Roles Reversed

My wife, Bridget, was at home already, as was her usual routine, when I arrived that Friday afternoon. I heard her in her office working. Bridget is a freelance analyst and consultant for marketing, among other things. She works from home mostly.

“Frank?” She called from her office. “Come in here.”

I walked into her office and there she was, at her desk with her back partially to me. She was in a black business suit and heels. Actually, she was only in her jacket and white blouse on top. She had taken off her skirt or pants, whichever she wore today. Her jet-black hair was in a tight bun with a lock of hair seductively falling loose of the side. Her reading glasses were resting midway on the nose of her bridge. She knew I loved the sexy, seductive librarian/teacher look. She turned around to look at me, her legs crossed. She was wearing black stiletto pumps. And no panties. Her makeup was dark, giving definition to her best features – her lips, her eyes. She had large hoop earrings on. They seemed almost out of place.

“Get on your knees,” was all she said, as she reached for her cigarettes and lighter. I did what she said, more so indulged her than obeyed her. I wondered what she had in mind today. She took a long, deep drag as she lit her cigarette.

“We have to have a conversation,” she said as she exhaled.

I had wondered when this was coming. Something had changed in our marriage in the past nine months or so. It was never an abrupt change so that I would notice and question it, but more subtle, so that it settled into the landscape of our lives, our bedroom and sex life without disrupting the equilibrium or routine. After the New Year she had stopped shaving her pussy. Well, not completely. She shaved her pussy lips, but let her mons go feral before manicuring her thick, jet-black hair into a nice little hairdo, usually a heart or triangle. I prefer a shaved pussy, but didn’t make a scene about it, thinking it was a temporary change of pace for her. Originally Bridget was very self-conscious about her hair down there. If left to its own devices, untended, it was quite the jungle, with hair appearing damn near her navel.

There were other changes, of course. I’d noticed her style of dress had changed somewhat. It was more feminine, if not likewise harsh in a certain way. Today’s business suit was a prime example. I had no complaints about that. She wore heels more, and stockings, sometimes with a garter belt, sometimes the stockings that stay up on their own. She shopped generously for herself at Victoria’s and elsewhere. She still had a great figure for a lady about to turn 45. Mid-height, weight never above 130 – discounting being pregnant, of course – and a bust that was still pert and full, a nice C-cup with big, responsive nipples. Bridget tended to herself quite well these days, with salon and spa time. Given she was a breadwinner in her own right with her hard-earned income, it was her prerogative. And frankly, I liked that she was keeping herself more feminine, with nails and such. But she had started doing them a little longer, closer to talons than a typical manicure.

Ironically, though, Bridget was smoking more. Not that she ever was a heavy smoker. If she smoked a pack a month it was a lot for her; now, more like a pack at least every two weeks. I never complained or made a deal about it. I figured it best to deal with it as with a rebellious teenager. Address it, you get counterproductive results; ignore it, and usually it goes away of its own accord. But Bridget wasn’t a teenager. She was a very intelligent lady who had her shit together. Frankly, it sometimes turned me on when she smoked. It made me think about her sucking my cock. She knew this, too. All to well.

Therein lies another evolution in our lives. Our sex life had definitely evolved over the past year. Gone were the times when I got head on demand. Bridget hadn’t sucked my cock in months. She told me she didn’t like sucking cock anymore and wasn’t going to indulge me. She found it demeaning. I tried to figure it out but Bridget closed the conversation curtly and wasn’t open to revisiting the subject. A good thing gone up in smoke it seemed, at least for the time being. There was a time not so long ago when I could get head on demand, with her swallowing or even taking a facial. She never minded if I took her hair in my fist and bobbed her head on my cock to my complete satisfaction. And she never minded if I talked dirty to her, calling her cocksucker and the like. In lieu of head I occasionally got a handjob these days. More often though it was me jerking off for her. What had certainly increased was me licking her pussy, especially after the less-frequent occasions when I did get to fuck her to cumming inside her. I have never been a fan of cleaning out creampies, but I just tried to go with the flow, figuring it was a phase for her.

