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EMPATHY By Vickie Tern Prologue Darla is an absolute darling when she wants to be. I wish I could be half the woman she is but I know I can't, I don't have it in me. Or anywhere near as adorable, though there I do try. She came by her charm easily while growing up, while I've had to learn mine only very recently. But she's a wonderful teacher. She could see my potential all along, I'm a natural, that's what she says. I tell her that natural or not I do love what I am now and I owe it all to her. It feels so cuddly now, being me, and it used to feel so heavy yet so empty. We're still married and we still share our lives, which is what I'd hoped for from the beginning, and I'm grateful for that, though nowadays she goes her own way as she chooses, independent, a free woman, fully liberated. I've learned to respect that. In fact I like it, though I'm myself more a homebody. I like that too. Only a few months ago, no way! Then I was the strong partner in our marriage and she was the soft, compliant one, eager to please. I thought she was, anyway. I knew all the answers and made all the decisions, and she seemed to admire me for it. When she made a mistake I'd chastise her gently, then reward her remorse with a kiss. She was all mine then, my very own Darla, my sweet Darla! She lived for me. She tried to become the world's most perfect housewife, as if it were possible. Every night when I got home from work she'd be waiting in the living room, already changed from her office gear into the most provocative clothes she owned, the thinnest sun dress or the tightest jeans, sometimes lounging around in only the expensive lingerie I loved to buy her even before we could really afford it. She'd be curled up on the couch reading some frivolous romance novel, already in the mood. She'd look up as I came in, and her radiant smile would nearly knock me down as she put her face up to be kissed. She was usually eager to explain the aromas suffusing the house, what subtle herbs and spices steeped in what dish would be tonight's special dinner delectation. I'd been reared by a father mostly away and a mother who worked, and never felt really sure of myself, but I compensated by never showing it. Act confident and people assume you are. I did, and they did, and that in turn gave me confidence enough to believe I was never wrong. Even so, I never really felt I deserved Darla, though she always begged to differ. Her job -- she tells me now -- was strengthening my certitude and encouraging me to take good care of her by pampering me. Her cooking was part of it. We never ate the same dish twice, and whatever it was, was fabulous, yet she always seemed worried about what I'd think. I'd tell her from the bottom of my heart that every dinner was wonderful because it was created by her very own dainty hands, and then I'd kiss each of them, burying my face in her cool palms, her fingertips curling up to touch my cheeks. As if I were eating out of her hand. She liked that. She still does. No matter how often she heard me praise her she'd smile and shake her head in disbelief, then finally toss her long blonde hair back behind her ears and like a child throw her arms around my neck and cover my face with kisses, in sheer gratitude that I loved and appreciated her no matter what. That certainly boosted my sense of self-importance! I'd start kissing her back, and as often as not we'd end up nibbling and gobbling each other, all thoughts of dinner set aside. "You're the man of the house," she'd say. "Now be the man I need!" So I'd be that, as best as I could. Yes, I absolutely adored her! And I still do. Though not the same way. In those days she'd seem shy whenever we began making love, and that especially helped me feel bold. Her hands would reach toward mine tentatively as I unbuttoned her blouse and reached to unhook her bra, as if despite her desires and the fact that we were married she should be trying to stop me from violating her modesty. Early in our relationship she asked me to lick her down below before we did anything else, in that nursery school voice she always used when she felt embarrassed. So I'd always begun by exposing, then kissing her most tender, private place, her little nubbin, giving it a few gentle licks. She couldn't reciprocate by sucking me off -- she'd just didn't seem able to take that thing into her mouth. So I never proposed a sixty-nine, But my tongue in her cunt was more than enough reward. I'd sit her down and spread her legs and lean my face forward into her crotch, and she'd lean back and let out a little whine, sometimes a sob, whether of anticipation or of reluctant submission I could never be sure. She'd stroke my hair as if an obedient puppy's, and sure enough, I'd begin to lick her. Bliss! Then her pussy would begin to writhe and thrust against my face, sliding up and down my nose and mouth and tongue until I was covered with her juices and there was no stopping either of us. I should say, there was no stopping Darla. It was strange, but once aroused my Darla became another person. Her legs spread wide and as she warmed up she'd wrap them tight around my neck and nudge her pelvis at my face over and over, and maybe before I burrowed into her I'd glimpse her head lolling back as if she were a princess waiting to be amused. Then once I'd suckled her pussy and maybe her breasts, once her face was flushed and her eyes were closed, her expression tense and her teeth clenched, once her hand had lowered to my swollen, joyous tumescence and begun to tug it toward her sopping slit, she was transformed. Altogether. She became insatiable, devouring. All modest reserve was forgotten as she tugged and thrust and ground and pushed my hands, and cock deeper into the service of her pleasure, over and over, grunting and shrieking, her hips writhing voluptuously as if demanding my whole body's penetration into her. Wave after wave of orgasmic tension and shuddering would pass through her, then rise higher still as if never high enough. She was a woman possessed, obsessive, demanding to be satisfied utterly all at once. Her pussy became a gaping mouth voraciously attempting to swallow my cock, balls, thumbs, fingers, fist, anything that came near it. All of me if it could. I'd try to satisfy her. I'd certainly try! She'd scream out, furious for more, no matter how hard or deep I slammed myself into her, or with what, until finally she'd fall back exhausted and sobbing, I couldn't tell whether from all those racking orgasms or from desperate frustration. I have to confess it, I'd feel terribly inadequate every time that happened. Which was nearly always. Afterward she was always ashamed that she'd lost control. As her breathing slowed and my prick softened inside her and my cum began to leak out she'd return to a more demure demeanor. As if embarrassed by her own frenzy, she'd ask if I'd very much minded that she'd been shouting "More!" and "Deeper!" at me with such ferocity, as if no matter what I hadn't performed fast or strenuously enough to meet her needs. I'd reassure her by kissing her on both eyelids -- they were always closed after we'd made love, dedicated to preserving her body's afterglow. She'd open them and stare into mine with a thoughtful gravity I found utterly ravishing. So serious, as if pondering some impossible problem I'd posed her! Her face so childlike at such moments, yet somehow so adult! I'd ask her what she was thinking. She'd only smile sweetly and shake her head. And kiss me gently. After we fucked, her thoughts were her own. It might be that then we'd go back down to dine on her marvelous cooking and tell each other about the day's activities. She'd prop me up with extravagant praise of everything I did or didn't do, and she'd ask my advice about different pending management decisions, and she'd nod appreciatively when I'd tell her what I thought. After dinner I'd settle in and read tax advisories or cases