Slave Wife

Chapter 6

  Authors Note:  In attempting to write this segment, I found it more effective to present Donna’s point of view.  This chapter, therefore, is in her words.

  I was scared.  Really scared.  I mean, I know I asked for this…or at least some of it…but my mind was reeling with thoughts of all the horrible things that could happen to me while traveling alone, and dressed the way I was.  Being arrested for indecent exposure or something was probably the best of those thoughts, which ran from that to being kidnapped, gang raped, and even murdered. 

Bus rides, particularly long ones, had always scared me.  We hadn’t had a lot of money when I was growing up, and since we never had a decent car, the only way I could ever visit my grandparents was by spending five hours on the bus.  They were always uncomfortable and stuffy, but at least I was always with my mom and two older brothers.  Until that time I was sent to grandma’s on my own.  I never liked riding the bus, but traveling alone was the most terrifying thing I’d ever been forced to do (at least up to now).  I was twelve years old, and mom thought it would be easier if I took the overnight bus, so that I could sleep.  Instead of the normal five hours on the express we’d always taken as a family, this was a nine hour ride, stopping in every little town along the way.  I was dressed as pre-teens generally were in that era, a knee-length cotton dress, slip, white cotton panties, white ankle socks and black patent leather shoes. 

At twelve, I was still just a kid, although puberty was just starting to hit.  What I knew of sex wasn’t much – there wasn’t an internet back then, but I’d glimpsed my dad coming out of the shower once.  Some of my friends had older siblings who talked about this thing called “fucking.”  It sounded pretty yucky at the time, but  I knew guys especially seemed to like it.  One of my friends told me about her brother paying her five dollars to take her clothes off in front of him, and how he’d put his fingers inside her and even made her suck his dick.  I didn’t dare tell her how the story made my tummy quiver.  I’d also seen a few photos – from the stash of magazines my brothers had hidden in the garage - of women being fucked or on their knees, taking dicks in their mouths.

  So there I was, twelve years old and unaccompanied on the bus, with visions of being abused like the women in those magazines streaming through my head.  Everyone was a potential molester, and I just knew that I was going to be grabbed by someone and forced off the bus at one of the numerous stops we made.  They’d never find my body, buried in some farm or orchard, or devoured by dogs or wild animals.  My imagination was running wild, causing terror and excitement at the same time.  I was never so thankful when the bus pulled into the depot and I saw grandma waiting patiently.  I made a promise to myself that I’d never ride a bus again, and until now, I’d been able to keep it.

  There were a few differences between that last bus ride and this one, though none for the better from my point of view.  When I was twelve, I had a few dollars in my pocket and a sack lunch, on a much shorter ride.  When I was twelve, I wasn’t dressed like a slut.  When I was twelve, I wasn’t actually expecting to be fondled, used and abused by complete strangers.  When I was twelve, I wasn’t under orders to let anyone do anything they wanted to me.  The difference between when I was then and now was that I knew my worst fears could very well come true.  At a minimum, I knew I was going to be raped, used and abused.  At worst, I could be kidnapped, raped, and then murdered.  My worst nightmares from my childhood were about to become real.

  I was permitted only one decision that day, to continue on my current degrading path, or to call it off and face a humiliating divorce.  Given that I was now standing nearly naked in a bus terminal, the option I’d chosen was obvious.  I wasn’t even permitted to chose my own clothing for this trip, nor anything else I’d be carrying.

As we were riding towards the motel the night before, Master (that’s how I thought of my husband now) spotted a seedy-looking strip mall, and after I had my breakfast (a load of my Master’s cum spurted directly into my belly), we checked out and walked the block and a half to it.

   At the time, I wasn’t wearing much – a tank top, spandex running shorts that were so tight the outline of my cunt was visible, and a pair of plastic sandals.  Master took me by the elbow and guided me into a thrift store.  After having me model several “outfits,” (I use the term loosely, because nothing matched), he finally settled on a short pink and white skirt that looked like it was once part of a high school cheerleader’s uniform, a denim vest, and a pair of blue plastic platform shoes that were once probably part of a Halloween costume.  Nothing fit; the skirt was too short, the vest too tight, and even the shoes were a two sizes too big, causing me to wobble and teeter as I walked.  Master also found  plastic purse with a Barbie logo emblazoned on it, and a steel choker collar.  Paying for my purchases, he made me wear them out of the store, dropping my other clothes in the trash after the cashier refused to taken them in trade.

  Our next stop was an adult novelty store with painted-over windows.  Master didn’t go into the store, but handed me my identification and a credit card, and gave explicit instructions on what I was supposed to buy.  Entering the shop – the first time I’d ever been in one – the first thing I noticed was the smell.  There was a thick odor of disinfectant air freshener in the air, and it me wonder what went on in this place that they needed something so strong.  The store was nearly deserted, just the cashier (a scrawny-looking twenty-something who smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in a week…perhaps that was the reason for the air freshener, I thought) and two older, businessmen-looking guys who were browsing the magazines.  All eyes turned to watch me as I half-stumbled in on the too-large platform shoes.

  “I need a vibrator, a butt plug, some lubricant, and two dozen neon-colored condoms, please,” I mumbled to the clerk.  He grinned at my discomfort, claiming he couldn’t hear me and asked me to speak louder.  I repeated myself a little louder, and could tell the other men had heard.  Then the clerk began asking me questions like did I want a corded or battery-powered vibrator, what size butt plug, and discussing the advantages and disadvantages of the different selections.  I was mortified as the three men crowded around the counter, grinning lewdly as the different options were handed to me.  I quickly made my selections, running out of the store in tears after signing the credit card receipt. 

Master saw my tears and knew what they were for.  He just told me to get used to it, because humiliation and abuse were going to be a major part of my life from now on.  I used the back of my hand to dry my eyes off, smearing my mascara in the process.  At that point, I didn’t really care, though.  When I’d regained as much composure as I could, Master led me behind the strip mall and had me squat down and insert the plug up my ass while he assembled the contents of my purse.  In it went the condoms, my bus ticket, and itinerary.  The tube of lubricant was left on the ground where I’d used it, Master saying that if I needed to take it out, I could lubricate it with saliva or cunt slime.

  It was only two more blocks to the bus station, so after giving me instructions – which included bringing home all 24 condoms filled with semen and not denying anyone access to my body if they wanted it – he gave me one last slap on my bare ass and sent me on my way.  By the time I arrived at my destination, I could almost walk without wobbling on the oversized platform shoes.