Her vocabulary had changed, too, and not only in bed. My lovely wife of 20 years demonstrated that she had a very dirty mouth. Pussy became cunt, for example. She was more verbal overall, especially in bed. I’ve always loved dirty talk, so this was not a point about which I would complain. But it was a datapoint in all this evolution of Bridget.

I chalked most of this up to, for lack of better terms, a mid-life crisis. Although it really wasn’t a crisis all-in-all; just an unexpected and not entirely welcome evolution in Bridget’s womanhood it seemed. When she got a tattoo after turning 40 and a piercing in her labia, I didn’t protest. The tattoo of chinese symbols at the base of her neck actually looked hot, and kind of turned me on when she let me take her from behind. And the piercing would lightly tickle my balls when I fucked her, too.

“What’s on your mind, Baby?” I responded to her, not really sure how to respond. I was trying to keep an open mind, but ‘we have to have a conversation’ usually doesn’t have a good outcome. But I was trying to stay positive and keep an open mind on the subject.

“First,” she said to me after a moment of looking at me while she smoked slowly, purposely, seductively, “This really isn’t going to be a conversation. And don’t call me Baby anymore. You can speak when I’m finished and I tell you you can speak. Nod if you understand.”

“It’s OK, I’m sorry, just tell me what you need to tell me,” I said. “I’m here for you.” I was trying to be supportive and not let the situation become aggressive or antagonistic. I still had an ominous feeling about where this was going.

Bridget exhaled and then suddenly leaned forward and slapped my face, hard. One of her long nails cut my cheek under my eye. Her eyes seemed like they were on fire. “I SAID, shut the FUCK up, listen and nod if you understand!”

I was taken aback by her aggressiveness and her loss of temper. Bridget had never raised her voice like this, even during the relatively few arguments and fights we had had in our marriage. I nodded meekly, trying to bring down the temperature of this exchange. A thought crossed my mind fleetingly. Bridget had been working out at the gym more. I had noticed she was gaining quite a physique. Not just toned, but also she had gained some muscle mass in the process. I wondered if she had turned to steroids for this, and if this wasn’t a ‘roid rage of some sorts. My mind was all over the place under the circumstances.

Bridget settled back into her high-back leather office chair and continued smoking for a moment, seemingly regaining her composure. She continued with her “conversation.”

“For 20 years I’ve been taking care of you, the kids and this house, and working at the same time, making as much or more than you over the years,” she said. “Things are about to change. Whether you like it or not.” Her tone was not contemptuous, but cold and direct. She had obviously thought a lot about this – for how long, I wondered.

“I haven’t decided on all the changes I want at the moment, but for now,” she continued, taking a long, dramatic drag on her cigarette, “Here are the terms: 1)I’ll be taking over all household and financial decisions in our marriage; 2)once the kids are on their way to college this fall, we’ll sell this house and downsize to a smaller place; I plan to travel, and no, you will not be with me most of the time; 3)there will be changes in our sex life, too; I don’t plan to leave you high and dry, but there will be distinct changes; we’ll get to those later. For now, we’ll take care of the mundane, the business and financial issues. You have time now to ask any questions you need before we move on to the next phase in our marriage.”

I was still trying to take onboard all that she had just told me. It didn’t seem rehearsed, but it definitely was not a whim that came up this morning in the shower.

“Are you having an affair,” was my first question.

Bridget laughed. “Not exactly. I’ve been seeing a woman off and on for a bit. Not too frequently.”

That struck me. Bridget had never given any indication of any interest in bisexuality. “Are you going to take a lover?” I asked. “A man?”

Bridget lit another cigarette. She was probably a little more nervous about this than her cold demeanor revealed. Admittedly, the cold Bitch routine was sexy, and she pulled if off for an Oscar, but I was trying to wrap my head around this being a 24/7 routine.

“Probably,” she smiled coyly, as she exhaled. “We’ll talk about that later. Frank, you’ve been a good lover all these years, for the most part. But I’m about to turn 45. I’ve only been with you, one man in all these years. My cunt needs a vacation, a sabbatical. What are your other questions?” I had never seen her so cool and confident, so in-control like this.

“Is this a hormonal thing?” I asked. “A mid-life crisis?”

Bridget bitch-slapped me again. “That’s really a stupid question to ask!” she yelled at me. “This is about equity. Don’t be so ignorant. Think about what you’re saying and asking before you open your fucking mouth. Do you have any other questions before we move on?”