I'd bring home -- I was always a little behind and trying to catch up -- and she'd return to her Harlequin, or her Danielle Steele, whichever, or we'd watch a family sitcom together if the lead couple seemed cute and happy. Then once snug in bed we'd make love yet again, and she'd take charge again despite herself, until we were both spent. Or maybe we'd just cuddle. We were the happiest couple I knew. Married for six years and settled into standard household routines in our upscale suburb, no children planned for a few more years, utterly devoted to each other. Darla had been an only child, raised by a doting father who never remarried after her mother died in an accident but instead devoted himself to her every desire, and now he too was gone. Darla's friend Karen sometimes told her that he wasn't so much gone as replaced by me, and Darla would smile sweetly and reply "Well, in some ways," whatever that meant. We had no family, either of us, only each other. My nearest relative was a half-sister who lived a thousand miles away. We'd rarely visit. Our friends always called Darla my "child bride" even though we're about the same age, and she'd never discourage that impression. Other husbands envied me her apparent single-minded devotion to my happiness. Whatever my opinions, in anyone else's presence they were hers too. Wives especially, and some of the women where she worked, would chide her for seeming too submissive and deferential in my presence, as if she were a shadow of me with no apparent substance of her own. A doormat, even. "He's OK, but he's not your equal in lots of ways," I overheard her friend Becky tell her once, "In lots of ways he doesn't deserve you. Yet you make yourself small whenever you're near him." I didn't hear what Darla answered, but Becky then said, "Well, that makes some sense. But it does give him the odd notion that he's in charge." Well, I was! Karen once took me aside and told me that if I really loved her I would let her go, liberate her, give her up, insist that she fly with her own wings and become her own complete person. That I'd insist she speak her own mind, do things her way, not defer to me as she does. And I'd at least help with the housework -- did I know she turned down major job opportunities because she felt she had to cater to me? "Given what she does and what you do," Karen said, "You should be the housewife!" I replied that loving is caring and marriage is commitment and partnership, that Darla was no way suppressed, she was free to do whatever she chose, and that what she chose was to live with me and maintain our home and please me. That we both liked it that way. Karen thought what I'd described was sexist patriarchal conditioning -- she used words like that -- not free choice, and that if I wouldn't help Darla she would. I told her she was welcome to try -- Darla did have her own mind and made her own decisions. I certainly didn't tell her that I couldn't bear to part from Darla. I needed her support and love as much as she seemed to need mine. I never told that even to Darla, it seemed somehow unmanly, shameful. I preferred to think of myself as her sturdy oak and Darla as my clinging vine. Darla did in fact have her own life and career. Twice she'd been promoted for her innovations and her managerial efficiency at the HMO where both she and Karen were both high-powered Health Systems Administrators. At work she was a thoroughgoing professional, exacting in knowledge of procedures, easy to work with but scrupulously demanding, lavish with praise but intolerant of error, quick to foresee problems and recommend effective action. Strong, able, and decisive. I was as proud of her career as I was of my own. I'd tell her I had no idea how she managed to keep everything going at the office and yet also at home. Sometimes, she confessed to me, she didn't either. Because at home she was always my docile kitten, all purring and pink satin ribbons, and I was the center of her world. No matter how uncertain of myself I might be elsewhere, at home with her I was a King ruling over one gorgeous, adoring subject. Sort of like her father, maybe. Until a few months ago. First Week -- Friday One evening a few months ago I came home early from our weekly TGIF office bash, eager as always to get close to Darla after a full day of dealing with tensions at work. This time I was a little annoyed. I'd asked my secretary Michelle to interrupt her tete a tete with a handsome new Law Associate to pull files I wanted to review for two complicated pending cases. She'd glanced at me and said "This weekend? Not a chance. Don't even think of it. Don't worry, they'll be here Monday." Then she returned to her young man as if I weren't there. Her insolence startled me and I was still irked by it, still puzzled what to do about it, when I arrived home and found that for once the living room was empty. No Darla. No delicious aromas from the kitchen. Worry pushed all other thoughts out of my head. My Darla wasn't upstairs either. I called out her name! Silence. I glanced out an upstairs window. There she was, thank God! But she was wandering randomly it seemed along the floral walk in our back garden, leaning over now and then to pick flowers for our dinner table I supposed, then absent-mindedly breaking their stems or snapping off their heads, one after another. Plainly, disturbed by her thoughts! This troubled me. My Darla should never feel disturbed by her thoughts! I came down and stepped out through a slider and just stood there watching this ritual for a minute or so. "Bad day at the office?" I asked her suddenly. She looked up, her mind still altogether elsewhere, for a moment at a loss who had spoken to her! Then she just looked at me uneasily, her head angled. She'd burnt dinner? No problem, we'd go out or order in, whatever! Whatever it was, I held out my arms to invite her into them and comfort her. I liked imagining I was a safe harbor to preserve her from all of life's tempests. She came slowly toward me as if she shouldn't. Darla is about my size, but she could disappear altogether into my arms when I hugged her. She wanted me to think I was her whole world, she once explained to me when I'd surrounded her with my embrace. "You mean I'm not?" I asked her, half-joking. She just smiled. It was hard not to think of her as a child -- she encouraged it so I'd feel more grown up. She told me so once. But this time she didn't come running into my arms for the big hug that would make everything all right again. She just stood there clutching a few zinnias by their thin stems, staring at me as if I were a stranger. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Obviously she was reluctant to say something I might not like. "Let's go into the living room, sweetie," I said in my kindest, most coaxing manner. "And then you'll tell me all about it." "No, Nicholas," she said. I was dumbfounded. So formal! She always called me "Nickie," or "honey" or "snuggle bear," cute diminutives like that -- she once said that even calling me "darling" sometimes made her feel too grown up, too much claiming to be my equal. But now she was distancing herself! Why? She saw bewilderment in my face, and added, "I don't want to shake your world, Nick, but now finally it's unavoidable. I need to stand my ground right here. Because if we go into the living room I just might start playing the little girl again, because I always do, because that's where you're sweet to me and that's how I want it and you expect it. Then afterward it wouldn't seem right for me to stand firm and say things that could hurt you. So I've got to say them right here." "All right," I said. I already felt hurt. Was I the problem, somehow? I was worried. "Here's where we'll talk. But can I fetch us some wine first? And can we sit while you tell me what mean thing is bothering you." "You sit, Nick. I'll stand when I say this. But I'd love some wine, thank you." She then produced a wry grin. "When you