tagBDSMMy Slut Wife Life Ch. 02

My Slut Wife Life Ch. 02

bymyslutwifelife©

Beginnings – The Middle



Author's Note: My Owner wishes to inform you that he is not a cuckold. He shares me with others because that is his right. I am his property. And if his friends need a cunt to bed, he will loan me to them. Much the same as if they need a shovel, he will loan that to them. So if you are looking for a cuckold story, you need to look elsewhere. If you want to know what it's like to be truly submissive, read on.

The Next Day

I awoke muddled and confused, having to take a few minutes to take stock of my surroundings. Bed? Check. Sheet? Check. Nightgown? Missing. In fact, I was completely nude. Dreaming? No. At least, I didn't think so. The sheets felt real enough under my body. And I felt sticky. You wouldn't feel sticky in a dream, I reasoned. Had I dreamt the whole thing, then? That was a promising possibility. No. I could smell the sour odor of old, dried spunk. And could feel it on my breasts and in my hair.

It had been real, then. All of it. The stripping in the car. The humiliating blow job on the dirt road. The brutal fuck. The cum painting my face. And the embarrassing ride back home, completely nude and masturbating for his viewing pleasure. I checked my knees. Yep. Dirty as hell. I must've fallen asleep at some point, because I didn't remember coming to bed. At least my saintly husband had taken my heels off.

Speaking of which... I turned over, expecting to find the other side of the bed empty. By this time on a Saturday, he was already up and moving around. But not this Saturday. Instead, he was leaning on his elbow, watching my body as intently as any adolescent boy seeing his first nude woman's body.

"Good morning," I said, letting the sheet fall back so it covered my stomach but left my tits uncovered. "That was some night last night."

I expected him to reply that he was sorry that he'd gotten so out of control. I expected him to say that he didn't know what had gotten into him. That I'd been so sexy that he just went crazy. That there was some extraneous reason for his behavior.

What I didn't expect was for him to reach over and sharply pinch my nipple, pulling on it while twisting it until I gasped in pain. I didn't expect him to release it and just as deliberately do that to the other one. And then reach down and paw through my pussy lips, as though I was a slab of meat and he was testing my freshness.

In one motion he pushed back the covers with one hand, revealing his naked body. With the other, he grabbed me by the back of the neck, insistently pushing my head down towards his crotch. His intent was clear. As was the fact that I had absolutely no say in whether it took place or not.

I took his rapidly inflating cock in my mouth, wrapping it in wet warmth. I intended to suck him off, hand and fast. I thought if he blew his load and slaked his lust, he'd be done with treating me like some sort of whore. And I could figure out just where this behavior was coming from.

My intentions were of no consequence to him. In fact, he started doing something he'd never done before. Grabbing my hair in his hands, he pushed my face back and forth across his cock, barking out orders about what to do with my mouth. "Lick!" he commanded harshly, moving my mouth along the length of his shaft as I licked obediently at its rigid length. "Kiss!" snapped, twisting my head harshly so I was positioned to kiss his tightening balls. "Open," he called, pushing his cock into my waiting mouth, and jerking my head up and down so that I was fucking him with my mouth.

It went on and on, my spit drooling out all over him, hanging from my chin in thick strands. Several times he pushed my head all the way down on his cock, forcing me to deep throat him, chuckling as I gagged at the bulbous head filling my throat. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he pushed me away.

"Spread your legs," he said, his tone even and measured. I did so swiftly, strangely happy to be told to do something that was at least familiar. Plus, in contrast to the harsh voice he'd just been using, his deadpan command sounded all the more menacing.

"Get 'em up," he said, slapping the undersides of my thighs. I knew what he wanted, though he'd never ordered it in such a forward way before. Grasping the back of my knees, I bent myself in half, leaving my cunt and asshole stretched and exposed for him. When we want to play rough, that's how he fucks me. But he wasn't playing now.

I let out a grunt when his cock penetrated my pussy. I was wet and ready for it, but not ready for how violently he violated me, nor how hard he dropped his full body weight against me. I felt like I was being smashed deep into the center of the bed, like I might be slammed through the bed covering and find myself amidst the springs and coils, the only creature of the flesh in a steel mechanical world.

