My Slut Wife Life Ch. 04

We both lay on the floor, totally spent, trying to catch our breath, his jizz congealing on my slit, slowly seeping between the swollen lips to trickle inside my cunt. Finally, many minutes later, he ordered me to scoop up what I could and suck it into my mouth. It had cooled by now, but every lick of my fingers reminded me of the ecstasy he'd taken me to. And finally it reminded me of the original question.

"So, Sir, how do you want me to dress for you?" I asked, my still sticky cunt glistening in the remaining light.

The next morning, when he came downstairs to eat the breakfast I'd prepared for him, I was topless, with nothing more than a pair of yellow bikini panties on. The next morning, I was bottomless, my breasts only covered by a too tight halter top that reached no lower than the top of my pussy patch. The next day, topless again. The next, bottomless. And for the next few months, I never wore more than one item of clothing in the morning. And he was free to touch and fondle me whenever the thought struck his mind. Which it did. Often.

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Another thing I learned during those first few months: That a man's mind can be as fickle as a woman's. And when a man is unshackled from the morals and strictures of polite society, his first instinct is to experiment with his freedom. And I learned that my husband and new owner could be a very creative experimenter indeed.

One Friday, about two months in, I received a call from him suggesting that I make a dinner that could be eaten cold and later in the evening. He would be home a couple hours early, and he told me to wear a very specific outfit to welcome him at the door. Friday and Saturday were the days that I anticipated and dreaded the most. While he could force me to do anything during the week, there was a limit to how late we could both stay awake. We did, after all, still have jobs to do during the day. On Friday night or Saturday night, though, there were no such restrictions. He could use and abuse me for hours on end, drawing out his perverted schemes until I was quivering and exhausted. And he could resume his playtime in the morning with no deadlines or time constraints. I often spent most of my Sundays staggeringly sore between the legs, and incredibly tired.

Since it was already afternoon, I rushed to tidy up the house. I was keeping it pretty immaculate already, per his orders, but there's always something that needs to be cleaned. Fortunately, I'd finished all my career-related assignments that morning.

With time ticking away, I rushed upstairs to shower and dress. I paid particular attention in my shower to my pussy and anus, washing both thoroughly and finishing with a sweet smelling body spray. Then I lay on the bed and trimmed my pussy patch while shaving the rest of my cunt and ass completely clean. Every Friday, my owner instructs me on how he wants my pussy patch to be shaved. This time he wanted it all gone except for a round, thumb-sized patch of very short hair just above my slit. Not long ago, I'd bought a professional trimmer kit and razors so I could achieve exactly what he wanted. Considering that I rarely got spanked for missing an area anymore, it was worth the money.

After a light dusting of makeup and body powder, it was time to get dressed. His orders for today were to wear a leather chained bra and chained g-string, the chains nothing more than decoration, allowing the fullness of my tits to protrude from the studded leather straps around my breasts. The bra was held up in the front by a leather collar around my neck, and tied in the back with two thin leather straps. The collar around my neck had four rings stitched into it: in the front, back, and both sides.

The g-string was of similarly revealing construction, with the chains in the front doing nothing to conceal my newly shaved slit, and my ass cheeks completely revealed in the rear. Per his instructions, I also wore a pair of black high heels, the spikes so high that I had to concentrate on walking. Once everything was cinched and tightened, I looked like a slave right out of the Viking days.

I slowly descended the stairs and took my position just inside the door. In his phone call he'd instructed me to greet him in the "Stand for Inspection" position, in which I stand with my legs spread a little more than shoulder width apart, and then lock my hands behind my head. With heels on, it pushes my tits out and pulls my ass in. There's no way to mistake it for anything but a submissive position.

In the bustle of getting ready, I'd been too busy to speculate on what he had in mind this time. But now, my mind had a chance to wander. The outfit might be a clue and it might not. In the past two months, he'd sometimes have me elaborately dressed only to quickly strip me naked and use me as his cum dump. Then there were times when I'd greet him totally naked and he'd spend hours ritualistically teasing and using my body.