My mouth was dry from the whole drama unfolding. I hesitated ask anything else, but had to ask one last question. “Are you going to leave me?”

Bridget’s attitude seemed to soften slightly hearing my question. “I never said I was leaving you. But it’s up to you. It’s all up to you. So do you accept this new arrangement, all-in? No negotiations.”

I swallowed hard. I had no idea really to what I was agreeing. “Yes,” I replied, rather hoarsely.

“Yes what?” she asked harshly. She was obviously enjoying this, perhaps more so than she ever expected.

“Yes Ma’am,” I said meekly.

“Good boy,” she smiled slightly. “I knew I could count on you.” Bridget gave me the routine for the rest of the day and sent me away so she could make phone calls before she finished her work for the day.

I took a quick shower and changed into casual clothes. The next change I came across was my underwear. In place of my boxers Bridget had replaced them with silky men’s briefs. Thank God they aren’t women’s panties, I thought. I’m not sure I could go down that road. I went downstairs and cooked dinner for us – something Bridget thought I had done all to infrequently and would rectify now by doing it all the time.

Bridget came downstairs later to eat with me. She was still in her stockings and heels but had shed her jacket and blouse for a sheer, silk black robe. Her tits swayed slightly underneath it. It seemed the hard Bitch I encountered in her office had been replaced with the Bridget I knew when I left this morning. She complimented me modestly on the meal and we made small talk. Well, she did, I was still unsure of how to approach her and our new circumstances. I was laconic mostly. I was in an unfamiliar landscape. Some regret, “buyer’s remorse” crept into me over dinner.

Bridget left the table and me to clean away the dishes, moving to the patio to relax. It was a warm evening. As I was finishing the dishes she called for more wine and to bring her her cigarettes and lighter. I didn’t like cooking, but I hated washing dishes even more. I made it a point to get familiar with the dishwasher soon. I grabbed Bridget’s things and a beer for myself and headed to the patio.

Bridget lit a cigarette and then asked, “Did I say you could have a beer?”

I laughed nervously. A little rebellion was settling into me now that our initial afternoon exchange had passed. “If I want a beer, I think I’ll have a beer.”

Bridget allowed that to pass as she smoked and took a generous sip of wine. She got out of her deck chair and sat on my knee, putting her hand behind my head as she held her wine glass and cigarette in her other hand. “Frank, you can go with this, you can enjoy the ride, or the alternative is you watch me walk out the door with the house and half your shit. Your choice.”

“I don’t think this is fair,” I replied, trying to reason with her.

Bridget smiled, almost sweetly, cockily actually. “NO one said this was going to be a fair arrangement. It’s my arrangement, my terms, my way, or the highway.” She took another sip of her wine and a drag before continuing. “There are three outcomes here: vicious, hard, or easy. Your choice.”

I thought for a moment. Bridget drank and smoked as she looked at my face, reading my eyes.

“I guess I don’t have a choice,” I said after some time, with resignation.

“No, you don’t,” she replied with self-satisfaction. “But I’m not pleased you tried to welch on our deal. You have to pay for that. Do you understand me? It’s my rules, no questions asked, no back-talk, no bitching, no whining, from now on. Don’t be a pussy, Frank, get on the ride, you just might enjoy this in the end. But I’m not one to suffer fools lightly, not even from you. This is a zero-sum deal. Do I need to explain it any more?”

“No,” I said quietly.

“No what?” she asked harshly.

“No Ma’am.”

“Good boy.” Bridget gripped the hair on the back of my head roughly in her fist and shook my head slightly. “Now, for tonight, you’re going to lick my cunt to a multitude of orgasms and no, you will not get one yourself, not jackoff much less a handjob. And we still have to do something about you trying to welch on our deal.”

Bridget changed the subject to talk about the kids and other less provocative household subjects. I participated in the conversation, but I was really somewhere else, I really am not sure where. I was in no-man’s land. Finally sated with wine and smoke for the moment, Bridget told me to follow her upstairs to take care of her. It was still relatively early but I could tell she was emotionally drained from the day’s events and a little drunk.

