Paying in Full

Paying in Full

By Don Jetman


"You have both agreed that cooperating is preferable to prison, no?"

Barbara and Peter stood before him in room 720. He had written the instructions inside a greeting card, delivered only yesterday. "Friends like you make my world a better place," it had said on the outside. Inside, the message was more sobering. "Room 720. Lexington Hyatt. 7:00 PM. Attendance not optional."

They nodded in unison, both knowing his price would be exorbitant.

He opened a small pillbox. The left compartment held a blue pill, the right, a pink one.

"Please. Ladies first," he said, grinning at Barbara. "No, the blue one," he told her, when she reached for the pink one. Peter was to retrieve the pink capsule.

"Barbara, put it on your husband's tongue, then tell him to swallow."

She raised it to his mouth, he opened, felt the bitter taste of it on his tongue, and swallowed.

"And of course, that one's for your wife," he told Peter.

Barbara opened and took hers as well, swallowing it with some difficulty.

"Your wife will become my property for a year," he explained. "Barbara, I know how you despise the treatment of women as sex objects, so I've decided to make you one."

Barbara cringed, but was determined not to let him see her weaken.

"For the next month, each weekend you will attend a series of crash courses, custom tailored to your most personal traits. In the end, you will find your role as a sex object not only acceptable, but desirable."

"I won't," Barbara answered, seething at the thought.

"Oh, but you will," he told her. "The pills you have given each other are only a start, but one you'll soon appreciate. You can probably feel yours already - a slight trembling in your arms and legs, the increased heart rate, a hint of euphoria as your breath becomes quicker and deeper."

Barbara stared at him, her mouth now open in disbelief, her breasts rising and falling with each deep breath as beads of sweat formed on her forehead. "Oh God," she whimpered.

He smiled at her, then turned to Peter as she struggled to keep from shaking. "Yours is somewhat more innocuous, but yet more sinister at the same time," he explained. "Although the effects can't be felt outwardly, the little blue pill your wife has so cooperatively placed in your mouth will render you helplessly impotent for thirty days. When Barbara returns from her training, she'll give you one on the first of every month, for the entire year. I'll be sure to be present, just to make sure neither of you decide to cheat. I like my women to be faithful, you see. So, while Barbara must do most of the work, or have most of the fun as she'll soon see it, you must stand by her like a eunuch while your wife satisfies her sexual needs elsewhere. And her sexual needs will be most astonishing, I assure you."

With that, he approached Barbara and began to unbutton her blouse. When she took a sudden step back away from him, his look hardened, and after a stern warning about what prison might be like for her, she let him open her blouse to the waist and slide it down over her shoulders. In a single swift motion, he pulled her bra up roughly, letting her breasts fall free beneath it. Her bare shoulders and firm breasts were creamy white, her nipples embarrassingly puckered and hard. He cupped each of her breasts lightly in his hands, lifting them gently, testing their weight. Her breathing became heavier, her eyes fluttered, then closed.

"Your husband can't believe what he's seeing, Barbara," he told her softly. "His faithful wife submitting to a stranger as he fondles her bare breasts. How breathtaking his humiliation must be as he stands by helplessly, knowing he can't intervene, knowing just as well that for the next year he'll be useless in bed, useless to satisfy you."

Grinning at Peter, he released Barbara's breasts, covered them once again with her bra, then raised her blouse, smoothing it over her slender shoulders. He stepped away from her, leaving her standing there, her jutting nipples mocking her shaken husband. He walked to a mahogany desk a few feet away and sat, eyeing the couple with perverted amusement.

"Peter, you may now remove your wife's clothes."

Peter stared across the desk at the large man. Now a new horror caused his hands to shake and bile to rise into his throat. Before him stood his wife of five years, first curious, then alarmed, now uncontrollably aroused in spite of the circumstances that brought them here on a Sunday afternoon. The man had pawed the yielding skin of her firm, round breasts, and she was panting, her face flushed, her body trembling, her smooth, flay belly pulled taught as she fought the effects of the small pink pill.

