Chapter One

Ever start to think that maybe you married the wrong guy?

Don't get me wrong, Michael is a great guy. He's loving, tender, sweet, thoughtful, and intelligent and respectful. He's exactly the guy I thought I wanted when I was nineteen.

The problem is I was a different person then.

Oh, not entirely. I'm still a feminist, an environmentalist, a lover of exercise, skiing, swimming, boating, gardening, leather furniture, modern art. I mean, all that stuff, it hasn't changed. What has slowly changed, over time, is my attitude about men. I used to be the ardent, stereotypical young feminist. You know, outraged if I was treated as a sex object, determined to be respected, to be treated as an equal, rejecting any special treatment as a woman, disdaining the old school approach where the man was the head of the family.

Michael and I were partners, sharing all decisions equally. In theory. In reality, Michael was kind of, well, a wimp. Maybe I'd just browbeat him too much over the years. I don't know. But he not only lets me do anything I want he asks me what he should do! I don't know. It's hard to explain. I don't think of him as a wimp, exactly, but, well, he's sure a pushover in any kind of discussion. It's always me that has to decide, me who has to act.

I didn't mind that when I was twenty. In fact, I kind of liked it. I don't know. He's got a nicely toned body from working at the gym regularly, but he's not a tough guy by any means. He's not even, well he's not very manly. He's fastidious about cleanliness and neatness to the point I just roll my eyes. I sometimes ask myself who's the man in this relationship anyway?

But the sex is really the core of what was driving my unhappiness. Again, it's entirely my own fault. The kind of gentle, sharing sex that Michael and I had was what I had wanted when younger. But now it bored me. Maybe it bored Michael too, because while my interest in sex has grown his has, uhm, well, shrunk. But my efforts at trying new things, bold things, even kinky things were met with complete, sometimes prudish disapproval.

He had no real interest in sex beyond the straightforward missionary position, and not a lot in that. I was starting to wonder if he was gay or something. I certainly wasn't thinking of him as very, well, 'manly'. Sex with him was soft, gentle, and loving, but after years of it I was looking for something rougher, wilder, nastier, something with passion and sweat and maybe a touch of darkness even.

I saw this picture, an art print, a drawing, but very nicely done. It was of a beautiful woman on her knees, naked. Her chest was on the floor, her full breasts pillowed out beneath her. Her bottom was raised high, knees wide apart, and then pulled forward awkwardly so that from knee to hip they were almost vertical – except angled to the sides, if you know what I mean.

It was a look of a woman ready to be taken! Ready to be mounted and used hard by a real man, a bull of a man! I saw it and I immediately put myself in that picture, imagined myself kneeling like that, my ass in the air, ready for a man to move behind me and sink himself deep into my body. But that man wouldn't pump in and out slowly and tenderly. No, he would thrust into me hard and fast, ride me, maybe grab my hair and yank it back, slap my ass, curse and snarl and ram himself into me!

He would ride me like a fucking animal! And I would come like one, screaming, writhing, my insides on fire.

It was literally impossible to imagine Michael doing that. Michael didn't curse. Michael didn't get sweaty, except when working out. And then he had a shower immediately after, and did his hair. Michael's suits were perfectly tailored on his tall, slender body, not a button out of place, not a seam that wasn't sharply cut. Michael had a soft, genial voice. Michael had never hit me or any other woman, not even in play. The idea of Michael snarling and spanking me while riding me was absurd.

And why would I even want something like that? Didn't it go against everything I believed about equality?

Well, kind of, yeah.

And I still believed in equality. I just believed that, maybe, the guy should be just a little more equal in certain ways. My eyes started to rove, and my mind followed, eying men in the streets, in stores, at work, my thoughts drifting along dangerous roads. I wasn't a submissive woman by nature, so why was I having fantasies about men dominating me in bed, using me, riding me like a whore, like a bitch in heat?

I'd been with Michael for six years. Was there a female version of the seven year itch? Was that all it was, an itch that needed scratching? I mean, I didn't like being told what to do by anyone. God knows I'd made that clear to Michael. Was that one of the reasons he'd gone all wimpy on me, or had he been wimpy right from the start?

So what did I want? I didn't want some big bellied bad boy in a wife-beater shirt, that was for sure. But I did want a man with some bulk with wide shoulders and an attitude that said 'I'm the boss' but who wouldn't take that to extremes. I wanted to be a partner, but maybe, maybe not the partner in charge. Maybe I wanted to be a junior partner...

I felt guilty about those kinds of thoughts. It wasn't fair to Michael. He was behaving exactly the way I'd always wanted him to – before.

But I had changed, and he wasn't changing with me. And I was finding him boring, and too boyish for a man who was nearly thirty. I didn't want a tennis player. I wanted a football player No, a rugby player, hmm, with an Australian accent. Hot, sweaty, with hair on his chest (Michael shaved his) and a growl in his voice on occasion.

That picture kind of obsessed me. I got down on all fours naked in front of the bedroom closet door. It was mirrored, as was the one next to it. Naked, I looked pretty good. Like Michael, I worked out regularly. I was slender by nature, though I have decent breasts. And keeping my stomach firm and flat had been something I'd worked at hard for years. I too was bereft of hair, not so much because I wanted it that way but because Michael insisted.