Bridget was still dressed as before when I walked in the bedroom, but there was stuff on the bed I wasn’t familiar with.

“Strip,” was all she said to me. I slowly did as she said. In a flash she had handcuffs and a lead on me and hooked to a heavy ring in the ceiling. I started to protest and I got another bitch-slap.

“Frank, when you misbehave from now on, when you disobey me, when you piss me off, when you fail to satisfy me, in bed or otherwise, this is how you will pay for your shitty, insolent behaviour and poor performance. Let me repeat one more time: this is the way it’s going to be, or I’ll be gone by noon tomorrow. You have a choice. It’s either this or take a good look at your left hand – that’s your new girlfriend. What’s it going to be?”

My head was spinning a little. “Please don’t leave me,” was all I could say.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“Please don’t leave me what?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for. “Please don’t leave me, Mistress,” I said meekly.

“Good boy,” she said, obviously satisfied. I heard her pop the cork on a bottle and light a cigarette. “This isn’t going to be quick. This is going to hurt. I need to break you. I don’t have the time, inclination or energy to put up with your wishy-washy attitude and welching on our deal going forward. So we’re going to seal the deal right now. I knew you couldn’t not fuck up, so this was the easy part. I really don’t want to have to repeat I’m about to do, but if necessary, I certainly will, or I will just walk out. But after this, it’s my decision, not yours. Well, actually, it’s all your decision, depending on how you behave yourself. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Mistress,” was all I could muster. I was scared. This wasn’t the wife I knew this morning. Even when we had fooled around haphazardly with BDSM, it was nothing even close to this level.

Bridget checked my flesh and commented on how it was so tender, almost sympathetically. Then she began. She set up a rhythm of methodically whipping my ass, upper legs and back. The only breaks she took were to light another cigarette or pour herself more champagne. Most of my backside burned and ached. I was bathed in a light coat of perspiration. But it wasn’t over. I don’t know how long Bridget had whipped my ass or how many strokes she had given me, but she seemed long from satisfied. When she tired of me screaming and begging for relief, she put a piece of duct tape over my mouth.

She began to concentrate on my tender skin under my butt cheeks and the fatless flesh on my back. I had no more tears to shed from the pain she was administering to me. As she methodically punished me, she explained why it had come to this. She had long held resentment that I never indulged her fantasies of female domination, only fulfilling mine of dominating her. She finally set aside all this in the interests of raising kids and maintaining the household and a job. But her fantasies festered and of late they had finally come to a head. And now they were coming for payday in spades. She stopped finally, and I thought it was over. She stepped before me with a hand mirror and showed my backside in the mirror on the wall behind me. It was vicious. Black and blue from above my knees to almost my shoulder blades. She smiled sweetly, evilly as I looked at my body in the mirror.

“We’re about half-way, Sweetie, hang on,” She laughed. I suddenly regretted never listening to her fantasies of female domination with a pounding of my heart and extreme fear. I could not take what she had in store for me.

But that wasn’t my choice. She worked her crop on me some more before switching to some other instruments, less sharp, more blunt. I assumed she was trying avoiding to break the skin while still giving me the effect she wanted. All the while Bridget took her time, enjoying her champagne and a smoke when it pleased her. When I had no strength and resistance left, hanging limp in my restraints from the ceiling, she stopped.

She cupped my balls in her hand and raised my chin. I was bathed in sweat, tears, and feared what I would feel when I sat down the next time. I feared what surprise she might have in store for me now. She looked me in the eye, tore the duct tape from my mouth and smiled at me.

“Now, do we understand each other?” She was almost sweet and sympathetic in her manner.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said weakly.

“Good, that’s a good boy. I’m going to release you now. I don’t really want to do anything like this to you again. But that’s up to you, do you understand me? That doesn’t mean you won’t get the crop ever again – we know that’s going to happen. But it’s up to you if I have to repeat this kind of beatdown.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I repeated weakly.

Bridget released me and I fell to my knees, drained of all strength. My body ached. I was truly broken.

Bridget spread her legs. Her labia was engorged from her excitement, her clit erect and extended fully from underneath her hood. Bridget had always had a big clit, but it seemed even larger of late. It looked vaguely like a little penis peaking out from foreskin at the moment. Her cunt was wet and ready.