He fucked me then, brutally and sadistically, his concentration fully on getting his cock as deep into my cunt as possible. He spared not a moment to ask about or assist with my pleasure. It was clear that this fuck was all for him, and if I got any pleasure out of it at all, it was unintentional, and probably a mistake.

As I knew he would, he entered my ass several times, using nothing but the wetness on his cock as lubrication. It pinched, enough for me to gasp, but not enough for me to try and make him stop. Which is for the best. Even to this day, I'm not sure he would have.

I took it all, took all of his painful penetrations, his mean and dirty words, his violent ministrations. I took it secure in the knowledge that when he finally came, he would be spent, and his brutal domination would be over.

And then he pulled out. And he stood by the side of the bed. And he made me pry open my foaming pussy while he watched. And he made me stretch my pussy lips til they hurt. And pull on my nipples until they stretched taut. And then told me to lay there, spread-eagled, naked, and lick my own nipples. And keep doing it until I was told to stop. And then he went into the bathroom.

I heard the toilet flush. And I kept licking my nipples. I heard the shower curtain slide, and I kept licking my nipples. I heard the shower going. And still I kept licking my nipples. I was sure it was a trick. That he was just looking for a reason to give me another spanking.

The shower continued interminably. My tongue was sore from stretching to reach each nipple. My hands were sore from pulling my tits up to my mouth. My tits were sore from being pulled on so continuously. I didn't stop. Right. Lick, lick. Left. Lick, lick. Right. Lick, lick. Left. Lick, lick. When he pounced out the door, I was determined that he'd find his obedient wife doing his bidding, her tits wet with saliva.

"Get in here!" he called, just as the shower stopped. Not what I expected. I tumbled out of bed, hurrying into the bathroom, while a part of my mind wondered why I was being so compliant. I was his wife, godammit, not some sex slave. He didn't have the right to treat me like this. And still I went.

I found him dripping wet, water puddling on the floor. "Dry me off," he said gruffly, pushing the towel at me. I must've hesitated, because he flexed his hand in that odd way he'd done the night before, just before giving me that wicked spanking. I'd dried him off before, of course, after mutual showers or nude swims and the like. But that had been in fun. And this time I was more like his servant.

I started at his head and worked my way down. I had just finished his feet, kneeling on all fours in the cramped bathroom and struggling to wipe the bottoms because he refused to raise them more than a couple inches, when he spoke again, "You may suck my cock, slut." Despite having been degraded again and again, I still felt a thrill. If I could only get him to cum, then maybe this fascination with degrading me would end.

So I knelt naked on the floor of the bathroom, gazing hopefully up at his eyes for some sign of satisfaction, some twitch that would foretell a spurt of sperm plastering my mouth or face. But there was nothing. He enjoyed it, no doubt. But he either would not or could not cum.

"The shower's all yours," he finally stated, pushing my mouth away from his shaft. He tousled my hair in a gesture that felt demeaning, then strode away.

My mind was a whir as I showered, got dressed and made the bed. I could hardly wait to get downstairs to the computer. What was bringing on this deviant behavior? Had he had some kind of a stroke last night? A mental breakdown? Was it a bad drug interaction? What could cause a man to change his personality so quickly? I had to find out. And quickly.

When I got down to the dining room, all was as it would normally be on a Saturday morning. He read the paper, dressed in his usual old golf shirt and ratty tennis shorts. He'd made the coffee and there was a steaming cup waiting for me. The curtains were all open, the sun shone in and the house had its usual brightness and light about it.

Bizarrely, we talked as if nothing had just transpired. He pointed out an article in the newspaper, and I tentatively told him I'd already read it the day before in the online edition. He had no untoward reaction, merely commenting that he liked to see his news as ink on paper. It's a discussion we'd had many times. It felt comfortable. Well-worn.

We talked of our plans for the day. Of how the landscaping would need to wait for the next day, as there was a thin line of storms moving through. I would be doing my normal Saturday chores, vacuuming and dusting and cleaning. I like to get it all done so I can have Sunday free for fun stuff. He would be doing his thing. No clues that the night before had been very, very different. Or that the coming day might have anything different in store.