The large man was his boss, a demanding sort who by nature found it far easier to humiliate than to praise his employees. Peter never considered Jack Farmer beyond using blackmail, or any of a hundred shady methods to get what he wanted - but this, this was more that he could have imagined.

OK, so he did send a portion of the schematics to the Chinese. But they were worthless without the rest of the set, and the money - $750,000 - enough to afford a home that he knew Barbara wanted, a home more like her wealthy father could have provided, if she would have let him. Each time "Daddy" offered his help, she refused, but the look of disappointment was always there to haunt Peter later, the look that said, "Why can't you give me what Daddy gave me?"

When Farmer intercepted the transfer, he threatened to contact Washington. As a defense contractor, Farmer knew the consequences, and threatened to involve Barbara's father, a twice-elected Senator from their state. Peter would have agreed to anything to stay out of prison, and to preserve the good name of his wife's family. Barbara was incredulous when Peter confessed, then furious when she learned of the threat to involve her father. Now she stood before him in a perversely lavish hotel suite, pale and unflinching as they faced the consequences of Peter's imprudent greed.

"Your wife's clothes, Peter. I'm waiting," repeated Farmer.

To everyone's surprise, Barbara moved slowly to the center of the room with a look of bitter surrender on her face. "Do it, Peter," she said coolly. He rose and approached her, knowing full well that her concern was for her father and not for him or herself. When he reached for her blouse, Farmer stopped him.

"Turn her to face me, Peter. Do it from behind. I want to see. I want to see what you can't see - your lovely wife, stripped naked, ever so slowly in front of me."

He shot Farmer a look of pure hatred, then retreated to a position behind his wife. Reaching around her, he followed the open edges of her crisp white blouse up to the collar, then slowly pulled it back over her shoulders and down along each arm. He could feel her breathing as he held her in the strange embrace, breathing that caused her firm breasts to swell suddenly as his fingers brushed over them.

"Take it off, Peter," Farmer instructed as he watched from behind the desk. "Drop it on the floor beside her."

He freed the blouse from under the waistband of her skirt, pulled it over her shoulders, and dropped it as Farmer had commanded. He could feel her shiver in the cool air-conditioned room.

"Now the bra. And stay behind her Peter. Don't block my view."

Slowly, fingers shaking, he opened the hooks one by one, feeling the material give and then go loose when the second hook came undone. He could feel her heavy breasts fall partially free, still encased in the lacy cups, but now hanging naturally inside them. He eased the first narrow strap over her shoulder, then the second, feeling the heat from her body rise to meet his clammy fingers. Once again, he reached around her and, resting his hands over the upper slopes of her breasts, peeled the bra from her and dropped it to the floor.

"Ahh, Peter, if you could only see what I see. Such ample breasts for her size, hanging ever so slightly, like ripe, succulent fruit. She's my type, Peter - large, pink nipples, now puckering so urgently like tiny fingers set free in the cool air. You don't mind if I have a closer look, do you Peter?"

He eyed Farmer with resentment, but did not dare give him a reason to go forward with the alternative.

"Well, Peter, do you?"

"No. No sir," he spat back sharply, bitter resentment accentuating each word.

Farmer rose and came closer, a step in front of Barbara. As he reached out to touch her, she took a step backward, crying out, "No! Please don't!" Farmer scowled at her, then suddenly and roughly took her by the shoulders.

"Listen to me, bitch. You don't have a voice here. You're property now, so shut up, and do what you're told, or your father's picture will be on the front page of every paper in the country."

She began to shake in his grasp, then went limp, surrendering to him. As Peter stood behind her, Farmer took her breasts in both hands, kneading the firm pillows of flesh and pulling at her tender nipples until they jutted and throbbed between his fingertips. He stared at them as he worked.

"Yes - these are perfect," he muttered as he studied her full, creamy breasts. "Her nipples harden so quickly, Peter. A woman so responsive may prove to be quite an enjoyable source of entertainment. Tell me, Peter - is she, 'enjoyable', to put it as delicately as I'm able at this moment?"

He could hear his wife sobbing as Farmer fondled her. When Farmer looked up at him for an answer, it took everything he had to force a strained "yes" from his throat. He could see that Farmer not only enjoyed physical torture, but their humiliation as well.