  The bus depot was pretty much like every other one, tired and worn out, with the usual assortment of students, the unemployed, winos, and financially challenged folks hanging around.  The floor had been recently swept and mopped, but looked like that was about all the maintenance that had been done on it in a very long time.  The molded plastic seats weren’t exactly clean, either, covered with so much rubbed-in grime that I doubted even the best of scrubbings would ever make them clean again.  I had nearly two hours before my bus, and surely wasn’t going to wait in the lobby.  The way I was dressed, I’d already had to fend off two would-be admirers (both drunken winos) before I even entered the station doors..  There was only one location I could be relatively safe, so I picked up a discarded newspaper and headed to the ladies room hoping to hide there until it was time to board.  Unfortunately for me, there were no doors on the stalls, and sitting on a toilet would only ensure every woman who entered saw that I wasn’t wearing panties.  In the end, I found a corner between a wall and the vending machines that I was able to wedge myself in to.  I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, but at least nobody could walk up behind me or anything.  That knowledge didn’t really help much, as my mind was still filled with thoughts of all the terrible, disgusting things that could happen to me.  I found myself shivering; it had to be from fear, because it wasn’t at all cold inside the terminal.  Nervously, I tugged at the hem of my too-short skirt, furtively glancing at my reflection in the plate glass window as I tried to make sure my bald slit was covered.

  While I waited, I read my itinerary and was shocked to see how long the trip would take.  Today was Sunday, and even without any delays or missed connections, I wouldn’t reach San Francisco until Thursday afternoon.  I had to make five transfers, too, which meant I wouldn’t be able to just hide in a seat somewhere while everyone else got off during stops.  Stops when they’d surely get out and stretch their legs and get something to eat, I thought.   Food.  I’d have to find some way to get someone to buy me something, probably a few times, since there was no way I could go almost five days without eating.  I knew this was what Master wanted, though, and I began planning how best to manage it.  The itinerary showed a layover of almost four hours in New York, so maybe I could get someone to trade a meal for a quickie.  With only four hours, there wasn’t a real possibility that we’d be able to find a room, but if I could find someone on the bus and maybe suck him off or get him to fuck me in the restroom….then I stopped and realized what I was actually doing, planning how to prostitute myself for nothing more than a sandwich and a bag of chips.  At least true whores got paid for their efforts; here I was willing to trade my body for maybe a five dollar meal.  Maybe that made me a real whore, though,  just of the cheapest kind.  The thought of what I was quickly becoming shamed me beyond tears.  Master’s final instructions to me kept flowing through my mind: I could not object to anything anyone wanted to do with me.  I was not to mention the rubbers unless my “partner” brought up the topic first, and then could offer one.  Under no circumstances, however, would I require anyone to use one.

  Although there was still some time before my bus was ready for boarding, I teetered on over to the gate so that I would be among the first in line.  I remembered from my childhood that the rear seats provided a modicum of privacy, and thought that I might be able to sneak back there and hide in the corner, unnoticed.

  I was lucky enough to be third in line, just in front of two pimply-faced teenage boys who weren’t at all covert about how they undressed me with their eyes.  Not that there was much left to the imagination, considering there was probably a total of eighteen inches of my body covered.  I had already pulled the tiny skirt down as low as I reasonably could, the elastic waist actually below my hips in order to keep my ass cheeks and slit covered.  The boys made no attempt to hide their lust, examining my nearly naked body with their eyes, whispering comments to each other.  When we finally boarded, I breathed a sigh of relief when they took seats up front; I walked as quickly as I safely could, huddling down in the corner of the back bench seat.  I had second thoughts about sitting as Master had directed – he wasn’t present, after all – but knew I’d have to confess to him and be punished afterwards, so I sat upright with my hands clasped behind my back, my legs bent at the knee and slightly spread.  I could feel the air swirling around my bald pussy, knowing it was completely exposed and visible to anyone who happened to look.  I hoped – prayed – that no one would join me in the back of the bus.  I hadn’t prayed in a long time, though, and suppose I was out of practice, because just as the bus motor started, I got company:  The two pimply-faced teenage boys who’d been staring at me in line.

  “Scoot to the middle seat, slut,” one of them ordered unequivocally, sliding past my legs and sitting down, positioning me between the two of them.   The one on my left – next to the window – had dirty brown, mussed hair.  His clothes were dirty, a pair of jeans and soiled tan tee shirt with a crude graphic on it.  The other had stringy blonde hair that hung down past his shoulders, and a tattoo of a marijuana leaf on his arm.  I slid over as ordered, keeping my hands behind me and my knees apart, but closing my eyes and wishing this wasn’t happening.  They each grabbed a knee, spreading my legs lewdly apart.

  “You selling it, or what?” the blond asked, his hand stroking my exposed belly.  When I didn’t answer, he grabbed my breast and squeezed.  “I asked you a question, whore!” he whispered angrily into my ear.

  “No, Sir,” I mumbled quietly.  “I’m not selling anything.”

  “Then why the fuck are you dressed like that?” the other one demanded.  “Fuck, we could see your gash standing in line.”  I felt my body turning bright red as his hand slipped under the hem of the spandex shorts, his fingers entering me easily.

  “It’s…um…a dare,” I quickly said.

  “A dare?”

  “Um, yeah.  A bet.  A friend…bet me…that I wouldn’t ride the bus to New York dressed like this,” I lied. 

“Bullshit,” the brown-haired one answered, grabbing my chin and squeezing my face painfully.  “Tell us the truth, cunt!” 

So I did.  I told them about becoming my husband’s sex slave, and how as a test, he was making me take the bus all he way to San Francisco dressed like this, and what he expected me to do. 

“So basically, we can do whatever we want with you, make you do whatever we want, sexually or otherwise?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, blushing again.

  “Well, I think the first thing is to get out of that slutty outfit,” he said.  “After all, you have a long ride ahead, and it wouldn’t do to get cum stains on it right from the start, would it?”

  I stripped my clothes off without a word, handing them to the scruffy-looking one, who folded and stuffed them in the seatback pocket in front of him.  They then began roughly molesting me, one attacking my tits while the other crammed two, then three, and finally four fingers up my sopping hole.  Every few minutes they’d switch positions, and the fingers that had been crammed up my cunt moments before would be shoved into my mouth for me to clean off.  It’s difficult for me to describe how it felt, emotionally, but I don’t remember ever being so humiliated - or sexually aroused - at having these two teenagers pawing at my naked body.    Fifteen minutes after the bus pulled out of the station, I was a sopping mess and the air around me was filled with the odor of wet pussy.