hear what I've got to say you'll probably want something stronger, so why not get yourself one right now?" "Wine is fine, honey," I said in as soothing a voice as I could muster. "I want what you want!" And as I turned to go inside to open the bottle I'd set chilling that morning, I heard her say out loud to the flowers and the shrubs and the air, "Well, we'll see!" When I came out again I handed her a glass and sat down. Darla just looked at me for a moment, as if I were someone at work she'd been told to downsize. Regretfully. Then suddenly she gathered herself up and became much more brisk, more decisive. She set her wine down untouched. "Last year," she began, "Karen took a course at the Women's Center downtown that changed her life. Roger's life too. Their marriage was unsatisfactory and they were near a divorce then, you know? You hadn't known? Well, they were. But now they're very different, practically inseparable. Roger even quit his job, he works with us at the HMO now. Not really with us, for us, he's entry level as a filing clerk. That keeps his mind clear for the other things she wants him to be thinking about. He sees a lot of Karen in the course of the day -- she gives him his orders, he reports back to her, and so forth, and that's saved their marriage. You didn't know?" I shook my head. I didn't. Roger had been an arrogant, tough-minded MBA on his firm's fast track. And now content to be a filing clerk? Karen's doing, obviously. But how was a mystery! She paused, and took a breath. Then continued. "Well, Becky signed up for the same course this year. She hopes for a similar result with Jason." She paused again. Then added crisply, "I've signed up too. I should have consulted you first so you'd feel more involved right off, maybe, because it's a serious commitment for both of us. But I finally decided it wasn't necessary, it's what I want to do, so I know you'll want me to do it, and that you'll be glad to help me." Her voice ended on an upward inflection, as if she were not quite sure, but then she added firmly, "You will help me, honey, because I want you to. We both know it." And her gray eyes looked at me steadily. "Of course, dear," I said. I took a sip of wine and realized that for the first time I didn't feel we were cordially chatting, me eliciting information from Darla so I could make decisions for her. Instead I felt like a client being informed he's been plea-bargained into serving time, like it or not. If Karen was behind this, I was suspicious. "And what kind of course is this that you think will change your life the way it changed Karen's?" Somehow my patronizing tone nettled her. She ignored the words and addressed instead the way they sounded. Not my wife but the HMO's efficient executive administrator replied sharply. "I don't just 'think' it, Nicholas, I've no doubt whatever that it will change our lives. OUR lives. It's called 'Assertion and Empathy Training.' It starts tonight, and I'll be going in to the Center for a training session every Friday night from now on, for a few months anyhow, maybe less, maybe longer, depending on results. We set our own goals. Sometimes it takes only a month. We may be lucky." I suddenly felt relieved. If Darla wanted to spend her Friday evenings doing Assertive Empathy Training, or Primal Screaming, or Aroma Therapy, or whatever this year's women's fad, that was fine. Sure. "That's just fine, Darla!" I said, hoping my enthusiasm didn't sound too forced. "I do hope the course does everything you wish. I'll miss being with you all those Friday evenings of course. But I'm sure we can make it up over the weekend. Just how am I involved?" Darla suddenly sat down at the patio table and picked up her wine glass. Her eyes were still leveled at me and she ignored my question. Instead, she asked in an even tone of voice, "Then you approve? You'll cooperate?" "Why of course I will!" I said egregiously. Then too late, the lawyer in me woke up. "Cooperate how?" I asked. Now Darla turned evasive, even a little girlish. "I'm so relieved! You've just made me so happy!" she burst out. "I'll take you at your word, sweetheart! Good!" She took a tentative sip, still staring at me. "I've been so worried that you might not agree. I really don't want to leave you." Leave me? I suddenly felt frightened. What was this? She didn't seem to notice. She sipped her wine again and looked into the glass approvingly, then her eyes turned to focus again on mine. Emphatically but impersonally, as if she were behind her desk and orienting a new member of her staff. "Here's how you're involved, honey. First, the course runs weekly with no breaks, that's how it gets results. So our winter holiday down south may need to be postponed -- and if we do go, it'll be quite different from our usual winter holiday." She shifted her hips in the chair and glanced down again with a slight smile, then back up at me. "Certainly for you. Very much so." "That's no hardship, Darla," I said, beginning to worry about just how intrusive this was going to be. "Not if this thing means that much to you." "It does," Darla said, then without missing a beat, "Secondly, each Friday night there's a training and discussion session at the Women's Center for the facilitators, that's us, all the wives and girlfriends who are doing the course. Saturdays and Sundays we apply what we've learned, that's our homework I guess you'd call it. Some things we keep going during the week. So it isn't just Friday evenings. We're busy with it all weekend. Or more." This was beginning to look like a lost Fall and Winter. My wife loaded with homework every weekend? I wondered what I'd be doing while she was busy. There weren't that many games on the tube. I supposed I'd read, or visit with the guys. Becky's husband Jason would also be at loose ends, and I hadn't seen Roger for nearly a year. Catch up more casework maybe? "Darla," I asked a little plaintively. "Won't we be doing anything together while this course is filling up all your free time?" Now Darla just looked at me. Then suddenly she stood again, and I realized that she hadn't changed into something more comfortable when she'd arrived home -- she was still dressed in her power outfit, a business suit, jacket and skirt and blouse, with a flowing scarf at the neck that somehow asserted her femininity without implying weakness. "Nick, you don't understand yet, do you? By "we" I don't mean just me and the other women in the course. I mean me and you. You're the person I'll be training, you'll be the one developing empathy. We'll be together practically every moment every weekend, and it's advisable during the week too. Except for Friday evenings when I'm at the Women's Center. And except when you're doing your exercises. There're a lot of them, mostly writing, and some lab work in a manner of speaking, some field exercises I guess you'd call them. Real life tests. I give you projects and assignments and leave you alone to do them, and you write them up, and then I judge what you've done and we discuss them. Maybe you do them again. Now and then you do something on your own." I was bewildered. I just stared up at her. She looked back down at me, and a faint smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "Think about it, sweetie. I learn how to be more assertive with you. I haven't been, not at all, you'll have to grant that. You learn to be much more sensitive and understanding about how I think and feel, you learn to share in whatever I'm thinking and feeling, that's what empathy is. Sympathy is what you feel for a person while keeping your distance, but empathy is what you feel as if you are that person, that's what the course stresses. You'll write out how you feel about some things, and then how you imagine I feel about them, about all sorts of things. I read what you've written and correct your misimpressions. Then I give you more assignments. This course is designed to raise our consciousness of each other, mainly yours