Tom and Gabby Ch. 06 - Settling In

*Hi guys. Thanks for reading the last instalment and contacting me with your thoughts/comments/suggestions. This is a continuation of the Tom and Gabby series, so please read Ch. 01- Ch. 05 before reading this one to avoid missing the story so far.

I hope (on the whole) you're still enjoying the series. This instalment is set six weeks after the last one finished. Let me know what you think in the comments/feedback/ratings. I have begun work on Ch. 07, and will try to release promptly.*

I've spent a lot of time thinking about the concept of 'reaping what one sows' over the past few weeks.

I've never been much of a philosopher but have romanticised the idea that any positivity one puts into the world might be rewarded. The same with negativity. Having applied the formula to my own situation, I've decided that I don't believe that people reap what they sow.

The way I've been treated since Tom and Linda's relationship began, has been undeserved.

If the universal scales are somehow becoming balanced by my treatment at their hands, I couldn't possibly begin to understand what atrocities I committed to justify my imprisonment.

Linda formally moved into my house a week ago. She'd been staying here every night prior to moving in, but Tom and her only formally announced the living arrangements last week to all their friends, colleagues and family. They declined to formally tell me.

Linda had been designing it from the begining. She'd been slowly moving more and more of her belongings between residences leading up to their official cohabitation. Her clothes appeared early on, and they now occupy the side of the wardrobe once designated to me, as she'd disclosed would happen. Around the same time as her clothes arrived, photos of Tom and me, taken throughout our marriage began to disappear, replaced with smiling pictures of her and Tom together. The supposed perfect couple. If only people knew their depravity.

Linda has set to work with her 'tasteful redecorating'. My once happy home no longer bears any resemblance to the way I had styled it. The walls have all been painted in neutral bland shades, light greys and beiges. I despise light grey as a colour. I perhaps hadn't realised it until nearly every room of my house adopted the uninspired, sickly pallor for its walls.

Tom seems pleased by the changes. He'd always rejected my suggestions to decorate when we'd been together, however views the same suggestion by Linda as inspired.

The bedroom I once enjoyed relaxing and sleeping in, has been totally repurposed, much like the former dining room. I'm now made to sleep on a camp bed, albeit a luxury one, in full view of Linda and Tom's bed.

They've committed to providing me with entertainment every night as I try to drift off; fucking passionately, often with Linda screaming Tom's name as he makes her cum with varying parts of his anatomy.

When they fuck at night, I'm permitted to try and sleep through it, not that I can. When they fuck during the day, I'm secured onto the dining chair, which has undergone extensive 'improvements' since its debut, and made to watch them, stimulated by one of their growing collection of sex toys for me.

The dining room has become the primary location for my forced orgasms. Tom and I had never used the dining room to eat in anyway, but as soon as she saw it, Linda had a stroke of genius. A few days later, Tom modified the table, fitting it with a permanent set of full body restraints. They work well to hold me every time I do something they don't like. Sometimes I'm restrained simply because they feel I need reminding of who between us is in charge.

He took less effort to adapt a microphone stand to enable hands free use of a vibrating wand, and this remains their favourite tool to use on me.

Linda has adopted all the household responsibilities for herself and is compulsive about everywhere being immaculately clean. I'd half expected to have been made to carry out housework for them, adding some sort of purpose to my captivity, however when I'd tried to broach the subject, Linda wouldn't hear of it. She and Tom had laughed long and hard at the notion.

Normally I'd be overjoyed at the prospect of someone else doing all the cleaning and tidying for me, however, am finding Linda's superior domesticity quite insufferable. It's just another tick in the plus column for her and another cross in mine.

I've never been a very tidy person by nature. As Tom's wife, I'd always carried out a begrudging weekly house clean, but both my desire to do other, more enjoyable things and my utter hatred of hoovering prevented me from ever taking pride in doing it.

While she'd been organising the house to her own specification, Linda had more than hinted that my failures to provide Tom with a clutter and dust free home was evidence of my inadequacy as a wife.

She'd not been discreet in loudly discussing the matter with her mother on the phone either.

Linda's public defamation of me is an ongoing pursuit and has begun to bleed into the way she treats me within the house.

She's made it her mission to convince everyone I once worked with that I had a 'complete mental breakdown'. It's utter bullshit of course, I'm as sane now as I've ever been.

