Slave Wife

 

Due to considerable criticism, I have made a few revisions to the first chapter of this story.  To those who were critical of my writing skills in the first version, I hope you find this more to your liking.   If, however, your complaints centered on the abusive and harsh treatment involved, you’re out of luck.  Not only that, but it will become much more intense in future chapters.

 

As with all my stories, this is pure fiction, drawn from nothing more than my own warped and depraved mind.  In the world I’ve created here, there is no such thing as HIV, AIDS or any other STD, and the only risk from unprotected sex is unwanted pregnancy. 

 

Slave Wife

Chapter 1

 

Life at home sucked.  Although we’d been married nearly 20 years, it hadn’t been a true marriage for a very long time.  My wife wasn’t particularly interested in sex, and thought doing it any way except missionary style, in bed, with the lights out was perverted.  She never even let me finger her or play with her titties, and just making her think I wanted oral sex was enough to shut her down for six months.  I’d actually moved out of our bedroom five or six years earlier, and could count on one hand the number of times we’d had sex since then.  Not that any man really needs an excuse, but I really believe that was one of the reasons I started gravitating towards porn sites.  If I couldn’t get what I needed from my wife, then I would experience it vicariously, though the online postings of others.

 

At first, my focus was on relative soft core stuff, what might today be called erotica.  However, I soon discovered the plethora of hardcore porn sites and quickly had several gigabytes of stories, photographs and movies hidden on the hard drive of our home computer.  I found my interest was in the dark, almost evil aspects of BDSM, slavery and sexual abuse.  Before long, I had several thousand downloaded photographs which I categorized for easier retrieval of whatever particular kink piqued my interest on any given day:  piercings, whippings, pregnant bondage, women in cages, pony girls, even a bit of bestiality thrown in for good measure.  I found this wasn’t necessary with most of the stories I enjoyed; they were generally available on free web sites, though I did have a collection of about two hundred.

 

Unfortunately, we only had one computer connected to the internet (this was before broadband and wireless home networks were readily available), and one day my wife stumbled on my stash.  She’d found bits and pieces of it before, usually because I forgot to clear the cache or empty the “Recent Documents” folder, but never the entire thing.  We had the worst fight of our marriage that night, with both of us saying mean, hateful things.  No physical blows were struck, but you would have thought I had slapped her in the face when I screamed that maybe I wouldn’t have to get my pleasure from porn if she would act like a wife and learn to fuck.  Her eyes welled up with tears and she ran to the bedroom, locking herself in and effectively ending the argument.

 

The next month was pure hell for me.  I stayed away from home as much as I could, working extra hours and volunteering for every one of the overnight business trips.  On the few occasions that we were home together, we ignored each other as much as possible.  I honestly expected to come home one day and find that she had either moved out, or had the locks changed and left divorce papers taped to the door.  I knew my life was going to change drastically; I was just completely wrong about how it was going to change.

 

I can still vividly remember when it happened.  I was in my room, working on a report using a laptop I had brought home from work, when I heard a soft tapping on the bedroom door.

 

"Yes?" I said rather gruffly, irritated at being disturbed.  My work was all I had now, and I had become immersed in it.

 

"We need to talk," my wife answered from behind the closed door.  "May I come in?"  Her voice was strangely soft and mild, almost timid.

 

AWait a minute and I’ll come out,@ I replied.  Pulling some jeans on, I walked out into the kitchen where my wife was waiting.  She was holding a large folder in her hand, which I assumed were divorce papers.  I looked at her, then down at the sheaf of papers.  She blushed, something I hadn't seen since before our marriage.

 

AUm...this is difficult for me,@ she stammered.

 

ALet=s get it over with.  You want a divorce, fine.  I'll sign the papers.  I=m tired of living like this, too.  I don=t get the kind of sex I need from my wife, but I=m not willing to go out and have an affair, so my only option is to take care of my needs online.  If you can’t deal with that, fine.  At least a divorce would allow me to go find someone else.  Give me the papers,@ I said.

 

ANo, you don=t understand,@ she started to say, as I grabbed the sheaf from her hand.  She plopped down in the chair opposite me, holding her head in her hands and sobbing softly as I opened the folder.

 

I was wrong.  They weren't divorce papers, but copies of the files I=d downloaded.  Even one=s I hadn't.  I recognized some of the stories immediately as those I'd written and posted on a BDSM web site, but there were a lot that I was totally unfamiliar with. What the hell???

 

AThis is so difficult.  I=m so embarrassed,@ she whimpered.  I’d never heard her voice sound like that.

 

AWhat=s so embarrassing?@ I asked, looking up. 

 

AI read everything...all the files.  I saw myself in them.  I found where you=d published your own stories. I figured out it was you by the places you describe.  I...I don=t know why, but they excited me.  I played with myself while I was reading them.  I played with myself a lot,@ she confessed.  AI want to be that woman for you.@

 

ASay what?@ I said, shocked.  We=d dabbled in bondage right after we were married, but she never seemed to like it, so I stopped even suggesting it.  Now she wanted to be my slave, or at least a sexual submissive?

