tagLoving WivesMy Slut Wife Life Ch. 01

My Slut Wife Life Ch. 01

bymyslutwifelife©

Chapter 01: The Beginning

Today

Two hours ago, I knelt on the floor of my owner's office, sucking his cock and his shiny balls. I wore only a tiny pair of panties and a collar around my neck. My bra lay balled up in the corner. I hadn't been wearing any other clothes when I entered the room. My owner was looking at porn pictures and videos on the computer. I was scrunched up under his desk, my face in his crotch, his cock in my mouth. I'd been ordered not to use my hands, I had to manipulate him completely with my lips and throat and tongue. Occasionally, and without warning, he would begin thrusting his hips against my head, fucking my face. As his thick cock found the back of my throat, I'd concentrate on making my mouth feel just like a hot pussy, warm and wet and welcoming. When it was my turn to suck on him, I'd rub my tits all over his legs, letting him feel as much of my soft flesh as possible.

I kept my otherwise unoccupied hands stuck inside my panties, busy slowly rubbing my engorged pussy. Despite his complete lack of interest in my cunt, I was still wet and desperate to have the feel of him inside me. Inspiration hit me, and I pulled aside the crotch of my panties to reveal my pussy. Continuing to suck his cock, I pulled his bare foot towards me, pressing his big toe against my pussy lips, and then finally inside me. When he didn't pull away, I moved to straddle him, careful not to lose the rhythm on his cock. My main assignment was to suck him off. Everything else was secondary.

I slowly bounced up and down on his toes while treating his cock and balls to the best tongue lashing I could give. Sometimes his big toe plopped inside me. More often it just pressed against my clit and slit. No matter which happened, I shuddered with pleasure, both physical and mental. He turned up the sound and while I couldn't see the dirty movie, I could imagine what was happening. It sounded like an anal fuck, maybe a dp. My favorite kind, both to watch and to be a part of. The girl's gasps and yelps sounded real to me, and I wondered when the next time would come when I would be rewarded with a dirty, nasty ass fuck. Maybe if I did a good job on this blowjob. Maybe.

The unseen girl's cries rose to a crescendo and the man's grunts followed. Had he blown his wad inside her ass, coating her bowels with his delicious jizz? Had he shot himself all over her anus and pussy, branding her as a fuck whore good for only one thing? Or had he turned her around and plastered her face with his cum, giving her the honor of wearing it and scooping it up so she could eat it? I wanted to see so badly, see which way the man on the screen had used his fuck whore, and hoped that my owner had the same in mind for me.

He swiveled out away from the desk and I crawled along after him, my mouth never leaving his powerful staff of fuck meat. "You may clean my feet," he said calmly, his eyes sweeping past mine to focus intently on my bare breasts. I expected nothing more. My mouth, tits, cunt and ass are all he cares about, as he's told me over and over again. I bent down, onto my forearms, and raised my ass in the air in the proper position. As my tongue washed over his toes I can taste my acrid pussy juices all over his feet. There was grit between his toes. I swept that into my mouth just as quickly as anything else; I'm not allowed to stop this task for any reason, not even to remove sand from my mouth. I diligently licked in between each toe, pausing to kiss each one as it is completed. I slowly licked the bottom of each foot, gently blowing on the skin to dry it before transferring my attention to the top. After I finished my task, I remained in position, gently kissing the top of one, then the other, bobbing up and down like a hungry hen.

"You may hump my leg, bitch," he ordered, a slight rasp of aggression in his voice. When I hesitated before beginning to rise to take my position, he grabbed my right tit and roughly pulled me to my feet. I didn't bother to conceal the twinge of pain in my face; he wants it and expects it. And it's far from the worst I've ever felt. As I stood before him, still completely submissive, he pulled scissors from the desk and deliberately cut the waistband of my panties in two spots. I spread my legs slightly and watched as they dropped silently to the floor. It's not the first pair he's cut off. And it won't be the last.

