Our Game
Gabriella
Sandra and I met our freshman year in college. We were both collegiate athletes (track and field) so we were always circling the same spaces, the same early mornings, the same sore muscles and recovery meals. She was 5′10″, all lean lines and long dark hair, the kind of body that gets earned rather than given. A 34B bust, a tight, sculpted ass, and abs you could see when she stretched after a workout. I’m 6′1″, a pole vaulter. Solid through the shoulders and chest, legs built for explosive speed. We noticed each other from the start. We just didn’t do anything about it until senior year.
By then, we’d both quietly accepted that track wasn’t going to pay the bills. We were focused on our degrees, on what came next, and somehow in that shared pragmatism we found each other. It was a good year. We kept things easy on purpose, assuming we’d scatter to different cities after graduation and that would be that.
And then, of course, we ended up at competing firms in the same city.
She went into technology consulting. I went into ing. Our social circles kept colliding. We kept finding each other at the same parties, the same bars, the same mutual friends’ dinner tables. We fell back into something off-and-on for another year, both of us traveling constantly, neither of us putting a name to it.
The thing that finally settled us was geography. We both landed long-term projects in the same city at the same time. Six months in, we stopped pretending it was temporary. Eighteen months after that, we were married.
By then we were established enough that the travel had slowed, and we started thinking about a family. That’s when things got hard.
The first pregnancy we announced early. We were so happy we couldn’t contain it, and we broke the cardinal rule: we started telling everyone before the twelve-week mark. Almost twenty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. We didn’t know that until we were part of the statistic. We were more careful the second time. It didn’t matter.
The third time worked. Amy arrived, and she was everything: healthy, funny, a good sleeper, endlessly curious. We felt like we’d been handed something we didn’t deserve after what we’d been through.
We tried three more times after Amy. We couldn’t get there. Eventually I got a vasectomy and we made peace with it; or tried to. Amy would be our one, and she was more than enough.
Sandra’s way through the grief was hypnosis. After the first miscarriage, she’d started with self-hypnosis as a coping tool and went deep into it. Reading, practicing, connecting with researchers and practitioners in the field. She got genuinely skilled. Along the way she picked up the party-trick side of it too: the kind of thing that makes people go quiet at dinner parties when they realize she’s not faking and someone is really quacking like a duck.
Amy is ten now, and every summer she disappears to Florida for a few weeks to be thoroughly spoiled by her grandparents. Sandra and I have learned to make the most of those weeks.
Our sex life has always been good, but with the house to ourselves it gets a little more creative. One thing Sandra had always been gifted at, even before the hypnosis gig, was mimicry. Accents, cadence, vocal : she could slide into almost any voice with uncanny precision. Early on she’d sometimes speak to me in a different voice while we were in bed together, just for fun, just to see the effect it had. It always had an effect.
On a whim, sometime during this period, I agreed to let her hypnotize me.
Turns out I was a natural subject. I already trusted her completely, and I had no particular anxiety about losing control. At least, not in her hands. She told me afterward that she’d left a few trigger phrases in place. I didn’t think much of it.
Here’s how it works. She’ll say “Time for an audit” and I go blank for a few minutes. When I come back, I’m in our bedroom, stripped down, blindfold on, lying on top of the covers. My arms feel pinned to the mattress. Not by anything physical, I know that, but knowing it doesn’t change anything. I cannot move them. On top of that, I feel compelled to answer any question completely honestly.
“Funds are released” lets my hands free while keeping me in place. That also breaks the spell and I know it s Sandra, again. Finally, “The books are balanced” brings me all the way back, fully present and functional. She’s an ant’s wife and she thought the trigger phrases were funny. I’ve never argued.
The game itself evolved a little after that, and I’m honestly not sure whether I agreed to the next part or whether she just put me under and told me I had. I can’t prove it either way. What I can describe is the effect.
