The Sin Wife

The community that I live in, we have a special relationship to the Earth. We keep ourselves a little removed from other people--we live on a big property a few miles from the nearest town, in a mish-mash of buildings, boarding-house-style. Our Leader started the community, I'm told, when he had visions of how humans could found a new Garden of Eden.

I know that some people call us a cult. I don't know enough about it to tell; I've never been off the property, not since I can remember. I've never had much privacy, either; I went straight from the girls' room, where all the girl-children sleep together side-by-side on sleeping rolls, to the room I live in now when I turned eighteen.

This room is nicer, because I have a bed, and I only have to share it with three other women. Most of the adults have their own rooms, though; or, rather, they share with their spouse. Every girl is married at eighteen, to whatever man that Leader decides will serve best as her husband.

But me and the other women in my room, we don't have husbands. We're the Sin Wives.

I don't know how Leader decides who becomes a Sin Wife and who doesn't; the oldest woman in our group, Sarah-Anne, says she was chosen just because there weren't any men to marry when she turned eighteen. She's the most bitter about it, too, though, so I don't know if she's telling the truth or not. I don't think that I did anything wrong to be chosen.

Leader says it isn't a punishment; he says it's a spiritual calling.

Usually, it feels like a punishment.

It's mostly a matter of practicality, I guess. The fact is that it's a sin to have non-procreative sex, even between husband and wife--even just with your own hand--but people get horny. And we can't be swimming in babies all of the time. Leader is the one who decides who gets to have babies, and when; and if you're not on that list, you're not supposed to be fucking. Instead, you come to our room--at night only, under the cover of darkness, to hide your shame--and you use us.

Tonight, I'm being used by a couple. The woman is sitting on my pillow, her skirt pulled up so that I can lick out her pussy and suck on her clit. Behind me, her husband fucks my ass. That way, they both get what they want, but since I'm between them, they're not sinning; I absorb their sin, and I purify it with my suffering.

The suffering part is supposed to happen in the morning: Leader spanks the sin out of each of us, and then he inspects us to see if any further purification is needed. Further purification usually means hot pepper oil applied to our labia or, if you're really unlucky, right on the clit.

But if you ask me, we're suffering pretty much all the time, because that's the only time our pussies get any air. We're locked up in chastity belts all night and all day otherwise. Everyone else gets to use us for their sinful pleasure, and we don't get a taste, not a single caress on our aching bits unless it's a cotton swab with that damned oil on it.

The woman whose clit I'm sucking on groans and shakes, her thighs squeezing around my head in her second orgasm of the evening. My own untouched slit pulses and oozes inside its metal prison; I'm so experienced at cunnilingus that I'm thinking near-obsessively about how it would feel to have my own pussy licked, exactly where I'd want someone to put their tongue on me.

Once she's done, I start to lift my head up, trying to get some air, but she hisses, "another," and pushes my head down again.

It's Lenore, the woman who runs the kitchen. I'm not supposed to know who she is--that's the whole point of keeping the lights off in our room at night--but really, we know; we almost always know. It's a small community, you recognize voices, you get to know people. Lenore is mean, because she gets jealous. She hates that she can't just fuck her husband without one of us between them. She makes him pick a different girl each time, as if he's at risk of getting too attached to our asses.

I don't mind. Her husband is rough and ungentle, barely bothering to prepare my ass enough not to hurt me; his dick in me is more of a nuisance than anything else, and I wish he'd hurry up and finish.

That's better than the alternative, though.

In the next bed over, I hear Charity whimpering. She's getting fucked by one of the single men. She's a special favorite for a lot of them, because she's so noisy. I can tell from the way her whimpers are going up in pitch that she really likes whatever he's doing, it's making her feel really good.

Lenore's husband finishes inside of me with a groan. Lenore is still pushing my head down, though, so even after he pulls out, I keep licking and sucking.

"Ooh, ooh," she grunts finally, grinding her wet sex into my face and pulling my hair hard as she comes a third time. "Yeah, babe, that feels so good." She's talking to her husband, like I'm not even there, like I'm a thing. That's kind of what they're supposed to do, so I probably shouldn't be bothered, but Lenore does it in a way that feels especially mean; she's doing it to make a point.

I think it's pretty bold of her to be so rude when my teeth are so close to her clit.