of me. It will change our relationship. We'll both be very different when it's over, I'm sure. I think better. I hope so. Some relationships don't survive it, of course. We'll see about us!" Even more frightening! "What's wrong with our relationship now?" I asked in a small voice, wishing this whole conversation were somewhere else between two other people. "That's the first lesson, Nick. Tonight's. I could tell you, but it's better if you find out for yourself. I'm off soon for my first session, and tomorrow morning you'll begin yours, and then we'll both know. That's how the course works." This was not my sweet Darla. Things somehow had already begun to change. She glanced at her watch, then looked at me gratefully, more like my old Darla. "I'm so glad you've agreed to do this, Nick. I really am. It shows there's still hope for us." Again I was silent, just staring at her. Hope? What was she talking about? Were things that bad? I'd thought they were perfect! She reached over and picked up her wine glass again, now quite relaxed, and sipped again at her wine. "Are you sure you don't want something stronger to drink?," she asked me. "A stiff one will do you good!" She smiled to herself as she heard the innuendo in what she'd said. Until this moment she'd have blushed. But now she only added, "Though if this works out you'll have plenty. Oh, while you're in the house, phone for a pizza, or we'll have nothing to eat before I have to go." Then she actually dismissed me with her eyes! As if I were some errant staff member just called to account in her office! She turned away and headed down the path to gather flowers again. But this time all concentration, her mind composed, now not in the slightest distracted. When the pizza arrived we ate it mostly in silence. I asked her about problems at work, and she declined to describe any. So I told her about Michelle's insubordination, and she commented only, "I don't wonder." Near midnight she came home from her first session looking self-assured, confident, at ease with herself. Her body seemed somehow less soft, strengthened in some odd way, even wiry. Without a word she handed me a single sheet with my first writing assignment typed on it. It said I was to write for three hours describing as sensitively as I could some one extremely intimate experience we'd shared, a sexual experience, first from my point of view, then from what I imagined was her point of view. Not too bad. Darla had mentioned there'd be writing, and I had no problem with that. That's what lawyers mostly do. I'm always arguing something or other for someone or other. I'm used to adopting other people's points of view and anticipating their arguments. In the morning I'd write, and in the afternoon we'd discuss whatever I wrote, and she'd reveal to me maybe for the first time how she'd really felt during that intimate experience, whatever I thought she was feeling. No harm in that. She paused and looked at me, waiting for a response. She was so charming, this newly assertive Darla, that I couldn't really object. Remembering some one intimate moment with Darla would be fun, a little like writing pornography for her eyes only. So I kissed her on the tip of her nose and told her I'd be happy to do it, first thing tomorrow, though I didn't see how it would take up the whole weekend. She didn't respond. So I took her hand and started to lead her upstairs to bed. She immediately withdrew her hand from mine but then accompanied me up the stairs anyhow. "This is one of the things we discussed tonight," she said. "From now on, if we go to bed together, it's only because I want it. You don't lead me. On Fridays there'll be no sex, because that would take the edge off your Saturday morning assignments. I want you to feel wanting on Saturdays, hard up, especially anxious to please me. That way you'll concentrate better on your assignments. Sundays too. There may be sex of some sort on some weekends as a reward, or as part of the learning experience. And that's what we'll call it, 'sex,' because that's what it is. You can love someone but have sex with someone else, they're different. Love is how we feel about each other, maybe, and sex is what we do with each other. Or don't do, except maybe certain limited kinds I'll allow you. Maybe." Bummer! For maybe months? Was that why last year Karen's husband Roger pulled out of our monthly poker game, and we hadn't seen him since? Quit his job too, all in order dance attendance on Karen? He was that hard up? "We should have Karen and Roger over," I said. "And find out how they dealt with these assignments and things." "Don't worry Nick, we will, but not soon! After you've shaped up." Her tone was peculiar, partly agreeable and reassuring, yet also partly resolute, as if she were telling me there'd better be no argument about it. I glanced at her, but her face looked composed enough. We undressed for bed, and as I changed into my pajamas she slipped off her skirt, blouse, and jacket and hung them away. I'd seen her do this hundreds of times, thousands, but this time there was something different in the way it affected me! In how she carried her body? A certain poised ease, an unconcern with what I thought of her? I simply couldn't look away. As she reached into her closet, her slip twisted into tight folds across her figure, and her ripe breasts thrust above her waist and the melons of her tush curved down below. She was still wearing the stiletto heels she always wore with that business suit, no doubt for height and authority. Her instep still arched arrogantly, like a ballerina's. I held my breath and just watched. She bent far forward and crossed her arms and pinched the hem of her slip with each hand, then lifted it high over her head. Then she paused for a moment as if daydreaming. I looked on in awe. Just stunning, my wife, my sweet goddess! There she was now, almost naked, her creamy white breasts spilling their abundance out of her delicate lilac-lace bra, her matching lilac lace panties and satin garter-belt clasping and caressing her sweet ass, those globes I'd grasped so often when plunging myself into her. And below were her long legs, tubes of sheer, shining black nylon tipped finally by those high, thin heels. "Wow!" I said without thinking. I don't think I'd ever seen her looking so provocative! She glanced over and saw me staring worshipfully at her, my pajama pants now poked far out by an enormous boner, and she looked quite pleased. "That's how I want you, honey," was all she said. She sounded smug as she reached down to detach her garters and unroll those black nylon encasements from her legs. "And that's how it'll be until you earn the right to ease yourself." She grinned at me now. "Oh, yes, I forgot to mention, you're not to touch yourself without my permission. No masturbating from now on, not for the rest of the course. A horny erection is a girl's best ally when a man needs to change his ways. Our discussion leader told us to think of a cock as a kind of dog leash a man leaves hanging down there for us to use. 