  It wasn’t long before  one of them grabbed the back of my head and forced my mouth onto his filthy, sweaty cock.  I nearly gagged at the taste – he obviously hadn’t bathed in days, if not weeks – and the acrid odor of piss and unwashed ass assaulted my senses so forcefully that it was all I could do to keep from vomiting.  When he suddenly mashed my face into his putrid-smelling pubic hair, smashing my nose against his pubic bone and filling my throat with his filthy cock, only the abusive training I’d received over the past weeks kept me from retching. 

During the ensuing hour, they did everything but actually fuck me.  I sucked them both off twice, fingered myself to an orgasm while they watched, and even allowed myself to be fisted for the first time, licking the hand clean after it was removed from my womb.  I gave silent thanks to whatever God there might be when they told me they had to get off at the first stop.  However, I still had over nine hours to go, but at least I had two condoms full of cum in my purse, only because they wore them the final time I sucked them off.

  I had about thirty minutes before our next stop, and managed to get some sleep huddled against the bulkhead.  It wasn’t a rest stop or anything, so I didn’t wake up until I felt the cushions move as someone sat down next to me.  Even then, I wasn’t fully aware until I heard quiet giggles.

  I opened my eyes and saw a young boy and girl sitting next to me, wide-eyed.  I’d slumped down some and cocked my leg, so my skimpy skirt was up around my waist and my entire lower body was exposed to their view.  I blushed before regaining my composure and straightening myself up.

  “She ain’t wearin’ no pants, Hank!” the girl said.  She couldn’t have been ten years old.

  “Tha’s cause she’s prolly a skanky ol’ whore, ain’tcha?” he said.  I stared into his deep green eyes.  “Remember when daddy brought that whore home, Sissy?” God, he was barely older than his sister – about twelve, my brain registered – and he knows about prostitution?

  The girl giggled. 

“Yeah, she was lots of fun, wasn’t she?  ‘Specially when you and me peed on her, remember that?”

  “Shore do,” he answered, rubbing his crotch.

  Both children looked like homeless waifs, skinny and dirty, wearing filthy clothing.  The girl was barefoot, her long, blonde hair dirty and tangled.

  “So what’cha think we oughta do with her?” she asked.  “We can’t pee on her here, can we?”

  “No, but remember when that ol’ whore daddy rented got down and put his wiener in her mouth?  We could make her do that.”  He looked back up at me, “Unless she wants us to tell the police she tried to molest us.”  I bowed my head in resignation, watching the eyes of both children light up.

  “Then afterwards, she could do me, like you do?” the girl asked.

  “Yup,” he answered, pulling his jeans down.

  That he really was a child – his dick was only about four inches long when it finally got hard – made it even worse for me.  I was no longer a slut, a whore, and a perverted sicko, I was now a child molester and baby rapist.  All I could do at the moment, though, was suck for all I was worth, until he finally spurted a couple of teaspoons of cum into my mouth.  Then it was the girl’s turn.

  When she pulled her dress up and panties down, I could see dried, crusty flakes on the insides of her thighs.  I looked up at her in horror, only to have her hands force my face down between her legs.

  “Yeah, Hank fucked me last night.  I been fuckin’ for years,” she proudly announced.  “One day I’m gonna have me a baby, and then Hank can fuck her, too!”

  Fuck!  What kind of perverts would raise their children to think like this!  I didn’t have time to think myself, though, as she grabbed my hair in her little fists and smashed my face into her filthy, hairless cunt, forcing me to lick and suck until her legs finally shot straight out over my shoulders and she gave a little shudder as her orgasm hit.

  The two kids were on their way to Boston, and I was stuck with them for the next several hours.  All they wanted to do, though was explore my body.  Their dirty little fingers went in my cunt, up my ass, squeezed my tits, twisted my nipples, and even made their way into my mouth as they spread my lips apart and peered into it.  Their filthy fingers tasted of my own ass, cunt, and whatever else they’d been into.  For once, I felt absolutely no sexual arousal at all, just disgust at what these children were doing to me.

  Boston wasn’t just my abusers’ destination, but a meal stop.  It was now late afternoon, and the only thing I’d eaten all day had been a few loads of cum.  I had no money and little time, but I needed to find someone willing to buy me some food…even if it meant degrading myself yet again in return.  I stepped off the bus and immediately began scanning the crowd for likely prospect, when I saw him.

  Master.  He was standing against a bench, his arms folded, as though waiting for me.  I’d never been so thankful in my life, running towards him with my arms outstretched, not caring if the whole world was watching as my skirt flew up around my waist.

Master was here, and now we could go home!

Slave Wife

Chapter VII

  I couldn’t believe how happy Donna seemed to see me, but after she told me all that had happened, I wasn’t surprised.  The past day had been quite difficult for her, but she passed that part of the test with flying colors.  Not that I told her that, though.  I chastised her for only getting two of her condoms filled, warning her that she’d be punished for her disobedience.  She should have done everything possible to get all 24 filled as quickly as possible, I said.  She blushed, but nodded in agreement.

  I took her to a nice downtown hotel that night, allowing her time to bathe and get cleaned up before putting her to bed.  I even permitted her to sleep on the fairly comfortable sofa bed, complete with a blanket and pillow.  I wasn’t quite ready to allow her to share my bed, but felt the impact of what I had planned for the next day would be only increased by showing a bit of kindness.

  After dressing the next morning – I gave her a sleeveless, knee-length dress and a pair of sandals to wear – we went downstairs for breakfast.  I had a nice sirloin, eggs, potatoes and toast.  She got corn flakes and skim milk, two foods she absolutely detested.  She ate with a smile on her face, though, evidently thankful for anything, since she hadn’t had any food in about 30 hours.

  After checking out of the hotel, we caught a cab to the airport – this time, I paid for the ride in cash, rather than with Donna’s ass – and after a short wait, boarded our plane for San Francisco.  The flight was uneventful for both of us; Donna sat demurely in the window seat not doing anything, while I read a couple of magazines I’d brought.  The flight was a little over six hours long, and she complied with my instructions to just sit and remain silent.  Towards the end of the flight I could see her wiggling a bit and figured she needed to pee, but she never said anything at all.

