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Bi-sexual wife recommends a submissive mistress.

And just like that, her husband had seen through it, had apparently spied her buried underneath there.

Was it just her wishful thinking, or did he like what he was seeing?

"Well." Ada tried to think about the issue mathematically, pragmatically, ignore the throbbing between her thighs as well as the mounting need to pull his hand down and put it right there, onto the pain point. "Well. A month is made of four weeks. During one of these it... is... not practical."

"You feel no desire during your menorrhea?"

Charles' blatant question caught her off guard. "Well, I mean, yes. But touches of any kind are not... pleasant during those days. Not to mention the hygienic aspect of it."

"Not pleasant?" His massage had softened a little.

"I am too sensitive, and moreover, I-" She hesitated, then decided to be honest no matter how shameful the subject. "I dislike my own smell. The odor changes and becomes stronger. It is not... not pleasant."

"Hypersensitive and odiferous," Charles mused as if to himself. "I am looking forward to that."

Ada frowned and let go of him, folded her hands in her lap. "Well, that makes three weeks. Within these three weeks, I... maybe I..."

"Every night," Charles whispered. His breath tickled the shell of her ear. "Sometimes twice. Sometimes in the morning, too, and during your bath. Am I wrong?"

How did he know that? Her pulse spiked in her veins. She felt the flush of embarrassment creep up the back of her neck and a bead of sweat form between her corseted breasts. "I- Charles, really-"

"You are a lecherous woman," her husband mumbled and slid the tip of his right index finger up the side of her neck, up to the soft lobe of her ear, following the goose bumps. "Wanton. Dissolute. Undisciplined, most of all. One of these will change from now on."

"How?" Ada barely dared ask.

"Two orgasms each day, three weeks every month, makes forty-two, times twelve makes five hundred and four. This past year, you have stolen five hundred orgasms from me. Five hundred cries of ecstasy. Five hundred moments in which I would have gazed upon my wife's face and seen the blush and the tears of climax on her cheeks."

Ada locked her jaw to hold back some unladylike, choleric words. It was not like you volunteered to join me. You ignored me. You actively shunned me, leaving me alone in your comfortable, boring mansion with nothing to do except-

"How many strikes do you think you deserve for each theft?"

"Strikes?" Ada sat up straighter. "You mean-"

"I will discipline you, Ada, and I will get my satisfaction." He said it with such conviction it was like a biblical commandment. "I will put my hand to your back, buttocks, thighs, your weeping cunt and whichever other body part I wish, and I will hurt you until you cry and pay me for my loss with your tears."

Ada felt her mouth fall open. She had never heard words that obscene. The scarce, playfully erotic descriptions in the odd romance novel she had read did not hold a candle to the overwhelming, soul-shaking declaration her husband had just casually made. A declaration of war against her, really.

Still, her core clenched at the thought. I will hurt you until you cry. Why did this not send her bolting out of her chair? Why did it also feel like the sweetest declaration of love when he said it? Was there something more lurking inside her than just the 'fierce passion' he had attested she held, something much darker?

"How many strikes?" he probed, grabbing her by the throat and touching his lips to her temple ever so gently. She could feel him trembling through the contact and breathlessly closed her eyes at the thought that he might be aroused as he stood there, by her presence, by this conversation and by the prospect of spanking her. "I demand fifteen at least."

"Fifteen strikes for each orgasm?" she cried. Her head reeled and her bladder clenched in fear. "That is... seven thousand five hundred strikes-!"

"I would take twenty in the morning, and twenty in the evening.

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