Cuckquean Ch. 09

By the time I got home, it had sunk in, just what all I had done.

I felt beyond dirty. The smell was probably not as strong as I imagined, but I felt like I was sitting in a miasma of nastiness.

On some level, I liked it. But on another I was disgusted.

In the house, I barely made it to the bathroom before I was as violently sick as I hadn't been since the morning sickness of pregnancy. I threw up and gasped and threw up and gasped and threw up some more. The dry heaves were even worse and as I gagged and strained I was vaguely aware that the way my body was straining I was adding to the mess in my panties. I was hanging onto the bowl like it was a lifeline, thick ropes of bile and saliva hanging from my mouth along with thick clear mucus from my nose. I was gasping and tears were streaming down my cheeks.

Finally, as it must, it passed and I could get back to my feet.

I noticed that my dress was spattered with puke as I unbuttoned and pulled it off, so I tossed it into the clothes hamper to be taken to the laundry. I threw my bra in too. As I pulled my panties off I wasn't surprised at how dirty they were but the brown stain low on the back of my girdle did surprise me. For some reason, it was that rather than any of the other depravity of the day that made me feel ashamed.

I buried the panties and girdle deep in the dirty clothes hamper and breathed a sigh of relief that my petticoat hadn't been stained as well.

In the shower, I washed my face, slowly softening the crust under my nose, washed and put conditioner in my hair, and then washed my body carefully and thoroughly. I had realized, on the way home, that I had better be careful when those naughty urges took me or I'd be fighting yeast infections or get a UTI (that's a urinary tract infection for those of you with a Y chromosome not afflicted with such).

And I knew, beyond any doubt, hell, beyond any hope of redemption, that there would be other times.

But the long hot shower did its work and when I was clean and dry I felt ready to face whatever was to come.

I did my face and hair carefully, cinched myself into a bra, got my panties on, and squirmed, and pulled my way into my old-fashioned girdle. I smoothed the nylons up my legs, checking to make sure my seams were straight, and then my petticoat before slipping on another dress, something I had bought because it looked so much like one I had seen Lucille Ball wear in an episode of I Love Lucy. It was pink and the notched collar and sleeves were white. The white pumps completed the outfit and I felt like myself again, like a perfect haus frau stepping out of a scene from the Donna Reed Show or Leave it to Beaver.

I felt pretty as I worked around the kitchen preparing dinner.

I had a long talk with myself before setting the table but in the end, I sat three places. I was pretty sure Lori would be joining us.

And then I was at wit's end. The roast was in the oven, the table was ready, and I had nothing to do. So I dusted lightly, something that took only five minutes. Then I just sat, the television on but I have no idea what was playing, and thought.

I was surprised at that deep visceral level that sometimes happens, to realize that I was happy.

Then I giggled as an image flashed through my mind. When I was in college I took a course in Contemporary Literature and read a book, The Stepford Wives, that dealt with a fictitious town, in Connecticut if memory serves but it might have been Rhode Island or Maine or somewhere else, where once bright and serious women were turned into submissive Donna Reed or June Cleaver clones. The theme was "anti-feminism" and I recoiled from that book.

But sitting there, mindlessly watching television, dressed to look like Donna or June, my bra uncomfortable, my girdle pinching, and my belly getting warm with anticipation, I thought maybe the men of Stepford had something.

When the 5:00 news came on I got up and mixed a pitcher of Margaritas and put them in the freezer. I wanted dinner to be festive.

As 6:00 came and went I got the roast out and set it on a platter, sliced and surrounded by vegetables presented, I thought, pretty artfully. It was a presentation I had seen in my HGTV magazine.

By 6:30 things were getting cold so I put the platter in the over set low to keep everything warm.

By 7:00 I was weeping, watching the talking heads blur through my tears.

They walked in at 8:13. I know because by then I was watching the clock pretty closely.

"You could have," I started, intending to finish with "called," but I didn't get the chance to finish my sentence.

Lori slapped me, an open-handed slap that snapped my head around and made my ears ring.

"Your husband and I are hungry, Martha," she said, sounding almost reasonable, "now do your fucking job and get something on the table, please."