 

AI want to try this out,@ she said in a stronger voice, almost pleading.  AA trial period, maybe a week, with limits.  I need a safeword.  No piercings or anything like that unless I agree.  And nobody else gets involved.  This stays just between the two of us” 

 

Safe words?  Piercings?  I could see really had done some reading.  I just sat silently for a moment, taking this all in.  She could just be jerking me around again, just like all the other times when she made me think we were going to have sex, and then backed out at the last minute.

 

AI don=t know...this is quite a shock.  I don=t know whether to believe you or not,@ I replied slowly.  “I mean, this is a pretty big change for both of us, you know?”

 

ASir,@ she responded, AIt came as a shock to me, too.  I never realized...@ Her voice broke.  AI never realized how much I could enjoy reading and seeing those things.  The stories about women forced to... .to humiliate themselves, to do all those things.  Please?  Please may I be your slave?@ 

 

She was nearly in tears, but I still wasn’t sure if I could believe her.  The deciding factor was that she called me “sir.”  She’d never called me that before.  Maybe she was serious about this.  If not, I would find out by calling her bluff right away.

 

“You want to be a slave, fine.  When I get home from work tomorrow, I want you kneeling naked at the door,  nipples pierced,  pussy bald, and  cunt full of cum.  Prove to me that you’re willing to go that far and then maybe I’ll think about taking you on as my slave.”

 

“Cum?” she asked, wide-eyed.

 

“Cum,” I responded.  “Semen.  Dick snot.  I don’t care who it comes from.  I’m sure you can find someone hard up enough to stick his cock in you.”

 

“Sir,” she said in a shocked voice, “What you’re asking…that means no condom, and it’s…I mean…the time of the month…I’m fertile.  What if I get pregnant?”

 

“Not my problem,” I answered, turning tail and walking back towards my bedroom. “Besides, I kind of like the idea of some bastard brat growing in your belly!” I said over my shoulder.

 

Of course, I didn’t really want her to get pregnant, but I needed to make sure she was serious about this.  If she was playing with me – as I still suspected – she wouldn’t go through with it anyway.  If, however, she was being truthful, then whatever happened with a pregnancy would be my choice.  An abortion would be against her beliefs, but she never wanted kids anyway.  Then again, it might be fun to have her carry the brat to term, then make her give it to someone else.  Hell, I’d never porked a preggo before.  That might be worth it in itself.

 

I guess now would be a good time to describe my wife.  We started dating in high school, just at the end of her sophomore year and just before I graduated.  She was a gymnast back then, thin but with muscular legs that seemed to go on forever.  Today, she’s almost 25 years older than when we met, but hasn’t added any weight to her 5’8” frame.  Her breasts are still the same magnificent 36C that  they were at our wedding, and while she probably couldn’t pass the pencil test today, it wouldn’t be by much.  She’s always been obsessed with her appearance, constantly watching her weight and spending more money on cosmetics and stylish clothes than I care to think about.  To all outward appearances, she was a true trophy wife.

 

Her only fault was her attitude about sex.  She apparently thought sex was what you did when you wanted to make a baby, and she had absolutely no desire to have one of those crawling around.  Well, it didn’t really matter whether her attitude changed or not; if she really wanted to be my slave, then her desires would come second.  Or maybe third or fourth, if I decided to expand her horizons with a little group sex.

 

We were sitting at the kitchen table having coffee the following morning when I set the newspaper down and looked over at her.  She fidgeted nervously, finally clasping her hands in her lap and looking down at them.

 

“Do you remember what I told you I expected done by the time I get home?” I asked pointedly.

 

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, blushing.

 

“Tell me,” I prompted.

 

“I’m to be shaved, have rings in my nipples, and…and…” she stuttered, “…and have sex with someone.”

 

“That’s not what I told you, is it?  Tell me exactly what I told you to do, cunt!” I demanded angrily.

 

“You want me to have a bald pussy, my nipples pierced, and a load of cum in my cunt, Sir,” she blurted in staccato fashion, almost sobbing as she did so.

 

“Very good for such as stupid cunt,” I replied condescendingly.  Now, I have a few other rules and tasks for you.”

 

“First thing, I want you to take all your panties, bras, slacks and jeans and give them away.  Same thing with every dress and skirt you have that goes below your knees.  Take them to a thrift store, I don’t care which one, but get a receipt.  Depending on how obedient you are, I might eventually let you buy a pair of second hand panties to wear them during your period.  Effective immediately, you will wear neither panties nor a bra, ever, unless I tell you otherwise.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she answered almost gaily.  I saw her eyes light up, and knew going without underwear was one of those things she’d fantasized about.

 

“Second, whenever you’re in this house, you’re naked.  It doesn’t matter whether we’re alone or not, you are not permitted clothing inside this house.”  She nodded, and l stared harshly at her until she got the message and began undressing. 

 

“Third, whenever you’re in my presence, you’ll kneel with your knees spread as far apart as you can get them.  If you need to enter or leave any room I’m in, you’ll ask for permission first, and you’ll crawl on your hands and knees unless I say you can walk.  Understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, falling to her knees and spreading them, displaying her now-soaked, hairy crotch.  The view gave me one more idea.