'If it's hard,' she said, 'a single jerk on it brings him to heel, ready to sit up and beg.'" She grinned. "Abstinence will be good for you, sweetheart. You'll appreciate me more." "I appreciate you plenty now, Darla," I said devoutly. Still strangely spellbound by her new self-assurance, I was entranced as she reached behind her, elbows like small wings on either side of her torso, bent forward, and unhooked her bra, and then I watched fascinated as her heavy breasts swung free, their nipples engorged. My lips involuntarily pursed and my cock began to throb. I wanted her so desperately at that moment! My lawyer's mind reached for arguments. "When I can't make love to you, Darla honey, aren't you unfairly deprived? We're equal partners in bed, aren't we?" "Oh, I've got no problems like yours, honey," she said, glancing again at that outcropping on my groin. It lurched as she spoke. "And in fact, we aren't equal. I'm sure you've noticed how I always take charge when we're ... having sex? That's my real nature. It's subdued most of the time, so you won't feel threatened. But now it needs to become dominant." Now she was altogether nude, and I could only stare! She was so luscious! "I've felt apologetic about it I suppose because I was raised to believe that women should submit to men's desires. Well, from now on I'll have sex when I want it, only then, and how I want it, and there'll be no apologies. I will be satisfied." She paused. "I'll have it. We'll have it when you deserve it. I do hope you will." She reached high up over her head again, and as her breasts rose up I caught my breath again. A dainty nightgown fluttered down over her beautiful head and shoulders, its pink lacy edges cascading over her breasts to pause just past her neatly trimmed blonde bush. Her labia were really swollen. I guess she was really getting off on this power trip of hers. "With that prick of yours poking out the way it is, honey," she said in a kindly voice, "you'd better sleep on your back tonight. I don't want you humping the mattress until you've turned in several acceptable assignments." I tried again. "Darla, we both suffer if I don't turn in acceptable assignments, don't we?" I said. "This isn't fair, to you I mean, is it?" I was so overwrought from watching that naked ass tossing itself under the hem of her nightie that my prick nearly went ballistic. A wet spot started where I throbbed against my pajamas. "Oh, I can take care of myself," she replied. "I learned tonight. It's our opening exercise each Friday, a kind of pledge of allegiance to ourselves. We get pointers on how to improve our techniques. I just use my pussy muscles. Watch, no hands and no man!" She stood still, facing me, areolas dark shadows behind those enormous jutting nipples. I'd never realized her breasts were so huge on that body! They held her nightie at least six inches away from her body as it descended in free fall from those outcropped nipple tips down to her crotch level. I sat down on the bed. Maybe my stiff pole would recede into my lap if I sat? It didn't. Maybe it would be less noticeable? It wasn't. Then Darla closed her eyes and began to sway her hips gently, barely rotating her pelvis into a restrained bump-and-grind. The movement was too inconspicuous to be bawdy but too obvious to be casual or any way genteel. A satisfied smile gradually spread across her face as she concentrated on her feelings. A seductive sensation seemed to be rising out of her loins. Her face grew intent, then pained. Her undulations intensified. Then suddenly she cried out "Ahhh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!" and she seemed to catch her breath, and then sag, just slightly, as if spent. Then as she recovered her breath and opened her eyes again, she saw me watching her closely, my face concerned. "No, honey," she said, still breathing rapidly, "It isn't as good as with you inside me." She stopped for a second, then added, "No, I shouldn't say that any more -- it gives you a false sense of entitlement. What I mean is, it isn't as good as when a man's stiff prick is inside me. Like that one you've got. Or bigger." She smiled at how that sounded, and straightened her shoulders, then smiled again when she saw the consternation on my face. But she continued as if there were nothing wrong, "Or a really long, thick dildo, something solid I can clamp down on." Then she added, "No, not as good, but it'll do!" I was still shocked, but she paid no attention. Her thoughts began drifting. "I'd always wondered about Beth," she mused, "a girl I knew in high school, not too bright, I'd always wondered what she was doing in Math class, wriggling slightly and moaning. This, I guess. It's wonderful, really! No hands, and barely detectable. I can do it for myself any time, even during staff meetings!" She looked directly at me. "But you're not to do anything for your self, nothing at all! You need to be eager to please me any time for the next few months. That pretty penis of yours is off limits to your hands unless I say otherwise! And to the mattress. And to any doors or walls or cushions or knotholes or stray dogs in heat that may take your fancy when you get really hard up! Understood?" I looked down at that stiff rod in my lap, still fully erect. So near and yet so far. Would I want to cheat when she wasn't watching me? Could she tell, somehow? I nodded. "They told us that the men in our lives will cheat and can't be trusted. So they gave us each one of these things to use on them. Bring that thing over here, would you please?" I did eagerly, and stood expectant in front of her. She slipped something that looked like an thick elastic sock over my hard on, and tightened a plastic clip at its base. "There! That's part of a chastity device. They want us to install one now and leave it on until the course is done. But I'll use only this liner part, and leave it on you only for tonight, and I'll cut it off you tomorrow morning. Just so you'll know I can, that I'm serious. I want voluntary compliance, self-discipline, conformity from within, nothing compelled. If I don't get it we'll both regret it, Nick, because that moment, we're finished as a couple. This tells you that you don't play with yourself, and you don't cum, unless I say so. Am I clear?" "Yes," I said hastily. Clear enough! Then to take my mind off my imprisoned boner I asked Darla, "What's that plug for, on this device?" "It's an electric connection for a controller, to shock your penis if it should get an erection. I don't want that for you. I like the idea that you're hard up." I had nothing to say to that. After I moment I asked her dryly, "What else did they teach you tonight, besides how to have sex without me and how to deprive me of sex without you? I thought this was 'Assertive Empathy Training.'" "Oh, it is! It teaches us to assert ourselves against oppressive patriarchies! That's you. How to empower ourselves. How husbands are the main obstacles to our own self-realization. That's why this course is mostly how to re-train you to understand and accept the new me. That's where the empathy comes in. It applies to all the men in our lives. I even told everyone about my father." "What about your father? Isn't he beyond re-training now?" A glance told me she didn't appreciate my irony. "After Mom died he really spoiled me. I was the one girl left in his life, and I learned quickly that I could get anything I wanted from him by continuing to play the little girl. So I did. The way I've done with you. It's a kind of blackmail." "Blackmail? You mean you'd threaten a tantrum if you didn't get what you wanted?" "No, I mean he'd blackmail me that way. Emotionally. The way you do. By making me feel guilty if I declare what I want directly. By threatening to withhold affection if I stop playing your dear little girl, if I should move toward assuming my own proper prerogatives." We'd never used words like "threatening" or "prerogatives" with each other! And I'd never done that! I'd never threatened anything! My Darla had fallen into the toils of Women's Libbers! Maybe even man-hating lesbians? I realized I'd better watch my step, or I really might lose her altogether, the way she was talking. That thought was terrifying! I loved her! She was my darling, my life! There'd be no disagreements! So all I responded was, "So you yielded to your father's blackmail? He always seemed mild and undemanding enough to me." "Oh, yes. That's how he became after I learned how to deal with him directly. The way I'll be dealing with you. By asserting myself firmly, I pretty much got him willing to agree to anything, and I really tested him!" She smiled to herself, reminiscing. "He needed me way more than I needed him. He got to be dependent on me. I learned how to use that need to my own advantage." She smiled at me and tossed her head, almost disdainfully, it seemed. "We talked about it