Not that I'd ever do anything like that, but I'll bet that Sarah-Anne will, some day, if Lenore keeps pushing it.

I just groan in relief and take deep breaths when she finally pushes me out from between her thighs. She nudges me out of the way like an oversized pillow and grabs her husband, yanking him out of the room and cooing in his ear about how good the sex was, like she thinks she can make him forget that he was in some other woman's ass.

In the next bed over, Charity's whimpers go quiet as the man fucking her finishes and pulls out. After he leaves the room, she starts to sob quietly, squirming in her bed. Humping the mattress, probably. I do it too, sometimes; it's hard to resist, when you feel like you're right on the edge. Your body just wants you to keep going, like if you keep moving like you're getting fucked, the pleasure will keep coming. Some of the men, when they fuck you right, you get so close to coming that you can barely stand it, but none of them ever last long enough for any of us to finish.

"Stop that," Sarah-Lee snaps from her bed. She wasn't visited by anyone tonight. She gets just as cranky when they do as when they don't; I worry I'll be as foul-tempered as she is if I get to her age and I'm still locked in this damned belt. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

Charity finally stops moving and muffles her sobs in her pillow. I bury my face in my pillow, too, and try to ignore the steady throb in my pussy long enough to fall asleep.

***

The morning purification is uneventful.

We shower and then present ourselves to Leader for ten slaps each--across our bare asses, with the belt; that part really doesn't hurt much, given that Leader's pushing seventy years old these days--and then we spread our legs and stand there while he opens each of our belts in turn and inspects our wet pussies.

At least one Sin Wife always gets the extra purification. Sometimes it's easy to know who; if you're especially wet, that's a good way to get his attention, or if you make a noise or fidget when he touches your thighs or pulls your labia apart. Sometimes, if there's no clear signs of sin, I think he just picks a girl at random.

This morning, it's Charity. No big surprise there. She's dripping straight down her thighs, practically flooding the belt when he pulls it off, still overworked from her visitor the night before. We all wince a little when we see how wet she is, because we know; she already knows, too.

Leader still inspects all four of us, even after he sees the massive wet patch between Charity's thighs. He takes his time. I'm last in line; the shaking touch of his arthritic hand between my legs is torture, stirring up nerves that are starved for touch. My pussy clenches over and over as he parts my labia majora, some animal instinct in my brain telling it to get ready for a finger or a whole cock up in there, but he just leans in to stare at my throbbing clit, like he's judging how erect it is.

He exhales, and the brush of air across my clit startles me, making me gasp.

I immediately bite my lip. That could be a mistake. At least one woman always gets extra purification every morning, but it can be more than one, if Leader thinks it's necessary. I might have just earned myself a date with some hot pepper oil.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to look tranquil and unaffected, as if I've never heard of a clit in my life and like I'm definitely not seconds away from coming all over myself if he blows on mine again.

"Mm-hmm," Leader murmurs to himself, and then he snaps my chastity belt back into place.

I breathe out a sigh of relief.

He moves back down the line, snapping on each woman's belt in turn, until he's back at Charity. She's already hanging her head, but she doesn't bother to argue. There's no point.

"A bit wider, my dear," he says, and she spreads her thighs wider as he pulls out the little vial of oil and dabs some onto a cotton swab. "Don't you worry, we'll burn that sin right out."

"Yes, Leader," she whispers. "Thank you."

He goes straight for her clit, which makes me wince and look away. Charity lets out a gasping noise of pleasure at the touch of the cotton, making my clit throb in sympathy; then the pain hits her, and she bites back a groan, hunching forward and grasping at the wall beside her to stop from reaching down and trying to rub the sting away.

"There we go. Very good," Leader says, locking her belt back on her as she tries not to squirm and dance, her body desperate to get away from the pain. "Thank you, ladies. You may start your chores now."

During the day, we have our chores, like every other member of the community. It takes a lot of work to keep the place running: there's a garden to tend to, and the chickens and goats, but we don't really make very much of our own food. The biggest chore is the soap-making. We make our own brand of soap that Leader sells to people all around the world. It has special, healing properties because of our connection with the Earth, he says, and it's only right to share that with others. It's also the only way we make enough money to buy the food we need to eat.

