Hierarchy

 

You brought your wife downstairs, she was wearing a red patterned sleeveless dress, naked underneath. He was sitting in the middle of the couch, legs wide apart, enjoying a glass of one of your better bourbons. 

When you entered the room, you saw a straight backed wooden chair from the dining room placed to face the couch. 

"Sit," he said, setting his drink down, standing.

"I..." you started to say something.

"Sit," he said again, his voice firm, demanding.

You felt your wife squeeze your hand, whisper. "It's okay," she said.

You looked down, sat in the chair, unsure what he wanted.

"Come here, slut," he said, beckoning your wife to him.

You blushed, ashamed at yourself, knowing you should say something, ashamed you didn't, ashamed you let him talk to your wife that way, ashamed you did nothing to protest, to protect her.

Which is exactly why he did it, not to degrade her, but to establish the hierarchy...him...your wife...you.

She walked to him, you expected her to kiss him. But before she could do anything, he took her by the shoulders, spun her around so she faced you. Without a word, he moved his hands to the top of her dress, pulled the sides apart, exposed her bare breasts. "Who do these belong to," he asked her.

"They...they belong to you," she said.

"Look at him when you answer," he said. "Who does your body belong to?"

"My body belongs to you," she said, looking you in the eye.

"Is it frustrating?" he asked, looking you in the eye.

"F...frustrating?"

"Frustrating to be married to such a beautiful woman..."

"I...I..."

He ripped her dress off, literally, ripped the buttons so she was naked. He reached between her legs, cupped her. "Frustrating to be denied this, frustrating to be be pussy free."

"I...I..." you stammer.

"I'm taking her upstairs now," he says, grabbing her wrist. "Wait there till I'm done...which will be awhile."