I crouched down and positioned my pussy over his shin, then began humping his leg, like the bitch in heat that I am. My mind was focused on nothing but the feel of his shin rubbing against my pussy, his hairs aggravating my most sensitive spots. It's not so much painful as it is irritating, the coarse hair sometimes getting caught in the folds of my cunt. He took the camera off the desk and began filming me, and I wondered where the footage is going to be seen. Shown to his friends? Or posted online at an adult-oriented amateur site. Either way I have no say in the matter. My job is to do as he orders. Faster! Harder! Louder! He orders me by grabbing my hair and shaking it. I slammed my cunt up against his leg and shinnied up and down it, his rough skin and hair rubbing raw against my pussy walls. I mewl though I want to weep; the friction left me in pain.

I continued for minutes that seemed like hours, clamped around his leg, humping, humping, humping him.

Some Background

My name is Karen. And I'm a real life slut wife. You probably find that hard to believe. Three years ago, I would've felt the same. But whether you believe me or not doesn't change the fact that I am a slut wife. And I'm not talking about the kind of woman who simply allows her husband to call her a slut when he's giving her a particularly hard fuck in the dark of their bedroom, but won't let him fondle her in the daylight. Nor am I the slut wife that will try a few minor adventures, flash her tits at Mardi Gras or let her husband post nude pictures of her, and then call herself a slut, as if she's really sacrificed anything. And I'm not the product of some guy's imagination, sitting alone at night with his laptop and making up tales of how he wishes his wife would act, if only he could get the balls to make her do things his way.

No, I am a real-life slut wife. I've swallowed so much cum, from so many men, that I can tell by the taste what they've had for dinner. More people have watched me masturbate, live and nude, than have watched the women in the strip clubs around here. I've pulled a fuck train during a recent vacation, and been groped by old men while tied to a tree in the park. I've had my ass tanned so red I could barely sit in the pew at church, and knelt for hours to worship a line of sacred cocks.

You may doubt that I am real, and that my adventures have really happened. As I said, I wouldn't blame you. But ask yourself this: What about all the bondage equipment that is sold online, all the lingerie and the butt plugs and the fucking machines? Who is buying all that? A small group of degenerates in the inner cities? Or people like you? Your neighbors, your bosses, that sweet couple holding hands as they walk around the block? And who is posting all those pictures online? Who is posing outdoors, their naked pussies spread open like wanton sluts? They can't all be strippers and whores and crackheads working for their next score. They can't all be Russian sex slaves and trailer trash. Some of them have to be middle class moms and newlyweds and women following their husbands' orders. Some of them have to be just like me. And you.

If you saw me, you wouldn't peg me as a slut wife. I'm five foot six, hazel eyes, with naturally blond hair that I keep cut at shoulder length. My face is a little pixie-ish, which helps me look younger than I am. My bust, which I know you've been waiting to hear about, is 38D, all natural. My tits aren't as firm as they used to be, but they're not bad for a 39-year-old with two kids. They're more upright than saggy. And my nipples still get firm just from the thought of someone touching them. I have a flat tummy and a firm butt, the result of a ton of exercise. My legs are shapely and my cunt is still tight, so it's a pleasure for any man to enter me. My hands are small as are my feet, so if you're into footjobs or handjobs, I have to make up for lack of grip with a good technique.

My children both go to school away from home; one in a military academy (his choice) and one a freshman at an out-of-state college (her choice). I'm educated, with a degree, self-employed and working from home. Once or twice a week I head into my clients' offices, so I'm not completely isolated from the rest of humanity. My colleagues don't know that I sometimes come to work without panties under my skirt, or with a buttplug in my ass, or that I'm being forced to record myself peeing in the ladies room.

This all sounds very clinical, but it isn't. My slut wife life is a non-stop adventure. When I'm not actually doing something crude, perverted or degenerate, I'm thinking about what it's going to be like or remembering what it was like. What you think of as fantasy, I think of as tomorrow's chores. What you see in a porn movie, I do in real life. Interracial. Bondage. Lesbian. Double penetration. Group fucking. Ass to mouth. Rough stuff. Submission. Gloryholes. Waxing. Just about anything except beast stuff. Although I've seen a few movies and been forced to masturbate to them. But, thankfully, my owner, Tom, isn't interested in that kind of stuff.