"Well, you've only wetted my appetite, Peter. Please continue," Farmer replied as he took a step back and waited.

Peter looked down at the short zipper at the back of her skirt. Once lowered, it would allow the skirt to fall to the floor. His stomach churned as he imagined his beautiful wife standing before Farmer in her underwear, allowing him to examine her body as only Peter had done when she undressed at their bedside. Farmer's expression was one of sober expectation, and Peter knew he had to do as he was told. He took the zipper in his fingers, tugged until it lowered to its limit, and watched the sheath of grey cotton creep over her hips and slide down her thighs to the floor.

But Farmer wasn't satisfied.

"Her slip, Peter. From behind, as before. Do the panties as well. This is taking much too long."

Peter went to his knees and placed his fingers inside the elastic of her slip. Then, sliding it lower, he snagged the sides of the white cotton panties as well and, agonizing over every inch, slowly pulled them both down along her bare thighs. Now just inches from the firm, round globes of her perfect ass, he could see the goose bumps rise over her skin, and caught a brief glimpse of silky black pubic hair nested between her thighs.

Farmer stepped closer to her once again and reached out to stroke her silky belly.

"Peter, Peter, Peter. This is more than I could have ever hoped for. Slim, long-waisted girls like this are one of my few weaknesses. Even rarer to find one with such generous breasts and nipples."

Barbara gasped as he lowered his hand between her legs. Her legs trembled, then parted slightly, ****** open by his large invading hand.

"Would you believe me if I told you she's wet? Absolutely dripping."

It was more than she could take. "Bastard!" she hissed.

He shoved two fingers inside her, making her cry out in shock and embarrassment. She felt the warmth and growing wetness between her legs and hoped Peter hadn't noticed. Farmer pushed harder, burying them to the hilt, satisfaction burning in his eyes.

"Since you seem to have something to say, despite my warnings, tell me you like this, or I'll give a reporter friend a quick call with news about Daddy."

Squirming as he explored the depths of her belly with probing fingers, it took only seconds for her to reconsider. "OK," she relented, sobbing uncontrollably. "I like it."

"Now tell Peter. Look at him. He needs to see the lust in your eyes as you confess."

She turned to look at him. He was pale and sweating, and looked very ill.

Then, hoping he could see the misery in her eyes, she obeyed. "I-I like it, Peter."

Her words were like a sudden blow to his chest. Knowing she was ****** to tell him failed to keep the scandalous admission from being painful. When she saw the pain in his eyes, she lowered her head, afraid and ashamed.

"You can leave us now, Peter," Farmer said with a satisfied smile. "Why don't you wait in the outer office. I'll send her out when we're through."

He took one last look at his wife. She stood with her back to him, deliciously soft and slender, naked, except for the wrinkled layers of clothing still encircling her ankles. Farmer had finished between her legs, and now held her face in his immense hands. Gently, he lifted her hair from her shoulders, first holding it back, then up, studying her perfect features, eyes, mouth, neck, and ears, as he imagined her an object of his own making.

"You're dismissed, Peter," Farmer barked. "Wait outside. Don't make me tell you again."

Peter tore his eyes away, walked through the door, and closed it behind him.

Farmer continued to stroke her hair, then, after tracing the contours of her ears with a practiced touch, trailed his hands gently over her neck, his fingertips exploring each hollow, lingering where he knew the skin was most sensitive.

"I haven't the patience to break you slowly, Barbara. You know why you're here, and the consequences of disobeying me. So, I take it we're clear about our 'relationship'?"

"Yes," she whispered. His caresses sickened her, but still, they were caresses, no doubt administered with his best skill to make her fight their purely physical effect.

"Yes," he answered, "I'd say we are. A good wife knows her duty, and I trust you'll be *very* good."

He walked to his desk and patted the edge with his open hand. "Sit," he ordered.

She approached the slab of dark mahogany slowly, turned, and, with a slight hop, seated herself on the cool, hard desktop. 'He cleared the desk for this before we arrived', she thought to herself. 'This is where he wants me. This is where he'll...'