  After debarking, I told Donna to go retrieve the luggage while I got the rental car.  I was just finishing up the paperwork when she showed up, struggling under the weight of my three bags (none of which were equipped with wheels, for just that reason).  This being San Francisco, the rental agent didn’t even blink when I took a collar out of one of the bags, buckled it around Donna’s neck, and attached a leash to it.  In fact, she gave me a little grin and a sly wink.

  “She’s a bit retarded, and I need to make sure she doesn’t wander,” I explained, grinning back.  The agent just gave me a dubious look, knowing I was bullshitting her.  I led Donna, struggling under the burden of my bags, out of the terminal at the end of the leash, giving it a sharp tug a couple of times when she lagged behind. 

The car I reserved was a new Mustang convertible, and I was pleased to see that it was parked by itself, near the back of the rental lot.  I opened the trunk and waited while Donna struggled to lift each bag into it.

  “Go ahead and put your clothes into it, too,” I said, stepping back and crossing my arms to see if she’d obey.  She hesitated, then looked around furtively before lifting each foot to the rear and slipping the sandals off.  After dropping the footwear into the trunk, she looked around again, then hunched down and pulled the dress off.  She remained in a semi-squatting position, looking up at me with a fearful expression on her face.

  “We’re not going anywhere until you stand up,” I said impatiently.  “With your legs spread and your hands clasped behind your head,” I added almost as an afterthought.

I waited while she complied, tears welling up in her eyes as I made her stand there, exposed to the world.  Then, without a word, I unlocked the driver’s door and got in the car, leaving her standing there.  I let her sweat it out a bit, testing her fortitude, while I tuned the radio and lit a cigar.  Finally, I reached over and unlocked her door.

  “Get your ass in here, stupid, or do you like showing off your skanky body to the world?”  She literally jumped into the car, slamming the door shut so she’d have some protection from prying eyes.  I backed out of the parking space, waving at the lot attendant on my way out. 

I’d reserved a suite at an upscale hotel in Sausalito, which meant a drive through San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge.  Donna had just begun to relax when, as I was detouring through Golden Gate Park (I hadn’t visited it since my youth), I reached over and pressed a button on the dash, retracting the vinyl top.  Although it was now after dusk, Donna’s nakedness was exposed with every streetlight we drove under.  She could only sit there, shivering in the damp air and hugging herself, as I slowly drove through the nearly deserted recreation area, then back on to a main thoroughfare which took us to the bridge.

  The bridge’s toll booths are on the south (San Francisco) side, and I wasn’t sure how the booth operator would react to a naked passenger, so I put the top back up just as we approached and let Donna slide to the floor where she probably wouldn’t be seen.  I knew the California Highway Patrol always had vehicles on the bridge, and didn’t need to take any risks at this point.  Even though she was my wife and at least a semi-voluntary participant in this, I’m sure they could have found some reason to arrest us both.  Once we got back onto the bridge itself, though, the top came back down.

  Upon arriving at the hotel, I left Donna sitting in the car while I checked in.  The parking stall I selected was in an unlit area of the lot, so I left the top down, telling Donna that I expected her fingers to be covered with cunt slime when I returned.  I waited beside the car, staring at her until she understood what I was waiting for and began diddling herself.  Only then did I walk into the lobby, holding back a chuckle as I thought of her obviously embarrassing discomfort.

  After retrieving the room key (I told them we’d only need one), I returned to the car and retrieved Donna’s crumpled and now-dirty dress for her.   I gave her the room number, removed the leash from her collar, and told her to bring the luggage to the room.  With that, turned and walked away.

  The suite was on the fourth floor, and I’d already told Donna she was forbidden to use elevators (the better to work the excess fat off her ass, I said), so it took her two trips to lug everything up to the room.  Both times, the door was closed when she arrived, and she had to knock to request entry.  I laid naked on the bed, watching some mindless pay-per-view porn movie while she scurried around the room, putting everything away.  When she was done, I had crawl up onto the bed and use her mouth on my cock while I made comments comparing her appearance and lack of skills to those of the porn actresses I was watching.  After an hour of this, I finally grabbed her by the ears and forced her to deep throat me, finishing off in short order, and snuggling down for a good night’s sleep.  Donna had been fairly obedient, so her punishment for hesitating when I told her to strip in the airport parking lot was a night spent sleeping on the cold, hard bathroom floor.  Her uncomfortable night’s “rest” was just a harbinger of things to come.

  After a refreshing shower and shave, we went to breakfast.  I’d given Donna the choice of wearing whatever she wanted in return for no breakfast, or wearing what I chose, for which I’d let her order whatever she wanted.  With no substantial meal in almost three days, she chose the latter.  I handed her a tiny yellow string bikini top, a black leather micro-mini skirt, and a pair of clear plastic 5” heels.  She blanched, but knew better than to argue.

  The dining room was most interesting…or rather, the other diners (and the staff) found the view most interesting.  The bikini top was little more than an inch across at the front, barely covering her nipples, which were visibly erect thanks to the excitement she was obviously feeling.  The skirt revealed more than it hid, barely covering her bald slit when she stood motionless and revealing all if she took more than tiny, mincing steps.  The spiked-heel shoes didn’t help, as her bare ass was clearly visible with each wobbly step. I could smell the scent of her need standing next to her, and wondered how far the odor would exude. One of the wait staff, seeing us enter, quickly grabbed a towel and covered her chair seat for her.  She smiled at him, not realizing it wasn’t meant for her comfort, but to keep her from staining the upholstery.

  I told Donna she could have anything on the menu, but it really wasn’t very extensive.  She ended up with a cheese omelet, toast, and coffee.  I was planning on something more substantial later, so just had a bagel to go with my coffee.

  We drove back into the city after breakfast, this time letting Donna remain dressed (as skimpy as her outfit was), and keeping the top up.  I hadn’t clued her in yet as to why we were going back across the bay, but I had a feeling she knew she wasn’t going to like it.

  She didn’t.

Our first stop was a seedy-looking tattoo and piercing shop down on Haight Street.  Although her nipples were already pierced and decorated with tiny gold rings, I wanted to “decorate” my property even more.  I led her through the door on her leash.

  Inside, the establishment was pleasantly clean and had a hygienic quality about it.  I didn’t realize this was the norm, even for the extreme shops like this one, probably due to a combination of licensing and liability insurance reasons.  The walls were covered with photographs of tattoos and piercings on every imaginable part of the body.  I caught Donna looking around fearfully.

