Mrs B: She Wants More of Mr Barry

Sometime after Mrs B's birthday celebrations, where she had been used by a BDSM master, she said, "I want to see Mr Barry." Again.

He and I now sat in a country pub, our pints as yet untouched on the table.

He sat and smiled as he looked around the bar, feigning interest. I realised he was going to wait me out. I had to make the running.

"She wants to see you."

Now he turns his gaze to me. His eyes narrowing slightly, appraising.

"Does she now?" His voice quiet, his tone innocent. "And why is that?"

The fucker, he was going to make me say it.

"I don't know, you'll have to ask her." Stubborn, me.

"Will I?" Those eyes, watching. "Do I take it she enjoyed my work?"

I nod slowly.

"And did everyone have a 'happy ending'?"

I nod.

"And were all those 'happy endings' inside your lovely wife."

Fuck, he's delighting in torturing me, here in public. He knows just what hurts and how hard to squeeze.

"They were."

The look between us extends into what feels like an age.

"I have to say," he starts, "I enjoyed her. Very much. I just don't mean when I exacted my fee, I enjoyed the whole affair."

His 'fee' had been fucking her face with his huge cock, and cumming in her cunt.

I say nothing; just look into those eyes. He is hard to read.

He says, "My art depends on me being able to read someone, just like you read your wife. You anticipate her fantasies, facilitate them, just as I do with my ladies." He leans in closer and says, "How are you getting on, reading me?"

I say nothing.

He smiles, "Don't be upset with yourself, your powers aren't fading. You see, for reasons I am never going to discuss with you, or anyone else for that matter, I have become highly adept at hiding my feelings. I am, almost, unreadable. The odd tell may slip out, but not often. Perhaps I should have become a professional poker player?"

"But I have read your lovely wife. Like a book. How does that feel? That someone else has explored that pretty head? Seen her inner workings? Understood things about her, that even she doesn't yet know?"

I hold his stare. I feel a rage building in me.

He looks at me, evaluating me.

He gives a chuckle.

"I thought so. This feels far worse, seeing that someone else 'knows her'; far worse than watching another man fuck her. Far, far worse." He breaks the gaze and sits back in the chair. "So, there's the problem. I'm used to jealous husbands; men who, whether they know it or not, need to 'own' their wives. Who see the act of physical penetration as the betrayal; but with you it is different. You are a voyeur; you love to watch your wife being 'taken' in the back of a car, or up against a wall. That is the pleasure you get from it all. But you watch her in the firm knowledge that her mind, her love, is yours and yours alone."

He leans forward.

"And now, here I am. Tiptoeing into her psyche, potentially showing her new things beyond her imagining. Up until now that has been your exclusive realm; showing her what she desires. And it is making you feel sick, frightened even. What if one day, she doesn't come back to you? What if she stays with me, in my 'dungeon of delights'? If not physically, then mentally."

He looks at me and sips his pint. My mind is racing.

Fuck, he's good!

"No, I don't think so," he says. "I think I'll pass."

"It's what she wants," my voice is flat.

"Oh, believe me, I know it's what she wants. I could feel it in her, even then. I know she wants it, far more than you realise. It is eating away at her, even now as we sit here, having this little chat. She is at home, thinking about it, probably stroking that pretty cunt. Knowing we are talking about her. She is aching to see me, to revisit that party, to feel that thrill. No, she isn't the problem. You are."

Silence.

"Why am I the problem?"

"Hmm, I'm still working that bit out, but it will come to me."

He sips his beer, watching me over the rim of the glass. His eyes go wide.

"Ah," he says. "Of course! The last part of the puzzle."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Your lovely wife has...," he pauses, "... shall we say, dangerous appetites. How long have you been watching her have sex with other men?"

I say nothing.

"Some years, I'm sure. Why, at the party alone, it seems eight men sampled the delights of that lovely body. Ejaculated inside her. People don't jump from having a single lover to eight in one go; so groups are natural for her. You must have watched her with many men?" I say nothing. "Dozens?" Still I say nothing. "No, the sums wouldn't add up. You have watched her fuck hundreds of other men." I glare at him. "I thought so." Another sip of his beer. "You started off watching her, but that changed-- you kept her safe." He is looking at me with an unnerving intensity. "Now she wants to visit a man who enjoys inflicting pain. Every alarm bell is ringing, every instinct makes you want to forbid it. But you know you cannot forbid anything. You don't own her. She will make her choices. All you can do is protect her from the worst of them, the rapists, the murderers, the psychopaths. And you don't know if I fall into that category. "

I say nothing. A long silence.