"Lie back, Barbara." His second order was less harsh, but carried no less authority.

The hard, polished surface was cold against her back as she slowly lowered herself. She stopped briefly to allow her body to the warm the cold wood, then, fearfully, came to rest, her head turned from him as she awaited her fate. She imagined herself a sacrifice, held to Farmer's perverted alter by invisible bonds of her husband's making. 'How could Peter do this?' she asked herself. 'How can I not know my own husband? Why can't he *do* something? How can he just - just - '

"Now be a good wife and spread your legs, Barbara."

She was screaming inside. "Y-You're g-going to have sex with me - oh God, you are, aren't you? With my husband right outside where he might hear?" she blurted as panic overcame her.

Farmer came to the side of the desk and took her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"I'm not a monster, Barbara, at least not the kind you imagine. Now, never being one to force myself on a lovely young wife, I was counting on the request coming from you. I think 'Please Jack, can we fuck?' would be the very thing a dutiful wife would say. Don't you agree? I'm waiting."

"I can't ask you to - I can't - I just can't - please, just do it, get it over with, but don't make me ask..."

"Listen closely, Barbara. I'm waiting for a wife to do her duty. Peter's waiting for a wife to do her duty. Daddy's waiting for a wife to do her duty. Don't disappoint us, Barbara. We're all counting on you to be a good wife, to do your very best."

Farmer smiled at her. He was enjoying this. She realized the longer she fought him, the longer she refused, the better he liked it. If she gave in to his request, at least he would have his fun and let her go. She swallowed hard, tried to steady her nerve, and ****** the words from between her lips.

"P-please, Jack - can we have sex?"

"We can, my dear. We certainly can," he answered, as he began to unbutton his shirt. He was a large man, as she had guessed by the size of his hands, but she wasn't prepared for the layers of muscle revealed as he peeled back the white dress shirt. She stared unconsciously, her eyes traveling over his broad shoulders, smooth chest, sinewy arms, and finally a flat, rippling stomach that stretched downward below his belt as he unfastened his pants. She had never seen a man's body so perfect, except on the covers of those trashy romance novels she pretended not to notice as she and Peter did the weekly grocery shopping. When she saw his thick, meaty penis, already rising to attention before her eyes, she turned her head, shocked by both its size and the urgency of its growth so close to her face. The flash of admiration was too depraved to acknowledge, but still, the image of his body lingered, even with her face averted. Glimpses of well-muscled skin played with her senses, making her fight to chase them from her mind's eye.

Then he was between her legs. She went limp, allowing him to spread them. He moved closer, until the stony muscles of his thighs opened her wider. The desktop was uncomfortably hard under her. She closed her eyes, expecting to feel his erection touch her, then penetrate her where only her husband had entered her before.

"A little encouragement would be nice Barbara," Framer chided from the end of the desk.

How could Peter have done this to her - like, like, a common criminal? Flashes of Farmer's body continued to haunt her. So hard. So smooth and tan and muscular. God, how could she be thinking about his chest, his arms, his erect penis?

"Do it. Please, just do it. Put it in me." Where had those words come from? His heavy biceps flexed behind her closed eyes. How could she? She imagined his belly rippling, his penis throbbing and ready, poised to thrust forward into her. Then finally, from somewhere deep inside her - "Please have sex with me, p-please, p-please..." Her words were convincing, helplessly pleading, genuinely anxious and hungry. It was plenty for Farmer.

He entered her slowly, stretching, probing, finally filling her with more warm flesh than she had ever known. She kept her head turned, her eyes closed, but the fullness in her belly, the even, forceful stroking that began to make her wet, then breathe with deep gasps, became nagging proof of a battle lost, a humiliating defeat. She allowed him to take her, refusing to participate, refusing to give him the satisfaction of witnessing her body betray her, even if only for a second here, a second there, as she fought helplessly to chase away images of her husband's boss, naked between her legs. But the images haunted her, invaded her, bringing her body to life with a surprising greedy thirst to give in to him, to be taken by the wall of muscle that hovered over her.

Finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. His body floated over her, so hard, so masculine - she didn't dare look down across her belly where his cock pistoned slowly in and out of her. As it was, she found herself suddenly responding to him, opening up to his invasion. Her hips rose off the desk momentarily to meet the next forward thrust, then collapsed back onto the desk as he withdrew.

Her fractured defense reassembled itself in the time it took for her hips to leave the table. 'Damn you, Peter! Damn you! Damn you! Damn you! This is what you get! This is what you deserve!' Her thoughts turned from rationalized control to anger, allowing her body to fully betray her. And just as quickly, she turned her anger outward, directly at Peter. 'This is your fault! Your fault! Not mine! Not mine! Not my fault...not my...' As the unexpected warmth rushed through her, she pulled Farmer close and cried out, her seemingly endless moan echoing through the room. Surprised at her sudden orgasm, but at the same time releasing every shred of bound up fear, shame, and anger, she continued to come in an expulsion of frenzied clutching and moaning that triggered Farmer's own orgasm only seconds later.

And just seconds after that, Farmer pulled out of her, stuffed his immense erection inside his pants, and turned his back. He went to the bar, poured himself a scotch, then turned to look at her as he sipped the drink. She was sprawled on his desk, panting, glassy-eyed, still stunned from the surprising intensity of her orgasm. Farmer knew just what to do before she recovered. He went to the door, opened it, and ordered Peter back inside.

"I just came inside your wife, Peter. Just two minutes ago. And you were right - she can be very entertaining."

Peter stared at his wife. She lay naked on the desk, her face a mix of bliss and confusion. Her pubic hair was wet and matted, and a thin trickle of semen leaked from between her spread legs. Her large, dark nipples were still swollen with arousal and her face and chest flushed with a heat that refused to leave. Barbara couldn't look at him, but the flush lingered on her face, the signs of sex covering her from head to toe.

He had listened to Farmer's muffled orders through the door of his outer office, and even heard the soft sounds of Barbara's quiet replies, but imagined his wife fighting his sadistic punishment every step of the way. Then, finally, shocked by the moans of her orgasm, sounds that were all too familiar and real, he imagined that somehow they too were contrived, that Farmer had frightened her to the point of breaking, and she had given him the most authentic simulation she could muster. Now, the signs of her betrayal were unmistakable, and the crushing weight of the naked evidence made him stagger backwards, uttering a quiet moan of defeat.

"She's carrying my semen around inside her flat little belly, aren't you Barbara?"

His voice seemed to bring her to her senses, and she answered suddenly, in a nervous whimper, blushing the deepest red she could blush.

"Yes, Lover," she said, hoping Peter would miss the pet name Farmer now insisted on. He didn't, and glared first at her, then Farmer, guessing he had made her use the disgusting endearment.

"I would imagine that my sperm must be on its way down your legs by now. Tell us Barbara, is it? Running down your pretty thighs?"

"Yes, Lover," she answered again, still averting her eyes.

"Show us Barbara. I don't think your husband believes us," Farmer teased, watching Peter's response.

Now beyond pride or modesty, she sat up and lowered her legs over the edge of the desk, finally standing before them, her inner thighs glistening and wet, her pubic hair soaked with Farmer's semen.

Farmer stepped closer to her and stroked her belly, finally trailing his finger through the semen pooling over her outer lips. He brought the outstretched finger to her mouth, inserted it, and waited for her to suck it clean.

Finally, as Barbara stood naked and trembling before them, Farmer turned to Peter, outwardly showing his pleasure with his new toy.

"Take her home, Peter. I'm sure you'll get used to cleaning up my messes."
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About author
We're a couple that loves role play, both hotwife and cuckold themed, for over 10 years now. We still spend time with L's very first lover, an accomplished Dom with an active imagination who has orchestrated some exciting and challenging scenarios for us. We do mostly hotwifing, but venture into the cuck theme when our needs lead us there.

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Pros: Very well written, good plot progression. Love Barbara's progression to total slut.
Cons: I like the women to be in charge from beginning to end. We don't need a man to start her journey, she can do it on her own :)
Another excellent, well written story from Don Jetman!
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Don Jetman
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