Bøger af Jon Zelig

Apparently? My wife had been faking it. Five years of marriage, two years of dating before that? The only orgasms she'd had were . . . "of her own creation," either genuine-but the product of toys or her own fingers-or simply performances for my benefit. But! She found a solution, a way in which we could remain married, a way in which we could both have our needs met. She made an appointment for us: At The Cuckold Clinic. And our lives were utterly and forever changed. It was terrifying; it was humiliating; and-somehow?-it also brought me pleasure. That was the worst part. And . . . that was the best part.

How Can They Fight THE HEAT?Viktor had made them rich: husband and wife, engineer and MBA, IPO millionaires who still enjoyed getting up and going to work every day, on the sprawling high tech campus that housed Viktor's company. They were happy, loved each other, were living a good life until. . . The Shot. A Russian émigré, Viktor was odd, but largely in the way that young rich techies tended to be: wandering in and out of meetings, barefoot, in black slacks and a black t-shirt. The company's medical clinic was odd, staffed exclusively by Russians and Ukrainians-that latter group mostly young nurses who were stunningly attractive-the doctors mostly older Russian men. The Shot? Some kind of Eastern European Summer Flu to be vaccinated against. No big deal. A leisurely midday, Friday, stroll to the clinic, then home for lunch, a glass or two of wine, a lazy early summer afternoon. Which is when they begin to feel odd. And their lives start to come apart: the demure wife sexually inflamed; her loving husband rendered. . . ineffective. Their boss-of course!-feels it's important for him to. . . help. How long would YOUR love last, under that kind of assault?

One day I was a husband, the next day I had been regressed to an adolescent boy: submissive to my wife Chrisalice, and her lifelong friend-and mentor in domination-Bella. I fell off a cliff?I jumped?I was pushed? I don't know: free fall is free fall, however it starts. But gravity is . . . relentless. If there's an initial feeling that you're flying? A kind of freedom? A kind of exhilaration? You quickly learn that-whatever you started out thinking-you are, most assuredly, NOT in control. And . . . how-or if, or when-you land? THAT'S not under your control either. You accept that or you don't.Gravity doesn't care. My wife sung me songs as I nursed at simply every part of her body: gratitude and correction, threats and promises, poems of passion about the pleasure she would reap and the services I would perform, dutifully lapping the leavings of superior men from any and every crevice or surface of her body with which she chose to gift them, that she might permit me to clean. I spent more and more time deprived, restricted, cut off, teased and denied, painfully swollen and leaky; more than once: I came in my sleep, something that hadn't happened to me since adolescence, before I was enlightened regarding the benefits-the absolute necessity!-of masturbation. Where would this end?Well that was close to preordained-wasn't it? Once you "take the leap," the question isn't whether or not "the ground" is in your future; the only question is the speed-the angle, the violence, the damage you will suffer-when that inevitable collision takes place. [Includes age play, oral sex, and pegging; cream pie eating; references to cuckolding]