tonight. Men feel fulfilled when they're submissive to women. They deny it, and they bury it under all those macho attitudes and postures, but it's there. Being a "gentleman" and serving women, helping them with their coats and opening doors and being of service to them, that's what they love. Their mothers inculcate it, and they're hard-wired by evolution to be that way, to protect and serve all the girls and women in their lives. I finally learned to do with my Dad what my Mom once did. Instead of wheedling and coaxing him, I ordered him to do things. And I humiliated him when he didn't, the way Mom did when she was alive. He was used to it. He ended up grateful, much happier, when I let him wait on me hand and foot." She suddenly stopped and looked closely at me, to see if she'd said too much. I'd heard, but I wasn't listening that carefully -- my cock was still throbbing inside its thick package. "Let's go to bed," she said finally. "Just lie on your back. You can put one hand on my hip if you need to feel consoled, but just this one night." I lay next to her. At first she turned away from me and wriggled her hip into the mattress to get comfortable, then her breathing grew deep and regular. I stared at the ceiling and at the mound my encased prick pushed up under the blanket, wishing this whole thing were over so we could get back to the way things were. I put my hand gently on Darla's hip and realized that it was tensing, rotating ever so slightly again, and that her breathing was getting more ragged. Then she sighed "Ahhhhh! Aaaahhhhhhhh!" a few times and stretched herself luxuriously, cat-like. Then she fell asleep. My cock throbbed as I too fell asleep. First Week -- Saturday In the morning when I woke up I was still rigid. As I often did every Saturday when I got up first, I fixed Darla's breakfast and brought it to her in bed. She opened her eyes and saw the tray straight away and then my cock underneath jutting toward her like a hot dog in a bun, and she looked amused. I set the tray down, and she reached into a bedside drawer, took up a pair of manicure scissors, snipped off the plastic band, removed the chastity sock and tossed it to one side, and then said, "I think you'll remember now." As if I could forget! After breakfast I settled into my study and turned on the computer and decided that the intimate moment I would write about was the first time we'd made real love together -- had sex together, she'd want me to say now -- just about when we'd decided not to date anyone else and to start going steady. That was the first time we'd let desire sweep us past all the preliminaries, all the kissing and necking and fingering and making out, the first time we'd wrapped ourselves around each other naked and screwed each other silly. I remembered that it was as wonderful for her as it was for me, the culmination of months of waiting, our first complete act of love and trust, the moment when our most urgent desires were finally realized. It had yielded for her the same glowing certainty I felt afterward, that we were marvelously compatible physically as well as all the other ways, that we were soulmates, meant for each other. I'd never felt as close to anyone before then. My first moment inside her was so sweet, I could still feel it! She was so tight I could scarcely move once I'd inserted myself. I'd lain on top of her and pushed and thrust myself into her and filled my mouth with her astonishing breasts. Then .... I typed steadily for three hours while elsewhere in the house Darla was doing her Saturday morning stretch-Yoga and chatting cheerfully on the phone. Then I printed out. After lunch Darla asked me to clear away the dishes while she carried the pages into the living room and read them carefully, saying nothing until she'd finished the last page. Then she set them down and called me in, motioned for me to come toward her, to sit on the floor opposite her easy chair -- usually my easy chair, the seat of household authority, she'd taken it over. That was odd, but I did it. This was her game, after all. I later found that was where she wanted me whenever I was waiting for her to come home from her Friday sessions and whenever we needed to talk, especially when I hadn't done well. "What you remember may be what you actually felt," she began. "But it's clear you had no idea what I was feeling. And you still have no idea." "No?" I looked at her. Here she was, perched in the chair where we'd made glorious love together as recently as three days ago. Darla looked so cute, and her face was so solemn! But I tried to listen to her. Then as my heart fell I couldn't help but listen. She laid it out in a quiet voice, gaining confidence as she spoke. My essay was altogether lacking in empathy or understanding. I was mistaken about how she felt about sex back then. She'd done it with me only because I'd repeatedly insisted, because I'd always turned bitter every time she refused to give me that last full measure of devotion. She wasn't a prude -- she'd once lived briefly with an earlier boyfriend -- but she'd known almost immediately that with me it was a different kind of relationship, serious. She'd really wanted to wait until we were married and belonged to each other. It was old-fashioned of her, but she didn't want it to seem like one more casual fling, that was how she felt. She'd yielded to me against her will, to some extent again and again ever since then. She always felt somehow that though she belonged to me, I belonged to my desires, not to her. That may be why even in the deepest throes of sex she always felt unsatisfied. That could be one reason why she always cried out for more no matter how strenuously I was cramming myself at her. That's why now she needed to change our relationship. Then she told me that when I'd first pushed myself into her she wasn't ready, not quite in the mood, and I'd hurt her. That when she'd bitten her lower lip that night it wasn't passion, as I'd assumed in my smug pride, it was to keep from crying out in pain. She'd asked me to lick her pussy every time we had sex since then not because she craved oral sex, not then, but to be sure I'd never enter her again when she wasn't already wet. Moreover, there was something pressing, urgent about the way I made love, as if I was trying to prove something that I doubted deep down. She'd wondered about it -- maybe I was proving to myself that I wasn't gay? Maybe there was that side of me too, and in all honesty I should acknowledge it? She'd noticed that any time gay sex came up as a topic, or she'd tell me about a gay couple we both knew, I seemed to block off in my mind any thought of what their sex might be like. Was I afraid to consider such ideas? She enjoyed sex with a man, so my inability to imagine it probably closed me off utterly from understanding how and why she enjoyed it. Or was it that in my heart I simply doubted that I was man enough for her? She'd decided yes, because it explained my overeager lovemaking, and she'd since devoted much effort to supporting my sense of sufficiency. Yes, she knew about how my parents hadn't been there to build self-confidence in me when young, but it was well past time I grew up! If I wasn't man enough for her, that was not something to deny but something to acknowledge and deal with. She'd thought of calling off our engagement a few times before we were married, because I was so insensitive to her physical needs. She'd hint at them, difficult as it was for her to speak of such intimate matters, but I'd never really listen. She'd married me as planned because she didn't want to disappoint her girlfriends, those who cared for her and knew how she felt, especially her would-be bridesmaids. "He's just clueless, like most guys, " one had told her. "Play the sweet goody goody, the way he expects, probably needs." That's what she'd done, as with her father while growing up, and now she felt trapped in the role. "You can always change him afterward, the