I was holding my cheek then, tears running down my cheeks, my nose running, and I looked at David.

"Go on," he said, no hint of sympathy in his voice or his eyes, "get moving."

I was embarrassed.

I was humiliated.

And deep in my belly, I felt the first stirring of excitement.

"HEY!" Lori called as I started moving to the kitchen.

When I turned she was holding out the third plate, napkin, and silverware. "Take these," she said, "servants eat in the kitchen."

I didn't hesitate or argue, I just took them and went into the kitchen.

I made no attempt to wipe my eyes or my nose as I got the roast and veggies out of the oven and took them into the dining room.

I moved from plate to plate and served them.

"Do you need anything else?" I asked.

"This is fine," Lori said.

I noticed that David had said nothing since they got home.

I stood back, standing against the wall, and waited in case they would need something more.

There was something about the situation that was getting to me. In part, it was the need I felt to stand, quietly, like a servant. In part it was their casual conversation, talking about work and clients and other people at work. In part, it was the way they talked about me as if I wasn't there.

"I think I'll have Martha run me over to the apartment after dinner," Lori said.

"Oh?" David said, "You won't be spending the night?"

"Don't be silly," she said, "of course I will. But I want to see how Martha did with her housecleaning chores and I need to bring some clothes over. I can't wear the same thing two days in a row."

"Of course," he said.

While I stood, silent.

When they finished their dinner I gathered up the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and put leftovers away. I was hungry and wiping the table down when Lori called, "Come on Martha, let's go."

I didn't dare hesitate. I left the dishcloth on the table and went to her.

In the car, as we headed to her apartment, Lori got chatty.

"Do you miss him?" she said.

It took a couple of seconds to puzzle out who she meant.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I think I had already pretty much lost him but, you know," and I kind of wound down, not sure where I was going with that thought.

"No, Martha," she said, "I don't know. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's been eight years," I said, struggling to get my thoughts in order, struggling, for that matter, to deal with this bizarre conversation.

I took a deep breath and started over.

"Lori," I said, "David is my second time around. I really didn't expect it to last this long if I'm being honest. I mean, look at him and look at me. But he was handsome and young and I said 'yes.' But I knew he was having affairs and I told him I didn't want to lose him so...." and I wound down again.

"And so you don't mind being a cuckquean?" she asked.

I thought about her question and thought about the weird, bizarre nature of this conversation before I answered.

"I accept it," I said, "because the alternative is too much to bear."

"Huh," she said, and was quiet for a few blocks as I drove.

"And you're okay with the humiliation and pain I'll heap on you?" she asked in a casual, weirdly conversational tone.

I didn't need to think too much this time.

"I accept it," I said.

"Just so you know," she said, and she was smiling, almost friendly as she said it, "I have a wide and deep sadistic streak and I'm going to enjoy hurting you."

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that, so I said nothing.

"And," she went on after a few seconds, "I'm a total control freak and I'm going to enjoy having David join in the fun."

I shivered a little and felt a tear overflow my eye, but I said nothing.

The rest of the trip was in silence.

Well, silence outside of my head. But inside I was having a strange, stream-of-consciousness conversation with myself.

Get out of this, Martha I can't, I don't want to be alone, She's nuts and is going to hurt you, I know, Get out of this, No, Martha, this is dangerous, I know, Get out, I can't, Get out, No, Get out.

"No," I said aloud.

"No?" Lori said.

"Lori," I said, looking at her briefly before returning my eyes to the road, "I'm SO scared. I was having a conversation with myself. No, that's not quite right. My dead aunt who is also my conscience was telling me to stop all of this."

"And?" she asked, and the smile on her face was all lips and teeth, not reaching her eyes at all.

"And you heard me tell her 'no,'" I said, turning and meeting her eyes for an instant.

Her smile turned even more wild, a hint of insanity behind her eyes.

"Eyes on the road, Martha," she said.

I returned my attention to the road.

I felt her fingers, almost gently, find the soft skin at the back of my upper arm and then the pinch as she caught it between the middle knuckles of her index and middle finger and started squeezing.

I moaned as the pressure started building and cried out as she suddenly twisted.

"Say," she said and paused dramatically, "you like it."