After an hour at the computer researching mental illness, I came away more shaken than educated. Have you ever done that? Learned about how easily a mind can go from stable to unstable? It's scary. It can happen at any time. I can take place from a blow to the head. From a physical change. Or for no discernible reason at all. Just out of the blue. I still shiver to think of it.

His symptoms – this sudden need to dominate – could be from any number of reasons. Or no reason at all. The science was shockingly lacking. And everything I learned did nothing to assuage my fears or provide an answer to my question: Why was he suddenly acting like this?

Later that morning, I'd finished much of the housework and was heading to get the vacuum cleaner when he called me into the family room. He'd managed to get about half the lawn cut before the first rain drops started to spatter down, and was now resting in his favorite chair.

"I think it'd be good if you did the rest of the housework topless," he stated, without so much as a grin on his face.

I stared at him blankly, my mind a confused whirl of thoughts. Topless? Now? Why? Part of my mind objected. He can't mean it. He can't make me do this. Part of my mind was intrigued. If topless now, what next? In another part, an insight began to form, but it slithered away before I could grasp it.

"Something you didn't understand?" he asked, his solicitous words undermined by the touch of menace in his voice.

Stiff and self-conscious, I pulled off my t-shirt, then carefully unclasped my bra, handing both to him. He stared at me greedily, and I wondered what new part of me he was seeing. Over all our years of marriage, he'd examined me in intimate detail, and should've memorized my entire body. So why was he staring so intently at my tits? And why were my nipples hardening so much in response to his gaze?

Anger flashed through me. Who was he to treat me this way? So, he wanted me to do the housework topless, while he leered at me? Fine. But I had to vacuum the house. And he could either get off his ass and follow me upstairs, or leer at me through walls and floors.

I stomped up the stairs, dragging the vacuum cleaner with me. Despite my anger, though, it never occurred to me to cover up my bare breasts while I vacuumed the upstairs carpeting. Not even when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw the sheen of sweat between my boobs, or accidently banged my boob against the dresser.

Finishing the upstairs, I dragged everything down the stairs to get started on the carpets there. I wondered what he would do about my minor disobedience. The thought that he might do anything sent an embarrassing thrill through me. What was I turning into?

His call from the family room didn't surprise me. I went and stood before him, hands on hips, my whole body poised to defy him. Anyone looking at me would know not to mess with this lady.

Yet, he did. "You look hot. You oughta take off those jeans and finish up with less clothes on."

I glanced around, looking both for support and perhaps for a witness. Of course, we were alone. It was just him and me. This unpredictable man, who used to be my very predictable husband. And me. Half naked. And being ordered to show more.

"I suppose you want my panties, too," I spat, putting as much venom into my reply as I could.

If he noticed, he ignored it. "Nope. Just your jeans. You can keep your panties on."

I digested this unexpected reply. I felt like I was on a precipice. Choose one way, and fall headlong down an unknown path. Head the other way, and return down the path well-trod and recognized. You know how sometimes you do something and you can never explain why? Like eating a gallon of ice cream on a whim. Or illicitly kissing someone. You can later try to rationalize it. Or try to assign a motivation to it. But deep down, there's just no explaining it. The tumblers in your mind click one way and the decision is made. I made mine.

Wordlessly, I unbuttoned, unzipped and pushed down my jeans, bending over with my ass almost in his face to push the legs off my feet. I gave him the jeans, which he carefully folded and placed on the floor next to him, joining my shirt and bra. I'd worn green bikini panties, and I knew the folds of my pussy would be clearly visible through the cotton fabric. Inexplicably, I felt like a shy schoolgirl undressing for the first time in front of her young boyfriend.

He waved his hand, and I set about vacuuming the carpets. In the living room I was sharply aware that I was half nude in front of a huge wall of windows. Anyone looking in would see me, my tits bouncing and swaying as I pushed and pulled the vacuum cleaner. I knew there was nobody for half a mile in that direction, but the fear of being caught still hit me.

Back in the family room, I could feel his eyes on me the whole time I worked. One time I gave my tits a little inviting waggle, but he just waved for me to continue. He clearly didn't want me flirting with him. I could see myself reflected in the windows, and wondered again what he had in mind for me. I also wondered if I could get away with closing the drapes before it happened.