way you changed your father," another had advised. And that's what she was now doing. Finally. It didn't sound too good to me. What did this mean? While we were dating I'd noticed that her father most of the time was a wraith in shirtsleeves who watched TV or sat at the dinner table, said little, asked for nothing, and was never consulted. I couldn't connect him with the hearty man in his wedding photo, arm wrapped around a smiling bride, a self-confident former all star athlete. Once, when we'd wanted the sitting room to ourselves, Darla had told him it was his bed-time, and without a word he'd gone upstairs. I'd wondered then if like many daughters, Darla would expect her husband to be like her father. But it didn't seem so, nor did it worry me. I knew I'd never end up like him. Too much pride, I'd never allow it. Though not when she told me all these things. I felt crushed. Humiliated. Somehow found out. I apologized. I told her I wished I'd known how she really felt. That I was a brute, self-centered and conceited. I told her that I really did love her, with all my heart. That I wanted to make a new beginning. She said she knew that. She told me that not *whether* I loved her but *how* I loved her was the issue. She was willing to begin again. But it would have to be her way this time. It was not going to be easy for me. Then she then set the first condition for our ongoing relationship, that for now it was only a relationship, not a marriage, not an institution to reinforce my patriarchal domination of her. All bets and assumptions were off. We were living together on her sufferance. The second was that on weekends she was in sole charge. We were not equal partners, as I'd imagined while I was lording it over her. We weren't partners at all. To stay reminded of this, on weekends I would no longer call her "Darla" nor any of the many pet names I had for her, but "Miss Darla" or "ma'am," which she told me was the only respectful way a man like me should address the woman of the house. She didn't want me feeling too familiar or intimate or casually comfortable in her presence. Especially if I needed correcting or chastising. "Darla," I objected.... She glared at me. Then said emphatically, "I think we'll extend that requirement. You'll speak properly to me even on weekdays, so you won't ever forget the courtesy you owe me. You can call me 'Darla' or any endearment you choose when there are others present. I may not answer to that name, but you can use it. Otherwise I am 'ma'am' or 'Miss Darla' to you from now on. I am reclaiming my status as a single woman. We are not married. You no longer have claims on me as a husband!" I was appalled! Was she dissolving six years of happy -- I'd thought they were happy -- married intimacy, just by adding a single syllable to her name? Apparently so. All I could do was stare! "Now rewrite this three hours of male crowing. This time from my point of view as I've explained it. I want to see how close you can come to thinking what I think, feeling what I feel. Put yourself in my place and tell the story again." She handed me the sheaf of papers and I took it. Later that afternoon I gave her a new account in which I imagined myself in Darla's situation, even in her body. How she felt when my own body approached hers and consummated our relationship. Scared and annoyed and also maybe trapped by her need to indulge me. Despite everything turned on by the sex despite how she felt about me, really craving it, I couldn't leave that out. And dissatisfied there too. Darla read the new essay expressionlessly, glanced once at me, and said nothing. I suppose that was something, anyhow. I was even less happy that night when 'Miss Darla' moved me out of our bedroom into the guest bedroom. I objected, but she simply said, "Did I say I wanted a new beginning, Nicholas, or did you say it? Of course if you want it to end right here...." I hurriedly assured her I didn't, and she seemed to relent for a moment. She walked with me from our bed to the doorway of our bedroom, ours no longer, and as I stepped out into the hall I couldn't help it, I turned back to look for a moment at that room, that bed we'd shared for six years, mine too until just a few minutes ago. I was near tears. She saw, and the old Darla almost came to the surface. She placed a hand on my cheek. "Poor baby," she said sympathetically. "I know. We have a long way to go, but it'll be better for us in the end. For both of us. You'll see." Then she stepped back and said, "Remember to sleep on your back and to keep your hands where they belong." And she closed the door in my face. First Week -- Sunday The next morning she told me to write down how I'd felt about my first night alone, and how I thought she felt. I wrote that I was lonely and missed her terribly, and that she probably felt luxuriously free of my condescending attitudes toward her and regretful that she had to do it, and I brought it to her. She looked up once while reading and said, "No, pitying, not regretful." Then handing it back she said, "I especially want you to write down any rebellious thoughts you may have during this process. If you don't and I find you've had any, that's the moment you move out of the house, or I do." She then told me to empty my things from the closet and bureau in her bedroom and bring them into my new bedroom. She needed the space and the privacy. She didn't ever want me in there uninvited. I did. What else could I do? That afternoon Darla changed from jeans into a dress and went out without saying a word to me about where she was going or when she'd be back. This had never happened before, and I was a little concerned. She feels no way accountable to me for her movements any more, I supposed. My mind wandered into worst cases. What if she got into an accident? Or was abducted? Worse still, what if she'd gone out to meet a man? Someone else? My imagination took hold. What if it was one of those young guys in her office who are always trying their luck with any of the attractive women they run into? What would I do if she were to leave the house some afternoon looking cool and well-dressed, like now, and not return until early the next morning looking flushed and mussed? What could I do? Give up trying to preserve our marriage? Our former marriage? Could I still care for such a sexually liberated Darla? Could I share her? Would I want to? Would I have to leave her if she took up with other men? Or seemed to take up with them? What if it turned out that despite suspicious-looking behavior on her part, what she had actually done was irreproachable? What if it turned out that my fears and reproaches were irrelevant? Were we still married as far as fidelity went? Did I own her? These questions were so distressing I had to push them aside. Darla returned a few hours later looking flushed and mussed, her arms filled with groceries I'd noticed we needed, commenting on extraordinary crowds and long lines at the supermarket. She seemed casual enough. But why had she changed to a dress to go grocery shopping? Was that amusement I saw in her eyes when she saw the worry in mine? Did she change only in order to worry me? When the groceries were put away she came into the living room and unexpectedly leaned over and turned off the game I was watching on TV. I looked up at her, wondering if she was angry at me, or vindictive, or playful, or what? She looked back down at me, and then smiled, and slowly, with both hands, she hiked up her skirt. I saw she wasn't wearing panties. There was her beautiful bush, fully exposed. Looking straight down at me the whole time, she backed over to her easy chair and sat down and leaned back and then spread her legs wide apart. "C'mere baby," she said. "Come put your head in my lap!" I knelt in front of her and looked for her lap. There was none, only her two thighs spread wide apart. I understood. So I dove into her, and only seconds later I was licking her delicate pussy lips