  “May I help you?” the young girl at the counter asked.  “Maybe an ownership tattoo or piercing for your slave?”  Donna blushed when she said that, looking sheepishly at the floor.

  “Well, do you have a place where we can secure her while we talk about exactly what I want?”

  “Certainly, sir, just bring her this way,” she answered, guiding us behind a curtain to a large room where several men were receiving ornate tattoos.  She led us to a contraption that looked like a cross between a dental chair and a gynecological examination table, with stirrups and straps for ankles, legs, torso, arms and forehead.  She started to pull the curtains around it.

  “There’s no need for that.  My slave doesn’t mind being exposed…do you?” I asked pointedly.

  “No, Sir,” Donna mumbled.

  “We get that sometimes,” the girl said, “but I need her to sign a waiver.”  She pulled out a pad of pre-printed documents off the counter and handed it to me.  It was a basic release of liability, ensuring no legal action against the owner, operator or artists for any body exposure.  There was also a photography release, which if signed, would could mean up to a 15% savings.  I asked her about that.

  “Oh, we have a web site where we publish photographs of our work.  We don’t usually offer it, but when we have a particularly unique work or a slave, we do.”  She went on to explain that the discount began at 2% for relatively innocuous tattoos.  For 15%, they could photograph and post anything they wanted to.  I checked the 15% block and told Donna to sign the forms.

  “Okay, let’s get you set up then” I said, holding my hand out for the bikini.  Without losing a beat, she stood erect, head high and proud, and stripped in front of everyone there…me, the young clerk, three tattoo artists and the three clients.  She then gracefully sat down on the cold vinyl contraption, holding her arms and legs in place while she was securely strapped down.  Once again, she was completely helpless and totally exposed to a number of men she’d never met, but she was beginning to act as though being naked and spread out like this was the most natural thing in the world for her.  I actually felt some pride in how my slave was responding, smiling to myself as the receptionist led me back to the lobby, to a desk filled with photo albums.

  “So were you primarily interested in tattoos or piercings?” she asked politely.

  “Both, actually.  We’ve been married over 20 years, but now she tells me she wants to be my slave.  I’ve been putting her through a rather rigorous test of her desire, so to speak.  I’m actually hoping she’ll object to whatever I decide today, just to prove my point, but I expect her to leave here totally humiliated and changed forever.”  The girl just grinned.

  “I couldn’t help but noticed the piercings.  They look new,” she commented.  “A part of the test, I presume?”

  “Yeah, about three weeks ago.  A long story, but when she begged to become my slave, I sent her out to get shaved, pierced and fucked.  She did, too.”  It was my turn to grin.  I don’t know why, but I felt completely at ease talking about my wife’s sexuality in front of this girl, who couldn’t be half my age.

  “Okay, let me show you some options….”

  A half hour later, we returned to where Donna was bound, our plan of attack in hand.  Just to increase her discomfort, I told my slave wife exactly what we were going to do to her.  At least some of it.

  “Angel here tells me that the piercings I want will put you out of commission for several weeks, but there’s a way around that.  Instead of just piercing you, she’s going to punch holes in your skin and insert steel grommets.  That way, they can be used as soon as the swelling goes down.  We talked about it, and…you think you can do it, Angel?”  The girl was between my wife’s legs, spreading and tugging at her labia.

  “Yeah, I can do three in each outer lip, one in the inner.  There’s enough meat here for that.”

  “…so you’re going to get eight holes in your cunt lips.  Oh, and a big one though your septum…a nose ring.  A big one, so big it’ll smack into your teeth while you’re being butt-fucked.”  I just loved the fear-filled look on Donna’s face when I told her that.  “Any problems, cunt?” I asked.

  “No, Sir,” she answered quietly, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Good, because that’s not all.  Show her the rest, would you, Angel?”

  “Sure,” she said, holding out a few glossy photographs of previous work.  “First, your Master took the time while we were talking to get you signed up at an online Slave Registry, and they were nice enough to send him a bar code with your registration number on it.  So this is going on the back of your neck.”  She held up a graphic she’d printed off the computer.  “Next, I’m going to tattoo this on your ass cheek.” She showed another photograph, this of simple block letters reading, “Property of Master (followed by my name).  Please return after fucking.”  “Then, across your abdomen just above your slit, I’m going to tattoo your registration number again, this time without the bar code.”  She waited for a moment, allowing Donna to take it all in.

  “You should really feel lucky, because your Master initially wanted me to tattoo a butterfly on your cunt, using your lips as the wings.  When I told him it would take a month to heal, he changed his mind.  So, do you agree to this?”

  “Yes, Miss,” Donna answered after only a moment’s hesitation.

  “Good, let’s get started.”

  Several hours later, it was over.  Local anesthesia was offered, but I decided to give Donna the full experience of being pierced in several of the most nerve-filled locations on the human body.  Each time the punch was used to create a hole in her tender skin, she screamed in pain.   

  At the last minute, I also decided on a nice faux pearl stud in the center of her tongue, and another grommet about a half inch from the front of her tongue.  The stud would, I was told, enhance the feeling of any blow jobs, and the grommet meant I could just clip her tongue to her nose ring (or anything else) whenever I wanted to.  Angel used what looked like a pair of Kelley forceps to grab Donna’s tongue and pull it out as far as it could before clipping the handles onto a small chain hanging from the wall.  This not only immobilized Donna’s tongue but freed up Angel’s hands for her work.  Donna moaned when the stud pierced her tongue, but when Angel punched the hole for the grommet, the sounds that came from my wife’s throat were unworldly, like those of a wounded animal.  She was unable to do anything, though, bound as she was, but endure.

  After the piercings came the tattoos.  They weren’t nearly as painful, though still uncomfortable.  Almost as an afterthought, I had “I (heart) ass fucking” tattooed on her right butt cheek, opposite the ownership notice.  Once the work was done, I allowed Angel to photograph the work for the company’s web site, let Donna have a few sips of water, and then had her get dressed.

  I figured Donna would need some time to recuperate, so before I took of to take care of other business, I paid for three nights in a cheap, run-down hotel off Polk Street, in area notorious for “alternative lifestyles.”  The clerk took my money without saying a thing about the nearly naked woman with the leash attached to her nose ring.

  The neighborhood wasn’t one you’d want to spend much time in, but Donna wouldn’t have to worry about that.  I was restricting her to the room, making sure she didn’t leave by not only chaining her ankle to the toilet (with enough slack to give her full movement through the room) but taking her clothes with me when I left.  Assuming she was able to get out of the chains, she’d be naked unless she used one of her sheets as a toga.  And if she tried that, she’d probably get raped before she left the floor.