I truly didn't know what to expect. I'd learned a few things along the way. To never forget to call him Sir, even if we weren't in our dominant and submissive sexual roles. To always be ready to offer my cunt, ass or mouth to him. And to remember the rituals. This was perhaps the biggest revelation to me. I'd never known how important doing things a certain way was to my husband. But I found that he bordered on the obsessive-compulsive. And he'd created over a dozen rituals for me to remember and perform. For instance, there was the obeisance ritual. I had to kneel, naked, bent over onto my forearms, and kiss my way up his body, starting at his feet. Always starting from the left and moving to the right. First the top of his left foot, then the top of his right. Left ankle, right ankle. Left knee, right knee. All the way up until I got to his cock and balls. Kiss the left ball, then the right one. And then lick every inch of his cock, always starting at the bottom and running my tongue up to the top.

Missing a single step in a ritual was cause for punishment. He might simply spank me for my transgression with ten swats with a ping-pong paddle across the globes of my ass. Or he might get creative, strapping me down to the kitchen table and dripping hot candle wax onto my breasts and nipples.

I also hadn't known how creative he could be in finding new ways to abuse and humiliate me. Some, I'm sure, he picked up from the internet. There were plenty of sites that showed how women in my situation should be treated. Some other ideas he got from our neighbor, Jeremy, who was keeping his own wife as a slut slave. But a lot of them he made up on his own. Maybe they were fantasies he'd always wanted to try. That thought made me shiver. Or maybe he just spent a lot of time thinking about my body and what he could do to it. That thought got me hot.

However he came up with his ideas, he always managed to find a way to humiliate me along with turning me on. Yes, every time, even standing in the house clad as I was, I felt at least a little humiliated. Who wouldn't? Especially if you're forced to do things that normal people would think of as dirty, disgusting, unacceptable behavior. Who wouldn't be humiliated by being forced to go to the garden in the backyard, find a suitable zucchini, and then lay down in the grass and fuck herself with it? In broad daylight. When your neighbors are lunching on their deck. They had both watched openly as I had masturbated with a vegetable, and as my owner had filmed the whole embarrassing episode, loudly encouraging me to drive it in deeper and to open my cunt to vegetarianism. So forgive me if I confess to a little trepidation while I waited for him to appear.

I heard the garage door open, then begin to shut, and I steeled myself for whatever was going to come next. That's always the hardest part, the waiting and wondering. That's the point where I often ask myself "What the fuck are you doing?" and "Why are you putting yourself through this?" Strange how I never question my decision to be a fuck slut when we're in the middle of some perverted act. And never afterward, either. Only when I'm faced with a new one. In all this time, I've never acted on that urge.

"Nice," was his only comment when he entered the house. That, and his hand reaching out to tweak my bare nipple, squeezing and twisting it before letting it drop. "Stay!" he called over his shoulder as he left the mud room, leaving me alone to face the door in that humiliating position.

He was gone a good five minutes, and when he returned my arms and back were sore and I was beginning to totter on the heels. In his hand he held a leash, a chrome chain with a clip on one end and a leather handle on the other. I both loved and hated that leash. Hated it, because it meant that I was going to be treated as his pet, an animal to be trained, petted and punished. Loved it, because he liked to run the links up and down my pussy slit, each cool link bumping against my clit as it traveled back and forth, back and forth, made slippery with the juices running out of my cunt.

"Come!" he ordered, clipping the leash to my collar. I knew he didn't mean that I should follow him on my own two feet, like a person would. I did as a pet would, dropping onto my hands and knees and following as he led me into the kitchen.

"It occurred to me today," he began, taking a seat at the table, "that we've been far too busy with work and our entertainments, and we've really neglected the yard. Since it's warm today, I thought we should try and get the yard cleaned up. I don't want to leave it all for a day when it's much colder out."

I thought I knew where he was going with this. I would have to go out, dressed as I was, and do some gardening. While he would take humiliating pictures of me. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I could see up the leg of his shorts. He wasn't wearing any underwear, and his cock was thick and hard. Nude gardening. That had to be it.