"I like it," I said, and on some level I did.

When she twisted the pain was so sharp and sudden my scream was so high-pitched it hurt my throat.

"Say it," she said.

"I-I-I-I l-l-like it," I managed.

When she released me the freedom from pain was so good it was almost sexual.

"Mmmmmmmmmm," she said, caressing very gently where she had just hurt me, "I DO love a good bruise."

It was a relief to get to her apartment house without further pain or humiliation.

Inside she stopped and just looked around for a minute.

"Wow," she said after a minute or so, "I should have hired you before."

She looked around and then said, so casually that it took a moment to sink in what she had said, "Go stand in the corner while I figure out what I'm going to take."

When I didn't move for a few seconds she slapped me, hard enough that I took a step back, and said, "Did you not hear me?"

I went to the corner and stood there, not daring to touch my cheek where she had slapped me.

"Good girl," she said.

You see the phrase, "His (or her) mind went blank," from time to time if you read a lot. At that moment I finally understood what it meant. As I stood in the corner, my eyes could see where the walls met, I could feel the pain where I had been slapped, but my mind was truly blank. I had no thoughts at all. I just stared and could almost feel time passing in its slow march.

I was snatched back to reality by Lori's voice. It can only be called a shriek that I heard, almost unintelligibly calling, "MMMMAAAAAARRRRRTTTTHHHHHAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaa," her voice rising in pitch and volume as the word drug out.

I wasn't sure if I was being summoned, hell, I had no idea what she was carrying on about, so I didn't move.

"MARTHA, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!" she yelled. That got me moving and I went to see what she was carrying on about.

She was standing in the closet and, to be honest, she kind of frightened me. Her face was red, her eyes were so wide that the word "bulging" is not inaccurate, and she was breathing heavily as if she had just run a race.

"WHAT IS THIS?!?!" she yelled.

"What?" I asked, genuinely not understanding her question.

She backhanded me hard enough to snap my head around and I instantly tasted blood on my tongue. Before I could react she had her fingers in my hair and yanked me forward almost making me fall.

She touched the box of her toys with the toe of her shoe.

"What did you take out of my special box?" she asked, accentuating each word with a shake of her hand, pulling my hair and making my head bob.

"I'm sorry," I said and then screamed as I felt her pulling hair out.

"I DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING APOLOGY," she screamed in my ear so loud I flinched away, "ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION!"

"Th-th-the ball gag," I managed, my hands finding hers, trying to ease the pressure on my hair, "the nipple clamps," I got out as the pressure eased slightly, "the butt plug," I finished.

She pulled me to her, still screaming, "WHO TOLD YOU YOU COULD USE MY STUFF?"

"N-n-nobody," I managed.

I watched, proud that I managed to not cringe, as she took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out.

She repeated that three more times. A deep breath then a slow exhalation.

I was starting to think the worst was past when she said, in a calm voice that I found frightening, "Well, get your clothes off."

Something about the way she said it, the almost perfect calmness, was more frightening than her earlier rage.

I started on the buttons of my dress. I could feel the violence simmering just below the surface and I was already hurting.

I could feel her eyes on me and that gave me a case of nerves and shaky fingers. Of COURSE, I had on a dress with about fifty tiny buttons. The tears blurring my vision didn't help.

As I was shrugging out of the dress and starting on my bra and girdle she got her "special box" out of the closet, set it on the bed, opened it, and started laying out the contents.

Naked, crying, my cheek swollen and the taste of blood strong on my tongue, I stood and waited.

"Sooooooooo," she said, and her smile was more frightening than any scowl or frown could ever be, "you liked the ball gag in your mouth."

"Yes," I said, my voice low, my eyes downcast.

"Wellllll," she said, and that smile almost made my bladder control fail, "let's try my pretty Pear of Anguish. It's a real mouth filler."

She held it up and my knees got weak. It was, indeed, pear-shaped in bright chrome. I could see that it was made of four pieces, vaguely shaped like spoons, and had a T-shaped handle protruding from the end.

"Open wide," she said, almost cheerful.

"Please," I moaned.

She slapped me.

"OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, MARTHA!" she screamed.