  I had some business to attend to and Donna needed some time to recuperate, so planned on leaving her along for at least three days.  I wasn’t totally heartless, though, as I left her six cups of instant oatmeal to keep her nourished.  There was no microwave oven, though, so she’d have to mix it with hot tap water.  Flatware wasn’t a concern, either; that’s what she had fingers for.

  My business only took a few hours, but I decided to spend a couple of days relaxing and taking in the sights.  I left Donna to her own thoughts (and worries), as I strolled through town, stopping at Fishermen’s Wharf for a sidewalk crab salad, visiting the Maritime Museum, and even taking a trip out to the old abandoned prison on Alcatraz Island.  Each evening, I returned to my comfortable hotel room after dining on a nice, tasty meal, and slept like a baby.  Whether Donna slept well or not, I cared less.

  On the fourth morning, I called the hotel and had them connect me to Donna’s room.  I’d instructed them previously that I didn’t want any outgoing calls, giving the clerk an extra fifty just to make sure.  When I asked, he informed me that she’d picked up the receiver twice (or so their computer said), but hadn’t attempted to call anyone.  I thanked him for his time, and had the call transferred.

  “Get showered, slut.  You have a medical appointment this morning,” was all I said, hanging up the phone immediately.  One more thing for Donna to worry about…what kind of medical appointment?  Well, she’d soon find out!

Slave Wife

Chapter VIII

When I opened the door to the tiny, unkempt room in the run-down hotel, the first thing I noticed was the stench:  wet cunt, sweat, and unwashed ass.  The long chain still securing her ankle to the base of the toilet, Donna stepped out of the filthy bathroom, a wet washcloth in her hand, when she heard the door open.  Seeing me, she breathed a sign of relieve and dropped to her knees. 

I quickly looked around the room, immediately understanding how my slave wife had kept her self busy during my absence.  Her breasts and cunt lips were swollen and red, more than they would have been just from the piercings and tattoos.  There was also a large wet spot on the gray, stained bed sheet.

“Piss yourself in your sleep, bitch?” I asked, pointing at the damp sheets.

“Uh…no, Master…I…uh….” she stammered.

“Oh, so you spent your time ‘entertaining yourself,’ is that it?”

“Yes, Master,” she said balefully.

“Well, no more of that.  From now on, you don’t cum until you’re told to.  I don’t care of you’re fucking a train of 100 porn stars, if I don’t tell you to cum, you’d better not.  Unless you want to earn a beating.”

“Yes, Master,” she responded, getting up from her knees when I motioned.  At least she got that part of the equation right.  I reached down between her legs and played with her swollen gash for a moment, watching her wince as my hand tugged at the rings.  She was healing nicely.  I raised my hand to her face, and without a word, she began lapping the thick, copious juices from it.

When my hand was clean, I ordered her back to her knees while I unlocked the chain from around the base of the toilet and attached it to her other ankle, wrapping the excess around and around so she had no more than eight inches of movement.  After handing her the crumpled, stained dress I carried, I once again restrained her wrists behind her back.

“Master, may I ask a question, please?” she said in a quiet voice while I applied the now-familiar handcuffs  I knew the idea of seeing a doctor was worrying her, but I wasn’t going to tell her anything yet.

“No,” I answered.  “Unless someone gives you the impression they want to hear your skanky voice, you keep that cock-sucking pie hole of yours closed unless someone is stuffing a dick in it.  Understand?”  Her mouth flapped open for just a fraction of a second, until I raised my hand as though to slap her, then she just nodded her head.

“Good.  Now, the first thing you’re going to do when we go downstairs is thank the desk clerk with a nice, sloppy blow job. “  I attached the loose end of the chain around her other ankle, then a leash to her nose ring before leading her down the stairs. 

The clerk was the same one as when we arrived, and I’d cued him in on my plans three days ago, after I locked Donna in her tiny room.  He’d managed to get himself laid by one of the other guests a few hours earlier, and his dick was covered in dried fluids.  Donna found this out as she knelt behind the counter, releasing her user’s cock using only her teeth.  I could only imagine what it smelled like for her, or how his cock must have tasted.  I heard Donna gag a couple of times as he shoved his filthy member down her throat, but she managed to avoid vomiting.  When she was finished, I had her thank the “gentleman” with a couple of nice, juicy kisses right between his hairy ass cheeks before giving a gentle jerk on the leash and leading her out to the car.

A short drive later, and we arrived at our first destination, a cluttered alley behind a large, nondescript office building.  Leaving Donna’s skimpy dress behind, I led her naked into the building through a small loading dock,  then up several flights of dimly-lit, seldom used stairs.  The stairwell was littered with trash and smelled of urine.  Donna was sweating from the exertion, having to literally bunny-hop with her ankles bound as they were.  Three, four, five floors we slowly climbed, a small whip I carried lashing down on Donna’s unprotected body every time she tried to stop.  By the time we reached the fifth floor, she was covered in a sheen of perspiration and welts, her ankles bleeding from the chaffing of the chains.  She was unable to manage the doorknob with her hands bound behind her as they were, so I chivalrously opened the door for her.

Once out of the stairwell, we entered a brightly lit, plushly carpeted hallway.  One wall was lined with offices, the other with a glass wall that provided a stunning view of the bay.  Due to the nature of the reflective glass, nobody could see in, but I wasn’t so sure Donna realized that at the time.  She tried to cower down as if hiding herself, but a sharp upward jerk on the leash forced her head and body upright.  Leading her down the hall, I glanced at the names on the doors, finally finding the one I wanted.  Without knocking, we entered.

The office belonged to my attorney, who was waiting behind his desk for us.  He was a large black man, muscular, with a shaved head.  He was the sort of lawyer who worked on the fringes of society and didn’t care whether his client was guilty or innocent, as long as the check cleared.  As a result, he knew people with the skills I was seeking.  A single chair was positioned opposite him, and after nodding at him, I  sat down.  I motioned for Donna to stand next to me, her legs spread as far as possible given the chains around her ankles.

“You’ll have to release its hands if you expect it to sign,” the attorney said.  We’d gone over this before; he assured me that even though the entire event was being recorded, her signature was necessary.  I unlocked the handcuffs and ordered Donna to kneel with her tits resting on the table. 

“Sign these, everywhere there’s a red X,” the attorney said, sliding a sheaf of paper across the table so it rested between her naked globes. 

