If this was a motion picture, the title sequence would tell you ‘Based on a true story’. But a book is not a movie. The book is better.
Books offer the unique opportunity to translate words into your own images. On your own screen, the width depending on your imagination. The same words will show completely different images for each reader. Your mental image of a 63-year-old man may vary depending on your age, but it likely matches the image I had of my grandparents. They say – whoever they are – that the sixties of today are the forties of the past. That’s complete and utter nonsense. Yet, looking at a recent selfie of my wife and myself, I don’t see any signs of a greying man with a beer belly. Yet. If you think the last time I had sex was 20 years ago … I’m pleased to report to you it was just two days ago. We are an ESAC, an Extremely Sexually Active Couple. Our sexual chemistry matches the strength of our connection as a couple.
During our marriage ceremony, my wife opted to make a traditional vow of obedience. Her example as the middle child of a military family consisted solely of her mother’s unwavering obedience and admiration towards her father. Her siblings, Sybil and Petra, turned out quite the opposite of her, rebellious and quite outspoken. Not quiet little Sylvia. While the girls were going through their teenage years, their father William frequently expressed frustration over how little they resembled their middle sibling.
So obedience was in her genes. And I would lie if I said that I didn’t relish her submissiveness. For a lifetime, some people eagerly await the day when they will stumble upon their soulmate, the one who will complete them. The joy of finding your soulmate is like discovering a mirror to your soul—a deep, fulfilling connection that brings peace and excitement. It feels like home, where you’re truly understood and cherished. Life becomes richer as you share dreams, laughter, and challenges. Together, you grow, creating a bond that feels timeless and effortless.
Few people unfortunately find their twin flame. They have to settle for something middle of the road. Not me. It was surprisingly easy for me to find my soulmate without putting in much effort on my part. Our connection was immediate when we met at school, and we’ve been inseparable ever since, like two magnetic fields aching to connect with the opposite pole. Like most of our friends, we explored a variety of sexual experiences and fetishes. After college I found work as an engineer and was quite good at it. Sylvia was a part time teacher. We bought a house. I did a shitload of work on it and sold it again with a nice profit. So we were able to buy our dream house. A farmhouse in the rural part of the Netherlands. Two boys, a home, wife and hound. A middle-class dream come true. After I gained some experience in a big firm, I started my own business. Life was good.
Having children stopped our sexual antics a bit. When you are too tired to watch television, sex is the last thing on your wish list. All of us experienced growing up, not just the boys. The kink element disappeared slowly, but surely as well. Such is life. My parents died shortly after our wedding. A law enforcement officer informed us it is highly probable that my father was under the influence of alcohol and caused a tragic accident on the highway. Neither of them survived the flames that destroyed the car with my parents in it. Sylvia’s dad was often away on some “peace-keeping-mission” in some remote country, where the UN was supposed to provide law and order. Doting on her grandchildren, my mother-in-law was a regular visitor to our house. Peter, our eldest child, has a degree in engineering, following in his father’s footsteps. His brother, Sandor, had enlisted in the Royal Navy and had just departed on a half-year expedition around the world.
“Are you happy?” Sylvia asked me from out of nowhere. We were walking in the park and enjoyed the late summer warmth. Without thinking, I reflexively tightened my grip on her hand and responded without thinking.
“Of course I’m happy, aren’t you?” As an old married couple, we often performed this ritual of words, finding solace in its reassuring nature.
“No”, she said bluntly but didn’t elaborate further. Hoping she was kidding, I waited in vain for her to tell me.
I playfully inquired, “Do you feel like ending our sacred union?” I realised she would sense the hidden anxiety in my voice.
“No, of course not. Why would you think that?” she said vehemently. I shrugged. What was I to think about that?
“We both have been through many changes these last years, Koen. You selling the business, plans about reshaping the farm to be self-sustainable. The reorganisation at my school is forcing me to work at a different location, resulting in a much longer commute. I have no interest in following the same routine as our friends, who mindlessly chatter, spend evenings in front of the TV, indulge their grandchildren, and eventually meet their end. I want to feel alive again!” We sat down on a bench in the park. Two old people waiting for something to happen.
“Koen, I want our sex life to become the main attraction in our lives once more.” We have been together for so long that half a word was enough for us. This was a big step for her. It was checking if we were still on the same page, sexually spoken? So many things had happened since we experimented with kink. I used to derive great satisfaction from being in control, but I could sense her scepticism about my ongoing desire for that role.
“I did not know you still craved that,” I admitted, and couldn’t hide a hint of disbelief in my voice. “It was a long time ago and we only ‘played’ for six months.” I said.
“Eight months and twelve days”, Sylvia corrected. Precision was her guiding principle, shaping her approach to every task. “I don’t want to look back. I want to move forward. Let’s face it. You are 63 and I’m 62. We are still healthy and fit now. It’s impossible to predict what the future holds in a few years. Now is the time for us to embrace life and take advantage of every chance that comes our way. What would have happened if we didn’t stop playing? What would my life be like now? Lately, I frequently ask myself this question. Last year I started yoga lessons for one reason only, that I could gracefully kneel for you again. I have been practising relentlessly when you are not around, and I think can do them as well as I did back then. Our kinky months together were incredibly intense. I’m eager to bring it all back. I want it all Koen, and I want it now.”