while her writhing wiped its liquor all over my face. Her arms braced across the back of the couch, her breasts were thrust forward, and her hips twisting obscenely to spread it all over my nose and mouth and chin. After a week of no fucking, she was incredibly juicy. She came almost at once, and immediately started building toward a second climax. She called out "Oh? Ah? Ah! Ahhhhh!" as if they were questions and affirmations in rising crescendo as my tongue flicked her clit, her cries panting closer and closer together. Then came a piercing scream, unforgettable, often her ultimate orgasmic declaration, a long-drawn out cry that was actually a little frightening. Her legs clamped down hard on my head and pulled my face tight into her cunt. I could feel all that slick, wet membrane fluttering, pulsing, squeezing slippery juices into my nose and eyes and mouth, and only as the throbbing waned did her legs relax and allow me to draw a deep breath! I seized her around the waist and began to haul myself up onto her, ready now at last to sink my neglected and aggrieved, iron-hard cock deep into that soaked pit, one hand fumbling to maneuver it out though my fly -- never mind trying to get my pants down. "NO!" she said, still gasping to catch her breath. "No, Nick, stay on your knees! This is for MY pleasure! Your pleasure is in giving me pleasure!" I was astonished and appalled! "Darla!" I began to plead. "Miss Darla!" I remembered to add quickly. "That's better!" she said. "Now take your hand away from that thing down there! That's it! I know your poor balls are aching, and I do feel sorry for them, but there will be no relief for them this week! She pushed me back down with both arms and then continued, her voice kindly, "We'll have just one kind of sex at a time! No more trying for everything and not getting enough of anything! Your face felt very good in there, what you just did. So do it again!" So I sank back down. She lolled back, this time at her ease, and again I sank to my knees and planted my nose where it could nuzzle her clit, and pushed my tongue into that drenched cavern just below. It took a long time before she resumed rotating and pushing her crotch into my face while I slurped and lapped and sucked and gasped and smooched her. Finally she came again with a loud, languorous, full-bodied sigh, her thighs again wrapped tight around my neck. Then she relaxed again. This time I felt defeated. My neck and my jaw ached, and I'm sure I looked a little mournful when I looked up at her to see if she was through for now. She had her eyes closed while she again recovered her breath. When she opened them, she said, "Aw, you poor dear! Don't look so sad, Nick! You have every reason to feel proud. You did well. That was very good! I should rent you out, you're so good at this! Now just sit back while I go clean myself up, Or better, why don't you see if you can fix us something nice for dinner. Oh yes, don't wipe your face. I want to see it looking nice and shiny like that for a while longer, to remind me where it's been. And I want you to enjoy the aroma. To get used to it, so you'll miss it when it isn't there. Your face between my legs should come eventually feel like where you belong. Like home." I did as she requested. I laid out a light Sunday supper with my face and hair still soaked and sticky, and as we ate she now and then looked across at me with a little girl's delight. She felt playful. "I bet you're wondering why I put on a dress just to go the supermarket, and just when it was that I took off my panties. Aren't you?" I just looked uneasy, the way I felt, and said nothing. "Did you think I tasted the same as I always do?" She was teasing me. I'd wondered. As my tongue had dipped into the slick liquids coating her cunt, and my lips sucked them, I'd brought intense, rapt concentration to that first moment of contact, its viscosity and flavor, seeking familiarity, dreading an encounter with something strange. Dreading the moment when it would already be too late, another man's cum was now already in my mouth, rolling across my tongue, telling me that I was a cuckold for certain and an involuntary cocksucker at one remove. The moment when undeniable evidence was coating my mouth and despite myself I was savoring its flavor and its feel. When my mouth would fill with the sperm another man had left inside my wife when he made her his own, and my choices were reduced to two: swallow or spit. She knew I'd been excruciatingly uncertain as my tongue had reached toward her vulva. But I'd immediately determined with no doubt whatever that she tasted the same as always. That familiar musky, faintly fishy, flowery Darla taste. There was no difference. She knew that too. Then why was she teasing me? Because she was telling me she might not always taste the same? That the man she lived with might one day taste ... another man's sperm? She was making it clear, if she wanted to fuck others, she would, and she wouldn't hesitate to have me lick them out of her afterward. It would give her satisfaction to know that's what I was doing, whether I knew it or not. Had I already have done so some time in the past? Was I absolutely sure I hadn't? I hadn't really paid attention to her flavors -- her pussy musk always overwhelmed my ability to discriminate. Now I'd have to become a connoisseur. "You feel happy whenever I'm happy, whatever the reasons, don't you Nick? You're happy simply because I'm happy. So you want me to be happy, however. Isn't that true? Isn't that's what love is." I was right. She was preparing me for ... for what? For the day she comes home sexually satisfied by someone else, singing about her new-found happiness? But it was true. That's what love is. "Yes ma'am," I said. "Well, this has been a very productive first session. I'm pleased, so you can be too. If you want you may wipe that delicious gravy off your face now, but then suck on the napkin. Always remember that my pleasure is precious, and remember to enjoy pleasing me. Then you'll feel privileged when I allow you to go down on me." She watched me wipe my cheeks and chin and then nibble the napkin, savoring her new found power and my willingness to bow before it. She smiled encouragingly, and I smiled back my gratitude. I guess I did feel less depressed, just looking at her. I did feel pleased that my darling Darla was so pleased with me. My Miss Darla, I mean. And that was only the first weekend. Second Week -- Monday Driving to my office early on Monday, I remembered how my secretary Michelle had refused to get me the case files to take home, and I wondered how to reprimand her even though, as it turned out, she'd been right -- I'd have had no time to read them. Then when I arrived at the office there they were on my desk, each key entry already tagged and indexed for fast reference -- I scarcely needed to review them at all. Then all day Michelle excelled at everything -- she was all diligent efficiency and smiles, and seemed to do whatever I asked with a faint indulgent affection. My but she must have made out well over the weekend with that Associate, I was thinking to myself. Good loving does that. Good sex, I mean. So I let it pass. I had enough to cope with as it was, what with no sex for days and days now, and no prospect of it for who knows how long, and my wife turning loose, persuaded she was no longer my wife. I was painfully horny, and my cock rose and fell whenever any secretary within sight stretched her arms and pushed her chest out and yawned before returning to her typing. But there was nothing I could do about it. Not without breaking my word to Darla, and that I didn't dare! I loved Darla and I cared about our marriage, and I'd go some distance to preserve it through this strange, distracted time of her life. And of mine. Second Week -- Friday Work all week was incredibly crushed, and Accounting demanded my hourly logs and billings for their monthly summaries. I took the figures home to