Becoming Mrs. Cockwife Pt. 08

I remained bent over, facing the wall, my body on display for all to see. The experience had deepened the complexities of my submission, reinforcing my role as Mrs. Cockwife and the extremes to which I had willingly subjected myself.

As Karen approached me once again, her eyes full of satisfaction, I braced myself for whatever further degradations and humiliations awaited me. I had willingly chosen this life, and I knew that the cocktail party was just the beginning of a journey into the depths of submission and servitude.

I stood frozen in place as I heard a familiar voice calling my name. It was Kate, a woman I had gone to college with, and someone who had once been a tormentor in my past. Memories of her racist comments and cruel bullying flooded back, causing a mix of fear and anger to surge through me.

Karen, sensing the tension in the air, approached Kate with a sly smile on her face. "Kate! How lovely to see you here. I believe you know our dear Nisha, don't you?"

Kate's eyes widened in shock as she took in the sight before her. She seemed momentarily speechless, her gaze lingering on my exposed and vulnerable form. I could see a mixture of surprise, amusement, and perhaps even a hint of satisfaction on her face.

"Oh, Nisha," Kate said, her voice laced with a mocking tone. "I never knew you were into this sort of thing. Quite a departure from your college days, isn't it?"

My heart raced as her words pierced through me. Here she was, having stumbled upon this twisted gathering, and now she had a front-row seat to witness the depths of my submission and degradation. The power dynamic had shifted, and the roles seemed to have reversed.

Karen, noticing the tension between us, seized the opportunity to further push the boundaries. With a mischievous gleam in her eyes, she encouraged Kate to inspect and remove the gold buttplug from me.

"Kate, my dear, why don't you give it a try?" Karen suggested, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "Take a closer look. See how it feels in your hands."

Kate looked torn, her initial shock giving way to a mix of curiosity and wicked delight. She tentatively approached me, her fingertips lightly grazing the surface of the buttplug. I braced myself for the humiliation that was to come, unsure of how far Kate was willing to take this newfound power over me.

With a sudden surge of confidence or perhaps a reminder of our shared past, Kate forcefully gripped the base of the plug, a smirk crossing her face as she prepared to remove it. But as she tugged, a flicker of hesitation crossed her features. She seemed to realize the intensity of the moment, the weight of the power she held in her hands.

In that moment, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of resentment, humiliation, and a strange sense of satisfaction. Kate had once held power over me, belittling and tormenting me for who I was. Now, I stood before her in a submissive role, exposing myself willingly to James's family and their desires. It was a twisted reimagining of our dynamic, one that highlighted the complexities of power and submission.

As Kate hesitated, unsure of how to proceed, Karen stepped in to guide her. "Don't hold back, Kate," she urged, amusement lacing her voice. "Remember, Nisha is here to please, and you have the power to make her submit even further."

With those words, Kate decisively pulled the plug from me, a gasp escaping my lips as a mix of pain and relief washed over me. The room seemed to hold its breath, the guests eagerly watching as Kate wielded her newfound authority.

I was left standing there, exposed and vulnerable, as Kate took in the sight before her. It was a moment that solidified my commitment to the role of Mrs. Cockwife, a reminder of the lengths I was willing to go to please and serve. And no matter the past, no matter the torment she had caused, I would endure the degradation and humiliation for the sake of the pleasure and satisfaction it brought to James and his family.

I stood there, completely exposed and vulnerable, as Kate took hold of the gold buttplug and began moving it in and out of me. The mix of emotions that coursed through me was overwhelming - a blend of helplessness, humiliation, and a twisted determination to endure for the sake of the money and security I had sought.

With each push and pull of the buttplug, I felt a surge of discomfort and a wave of shame wash over me. Kate seemed to relish in the power she held over me, her movements deliberate and precise, prolonging the torment I endured.

The room was filled with hushed whispers and sidelong glances as the other guests watched, their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and arousal. It was a spectacle that played into the darkest corners of their desires, each stroke of the buttplug fueling their fascination and excitement.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the masked pain and humiliation as I allowed Kate to dictate my submission. Deep down, I knew that I had willingly chosen this path, fully aware of the degradation and intimate exposure I would endure in my role as Mrs. Cockwife.