 

“I just decided I want more than just a shaved cunt.  I want you to go to that salon of yours and have your cunt hair waxed off.  Your regular salon and your regular beautician.”  So far, everything I’d told her to do would be involving strangers and nothing was overtly sexual.  She looked up at me in mild shock.  I stared her down, and she lowered her head.

 

“Yes, Sir,” she said quietly, her entire body shaking.

 

“Good.  Well, you have a lot of things to take care of today, and I have to get to work.  Remember, if you decide you don’t want to go through with this, quitting is easy.  All you have to do is skip one task, and it’s over.  The next step will be a divorce attorney.”  With that, I grabbed my brief case and walked out of the house.

 

When I arrived at work, my partner saw the change in my demeanor.  For the first time in weeks, I was smiling. 

 

"I'm going to need a couple of weeks off, as soon as we can work it in," I told him.

 

"Things are pretty slow right now," he replied, "so any time shouldn't be a problem."  We agreed that I'd finish out the week, and then take two, maybe three weeks, off.  I didn't get much done that day, preoccupied as I was with my upcoming vacation. 

 

I had to make a couple of  stops on my way home that evening, and got home late.  She was waiting, naked, as per my orders.  I could see she’d followed at least two of my commands; her red, swollen nipples were now adorned with tiny gold rings, and her pubes were as smooth and hairless as the day she was born.  As she waited, kneeling in front of me, a blob of semen plopped onto the floor between her splayed knees.  Well, I grinned, three for three.  I’d have to get the details form her later.  For now, I just pointed to the floor and told her to lick up her mess, while I walked into her bedroom to see what remained of her wardrobe. 

 

Her dresser drawers were empty of panties and bras, and the closet was nearly as bare.  The only clothing she had left were some stockings, a few pair of shoes, and two short cocktail dresses.  On the bed was a receipt from Goodwill for several bags of clothes, and an itemized list of exactly what she’d donated. 

 

She’d prepared a nice dinner for me, but it was now overcooked from her attempts to keep it warm for me.  She tried to explain that she hoped to please me with dinner, but didn’t know I’d be getting home late.  When she started in with the “If you’d called” crap, I told her to shut the fuck up.  What time I get home is none of her business, and as for my dinner, she could go order me a pizza because her cooking sucks anyway.  She started with the crying crap again, but I just left her kneeling on the floor and ignored her while I went to work on a few things I had to finish up for work.  About 45 minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring.  My pizza was here, and it was time for another test.

 

“Go answer the door and bring my dinner to me, bitch!” I ordered.

 

“Sir, may I please put a robe on?  And I need some money, too,” she asked politely.  I could see the trepidation on her face, and she knew what was coming next.

 

“You know the rules,” I said, grinning.  “No clothes in the house, and if you don’t have any cash, figure out some other way to pay him.  Suck him off, fuck him, I don’t care, just bring me my pizza.  Oh, and you’re forbidden to stand.”  I was being a bit harsh, but I still had doubts about how far she was willing to go.  After all, the “semen” that plopped out of her earlier could have been sour cream for all I knew.

 

It’s a good thing Domino’s uses insulated sleeves to deliver pizza, because it was another twenty minutes before Donna crawled back into the den with my dinner.  There were red marks from where her breasts had been mauled, and her face was covered with a wet sheen.

 

“Did you enjoy giving the very first blow job of your life to a  stranger?  Looks like he decided to cum on your face, so I guess you’ve still never swallowed cum, have you?” I asked, more to humiliate her even more than out of true curiosity.

 

“It was a girl,” she replied quietly, her entire body turning beet red.  I couldn’t help but laugh as I pulled out the first slice of pizza and began eating.  I told her to go to her room and leave me alone, and I’d call for her if and when I wanted her presence.  Until then, she could go kneel in front of the toilet and consider what it means to be a slave.

 

I called her back several times, always making sure I had some graphic BDSM image or video file on the screen.  Each time I called her into my presence, I told her what I wanted,  and then once she fetched it I’d send her back to her waiting area on the bathroom floor.  Get me another beer, fetch a napkin, throw my empty beer bottle away, clean up the scrap of pepperoni I dropped on the floor, bring me my slippers, take my shoes and socks off and put them away.  Give my feet a tongue bath.  I’d drop pieces of crust and make her eat them off the floor.  I don’t think she stayed in the bathroom for more than three minutes at a time, but I eventually tired of this game.

 

“Get your skanky ass back in here!” I yelled finally, having had her clear the remains of my dinner only a minute before.  When she crawled in, I told her to position herself on the floor, feet tucked under her ass with her knees spread as widely as she could force them.  “I want to see your cunt lips flapping open,” I told her, waiting until she finally reached down between her legs and used her fingers to open herself for my viewing pleasure.

 

“Now, tell me about your adventures today.  While you’re telling me all about how much fun you had, I want to see you finger-fucking that sloppy hole, too.”   Although I knew she masturbated regularly, she’d never done it in front of me before.  “All you have to do to find out what a beating feels like is to stop fucking yourself or cum without me telling you to.”