When I come up a few minutes after the trigger, whatever voice I hear first, I believe is the person in the house with me. Not intellectually. I mean I believe it the way you believe the ground beneath your feet. Completely and without question. Sandra figured out what she could do with that, and she started doing it.
The game goes like this: she’ll trigger me during an ordinary afternoon, and I’ll move to the bedroom, undress, put on the blindfold, and lie back. She usually leaves the house to make the masquerade complete. Fifteen, twenty minutes later, she returns, but as someone else entirely.
One of her best was our housecleaner, Gabriella. Thirty years old, petite, dark hair in a practical bun, a quick oval face and a trim body kept fit by a six-day workweek of physical labor. Sandra would come home, maybe run the vacuum downstairs just long enough to be convincing, then come up to “collect the towels.”
The moment she’d gasp in the doorway that sharp, startled intake of breath the whole scene would click into place for me. I’d hear it and know, with absolute certainty, that it was Gabriella standing there. Not Sandra. Gabriella. And the conversation that followed would feel genuinely, stomach-droppingly real.
“Gabriella, I’m so sorry. This is just a game Sandra and I play. Any way you can just forget this ever happened. Maybe come back later today?”
She’d answer in Gabriella’s accent—unhurried, a little amused.
“But Senor, you look so handsome there on the bed. My husband has been in Mexico for over a month and, I’m still a young woman. I have urges, too.”
“Gab, please. You really don’t need to stay. Sandra’s going to be home in a little while and it would be really bad if she caught us.”
“Senor, caught us, how? I’m just standing here. Is there something you think I’m doing? Or is there something that you would like me to be doing?”
And there it was. A question. And I simply had to answer it honestly.
“Gabriella, I love to eat pussy.”
“Mmmmm. My husband does not really like to do that. And did I mention he’s been gone for a month?”
I hear her walking over to the bed. As she gets close, I jump a little when runs a fingernail along my hardening cock. I hear her unzip her working pants.
“Gabriella, what are you doing?”
“Senor, you said you love to eat pussy and I have a pussy that loves to be eaten.”
She kicks her shoes off and I hear the pants and panties slide down.
I can’t believe our housekeeper is doing this.
“Gabriella, please. Sandra could be home any time.”
“Oh Senor Hansen, I saw her leaving when I came in. She said she wouldn’t be back for at least an hour.”
She puts a hand on my chest as she climbs up on the bed. She throws a leg over and slides up my body.
She’s right. She has a beautiful pussy. I can smell it even though the blindfold is in place and I can t see it. I know I shouldn’t be eating my housekeeper’s pussy, but I definitely want to.
Her knees go over my shoulders and now I have no choice but to bury my face in her snatch. God, I love that. In between licks, I say,
“Gabriella, you taste so good. You can’t tell Sandra or I’ll get in big trouble.”
She whispers, “Funds are released”, and my arms are free. I immediately grab her ass and dig in and do what I love. And I know it’s Sandra.
She grabs our headboard and leans in.
As I suck gently on her lips, she gets wetter. I make circles around her clit and hear her gasp. I gradually draw more and more of her lips into my mouth. Every now and then, I’ll drive my tongue as deep into her as I can. She starts pushing her hips into my face and I revel in it. After a few minutes, I can hear her start to pant. She continues with the accent just for fun.
“Oh senor. Don’t stop. Just like that...”
“Oh, oh, oh...”
In time, she smashes down on my face and screams.
I gently caress her soaking wet pussy with my tongue as she comes down from her climax.
Eventually, she climbs off my face.
“Thank you, senor. I look forward to cleaning again.”
She stands there for a moment staring at me. Then she says,
“The books are balanced.”
And, just like that, I’m wide awake, I pull off the blindfold, and I’m looking at Sandra. Most times she smiles and climbs on my raging cock and finishes me off. And sometimes she takes me in her mouth and it’s fabulous.
Anyway, whatever Sandra has built into the scenario unfolds and is extraordinary.