“Life is not a Queen song, Sylvia.”
“Babe, for nearly four decades, you’ve made me feel like a queen, and I’ve loved every moment. I hope you’ll continue to do so, but you have to realise I’m deep down a slut as well. Your slut. Our children even have picked up the habit of calling me ‘good girl’ from hearing you say it so often. But I’m not just a good girl, you know I’m a bad girl as well. I need to find out now before it’s too late just how bad I can be for you.” My Sylvia was on a roll. She bent forward, giving me a good look at her small bare breasts I loved so much. My girl has the best tits in the world. Small enough to skip a bra, big enough to hold in my hand. With nipples that only need the mere thought of a little wind or cold to make them hard. But I kept quiet. When Syl is ranting, you don’t want to interrupt.
“I want to us to play outside the bedroom, Koen. Give me that 24/7 action. Please be as strict with me as you can be, pushing me to my limits and not letting me settle for anything less … I want us to plan one year in our lives where I mono focus on pleasing you. It has always been about me in our marriage. I always came first. It is my firm belief that I hold the title for being the most pampered woman in the entire country. It’s time to reverse the roles. I NEED the power exchange. I need you to be my primary focus. And no, maybe not forever. But I’d never forgive myself if knowing that I just took and took and took and never attempted to give back.”
Taking a large breath, she appeared exceptionally fragile. In a hushed tone she went on, “And right now I’m fucking scared that you’ll refuse. Please tell me you want it as well.”
“You don’t owe me anything Sylvia, if I have been treating you well, it’s just something a man should do. You are my wife, for crying out loud. Besides, I think the sex is pretty good, considering…” I said. I felt like I needed to defend myself.
“Don’t be coy with me mister, we are not talking about sex, we are talking about total power exchange. Please show me the respect I deserve by acknowledging your understanding of the distinction. If you don’t want to be my friend, my soulmate, my master, my lover, just say so.” A hidden threat was present. Recently, friends of us divorced after 40 years of marriage.
“It’s not that easy.”
She smiled. “Yes, it is. All our male friends would jump at the chance I’m offering you.”
“Perhaps.” There had been rumours in the past. In a predominantly male environment, where she is one of few women, I realise that there will always be people who thrive on spreading gossip, especially about someone like her who is so beautiful. They say Sylvia was in Amsterdam with a colleague, but I knew she was at a teacher conference in Belgium. People love to gossip and destroy everything pure and beautiful. But there is also such a thing as trust. And I trusted Sylvia more than myself.
“I’m not a blushing young girl anymore, Koen. I have known you for a lifetime and there is no one in the world I trust more. So, no nonsense about safe words and such. If I fail to please you, you may discipline me. Within the limits of my tolerance, you may cause me whatever pain in any way you wish, or humiliate me in private or in public. Don’t be afraid to do permanent damage either. This body has seen its best days long ago. Whatever it is, I want to be completely at your mercy.”
“Do you remember when we just started out?” she changed subjects suddenly. “How we didn’t have any money and just used everyday household items? Spatulas from the kitchen to teach my butt a lesson it wouldn’t forget. Fly slappers on my poor titties.”
She took a deep breath and continued, “We were fearless in those days. There’s a particular incident that I will always remember. I think we were at the very beginning stages of dating. Even though we were fifteen, we had yet to develop any sense of caution or fear. We were in a restricted area of the forest that only the military could access. We climbed the fence with a sign: shooting range: life-threatening – entrance forbidden. You climbed so easily over the fence like it was just another step on your way to freedom, while I stood frozen, still bound by the weight of hesitation. And you said: “I don’t like fences. Either you go home, or we go on together.” Your confidence and masculinity were so impressive that I couldn’t help but follow you, and I was incredibly grateful when you assisted me in climbing over the tall fence. That was the naughtiest thing I had ever done until that point. I became unexpectedly bold and mischievous, teasing you relentlessly until you became so sexually excited that you came in your pants. That day changed my life. You pretended to be mad at me. You undressed, and I had to wash your briefs in the river. Do you remember saying ‘do you expect me to walk home with wet pants?’ I was extremely scared that I had ruined our fresh connection, and I promised I would do whatever it takes to make amends. You started a little fire. Such a manly thing to do. A long, thin but strong rope somehow came out of your pockets. You told me to raise my shirt and bra and for the first time you tightly bound my poor titties so they blew up like little balloons. From between my breasts, you led that rope to a tree three metres away, thus making a clothesline.”
There was a dreamy tone in her voice, as if the breeze carried her words, reminiscent of wisps of smoke on a wintry day. Her eyes had that faraway look, glazed over with the soft light of recollection, and I wondered why that memory had captured her so completely, pulling her away into a reverie where only she could wander.
