three-hole slut in front of all of these people. I didn't have any other name.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of fingers, tongues, and cocks. Too many to count. Cocks in my mouth. Cocks in my pussy. Cocks in my ass. Sometimes all three at once. I stopped trying to count. I stopped trying to be anything at all. At some point, someone, a woman I think, took me to a quiet room. She touched my back. Gently, like I was a person again. I thought maybe she wanted to use me too. I'd never been with a woman before. But she didn't use me like the others had. She held me. Wiped the cum leaking from between my thighs. Maybe she sang. I think she did. Then she pulled a blanket over my naked body and stayed with me until I fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning in a strange bedroom with my few clothes hung up in a small closet. I dug my rings out of my clutch where I had hidden them. I slipped them back on. I looked down at my engagement ring and wedding band on my hand. They looked grotesque against my skin. I stared for a moment, sickened, then grabbed my things and left.

Wanting to leave quickly, I found an exit and stepped onto the street and quickly hailed a cab back to the hotel. I saw the partner in the hotel restaurant eating eggs and reading the paper. He barely looked at me. No more praise. No more commands. No more interest. He had conquered the territory. I had given him everything I had.

He barely spoke to me after the flight home. Weeks later, Even though we won the verdict for the client in New York, I received a performance review so scathing it read like I had nearly tanked the entire trial but for his brilliant efforts. Then came the quiet conversations behind closed doors. I was asked to leave "voluntarily."

I didn't love him. Not for a second.

But I loved what he did to me. Or rather... what it awoke in me. Well... sometimes. Sometimes it didn't feel good. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes I felt used, ugly, hollow. But I did it anyway. And that's the part I can't explain. I told myself I was powerless. That it was too late to stop. But that's just a stupid excuse. Now I've lost my husband, my job, and my self-respect, all in less than a year. I blew up the life I worked so hard to build just for some edgy, exciting sex.

And now Peter has seen the video. I know what he saw. My tits are full--real, soft, the kind that bounce when I move, or when someone thrusts into me on a stage. My hips are round, wider than I might like, but they fill out every skirt I wear. And he knows the way I walk. He's watched me walk across bedrooms, hallways, courtrooms. A stage at a BDSM sex dungeon. He knows the curve of my ass like the lines of his own palm. Now he's seen it with a leash around my neck and someone else's cock inside me.

I curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled to my chest. The rings on my finger--our rings--felt like they were burning through my skin. I didn't deserve them. Maybe I never did. Peter had always been good. Steady. Safe. He adored me. And I used to love him with everything I had.

But I'd changed. I didn't want more kindness. The Stag was a cruel master, yes, but I wanted to be seen for what I was now. For what he turned me into. For what I maybe always was. Claimed. Owned. I was ashamed, but also a little angry. Why hadn't Peter realized what was going on? Why hadn't he saved me from myself? The things I did...

But if there was anyone in this world who could own me and love me while he did it, it was Peter. He had every reason to walk away. But if there was any chance he still wanted me, I had to show him. Not just say I was sorry. Not just beg. I had to offer him everything I had left.

I stood, wiped my eyes, and climbed the stairs. I stripped naked in front of our bedroom mirror, trembling. I looked at myself--really looked. My breasts were flushed, my large nipples erect and tight from shame or anticipation of what I was planning. My waist dipped before rising into hips that Peter used to grab when he pulled me close in the night. I saw the faint stretch marks on my thighs, the freckles on my chest, the darker color of my nipples against my olive skin. This was my body. And I was going to offer all of it to Peter. I had to try to make Peter take me back. I had to make him see me. All of me. Even the part I was too afraid to show before.

The next day, his location still showed on my phone. Room 212. At a little roadside motel off the highway.

I didn't call or text. I just got in the car, dressed in a simple black shift and a coat, and drove.

No makeup. No plan. Only need and maybe some hope.

I knocked.

The knock wasn't loud. Two soft taps. Hesitant. Not loud enough to demand. Just loud enough to be heard.

Peter

I stared at the door from across the room, still as stone.

No one knew I was here. I stood slowly. My body felt like it belonged to someone else. I was barefoot, still shirtless, the muscles across my chest and shoulders tight from a week of sleeping in an uncomfortable bed and punishing myself at the hotel gym. I used to lift for fun and health, now I pushed myself to burn through my anger. To sweat her out. Every step toward the door was weighted with tension and memory. Part of me hoped it wasn't her. Part of me needed it to be.