Insisted? Well not really. More like he pouted. I think he had this image of me which came from statues, from art, and wanted me to look like that.

I knelt there on all fours, my right side to the mirror, rolling my eyes to the side, turning my head a little, examining myself, imagining myself with a man behind me, using me, gripping my hair, slapping my butt, my body rocking to his hard thrusts, to the slapping of his hips against my buttocks.

Oh yeah!

I could feel the heat rising within me, could see and feel my nipples stiffening and tingling as a flush crept over my face.

I dropped to my elbows, raising my bottom, feeling my heart beating faster as I examined myself. And then, grunting with effort, I lowered my chest to the floor, letting my breasts pillow out beneath me. I shifted my knees forward but apart, straining the tendons and muscles in my groin, wanting myself in that 'submissive' pose which had captured my imagination.

I could feel how open I was back there, could imagine the sight of me a man would get as he looked down. The thought of Michael seeing me like this was actually embarrassing. He'd frown in confusion and disapproval. He didn't like sex from behind at all. It wasn't romantic enough. He wanted us face to face so his lips and mine could be together, he said. He hadn't married my ass, he'd married me.

Oh, he would've done it if I'd insisted, but it would have been reluctantly, without enthusiasm, and he would have thought less of me for it.

Slap my ass? Michael!? He was an organizer of the white ribbon campaign locally, the male sponsored campaign against violence against women. No way was he going to slap any part of me.

I felt like a slut like this, but that wasn't shameful. I felt wanton, hot, erotic. I could feel how wet I was, how hot.

I got up with a grunt, and got the video camera, then placed it in position behind me and just a bit to the side. I turned it on then got back into position. I shifted a little, rolled my hips back and forth, then checked camera again, feeling my heart thumping.

Well from there I proceeded to the living room, set up the camera again, this time broadcasting through Wi-Fi to the TV, and stared at myself, entranced. God, I looked hot and sexy! I got my dildo and then used it, masturbating while staring at myself, turning into different positions, as lewd, as obscene as possible, acting the total slut, the total skanky tramp for the camera, fingering myself, rubbing my clit, and using that dildo hard and fast.

I drove myself to orgasm, as unrestrained, given I was alone in the house, as I'd let myself be for years.

And then, when I watched myself again on the camera, I masturbated, just looking at it, coming again in less than a minute.

I toyed with the thought of somehow letting Michael find the video, but no, he'd be, well, grossed out, probably. Yes, he was that fastidious, that opposed to raw, nasty sex, or anything else that wasn't dignified. He wasn't a very emotional man, I realized. He smiled a lot, and seemed relatively content, but he wasn't a man given to excitement, or to seeking it.

I wanted excitement.

I wanted thrills.

And I wasn't getting them.

For months I daydreamed, and sometimes masturbated with thoughts of being dominated, being used roughly rode hard and put away wet, as they say. I looked at porn on the internet, some of it kind of gross, and find one other image which caught my mind, my imagination.

It was another naked woman. This was a drawing, too, more of a cartoon, but very well done. A naked blonde was standing with her arms raised high, tied together at the wrists. A man was taking her cruelly, brutally from behind, jerking her hips back as he thrust up between her thighs. She was on her toes, her head drawn back, mouth open as she screamed. I thought that was incredibly hot!

Fast forward.

I work at Robertson Davies, an upscale architectural and engineering firm in a mid-town office tower. We're fashionable but also modern and relaxed. People come to work dressed pretty much however they like, within reason. That doesn't include sweatpants or jeans or shorts for men, nor cleavage, miniskirts or midriff tops for women, but just about anything else was fine.

Managers tended to wear suits, though. And certainly, directors did.

Dennis Ford was the new director. We'd got notice, knew the name, but there'd been no description.

My first sight of him, the only description I could have given was 'wow'.

He was a big man all the way around. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a football player’s build. He wore his suit well, but seemed somewhat out of place. I can't say exactly why. He seemed less – tame – than the rest of us, somehow. He looked like he ought to be swinging a hammer or a wrench or something, not holding management meetings.

His face was chiseled and good looking, but not someone you would instantly describe as handsome. He had short dark hair and long lashes over his brown eyes. And he acted very gentlemanly, quite going against the grain of his appearance, at least at first.

I overheard him, a week later, on the phone, and he was angry. He was snarling, and didn't seem to worry about his language either. It was kind of eye opening. People around here didn't display anger, didn't raise their voice, and certainly didn't curse on the phone during a business call.

“I don't give a fuck what those assholes think,” he was growling. “Tell them to get off their asses and do what they're told or I'll find someone who will!”

Why did hearing that voice make my nipples tingle?

The anonymous man in my fantasies now began to take shape. And his face was Dennis Ford's face.

Of course, there wasn't a lot of opportunity for me to get close to him. He was a director. I was just a purchasing agent. I took instructions from my team leader, Cindy, who took hers from our manager Larry. I might encounter Dennis in the hall, or by walking past his office, but that was about it, at first.

It started to feel a little strange when I did encounter him, though. I mean, my favorite fantasy was him taking me from behind while I was on my knees, like in that original print, of him using me roughly, yanking on my hair, slapping my ass. I'd masturbate in bed with the dildo, my hand thrust back between my thighs, pumping it in and out as I imagined Dennis taking me like that, hard.