Donna took the pen he offered, and moved the papers to where she could read them.   The attorney lashed out, striking her left tit with a wooden paddle from his desk.  She yelled out in surprise and pain.

“I said sign the fucking papers, not read them, you stupid cunt!” he said dramatically, landing an additional stroke on her other udder.  “If anyone had wanted you to fucking read them, we would have said so!”

“It is rather stupid, even for a bitch, isn’t it?” the lawyer commented, shaking his head sadly as Donna grabbed the pen and began scribbling her name.

“Hell, not only is she a stupid cunt, she’s not even a halfway decent fuck,” I replied.  “You should have seen her the first time someone throat-fucked her, and when I told her to suck her own shit off my cock after I’d fucked her ass, she puked!”

Most of the documents wouldn’t hold up in court – hell, slavery is illegal, after all – but those that were valid annulled our marriage, gave me complete and sole control over all her belongings and our joint property, and began the process to have her declared my legal ward.  I would drop the incompetency papers off with a friendly judge, and in a few days, I would have the legal right to make all decisions for her – including determining what medical treatments she might need.

“Now that that’s over,” the attorney said after Donna literally signed her life away, “I suppose I should get paid.”  He grabbed Donna’s collar and literally dragged her out of the office and into an adjoining room.  She’d be “busy” for the next 24 hours.  I didn’t bother following; the attorney and I had discussed this earlier, and I’d be receiving a video of everything, anyway.   Suffice it to say that the attorney’s teenage son was about to learn all there was about the female anatomy.

I picked her up the next morning, and she looked like she’d been through the ringer.  Ah, if we could have the recovery time of a teenager for our whole lives!  It turns out sonny took her nine times – three in each hole, though you couldn’t really count the times she licked and sucked his cock clean without making him cum (which was each time he took her cunt or ass) – daddy did her twice, and each of the two cameramen took a few turns each, too.

I had her put her torn, filthy dress back on, and after clipping the leash I held to her ever-present nose ring, led her out of the building and onto the bustling street.

Since it was Sunday, the downtown area was filled with shoppers and sightseers, most of whom, I’m sure, never expected so see a sight like they were viewing – a barefoot, nearly-naked, obviously well-fucked female with dried cum on her face, hair and thighs, being led with a leash attached to a nose ring by a well-dressed, confident man.  As we stepped out into the daylight, I could hear the gasps of shock from elderly women, the derisive comments of younger ones, and the clicking and whirring of cameras and video recorders.  I was sure I’d find at least some of these on the internet soon..

There was plenty of footage (is that the correct phrase for digital movies?), as we waited a full seven minutes before the next bus came by.  Sure, I could have easily taken Donna to our next destination in my car, but the primary purpose of this trip was to degrade and humiliate her.  I knew how she hated busses, and those of the municipal transit system were a step down from even that.

Ninety minutes and four transfers later – because I wanted to take the ‘scenic route’ – we arrived at our destination.  Donna looked surprised when I started up the steps to the forboding edifice – the county courthouse – because she knew they wouldn’t be open on a weekend.  Her surprise, however, turned to something resembling fear when a security guard met us at the door, escorting us right in and showing us to the chambers of a judge who “just happened” to be in that day…thanks to a phone call from me, a college classmate, before the weekend.  Once inside the elevator, I had Donna drop the dress to the floor.  She was now completely naked…a common state for her recently.

“I think we should do this right, don’t you?” my classmate the judge said, standing as we entered his office, slipping on his robes and motioning us to follow him.  We entered an expansive courtroom through his private entrance.  He motioned for me to sit at the table usually reserved for the prosecution, and had the guard – now apparently serving as bailiff – escort my soon-to-be former wife to the other side of the room.  The chair a defendant would normally sit in had been removed, as had the table, so Donna simply stood there, eyes downcast, while the “bailiff” secured her.  First, so she could not audibly object, an overly-large ball gag, which stretched her jaws to their limits, was shoved into her mouth and fastened behind her head.  Then, after fastening a chain around her torso, he handcuffed her wrists, securing them to her sides.  Finally, although her ankles were already restrained, he locked yet another chain to her hobble.  The other end was fastened to the base of the banister separating the viewing gallery from the front of the courtroom. 

As a webcam broadcast it around the world, Donna found out what the documents she’d signed the previous day were.  She’d agreed to have our marriage annulled – which would mean no right to alimony or other financial consideration; she’d petitioned to have her name legally changed to ‘fuckmeat,’ and she’d signed a permanent, general power of attorney authorizing me to act on her behalf in all aspects of her life.   Finally, the judge declared, anyone who wanted to change their name to fuckmeat was obviously no of sound mind, so he declared her incompetent and awarded me unsupervised guardianship. 

I thanked the judge for his time and shook his hand while fuckmeat sobbed and lavished kisses over his finely-polished shoes.  She was, I’m sure, surprised that he wasn’t interested in a more tangible means of payment for his work, but he had his own stable of slaves waiting for him.  It was time for our next appointment.

I didn’t bother having fuckmeat get dressed this time.  As a slave, I explained, she wasn’t permitted to sit on furniture, and that included my car seat.  Instead, she knelt on the floor of the passenger’s seat and alternately diddled herself and licked her fingers clean while I drove. 

Our next stop, as I promised her, was a medical clinic.  Not an ordinary one, however; this clinic was housed inside an old warehouse on what was formerly a military installation across the bay in Oakland.  Located on the waterfront, it had once been a staging area for supplies going off to various wars, but had been deactivated years earlier during the defense drawdowns of the 1990’s.  Although the physicians working here were licensed, and many were well-known in their professions, the clinic itself was more secretive, unknown to all but a select few within the BDSM world.  Some of the procedures performed were experimental, usually on “throw-away” slaves who had outlived their usefulness to their Owners, but most often, patients were here simply for unusual or unethical body modifications.

I could see the fear in fuckmeat’s face as soon as we entered the building.  The clinic was actually a building within a building; the inside of the warehouse was lined with cages, most with little more than a single mattress inside, but about a dozen of which contained naked women.  While their ages and ethnicity were all different, one thing was the same about each of the caged slaves:  none of them appeared happy with their current living conditions.  Fuckmeat’s eyes glanced furtively around as she took in her surroundings, assuming correctly that she’d soon join these forlorn women awaiting whatever abuses were in store for them.