Walking past him to put away the vacuum cleaner, he snagged the waistline of my panties and forcibly pulled me back to stand in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, like a king on his throne, and studied me. It went on uncomfortably long, and I didn't know what to do with my arms. Leaving them hanging felt weird, and crossed under my tits just made them stand out more. Finally, I stood with my hands lightly clasped behind me. What was more worrisome was that I was having trouble reading his eyes. Usually his intentions are pretty open to me. Now, I had no clear idea what he was thinking about. I did have a general idea, however.

"Kneel." The single word sounded flat, but it caused me to immediately sink to my knees.

"Suck."

Not "How about a blowjob?" Or "Suck me off, you hot little slut." No. Just that single order, delivered without passion or urgency.

I pulled his sweats off, grasped his manhood in one and hand and sucked his cock deep into my mouth. He tasted salty, of pre-cum and sweat, and I knew that my near nudity had been affecting him. Or was it thinking about the plans he had in mind for me? No matter. This was once again a familiar activity for me, and I was again heartened by the thought that getting him to cum would release some of the pent-up lust that was probably driving this behavior. Yet even as I went to work on his cock, sucking and slurping at it, making my mouth as much like a hot, wet cunt as I could, that treasonous thought stole into my mind again: Did I really want this to end?

I was well into it, his cock as hard and thick as any dildo we had in the house, when he suddenly held my head still. "From now on, any time you suck my cock, your tits will be bare. Unless I explicitly say otherwise. Understand?"

I nodded my acquiescence, his cock still buried deep in my mouth. I'd made sex promises in the bedroom before. But they were just that: sex promises. They heightened the mood, but nobody really expected you to keep them.

He pulled his legs up then, and leaned back in the chair, exposing his balls, his crack and his anus. I knew what he wanted and bent forward to lick the puckered rim. I'm not squeamish, and it's fun to hear his guttural moans as wet his most forbidden hole. This time he tried to suppress those groans, but one or two slipped out, especially when I parted his sphincter with my darting tongue.

I gave his entire backside a thorough licking, painting the flesh of his butt with my tongue, sucking and lashing his heavy balls, and always returning to his tightly pinched anus, giving him a better rimjob that I ever had. Part of it was the lust coursing through me. I suddenly wanted him to ravage me. To pin me down with his cock and pound me like an animal. The other part was that we were doing it in broad daylight. I could see what I was doing to him. See the parts that I'd missed. And watch as his muscles tightened and loosened in response to my tongue on it journey of exploration.

When he lowered his legs, I could tell he was close to cumming. I doubled my efforts to bring him off, wrapping my tits around his cock and giving him a sexy tit fuck, pausing in between strokes to lick the purple mushroom cap atop his thrumming rod. When I suck him off, I would usually take his full load in my mouth, just so there's less to clean up. He was having none of that. He grabbed his staff and gave it a final few strokes, then aimed it at my face, gesturing for me to close my mouth.

I closed my eyes, having had semen sting my eyes on more than one occasion. So I missed the look on his face as he painted mine with blast after blast of thick, viscous cum. I could feel it on my cheeks, my lips, my nose, but thankfully not on my eyelids. As I opened my eyes, he pressed his cock back into my mouth and I did my best to clean it off, despite the globs of cum sliding down my face.

Finally, his cock deflating in my mouth, he leaned back into his chair. "Hold still," he ordered as I started to get up and get cleaned off. So I knelt there uncomfortably in front of him as the gobs of cold cum slid down, pooling at my jawline before dripping down to splash on the tops of my tits, where they began a similar journey along that quivering flesh, before finally dripping onto my thighs and knees. A sticky path of sperm, from face to tits to legs. Leaving behind a slimy trail, like a slug across a glass pane.

"You'll stay like this until I tell you to clean up," he declared, indicating my nudity and the jizz on my face and tits.

"Like this?" I asked, confused. I had expected this act, this charade, to end when he finally blew his load. I had expected him to let me shower again, and to go on as if nothing had happened. To follow the bedroom rules: What happens in the bedroom, stays in the bedroom. Even if it doesn't precisely happen in the bedroom.

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