Already I can imagine the reaction to this story or article or bio, or whatever you want to call it. "Bullshit!" will write the Literotica moral critics, in that judgmental way that some of them have. "Nobody really lives like that!" they'll spout, sure that their way is the only way. But, I can say with confidence to anyone who thinks this is bullshit, that I don't give a flying fuck what you think. Whether you think this is true or not makes absolutely no difference to me. It won't change the way I live my life. And it will only make me and my owner feel pity for the close-mindedness that probably keeps you from enjoying any real variations in life. But, I hope that even if you think this is all bullshit, you'll still enjoy it as being highly erotic bullshit. Besides, in a country where a large number of people still think the President was born in Africa, there's probably no proof I could provide that would convince you anyway.

So, enough of that. Where to go from here? Well, you've got the who and the when already. The what will come in copious amounts over the next several months. Where does this all take place? In the good old USA, of course. More specifically, in the Midwest. My owner and I live in a exurb of a suburb of a medium-sized city. We have about five acres, as do most of our neighbors. You'll learn more about them later. So, it's fair to say that we can practice our lifestyle away from most prying eyes. You'll learn more about that later, too.

The first question that most people ask is how we got started in this lifestyle. That question comes mostly from women, for whatever reason. Most people assume that I've been submissive all my life. As my past boyfriends can attest, that's about as far from true as one can get. I've always been very assertive, very forthright when it comes to love and sex and getting what I want. Like any woman, I've used my body to get my way, and used the promise of my body to get some things. Sometimes I delivered, and sometimes I didn't. Other times, I used my mind to get what I want. I can argue you into a pretzel, until you're so exasperated you just give up. Being submissive is not in my natural makeup.

Nor do I have body image issues. I'm beautiful, sexy, and most of my son's friends would say that I'm a MILF. Most of their fathers would say that too. I think many people assume that a submissive wife would have body issues because so many submissives shown on the internet seem to be overweight. But most of the real slut wives I know are average to beautiful. In fact, of the overweight ones that I know, most of those are lesbians with full-time partners. I have no idea what conclusion to draw from that. In the end though, if my husband were to leave me for some reason, I know I'd have no problem attracting another mate. Not that he would leave me. Nor I him.

Which leads to the question: How does a non-submissive woman with high self-esteem end up being a slut wife? Well, why does a man jump out of a perfectly good airplane? Or a woman risk life and limb diving on an old wreck? Why do people hang glide, or mountain climb, or race cars at crazy speeds down crowded tracks? For the thrill of it, of course. The endorphin rush, as my doctor is fond of saying. I just find it extremely, extraordinarily exciting, a huge rush, to be forced to do things I wouldn't normally have the guts to do. And my husband has the imagination and will to push me past my limits, while still loving me enough to keep me from getting hurt. I trust my husband more than I would ever trust a parachute!

How I became a slut wife is a long story with a short summary. Soon after we were married, my husband realized that role-playing and play-acting would really amp up my sex drive. I just loved to pretend, and the more I fantasized about being forced into having sex, the hotter I would get, and the harder I would come. After a while, nearly every time we fucked we would talk about me being ravaged by a couple of strangers, me being kidnapped and raped, me being sold as a sex slave to a city gang, me being the big jackpot at one of my husband's poker games.

Our fucking got rougher and rougher too, and I gave him my body to use any way and any time. There was nothing he would ask of me that I would deny him. I just wanted to hear the story and feel his dick in me, some how, some way. I got off on making him get off. And if he said or promised or intimated that we were going to have sex, but then we didn't, I was always very disappointed. And I'd usually find a way to flash my tits or pussy to try and get him to change his mind.

Then one night, everything changed. I still remember it, every detail. I still masturbate to it, even after three years. Tom and I had driven out to a fundraiser in a city about an hour away. It was at a country club, semi-formal, so I'd worn my little black dress and come fuck me shoes. No bra, of course. My little black dress didn't allow for that. As usual, I'd been the center of attention for many of the men. My husband doesn't mind. He knows that I'm a shameless flirt, and he likes watching all the attention my tits command. Why would he care? No matter how many men flirt with me, he's the one who gets to bang me at the end of the night.

So, we stuck around long enough to get a few glasses of champagne and bid on some overpriced stuff to help the charity. I was feeling horny and wanted to get back home and get out of those clothes, and I could tell that my husband had just about the same plan in mind. We'd just said our goodbyes to a group of friends when my husband sidled up to me.