I hate working in the soap workshop; the smell gives me a headache. Luckily, I'm on cleaning duty for the living quarters today. So is Belle, the fourth Sin Wife. She's...kind of hard to talk to.

"Are you okay?" I whisper to Charity before we clear out of the room. She's still dancing in place, squirming and chewing her lip.

"That's the third damn day in a row he's picked me," she hisses back, rubbing the front of her chastity belt like that will help wash away the stinging oil.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"The worst part isn't even the pain," she laments. "It's after."

I nod in sympathy. I know what she means; the tingling sensitivity left behind when the pain of the pepper fades, leaving your clit swollen and twitching even worse than usual, starving for any sensation at all.

"Makes me so wet," she mutters.

"That's why you need the extra purification," Belle advises her primly, tugging her neat dress down over her belt. "You should try to pray at night. It works for me."

It works for her because none of the men want to fuck her when she's whispering prayers the whole time. Charity turns away to roll her eyes. I clear my throat.

"Come on, Belle, we should get started on cleaning."

"What an industrious attitude," she says, like a teacher praising a student. That's her whole attitude; you'd never know from how she speaks to the rest of us that she's the youngest of the sin wives, only nineteen. Charity and I are in our early twenties each, and Sarah-Lee is pushing forty.

"Yeah," I say. Charity snorts. "Well, there's a lot to do."

And there wis. Cleaning the living quarters is a big job, but there aren't many hands to do it; it doesn't produce food or money, after all. So Belle and I are on our own, hurrying from one room to the next, stripping sheets and emptying wastebaskets.

Belle tuts when she finds a wet patch in the bed of one of the single men. "What a shame. Do you think we should report it?"

"If you want." I shrug. "Sometimes men have wet dreams."

Women, too, I've learned since becoming a Sin Wife; Sarah-Lee had woken us all one night making a real racket, wailing out in her sleep, this loud "Oh! Oh! Oh!" like a woman getting fucked right in her pussy, and then she'd woken up shaking and screaming herself hoarse, bellowing like a mule and kicking her legs all over the place.

We were all jealous as anything--well, Charity and I were, anyway; Belle had reported it to Leader, so that Sarah-Lee got extra purification the next morning--but I shudder to think how many more years I have of aching before my body will igure out how to do a thing like that. It had sounded amazing, though, and Sarah-Lee had been a lot nicer for a week or two after.

"He should be visiting us more often, then," Belle says, bundling up the wet sheets. "So that he doesn't sin in his sleep."

"Do whatever you want, Belle," I sigh, already tired of her company. "Listen, maybe we'll move faster if we split up."

"If you think so."

"I'll run these down to the laundry, and you can keep going here."

She nods, and I bundle up the sheets in my basket--shoving the dirty sheet to the center so I won't touch it by accident--and make my way to the laundry.

We have a few big machines there. Industrial sized, I've heard some people say, people who were raised outside of the community and know more about the outside world. Even so, after stripping so many beds, I have enough laundry to fill one of them up.

After I add the detergent and started the machine going, I take a second to just...take a little break, leaning back against the machine.

Okay, so the washing machines sort of shake and vibrate when they're running, and it feels pretty nice against my ass. It'd feel even better against my pussy, I know, but with the belt in the way, that's not an option for me. So sometimes I just lean back against them and let them vibrate my ass a little and just imagine what it would be like if I didn't have a metal prison locked around my lonely cunt.

I've gotten pretty good at imagining. I can remember what it was like before the belt was locked on--when I would touch myself really quiet and slow, in the group housing with the other girls, slipping my finger so, so gently around my clit so that nobody would hear me--and sometimes I remember that so hard that I can practically feel the phantom sensation of a finger down there. Other times I think about the way I've learned to lick another woman's pussy and clit, and imagine how it would feel to have a tongue down there on me, pleasuring me the way that I do for all the wives in the community.

It's a mean game to play with myself, because it leaves me aching so bad, wet and dripping inside my belt. It distracts me, too. I'm listening for Belle's footsteps, because I know I don't want her to find me like this, but she wears these clicky little Mary Jane heels; I'm not listening for anyone quieter, so Lenore sneaks right up on me.

She yelps when she comes into the room, like I startled her, then sneers. "Oh, it's just you."