The money, the security, the promises of a better future became the mantra in my mind as I suppressed the urge to protest or resist. I reminded myself that this was a temporary sacrifice, one that would lead to the rewards I sought.

As Kate continued her invasive exploration, the intensity of the moment heightened. I could feel the eyes of the guests burning into my already exposed body, their whispers and comments echoing through the room. It was a degrading performance, a twisted dance of pleasure and torment, fueled by their desires and my willingness to submit.

In that vulnerable state, I felt a strange detachment from myself, as if I was floating above the scene, observing the depths of degradation and the embodiment of power dynamics. It was an embodiment of my submission, a testament to the lengths I was willing to go for financial gain.

Finally, Kate released her grip on the buttplug, and I felt a mix of relief and lingering ache. The room fell into momentary silence as the guests processed the scene before them, a tableau of degradation and submission.

As the cocktail party continued, I stood there, my body still exposed, aware of the compromises and sacrifices I had made to earn my place in this twisted world. The money was within reach, but so too was the constant reminder of the depths to which I was willing to sink for it.

I steeled myself for whatever further ordeals and humiliations lay ahead, knowing that the path I had chosen as Mrs. Cockwife required enduring the darkest corners of my desires and the blurred boundaries of power and submission.

I stood there, my body exposed and vulnerable, as Kate took a step closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She seemed eager to assert her power over me once again, relishing in the twisted dynamic we now found ourselves in.

With a smirk on her face, Kate decided to ask me a few questions, her voice laced with a mocking tone. "So, Nisha, tell me, how does it feel to be in this submissive position? I must say, it's quite a change from our college days, wouldn't you agree?"

Her words cut deep, stirring up the pain and humiliation from our past encounters. I could feel the weight of her racist comments and torment resurfacing, but I knew that as Mrs. Cockwife, I had to endure whatever was thrown at me.

Before I could respond, Karen interjected, a twisted smile playing on her lips. "Why don't we capture this victorious moment, Kate? Let's take a picture with you in a triumphant pose as you insert the plug back inside Nisha," she suggested.

The suggestion stunned me, a mix of humiliation and disbelief coursing through me. Karen had seized upon the opportunity to amplify the power dynamic, to further degrade and objectify me.

Reluctantly, I mustered a smile as Karen positioned Kate behind me, manipulating my body for the perfect photo opportunity. Kate, a smirk on her face, held the buttplug triumphantly, ready to insert it once again.

As the picture was taken, I couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation and surrender. The image captured the depths I had willingly sunk to, the submission and degradation I had embraced for the promise of financial gain.

The room buzzed with a mix of anticipation and amusement as the guests observed the scene unfolding before them. They whispered and chuckled, reveling in the perverse display of power and humiliation.

As the picture was taken, the moment captured for eternity, Kate removed the buttplug from my body once again. The pain and discomfort temporarily resurfaced, a stark reminder of the compromises and sacrifices I had made in this twisted world.

I stood there, my body exposed, my spirit broken but determined, as the cocktail party continued. The encounter with Kate had reinforced the power dynamics at play and the blurred lines between pleasure and torment, submission and degradation.

I steeled myself for whatever further challenges and humiliations awaited me, knowing that the path of the Mrs. Cockwife was one paved with darkness and the extremes of submission. I had willingly chosen this path, and I would endure whatever it took to grasp the promised rewards that lay ahead.

I winced as Karen scolded me, her voice filled with anger and disappointment. She was furious that I hadn't been able to muster a proper smile for the picture, wanting to capture the moment of degradation and humiliation to its fullest extent.

"You pathetic excuse for a cockwife!" Karen spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "You can't even smile properly for a simple picture? Maybe you need a little extra motivation."

I trembled as she approached, her eyes locked on mine with a vicious intensity. Karen reached out, her hand wrapping around my throat, applying just enough pressure to remind me of my powerlessness.