"I read something last night," he continued conversationally, as if he didn't have a nearly nude woman kneeling before him, her breasts just inches from his knees. "About how some cities aren't using chemicals to control the weeds. Gets in the runoff. So they're renting goats and cows from farmers, and letting them graze the grass and weeds all the way down. That made me think about the Sledge's, with those animals they keep down the road. Maybe it would be fun to try it out, have them bring over a goat or two and let them have at it."

He reached over and patted my head, like you would do to a dog that you'd just noticed. "But then I thought, what goes in a goat must come out, and I didn't want to deal with that kind of fertilizer. Then I realized that I didn't need to use someone else's cow. I had my own."

With a painful jerk of the chain he pulled me out of my crouch, then leaned down to bridge the gap. "You don't mind being a cow for me, do you?" he asked ominously, steel suddenly in his voice.

A cow? A cow? My mind scrabbled for the meaning but couldn't find it. I felt as though someone had stolen all my memories of that particular thing. What was this cow of which he spoke?

"You'll need some practice, of course," he continued, leaning back but keeping the leash taut. "if you're going to be my cow, you need to be the best cow you can be." He picked up a crop from the top of the table. It was one of our many online purchases of discipline tools. This one was just flexible enough not to leave harsh marks on my skin, but pliable enough to sting like hell with only the slightest slap. The sound of it whistling through the air always makes me cringe.

"Take off that top." I quickly disconnected the straps from the collar, leaving it in place around my neck while letting the halter drop to the floor. "These... these are your udders," he instructed, flicking each of my breasts with the crop for emphasis. "What are they?"

"They're my udders, Sir," I responded obediently. The word tasted dirty and disgusting on my lips. My breasts, which were so admired and lusted after by so many men, had in seconds been reduced to sacks of milk dangling under my body.

"And these," he flicked my nipples, "these are your teats. Udders. Teats. Repeat it."

"They're my teats, Sir. And my udders, Sir. My udders and my teats, Sir." I felt ashamed, of what he was doing and of how I was letting him. But he wasn't done.

"Take off your bottom. Hands and knees," he commanded. I quickly pulled the leather straps off and kicked it away, then took up position on my hands and knees on the cold, hard kitchen floor, dressed only in a collar and high heels. "This, this is your rump," he chortled, slapping my ass with the crop so hard it made me squeal. "And your name, until I say otherwise, is Betsie. So, Betsie, let's review, shall we?"

"Udders," I answered when he flicked my breast, the taste of the word no better for repetition. "Teats. Rump." To those he added hooves for my hands, and cud for my tongue, which he found a way to slap with his crop.

"Just one thing to go, Betsie, before we get to work," he added, using the crop to push my udders this way and that. ""Let's hear you moo."

He said it with all the emotion of someone asking for a cup of coffee, "Let me have two creams with that. And by the way, let's hear you moo."

But though I shuddered in disgust, I wasn't fooled. That crop could be used for more than pointing out my udders, teats and rump. It could be used in such a way that I'd end up begging to moo, and begging to moo for the next day and a half.

"Mooooo." I knew right away that it wasn't good. The biting sting of the crop across my tit confirmed it.

"You can do better than that!" he sneered. "You're a cow now. You have the udders, the teats and the rump to prove it. So let's hear you moo and really mean it. Or I will tan your hide."

He wasn't making a joke. "Moooooooo-oooooooooo," I sounded, letting the call start in my chest and force its way out my mouth. "Moooooooo-ooooooooo."

We kept at it for a couple of minutes, he coaching me and me trying my best to sound like the real animal. If someone had stopped by and looked in the window, I suppose it would've looked pretty hilarious. Me, on hands and knees on the kitchen floor, a collar around my neck and a chain attached to that, completely nude except for the heels on my feet. Kneeling there, with udders dangling down, teats stiff from excitement, my rump high in the air, mooing like a cow in heat. The weird thing was, the more I mooed, the more I started to feel like nothing more than a lowly cow. Pun intended.

"Alright, then, I guess that's as good as you're going to get without much practice. On to phase two." He led me across the floor, out the door and onto the deck. I immediately noticed the post in the middle of the yard with the chain attached to it. And next to the post sat a bucket and some weeding tools.