I opened it.

Daphne stood there, looking like a woman on a mission. Her coat was pulled tight, hands clenched in front of her like she was at a funeral, maybe her own. She didn't speak. Her eyes found mine and held. No mascara. No lipstick. No lawyerly confidence. Just Daphne. My wife. The woman who used to make love to me in train compartments and hostel showers. The woman who once whispered "forever" into my neck on a beach in Mexico. And the woman who let another man cuff her to a pommel horse and fuck her in front of a crowd.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, and I hated how raw my voice sounded. Hated that I couldn't make it colder.

She swallowed hard. "I had to see you."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

We stood there in silence. She wasn't crying. She didn't ask to come in.

She just slipped her coat off. The black dress underneath was plain. Modest. But the way she removed the coat; it was deliberate. Like she was stripping away the last layer of armor.

"I'm not here to beg," she said. "No, that's not true. I am here to beg. But I'm also here to give you something."

"What?"

"Whatever you want," she said. "Take all of it: my body, my guilt, my pride. Use me. Hurt me if you have to. Just don't leave me like this."

And then she dropped to her knees.

My chest tightened. Anger stirred. So did something else. "This is insane," I said. "Do you even hear yourself? Everything? It's like you're asking to be my slave or something."

"I am," she whispered. "That's exactly what I'm asking."

She looked up at me, eyes raw, voice steady, but barely. "I love you, Peter. But I wrecked everything. You can't trust me and because of that, I want to give you all of me. I've seen what happens when I submit to someone who doesn't love me. I want to do it right. I want to be yours." She was kneeling in a motel room. On the cheap carpet. Offering herself like she still had anything left to give. "Owned. Used. Loved. Punished. Marked. Protected. Guided," she said. "Please."

She says she wants to give herself to me. Wants me to lead. She's not wrong. I don't trust her. I can't, not after what she did. Not after that fucking video. The anger doesn't explode. It settles. Low. Dense. Like bricks stacked on my chest. I want to shove her out. Tell her to choke on her own guilt. But under that... there's something else. Not soft. Not mercy. Just heat. And the aching need to see how far she'll go.

That look on her face. It's the same one from college, when she asked me to dare her to kiss a girl at a rooftop party and then asked if I liked it, panting and covered with someone else's lipstick. The same one from Mexico, when she picked a nude beach for us to go to, and she paused at the entrance. "You wanted this," I said. "So get naked." She winked and stripped faster than I could blink. She used to like to ask me which dress she should wear on dates. I almost always picked the sexier option, an exposed back, deep cleavage, a high slit. She would weakly protest but I could tell she liked the game.

She liked dares. She liked surrender. She craved feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"You think this makes it better?" I asked, voice sharp now. "You think kneeling fixes this?"

"No," she said quickly. "Nothing fixes it. But maybe this can be the beginning of something new. Something better than we were before. I miss you. I lost myself, and I don't want to lose you."

I should have told her to get up. To go home. To call a therapist. But instead, I just stood there, staring down at her quietly. We planned a future together. She knows my family. She knows my secrets. She used to know my heart.

This woman betrayed me, but maybe we can move forward. Maybe not in the usual way with couple's counseling and an open phone policy. I don't trust her. But maybe that's the point. She doesn't get trust. She gets rules.

And fuck, she looks beautiful like this.

Even on her knees begging she still looks like home to me. I still want her. I make the decision before I can talk myself out of it.

"Take off the dress," I said.

She stood, unzipped without hesitation, and let it fall.

"I don't forgive you," I said. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But if you want me to lead, then we start clean. You are no longer my wife. But I'll do what you asked, lead you, own you, or whatever this is."

I nodded toward the bed. "Lie down. Face up. Legs apart."

She lay there, arms by her sides, legs parted as I had commanded. The dress was gone, her coat crumpled in the corner. She was entirely nude and not just in skin. She was stripped bare in every sense.

I put my hand on her chest and said "You said you want to give me all of you, for you to be mine. You said you want to be 'Owned. Used. Loved. Punished. Marked. Protected. Guided.' I accept. I will do those things and more. I will do them for myself, for the woman I thought I was marrying, and for the future I wanted to build with her."