"You will smile," she hissed through clenched teeth, her grip tightening. "Or else."

Struggling to breathe, I forced a weak smile onto my face, tears welling up in my eyes as I complied with Karen's demands. As she released her grip, I gasped for air, finding respite in the brief moment of reprieve.

With a twisted satisfaction, Karen stepped back, her attention turning to Kate. She motioned for Kate to reinsert the buttplug, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Kate, finding joy in the power she held over me, eagerly followed Karen's instructions. She laughed as she pushed the plug back inside me, reveling in the degradation and humiliation I endured.

As she adjusted her pose, Karen interjected once again, analyzing every detail with a demanding eye. She meticulously examined the way Kate held the buttplug, offering suggestions and corrections.

"Kate, dear, make sure you're holding the plug firmly and with confidence," Karen directed, a taunting undertone in her voice. "We want to capture the embodiment of power and control."

Kate adjusted her grip, her laughter mixing with a sense of satisfaction. It was clear that she relished in the twisted power dynamic, enjoying her role in pushing me further into submission and objectification.

Finally, with everything in place to Karen's satisfaction, she gave the signal for the picture to be taken. The camera clicked, capturing the image of my bent-over, exposed body with Kate and the buttplug in the foreground.

I remained frozen in position, my face contorted in a forced smile, tears streaming down my cheeks. The room was filled with a chilling silence as the guests absorbed the scene, moments frozen in time, embodying the depths of degradation and submission.

As the cocktail party continued, I knew that the night would hold more challenges and humiliations for me. The path I had chosen as Mrs. Cockwife was one that demanded sacrifice, endurance, and the constant navigation of power dynamics. And I would continue to embrace it, no matter the cost, in pursuit of the rewards that lay ahead.

As the cocktail party continued, I could feel Mrs. Smith's piercing gaze on me. The conservative woman had been watching the events unfold with a mix of displeasure and amusement, seemingly eager to find another way to humiliate and exert her dominance over me.

With a vindictive smile, Mrs. Smith approached me, her eyes lingering on the gold plug that adorned my exposed body. She had a wicked idea brewing in her mind, a way to further degrade me and display my submission to the guests.

"Nisha, darling," Mrs. Smith called, her voice dripping with condescension. "Why don't you serve drinks to our esteemed guests? But, of course, while doing so, make sure to prominently display that stunning gold plug."

I cringed at the suggestion, a mix of shame and humiliation washing over me. It was as if Mrs. Smith desired to expose me even further, showcasing my complete subservience and obedience in front of the entire party.

Reluctantly, I nodded, realizing that my compliance was expected in this twisted world I had willingly entered. I moved towards the drinks table, the golden plug glistening as I deliberately positioned myself in a way that left no doubt about its presence.

As I served the guests their drinks, I could feel their eyes on me, their gazes filled with a mixture of curiosity, desire, and perhaps even a touch of envy. The room buzzed with whispered comments and muffled laughter, the guests reveling in the explicit display of power dynamics and submission.

Mrs. Smith watched with satisfaction, her eyes gleaming with triumph as she witnessed the effect her instructions had on me and the guests. It was a perverse dance, a twisting of traditional roles, as I served the drinks, aware of my nakedness and the symbolic weight of the gold plug inside me.

The guests accepted their drinks, their hands sometimes brushing against my exposed skin in indiscreet ways. They made comments, both crude and complimentary, about the display I presented, as if I were nothing more than a toy to be observed and played with.

I carried out my role as Mrs. Cockwife, serving and pleasing, all the while feeling the weight of Mrs. Smith's gaze on me. She had achieved her goal of further asserting her dominance and humiliation over me, turning me into a living spectacle for the enjoyment of the partygoers.

As the night wore on, I continued to serve drinks, the gold plug a constant reminder of my submission and servitude. It was a role I had willingly embraced, knowing that it came with the compromises and humiliations required to secure the financial stability and security I sought.

I endured, my spirit a mix of resignation and determination, knowing that this cocktail party was just another step in the path of submission and degradation I had chosen. And with every drink I served, with every demeaning interaction, I moved closer to the rewards and promises that awaited me on the other side.