"My instincts tell me that I should decline the chance to revisit your lovely wife, but there is something-- something enticing."

Another long pause.

He stands up. "I am going to make an exception to my rule, this once. I think she will be worth it. Follow me, in your car."

I stand and follow after him, leaving my untouched pint.

We pull up outside a substantial house, relatively new, but impressive. There are no lights on. The house stands alone, in the rolling countryside. He sees me looking and says, "Yes, I know, a perfect place for a murderer to dispatch his victims. No one to hear their screams." He smiles. "Come on." He sets off up a side path and we come to a door set into the side of the house and he pauses. "I must tell you, no husband has ever been inside this room. Only my women come here."

He unlocks the door and we step inside. Light comes on, sensing our movement, and I stand there, amazed.

"Not the seedy dungeon you imagined?"

There was nothing seedy about this room. In fact, it was beautiful. Hardwood flooring gleamed, the lighting was carefully designed, glass-doored cabinets line the walls, wardrobes, cupboards, shelving, it was all top-of-the-range stuff. Then there was the machinery, the benches, frames, tables of various designs, ceiling-mounted pulleys with dangling rope, hooks, and hard points. Full-length mirrors for the tortured to watch themselves in their subservience.

"What do you think?"

"It must have cost a fortune!"

"It did. Everything is the best money can buy."

Then there are the photographs. The walls are lined with large prints of women, some floor to ceiling. Women are suspended from ropes, tied to benches, spread-eagled on frames. Some are naked, some are dressed in all manner of outfits, from latex to feathered capes. They wear masks, beautiful masks. All different styles, all different materials. Then I realise, the photographs aren't of the women, they're of the ropes, the bindings, the knots, and the costumes. But there was more, the women's hands had painted nails, their feet the same. Their hair was crafted, sculpted, decorated with bows, braids, and ribbons. This is about his skill, his passion. This isn't pornography, this is art.

"Mind you," I think to myself, looking at a latex-clad angel. "Hang that in the Uffizi and there'd be trouble!"

"What do you see?" He asks.

"What do I see?" I mused. "Precision, creation." I tilt my head and look closely at the bindings around the wrists of a naked woman. "I see obsession." He nods. "I see something beautiful."

"Ah, yes," he sighs. "Nothing ugly here. It is all about the beauty. Of course, some would not see the binding and disciplining of a woman as anything to be celebrated, but if she is a partner in that creation, a willing participant, what gives them the right to judge?"

"So." He continued. "Why am I showing you this?"

My eyes scan the latex dress, stretched taut over an ample bust.

"You're showing me she would be safe."

"Yes, that and more. If we do work together, and if I am right about what I see in her, she would be cherished. She would be celebrated."

He leads me, showing the cabinets full of his instruments of torture. Row after row of exquisite clams, clips, pumps, and dildos of all shapes and sizes.

"Let me show you one last thing."

We move over to a set of draughtsman's drawers, designed for holding plans or maps. He pulls one open and lifts out a sheaf of illustrations, beautifully drawn. They are designs for his photographs on the walls. Fantastical costumes and masks cover naked bodies. They are exquisite. Then there are the ropes and pulleys. These are technical drawings made beautiful. I can see the calculation of load and stress, the balance of weight and movement. I am, in truth, awestruck. Then he slips one from the bottom of the pile and puts it down on top, for me to see. It is her. It is my wife; the love of my life. Everything about her is there on paper; the eyes, the cheekbones, the curl of her hair. Even her breasts are perfectly drawn, her elegant long fingers, those legs, fit for a goddess. Even the colour of her pubes is exactly right. She is flying, wings on her back, suspended from cunning ropes. One knee bent, the other leg straight behind, her arms outstretched.

I am stunned into silence. I can't take my eyes off the vision of perfection.

"I have been hoping to hear from you. As you can see, she has made an impact on me. I felt something rare in her that night, a potential, a promise. You must not tell her of this."

I tear my eyes from the picture and look at him quizzically.

"This would be a long way off; a perfect ending, if you will. But there is much that must be learnt, experienced, endured even, before she could take flight like so. To realise my vision, it is not just the physical she must achieve, it is even more a thing of the psyche, the spirit. She must be trained, taught, instructed."