I opened my mouth.

As she pushed it in I thought of that damn pool ball again. It forced my mouth painfully wide before I got a slight relief as the biggest end was past my teeth.

"I think," she said, cheerful and pleasant again as she started turning that T-handle, "that I'll just unhinge your jaw. You like things in your mouth, let's make it easy on you."

All I could do was make muffled sounds as I tried to say something like, "Please, no."

As the leaves, the spoons, whatever the goddam things are called, expanded with her turning the handle, my tongue was forced down and then crushed against the bottom of my mouth, and my mouth was slowly forced open wider than I had ever opened it before.

"Oh," she said, and she giggled, "I'm feeling generous tonight, I think that's enough for now, don't you?"

I nodded vigorously and then stopped. The weight of the pear in my mouth was oddly balanced with much of it outside of my mouth and centered on the heavy T-handle. That made movement make it hurt worse.

"You used this, right?" she said, holding up the butt plug I had worn while cleaning the apartment.

I nodded, carefully.

"Well, sweety," and her tone sent a chill down my spine, "I'm betting you'll just LOVE this," and she held up a black thing more or less the same shape as the pink plug I had used, with a long tube hanging from it terminating in a black bulb.

I moaned as I realized that it looked like the thing a doctor squeezes when he takes your blood pressure.

"Bend over and spread your cheeks, Martha," she said, still cheerful.

I was crying, tears and mucus and drool dripping onto the floor, as I complied.

She used no lubricant, of course, and I could feel tender tissues being abraded as she shoved the black plug in. That was a minor inconvenience, though, compared to what happened when she started squeezing that little bulb.

The way the inflatable was made, the big end, the part inside of me, expanded first. I felt fullness, at first, but that soon became pain and then quickly something like the worst gas pain I ever had. When the big part started meeting the resistance of the powerful muscles of my rectum, the smaller part, that part inside my anus, started expanding.

I was trying to scream, to howl, to do anything to get her to stop when she finally did. I was certain that one more pump in that dam bulb and things would start tearing.

"And the clamps too, right?" she said, holding up the nipple clamps I had used.

I nodded.

"Well," I said, "you'll LOVE these," and I dared to shake my head again. She held up something every woman recognized, an earring piercing machine.

"Now, hold still," she said, "we wouldn't want to tear anything now, would we?"

I shook my head, both in answer to her question and as a plea to not do this.

I felt the sharp pain, first on my right and then my left nipple, and then the more lingering pain, more an ache, as she worked the big gold hoop rings into the fresh holes.

"Hmm," she said, her chin held in the fork between her thumb and forefinger as she looked at the new rings, "something's missing."

"Ahhhhhhhh," she said, holding up her index finger dramatically, "I know."

She rummaged through her special box and came out with matched silver teardrops, about an inch long and a half inch wide.

"Weights will help," she said, hooking the little weights onto each ring. They weren't terribly heavy, just a few ounces, but they were enough to pull my nipples down.

"Well," she said, and she was giggling, "all righty then. That should do it, for now, go ahead and get dressed."

When I hesitated she said, "Did I not make myself clear?"

I moaned, deep in my throat, and started getting dressed.

The girdle pressed the plug deeper into my ass, adding to my, well, discomfort is a gentle word but accurate. The bra was fresh agony on the rings and clamps. The dress caught on the Pear's T-handle as I dropped it over my head, and the burst of pain was so intense I almost fainted.

"No need to do ALL of those buttons," she said.

As I stood she had that smile on her face again.

"Oh," she said, the giggle in her voice, "there IS one more thing."

She pulled out a wide leather collar, looking like a short, almost three-inch wide, belt. I watched as she put a small silver blade into a pocket in the collar.

"It's called a posture collar," she said as she put it on my neck, tightening it enough that I could feel it although it wasn't exactly choking me. "As long as you hold your head high and are proud, it won't hurt you."

It took about two seconds for me to realize what she meant. The moment I let my head move forward even a little I felt a sharp sting and realized the sharp point of the blade had pricked the skin under my jaw.

"Now grab the box and let's go home, Martha," she said in that weirdly friendly way, "and see how David likes my toys."