"Hi, Lenore."

"Don't you have any work to do?" she demands, setting down the basket of towels and tablecloths she's brought from the kitchen.

"I was just loading up some laundry."

"Is that what you were doing? Didn't look like it to me."

"Okay," I say, because Lenore is easier if you just let her win. I think it's pretty stupid that she's so jealous when I'd made her come three times and hadn't gotten to come once, but whatever. "I was taking a break, I guess. I have to get back to helping Belle now, though."

"Hm," she says, and then, when I try to step around her to the door, she gets in my way. "Were you taking a break, or were you doing something dirty?"

"I don't know what you mean," I say, trying to get around her again. She's tall, though, with long limbs, and strong from all the chopping and scrubbing she does all day; she cages me in, backing me up until my spine and butt made contact with the shaking laundry machine again.

The sudden vibrations, after I'd spent so long thinking and getting myself worked up, are intense. I bite my lip to keep from moaning.

Lenore smirks. "I knew it. It's a good thing they keep your nasty little clit locked up, whore, or you'd be out here humping the laundry machine like a dog, huh?"

"Shut up," I mutter, then I shout, "hey!" because she's gone and grabbed my tit right through my dress.

"You shut up," she says, sharp and angry, "or I'll tell Leader what I saw you doing."

I squirm, then bite my lip to keep myself quiet. I don't want to think about how much hot pepper oil I'd get if Leader heard whatever story she'd tell about me and the stupid laundry machine. All over my clit, and my pussy, and--"ohh," I groan, because Lenore starts massaging my tit, kneading her fingers over my nipple. She snorts.

"Yeah? You like that? God, you're such a slut. That's why you're not good enough for marriage, you know. Leader could just tell by looking at you that you weren't pure enough for a man."

"Oh, shut up, Lenore," I moan.

She puts her other hand on my other breast, mashing and squeezing both of them, and I shut my eyes. She's being so rough, pressing hard enough that she's bruising me up, but the drag of the fabric and the scratch of her nails over my nipples shoots right down to my throbbing cunt. I'm trying to keep still and quiet, to not embarrass myself, but I know I'm spreading my feet apart, bracing to try and avoid humping the air like an idiot.

"Slut, slut, slut," she mocks. "Do you girls lick each others' assholes out in that room to make each other come?"

"No, stupid."

"Do you come when my husband fucks you in the ass?"

"Of course not. Do you even come when he fucks you in the pussy?" I demand. "I guess you haven't had any other men, so you don't know how bad he is at it--AHH!" She grabs both of my nipples and pinches, hard, which is probably my own fault for antagonizing her.

It hurts, but the pain shoots like lightning straight to my dripping, clenching pussy, making me squirm and dance in place like I'm trying to grind into the burning sensation at the center of my cunt. "Ahh! Ah, ahh!"

"I know you come when he fucks you," she hisses.

"I don't! I don't!" I sob, dancing up on my toes. My nipples feel like they're going to be torn off, but my pussy shudders like it's gearing up for a massive orgasm, and I can't get myself together to decide if I want to push her off or not.

"You keep away from my husband. He's mine," she snarls. Then, finally, she lets go, leaving me sobbing and shaking. I'm closer to the edge than I've been in months, not since that night when two men had fucked me in a row. "And he'd never want to have anything to do with a skank like you, not when he has a real wife." She kicks the basket of towels towards me. "Run my laundry for me, slut."

She turns and flounces out, leaving me shuddering, tears running down my cheeks from pain and desperation.

I briefly consider grabbing my own nipples and twisting them, to see if I can get over the edge that way, but it wouldn't be any good. I can't do it as mean as she did; I don't have the guts for it.

Instead, I wait until I calm down a little, until I don't feel like crying any more from how bad I want to come. Then I fix my dress and load up one of the other machines with her kitchen laundry, and I go to find Belle, deciding it'll be safer to work with her the rest of the day even if she does get on my nerves.

***

That night, I'm the unlucky one. My visitor is Peter, one of the bigger men, and his cock nudges against all kinds of good spots inside me. He takes a long time, too; he slows down sometimes, like he's trying to last longer and draw it out, until I almost wonder if he's trying to make me come. Probably not. I don't think any of the men who fuck us think about stuff like that.