"Obviously, you won't be grazing on the weeds like a real cow does. Unless you have some hidden skill I don't know about." He looked at me as if to ask, but then shook his head. "So, you'll need to use the tools to get the weeds out. You'll start in one spot, then go clockwise until you reach the beginning again. Make sure you do a good job, or you'll do it again, with me standing over you to guide you." I didn't need to see the crop move to know what he meant.

"Oh, I almost forgot... Betsie, open your mouth," he ordered. I did as he said and he pushed a five-inch realistic dildo into my mouth. Attached to the end were a couple dozen strands of leather straps. He'd flogged me with this very thing a couple of times before. Flogging doesn't really hurt as much when its happening like the crop does. But it stings a lot more later. "Nod when you think you have it good and slippery," he added.

So that's how it was going to be. And it was. As soon as I nodded, he took it from my mouth and shoved it into my cunt. The thick latex felt wonderful against my pussy walls. "Now you're a proper cow, Betsie. With a tail to match."

Crawling on hands and knees down wooden stairs while wearing heels is no easy task. But after a couple of scraped shins, he had me hooked up to the chain and ready to go.

"Now, don't forget that you're a cow," he lectured. "So I don't want to see you sitting on your rump and digging out those weeds. You'll stay on your hands and knees, or kneeling back on your heels. But I want to see those udders dangling and swaying as much as possible. And if I don't hear you mooing every so often, I'm going to give you something to squeal about."

With that, he left to take a seat on the deck, beer in hand to watch the show. I grabbed the bucket and crawled over to the first dandelion. But even that simple task wasn't done to his liking. He wanted me to crawl so that I was sideways to the deck, so he could see my udders better. And I was to moo loudly every time I successfully pulled up a weed.

I had done a quarter of the circle when he came out with something to drink. A bowl of water, which I was forced to lap up like an animal. I tried not to look around while I was doing that, but it was too hard. This was the first time I was outside nude, in daylight, for an extended period of time. People walking down the street in front of the house would be able to see me between the houses. Our neighbors would be able to see me right from their kitchen window. Anyone prowling about in the woods would have a great view of me. And, with the trees starting to thin with the approaching fall weather, anyone on the road that borders our house would be able to see me. A nude woman, on her hands and knees, her big tits dangling down, a fake tail coming out of her ass, a collar around her neck and incongruous high heels on her feet, chained to a post and drinking water like an animal from a trough. I was ashamed. And I was horny.

I can't explain it, except to say that the fantasies that always get me off the fastest are the ones where I'm forced to be naked in public. Where men see my wet snatch and jack themselves off at the sight. Where a glimpse of my cleavage and tits gets a man hard and desperate. Sometimes, in my fantasies, that man has his wife with him. And while she is outraged by my slutty nudity, he's turned on despite himself. He makes her suck his rigid cock while he examines my voluptuous nude body.

But those are fantasies, and this was reality. Even as I contemplated being caught in this situation, I didn't think about calling an end to it. Doing this made him happy. And it kinda turned me on, too.

"Got yourself a cow too, I see," a voice boomed across the lawn, shaking me out of my reverie. I looked up and flushed red all over. It was Jeremy, standing not 20 feet away, calling out to my owner. I tried to keep my eyes down so he wouldn't see how humiliated I felt. I don't know why I didn't realize at the time that was the whole point. My owner walked over and they started discussing something in low tones. "Here, I'll show you," I heard Jeremy say. Then they started walking over to their shed. "Keep working!" my owner yelled over his shoulder at me. "I want to be able to hear you inside the shed!"

I continued to work my way around the circle. We'd let the dandelions get a foothold over the summer and now they'd spread everywhere. Dig, dig, moo. Dig, dig, moo. Over and over I repeated it, my legs and ankles aching from the awkward crouching, my arms and shoulders sore and trembling. Dig, dig, moo. I worked steadily, aware that anyone looking out from the shed would now see my naked ass swaying as I worked, the dildo deep inside me, though every so often I would have to reach back and push it back in. I was tempted to use it to masturbate a little, but what if I got caught? The consequences might be too severe. Just a few more weeds and I'd be able to enjoy the second bowl of water that my owner left for me. Embarrassment be damned, it would taste too good.