“I had to walk backwards to make the rope taut, and then you hung the boxers over the line above the fire. ‘If you burn my boxers, I will burn your panties with it.’ I believed you. Oh my Lord, did I believe you. I loved it. The girls in school never saw how strong you were, and here I was with this man – not a boy – who never seen my tits before and winded a piece of rope on to my chest so they stuck out look little red balloons. I was just a lifeless pole on a clothes rack. Standing on my toes to keep your boxers out of the fire below. In a forest that is used as a military firing range. I knew I wasn’t the good girl my father wanted me to be, but I never imagined I was that naughty.”
I smiled. “You’re forgetting the look of panic on your face when we heard the soldiers coming.”
“Oh, no sir.”, She laughed. “I remember seeing some panic on your face as well. But I froze like a snow woman, yet you reacted at once. You cut the rope between my breasts and covered my chest again. There was no time to remove the rope around my tits, and my nipples were standing out like the sharpened points of two pencils. Your boxers ended up in the fire, causing it to ignite and drawing the serviceman’s notice. I have a vivid memory of our parents having to come and get us from the military compound.”
I nodded. “And the memory of you being grounded for a solid three months is still fresh in my mind.”
“But you wrote me love letters every day and handed them over in school.”
“And did your homework for three months”, I added dryly.
She shook her head and returned to the present time. “I think you never realised how much I needed that, Koen.”
We walked for quite a bit in silence. Message delivered. Now it was up to me what to do with it. It was all too sudden. Sure, I had missed it when we stopped after a dreadful life experience, something I don’t want to get into now. And I missed for it for a while. But it was all so long ago. So many things had happened since then. Throughout all this time, there hasn’t been a single moment where I thought she might have missed out on this. And yet here we are. We are not supposed to be hyper sexual. People our age should ready themselves for the role of grandparents. With a worried expression, she glanced at me, her anxiety palpable. Time to face the music.
I suddenly stood up, took her hand in mine, and walked on. “You know this is the first time we ever talked about this? Despite ceasing to play, we never discussed the topic amongst us. We just stopped somehow. I always believed that the reason was that you had lost interest, as if the spark of it had faded away. A lot of water went under the bridge since then. And of course, I’m eager and willing. Is there a man out there who wouldn’t be?”
“So, why the doubts?”
“Sylvia, it’s not as simple as just flipping a switch. Do you remember how long it took us when we were young before I could gather enough confidence to do something simple as calling you names? You wanted me to call you slut and whore and cunt!”
“Now, I’m asking you to. Just for a year, let me escape reality and indulge in my deepest desires.”
“OK”, I said.
Sylvia suddenly froze her step. “That’s it? I pour my heart out here, and you say okay?” she said. “Is that the entirety of it?”
“We have much to discuss, and you seemed eager for my response. So, I answered you. You’re telling me that is not good?” I grinned, leaning back slightly, trying to defuse the tension with a touch of humour.
She crossed her arms, her expression still hard but her voice wavering with a mix of frustration and something deeper. “It’s not about being good or bad. It’s about … it’s about you really hearing me, understanding me. And instead, you give me this … this half-hearted response.”
I sighed, the smile fading as I realised she was right. “You’re right,” I admitted, my tone softening. “I should have taken a moment. You deserve more than a quick ‘okay.’ Let’s talk about this—really talk. I want to understand where you’re coming from, but I need you to know it’s not something I can process in just a second.”
Her gaze softened, the fire in her eyes dimming to embers. “Okay,” she said, almost ironically. “But let’s not make a habit of this, alright?”
“Deal,” I replied, this time with sincerity, as I leaned forward, ready to listen, really listen.
“One thing that needs to be addressed is the suggestion to discard the use of your safe word.” I started.
Eagerly Sylvia jumped in, sparkling eyes now that she had achieved her goal. “Every NEW couple should use a safe word. They are complete strangers, unable to decipher each other’s body language or understand their mental backgrounds. Since you know my body often better than I do, we don’t need it anymore. I don’t need to say red, because you would have stopped way before that point. The same goes for yellow. You’ll notice when I become uncomfortable. Using those words only disturbs the flow of our game.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, little miss know-it-all, that safe words are not just for the submissive, but for the dominant as well? That I might find it necessary to know when you can’t take it anymore you will tell me to stop playing by just saying ‘red’? Is that too much to ask? Life is not ‘fifty shades of grey’, Syl. When things go wrong, it’s 50 shades of red or 50 years in prison.”
Playing on the edge in what an increasingly prudish society finds acceptable between two consenting partners is never without risk. You cannot play BDSM-games without being aware of the risks. If I were to bring Sylvia to the ER for an unexpected accident in today’s society, I would find myself behind bars before they released her from the hospital.
“Fine, we will keep our safe words if you want to. We can work that out later. Aren’t you excited?” My girl that has passed the 60 year limit was jumping up and down in my arms like a 6-year-old. I hugged her tight for several minutes. Her joy was contagious, and I softly kissed her.
“I am excited. Give me a day or so to get used to the idea of owning a slave girl.”
She laughed. “Let’s go home and fuck, master.”