I stood there, reeling from the intense and degrading scene that had unfolded earlier. As I served drinks to the guests, I felt their eyes on me, their gazes filled with a disturbing mix of desire and entitlement. It was as if the sight of me, wearing nothing but the gold plug, gave them permission to invade my personal space and indulge in their darkest impulses.

As I moved around the room, carrying the tray of drinks, some guests took advantage of the opportunity to grope and touch me inappropriately. Their hands roamed freely over my exposed body, their fingers grazing my breasts and thighs, their actions a blatant violation of my boundaries.

Their crude comments and demeaning laughter filled the room, contributing to the overall atmosphere of degradation. It felt as though I had become nothing more than a plaything for their amusement, a vessel for their darkest desires.

I felt a mix of anger, humiliation, and helplessness as I endured the unwanted advances. The weight of the gold plug reminded me of my submission and the sacrifices I had made, but it did little to alleviate the assault on my dignity.

Through it all, I maintained a stoic exterior, aware that resistance would only invite further mistreatment. I had willingly embraced the role of Mrs. Cockwife, knowing that it would come with its share of degradation and exploitation. But the reality of the explicit and abusive nature of this party pierced through me, reinforcing the harsh realities of the path I had chosen.

As the night wore on, the groping and inappropriate touching continued, each encounter fueling the growing sense of objectification and powerlessness. I moved through the room, my sense of self eroding with each passing second, my existence reduced to a means of entertainment and pleasure for the guests.

The cocktail party had transformed into a scene of debauchery, a twisted playground where my body was subjected to the darkest whims and desires of those around me. The weight of the gold plug served as a reminder of the compromises and degradations I had willingly accepted, but it did little to obscure the reality of my vulnerability.

As I forced a smile and continued to serve the guests, I vowed to endure and survive this ordeal, knowing that the rewards and promises I sought were still within reach. I would navigate the depths of submission and humiliation and emerge on the other side, stronger, wealthier, and free.

I stood there, my body exposed and vulnerable, as Karen's voice cut through the air. The suggestion she made sent a shiver down my spine, a sickening mix of shock and indignation coursing through me. Karen's idea was to place a tumbler in the bathroom for male guests to relieve themselves of their sperm after engaging with me, taking the explicit and degrading nature of the party to another level.

The room fell into a heavy silence as the guests absorbed Karen's words. Their reactions varied, with some looking on with intrigue and excitement, while others seemed uncomfortable and aghast at the suggestion.

Karen's eyes gleamed with sadistic satisfaction as she explained her plan. "We want to provide an outlet for the male guests to fully indulge in their desires," she said, her voice filled with a twisted enthusiasm. "It's only fair that they have a way to relieve themselves after interacting with our dear Nisha here."

I felt my stomach churn, a deep sense of revulsion washing over me. The thought of the male guests using the bathroom to essentially dispose of their sperm after violating me was not only degrading but demeaning beyond measure.

Mrs. Smith, who had been observing the gathering with an air of superiority, smirked in agreement. "Yes, Karen, that's an excellent idea," she chimed in, her voice laced with authority. "We want to ensure that our guests have all their needs met."

The room was filled with a mixture of unease and anticipation as Karen's idea took hold. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as the realization of what would be expected sank in.

As the shocking plan unfolded, I found myself grappling with a range of emotions - anger, helplessness, and a deep sense of violation. This event had truly crossed the line of degradation and humiliation, confirming the depths to which I had willingly subjected myself.

I couldn't help but wonder how far this perverse gathering would go, how much more of my dignity and autonomy I would have to sacrifice. The cocktail party had transformed into a den of debauchery, a place where my body was reduced to a mere vessel for the entertainment and pleasure of others.

With a heavy heart, I resigned myself to endure whatever further degradations awaited me. I had made the conscious decision to enter this world as Mrs. Cockwife, knowing full well what it entailed. And so, I steeled myself for the continued erasure of my boundaries, hoping to survive the night and reach the eventual reward that lay at the end of this torturous journey.