"You do want to see her again."

"More than you could know. But there is much to be agreed on before I will take this on. Some of it, you will not like. Some of it, she will not like, at least not at first."

"Okay, tell me."

"First, the things for you: This will be the last time you come into this room. You will have to trust in me and then entrust her to my care."

Once more, I lock eyes with him.

"Second, know that she will come to love me, to lust for me. She will be thinking of me when you make love to her, she will be thinking of me when she is with those other men. Thirdly, this will become a compulsion, and addiction. An itch she will have to scratch. Fourthly, as her training increases in intensity, she will not want you to touch her. She will be spent, she will be sore. Let her bathe and sleep. She will need it. Fifth, after I have finished with her, she will dress and come out to you. She will be just as she was at the end of the session, no washing, no wiping, no checking her hair. Sixth, when she gets into your car, she will hand you a thumb drive. On it will be a recording of the session for you to watch. It is not optional, you will watch your wife being trained."

"And what about her? Are there rules?"

"Of course, but not so many, not so rigorous. After all, you are the problem here, not her. Do you need time, or can you agree to the rules now?"

This is for her. Mr Barry will keep her safe. I know it.

"Yes," I agree."

"Good. You realise there is another, delicious incentive for me taking her on?"

"There is?"

"Oh, yes," he leans towards me and says quietly. "I get to torture the two of you, at the same time." He pats my arm, twice.

"Right now to business. You will bring her here once a fortnight. You can wait outside in the car, if you wish, but I warn you, the sessions will get longer and longer. If we achieve this," he touched a hand to the picture of her, "it will take many, many hours to prepare for the final scene. We are a long way from that though."

"First, I must break her, remodel her; she must surrender completely. When I worked with her at the party, I noticed some things. As you told me, there are things she doesn't like. She likes hands, not paddles, crops, and whips. She likes having her breasts slapped, but not that pretty derrière. She can only take an inch or two of a man's penis into her mouth; her gag reflex is strong. Tell me, does she do anal? I missed the end of the party, so I don't know."

I nod.

"Good, that saves time. As I moved to penetrate her, I saw her tense at the thought that my large member might be aiming for her back passage. And when I did enter that lovely, tight vagina, she was nervous that I would hurt her. As if!" He smiled.

"To be clear, please excuse the vulgar language; by the time I have finished her initial training, she will want me to spank her not only with my hands, but with those paddles, canes, and whips hanging on the wall over there. She will want not just her tits hurt, but also her arse, her thighs, her belly, her face, even the soles of her feet. She will want to be throat-fucked, cunt-fucked, arse-fucked with as much as can be crammed into each of her holes; and she will not want it to be gentle, she will want it hard. Basically, anything I want to do to her, with whatever item I choose, she will beg for it; ask me pretty-please. Your wife will be fucked, buggered, throat-fucked, caned, dildoed, clamped, slapped, and tied up in more ways than she, or you, can think of."

"Oh, another thing, soon once a fortnight won't be enough for her. She will ask you to bring her back as soon as the bruises have healed. She will become obsessed. As, indeed, am I. Now, any questions?"

I think for a moment. "Will it be just you?"

"Good point. Yes, initially. Then she will want to try with two, three, or maybe more of my colleagues. They will be happy to indulge her, I'm sure."

I swallow, hard.

"So, do you still want this for her?"

"In truth, no. But I know she wants it, so I'm okay with it, as long as she's safe."

He puts his hand on the picture of her naked body flying.

"She will be my muse. She will be safe."

I get home, and as I close the front door behind me, she comes into the corridor and looks at me. I see the hope, the fear, the excitement in her eyes.

"Come here," I say. I take her in my arms and kiss her. I back her up against the wall, and as our tongues tangle, I squeeze her breasts through her dress. I break away, I start to undo my belt and trousers. She understands. She lifts her dress around her waist and pulls her panties to one side. I push my cock into her; she is hot and wet, she's been thinking of Mr Barry and what he will do to her. I fuck her, hard, up against the wall, just like so many men have done before, and will do again. I will have to watch the videos, knowing she doesn't need me like before. She is thinking of Mr Barry now; he was right, and it's too much for me. I cum inside her, thrusting as hard as I can. I know I want to hurt her, but I can't, I just can't. I don't have it in me.

For that, she has Mr Barry.