"But I do not forgive you. Every time I close my eyes I see the Stag and the Rabbit. I see how you were so eager to throw away our marriage. To throw me away. Maybe I will never forgive you, but I am willing to try this... dynamic."

I stood. Looked down at her. The rings on her left hand caught the light; two slim bands of metal that once meant something. Now they felt like lies. "Give me your rings," I said.

She flinched, let out a little sob, then sat up. Her hands trembled as she slid off the engagement ring and the wedding band.

"These no longer belong to you," I said. "I will decide when and if you get them back."

I found a stationery envelope in the desk drawer, cheap paper with the motel's name printed in blue ink. I dropped the rings inside.

"Come here," I said.

She approached. I handed her a pen.

"Write your contract. I will dictate the terms."

She leaned over the desk, naked, trembling. She wrote:

"I, Daphne Williams, offer myself in voluntary servitude to Peter Williams. I agree to obey anything he asks. I will not call him 'my husband' during this term. In public I will call him 'Peter.' In private, I will call him 'Sir' or 'Master.' I do not have a husband. Peter does not have a wife. This agreement will last for one year. At the end of that year, Peter and I will decide if we remain legally married. If we do, he will return my rings. If not, the rings will be sold and the proceeds divided equally along with the rest of the marital assets."

We both signed our names: Daphne Williams and Peter Williams.

I held the flap up, exposing the adhesive strip. "Lick it," I instructed and held the flap as she leaned over the desk to seal her slavery contract with the tongue that had kissed me thousands of times. I pressed the flap shut and slid the envelope into my laptop bag. "One year, Daphne," I said. "It begins now."

She nodded, with tears and a touch of hope in her eyes. That hope made me angry. If she thought I would roll over and take her back just like that, she had another thing coming. If we were going to do this, she was going to earn it.

"Sit up. Take my clothes off. Take me in your mouth. Don't stop until I cum. You will not touch yourself. You will not orgasm. Your cunt and ass belong to me, and I alone decide when and whether they're touched. Nod but do not speak if you consent."

Daphne nodded. She took me in her mouth the way she had done countless times. Like she had in Mexico, in a bathroom at a law school party, in Germany, in France. But it was different now. Back then it was for fun and pleasure..

Now she did it to save our marriage. But that wasn't quite right. That marriage was over. I made her write that. We signed the contract on the envelope. Whatever she was to me now; she wasn't my wife.

Within minutes, I could feel the pressure building. We both knew my release was coming. As perverse as it sounds, I had a feeling that she was looking forward to having some of me inside her. So I said, "Slave, I am about to cum. When I do, you are not permitted to swallow. You have not earned that right. Go spit in the sink like the slut you have turned yourself into should."

Daphne's breath caught at that, but before she could think, her mouth was full of my cum. As ordered--like a good slut--she stood, spat in the sink, and returned to her knees. Silently, I got up and brushed my teeth and prepared myself for bed. "Slave, I did not see you come in with any toiletries. You may use my toothpaste. Get ready for bed. Lights out in ten minutes." I said coldly. "My wife slept in my bed. My slave will sleep on the floor." I gathered extra pillows and blankets and made Daphne a bed of sorts at the foot of mine.

I lay in bed. She curled up on the floor. In the dark, I turned away and sobbed--quiet, bitter--at the wreck of my marriage. The life we were supposed to build together. Daphne made a move to comfort me, but the last thing I needed was comfort from her. I waved her away.

I didn't know if I could ever forgive her. But, at least for now, I still wanted her near. Beneath me.

Daphne

I could hear quiet sobs from my... ex-husband. After he shooed me away, I lay back on my back and looked at the rotating ceiling fan. My marriage was over. I lost the ring he slipped on my finger in Mexico when he asked me to marry him. And I lost the ring he placed on my finger in front of our combined families and friends. They were both the envelope. The envelope with the terms of my servitude written on it. inI heard his breath slow into sleep breathing.

I curled on the floor and listened to it. I wanted him to take me. Hurt me. Claim me again. Save me from myself.

I'm informally divorced and formally submitted to the man to whom I swore to forsake all others because I couldn't control myself. Even now, my pussy is still wet from the way he treated me. The way he stripped me literally and figuratively and took my mouth. I can't believe he made me spit out his cum.

Yes, my rings are gone and in an envelope with a handwritten contract between the two of us. But he signed it too, next to me. And he let me stay with him tonight. Maybe there was something to hope for. I eventually drifted off to sleep.