"Take off your panties," he said in a low, toneless voice.

"Excuse me?" I replied, unsure that I'd heard him correctly.

"Your panties. Take them off. Go to the ladies room, pull them off, put them in your purse, bring it back here, open it up and show that you've done what I want. Now go. Unless you want me to say it louder."

I went, the thought of all our friends hearing such a demeaning order driving me straight into the ladies room. I was so frazzled I struggled to get them off over my shoes, finally opting to sit on the toilet and pull them down as if I had to pee. All that went through my mind was wondering how drunk he really was, why he'd decided to do this right now, and what he had in mind after this. Then, with the silk panties wadded up in my purse, and feeling completely naked even with my dress on, I headed out into the lobby to find my husband waiting impatiently for me.

"Show me," he ordered, his voice flat and toneless, not slurred or amused or displaying any of the other signs that he'd had too much to drink.

Wordlessly I opened my purse and watched in terror as he reached in and fingered the wadded up garment, fearful that he'd pull them out and inspect them in the crowded lobby. Instead, he simply nodded and, taking me by the elbow, guided me out the door, through the parking lot and to our car.

Once inside, he turned off the radio while I strapped on my seat belt, and we slowly and deliberately headed out onto the main highway. Which, in our neck of the woods, is a two-lane blacktop that stretches two hundred miles east and west, with nothing but trees, cornfields and the occasional five-house village to break the monotony. Who knew what he would want to do in the 45 minutes it took to drive home?

I didn't have to wait too long to find out. Once out of the range of the few streetlights in the area, he had his next instructions.

"Pull up your dress and let me see your slutty pussy," he ordered, again in that almost dead tone. My hands seemed to act of their own accord as I grabbed each side of my dress and, hunching up against the pressure of the seat belt, I pulled my dress up until it was around my waist, leaving my ass and pussy fully exposed. I had just finished the thought that at least it was dark in the car when he reached over and turned on the under dash lights, illuminating not only my legs, but also the shaved bald mounds of my now shivering pussy.

Without taking his eyes from the road, he reached over and began stroking my full mounds, his fingers rough against the tender skin. Instinctively, I pressed my hips upward, sucking in a breath when one of his fingers slipped between my folds.

"My, you're a horny bitch tonight, aren't you," he commented, his voice holding just a touch of a smile.

Horny? No, that didn't quite describe it. I was fucking on fire! I was ready to jump any upright phallic object in a ten mile area -- his cock, the stick shift, a fence post. I needed something inside me right away.

"Hmmmmm," was all I was able to murmur as his fingers skated across my pussy flaps. What was this cruel game he was playing? And why now, here, racng along at high speeds, when neither of us could go much farther?

"Expose your breasts," he said suddenly, his eyes locked on the road.

Expose them? That was an odd choice of words. Give me a quick peek, he'd said a few times, when we were hidden from view in the woods near the house. Show me your tits, he had playfully suggested a few time previously, when we were fooling around on the living room sofa. But 'expose' them? That wasn't the kind of language he usually used. But just that little change in language was enough to amp up my desire.

The shoulder strap on the safety belt kept me from pulling my dress up any further, so I pulled the straps on my dress down over my shoulders. After a bit of maneuvering, my tits were out, the safety strap nestled between them.

"You are one slutty bitch," he said, with nothing more than the barest hint of a smile in his voice. No, this wasn't how he normally talked to me at all. What had gotten into him?

The cabin grew brighter as we slowed to roll through one of the several small towns between here and home. I saw myself reflected in the window, dress pushed down, tits hanging out, blatant look of desire scrawled across my face. A look that turned to shock and embarrassment in less than a breath. Could any people outside the car look in here to see my bare breasts? Could they see how slutty I was being? As if in reply to my evident consternation, he reached over and fondled my left tit, squeezing it, rubbing it, then pinching and pulling my nipple until I had to whimper.

We stopped at the town's only stop light. If anyone was going to see me, it would be here. But thankfully, the streets had been empty; the shops had closed hours earlier. The light lasted an interminable amount of time. And my husband continued to play with my tits as openly as if we were at home in our bedroom. And still I didn't object.

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