A door at the end of the long hallway opened into a typical medical office waiting room, complete with white-capped nurse receptionist who dutifully took my name and invited me to have a seat.  She even offered to cage my slave for me, but I was enjoying the look of fear fuckmeat’s eyes, so declined.  It was only a few moments before a doctor, wearing the obligatory lab coat, invited us into an exam room.

The room itself was not unlike those I’d seen in the offices of other doctors, but there were several differences.  Most striking were the video cameras hanging from all four corners of the ceiling, all aimed at the exam table.  However, there were other obvious differences.  For instance, the exam table itself was simply a grey steel mechanism, without the padded mattress and roll of paper so common elsewhere.  The stirrups, where a normal woman would put her feet for an obstetrical examination, held heavy straps and, as I’d seen in an internet video, could be separated far enough to dislocate the patient’s hips.  Additional straps hung from the sides of the table, as well as an extension where the slave’s hands would be bound.  For now, though, we were both content to have fuckmeat kneel at my feet while the doctor examined her mouth.

“Hand me that syringe, would you?” he said, after sliding some sort of rubber blocks between fuckmeat’s molars to keep her mouth open.  He took the syringe, and with a laryngoscope in one hand, peered deeply into my slave’s throat, carefully positioning the needle before depressing the plunger.  Fuckmeat was too scared to move, though I did hear her utter a low moan as the needle struck home.

“That should do it,” the doctor said.  “Have your slave try to speak,” he suggested a few moments later, after removing the rubber blocks.

“Tell the doctor ‘thank you,’” I commanded.  We both laughed as her mouth moved, but not a sound came out.

“You won’t be talking for quite a while,” the physician said.  “I’ve paralyzed your vocal cords with Botox.  It’s not permanent, though…it should wear off in a few months.”  Donna looked up, tears in her eyes.

“It’s more convenient to keep them quiet, you know,” he commented, looking at me.  “All the chatter, and then there’s the extra work of punishing them when they say anything out of line, like refusing an order.  So, I know we had some preliminary talks, but have you decided exactly what you want done?”

Donna – fuckmeat – knelt there silently while the doctor and I talked about what was going to happen to her, knowing she had no way of stopping it – or even expressing an opinion verbally.

“The first thing I’d like is for her to have a set of huge tits – cow udders, if you will.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” he said, reaching down and pinching various parts of her body.  “She does have a bit of flab, and hormones would probably help somewhat.  We have a new procedure, almost like liposuction, where we remove fat cells from one part of the body and inject it into the breasts.  Much less to worry about than implants, particularly if you’re going to continue abusing them.  From the looks of her, I’d say we could easily get her to a 52DDD, maybe as large as a 56H.  You should know that it’s difficult to find brassieres in those sizes, and they tend to be expensive.  Walking with the additional weight will be difficult, and may cause considerable back strain.”

“Not to worry, she won’t be wearing bras anymore…nor much of anything else.  And I don’t really care if her back hurts.  Besides, she’s going to be crawling most of the time anyway.”  I looked down at my kneeling slave, imagining what she’d look like with tits that would be so large her arms would bow outward at the sides and she’d never be able to see the ground. 

“And the other things we talked about?”

“Well, I liked the idea of clitoral enlargement, but I’m concerned that she’ll get off just by walking around.  I want to keep her in need, but without having her cum all the time.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the doctor laughed.  “It takes some time, but we have a conditioned reflex program here.  We’ll fix things so she can’t cum until she hears your voice tell her to, and as a side benefit, you’ll also be able to make her cum on command, whether she wants to or not.”

We talked for about an hour, fuckmeat crying in enforced silence as we discussed the procedures that were going to be performed.  I decided to have her teeth yanked out so I wouldn’t have to worry about her biting any more cocks. They’d also do an experimental form of gastric bypass surgery, making her stomach 25% the size of the patients who normally have the procedure, and resulting in her eating nothing but a bland paste diet for the rest of her life.  A few snips on her leg tendons and her feet would be forced into a permanent tiptoe position, requiring her to wear nothing with less than a six inch heel or risk toppling over.  Laser surgery on her eyes would reduce her vision to well below legally blind, making anything more than three feet away an indistinct blur.  And finally – and this was the one that caused her to break – removing her uterus altogether would not only solve the problem of unwanted pregnancy (I had no desire to breed her, even though she was still fertile), but also those messy menstrual cycles.  Injected hormones would replace those that now-unnecessary organ had previously provided.  Fuckmeat just collapsed in a heap on the floor when that was discussed.

The entire process should take between four and six months, the doctor explained, during which time fuckmeat would need to remain in the clinic.  Her living accommodations would be one of the cages we saw coming in, but her days would be much more than laying around waiting for another operation.  No, the doctor explained as he strapped fuckmeat into the examination table, there would be much more.  When not actually in recovery, she’d be expected to perform tasks suitable to her station in life, including scrubbing floors, providing tongue baths to other patients, and learning how to truly fuck and suck. 

It would all be expensive, he said, but there were ways to recoup at least some of the money.  This piqued my interest, so I asked him to explain.

“Well, there’s always folks willing to pay for a quick piece of ass, or more,” he said.  “For instance, on Wednesdays, the group home for mentally disturbed teens brings their clients here to get laid.  It helps keep them under control, relaxes them, and they know that misbehavior means they don’t get their weekly fuck.  We can also rent out our patients for anywhere from a few hours to a week or more.  We have an exclusive list of clients, all of whom have been specially screened and are willing to pay exorbitant fees for a slave.  We also use them as mannequins for a local tattoo and piercing school, but I see you’ve already marked your slave, so that probably wouldn’t be of much interest.  Whatever fees we receive, we split with the slave’s owner.  Now, yours isn’t much to look at, but we could probably get $5,000 a week rental fee; more if you’d allow events to be recorded.”

“Allow?  Hell, I insist on it!” I exclaimed. 

“Good.  Then just sign here, and check the options you’d like us to consider,” he said, handing me a form.  I looked it over and checked everything except snuff, dismemberment, and permanent physical harm. Signing it, I returned it to the doctor.

“Well, that should take care of everything,” he said to me.  “Would you care for one last fuck in her old body?”

“Nah,” I said.  “She’s too easy, not to mention loose.  I can’t even feel it when I fuck her, and she gives crappy head.  No thanks, I think I’ll go pick out a young teen from your rental area.”

And, with that, I turned on my heels and walked out, leaving my former wife stretched out, naked, on the examination table with the doctor who was going to transform her into a living, breathing sex toy.