She insists that I am now wholly dependent on Tom and herself to 'look after me' and to 'minimise the stresses of normal life'. Having been denied any opportunity to defend myself and discredit her claims, I suspect that she's portrayed herself and my husband as 'heroes' in agreeing to take on my needs.

She doubts my capabilities of completing the simplest of tasks and finds new things that I can't do every day, doubtless starting to believe her own lies. There's been no officialising of my alleged condition, however Linda's fabricated accounts of my apparent insanity have so far worked to stave off any investigation into my sudden disappearance from public life.

I've found her ease of doing this to be worrying.

She sometimes makes humorous mention of how I'm perceived when she returns home from work. When occasional enquiries are made about my wellbeing, I'm certain that Linda carefully constructs her responses to depict me as a raving lunatic.

I've been prevented from having any contact with other people, much as had been discussed on the day my life was flipped upside down. Tom and Linda are totally aligned on my needing to remain inside the house.

Their work schedules are now organised to ensure that one of them remains at home with me, fearing that I'll try something 'stupid' if not supervised. Having worked at the same company as Linda, I sometimes wonder how this has been accommodated, as any of my own requests for amended working hours were denied without reason.

I answer my own wonderings by remembering how masterful Linda is at manipulation.

On rare occasions when they both need to go out, they strap me onto the dining table and affix the wand to me. They've provided a television as a substitute for themselves for when I need to be left unattended, leaving me listening and writhing around to whichever variety of pornography they select.

This grotesque idea was one of Toms. He'd suggested that visual and auditory stimuli would facilitate in making me orgasm. I refuse to acknowledge its effectiveness.

They've also entrusted a rubber ball gag to help quieten any noises I make. The thing is most uncomfortable to wear and causes me to slobber profusely.

Tom, on the most part, has taken to ignoring me wherever possible, a somewhat silent partner in my captivity, at least when it comes to conversing with me in any meaningful context.

Linda prefers it that he doesn't try to talk with me. Perhaps she viewed communication between us as the last shred of our marriage, and now that it's infinitesimal, she can put thoughts of any reconciliation out of her mind.

Words are exchanged between us, but they're usually limited to Tom berating me about something I've done to annoy or upset them or tormenting me in whatever sordid situation they decide to place me in.

Despite his elective mutism with me, Tom is always on hand to help Linda 'deal with me', without need of explanation. His perverse tutelage of her on how to manage me, also continues. When it comes to providing her with intimate details to aid her in gratifying me, Tom is practically a podcast.

Linda has willingly become the apprentice to his mastery in the art of conquering me.

Only a week ago, he orchestrated a situation in which he wanted Linda to hone her skills and prove her proficiency at 'getting me off' using only an electric toothbrush and her words.

She'd accepted the challenge and delighted in proving her competence to him.

For me it'd been a long, torturous hour of concentrated pleasure, ending with a much-contested orgasm.

The soundtrack to the event had been Tom's frequent comments of 'a mil to the left', and 'keep it there, you've got her just right'.

Linda had narrated by describing an imagined scenario to me as she'd worked. In her 'story' she'd described an audience, some thirty people, watching me orgasming, pretending like they were in the room as she'd tormented me. She'd emphasised the significance of using the toothbrush, even at one point asking what kind of depraved individual I am to allow such a thing to happen. It'd expediated the process dramatically.

Linda now knows most of my hidden fantasies and uses them to ensure that I can't stave off climaxing, making mention of little details at the most inopportune moments to weaken my defences.

Every orgasm that I fail to fight is another victory to her although by this point, I'm probably the only one still keeping track.

My once long list of secrets from her is dwindling. Tom is intent on divulging them all, even though they're no longer his to share.

Orgasm denial has become a weapon in their arsenal, and the way they inflict it is nothing short of cruel.

They use the most intense, high frequency vibrations to force me within an inch of cumming then switch everything off before I can obtain relief. Suffering five or six times rounds of this is unbearable for me. Making me suffer this way works well as another demonstration of control for them.

They've also recently expanded their horizons and begun to use penetration by objects as a further means of behaviour correction. Linda has made a habit of buying large dildoes for me, in a wide assortment of colours and styles. She particularly enjoys 'trying them out' on me.

Once a week or so, a boxful is delivered to the house, and she smiles as she opens and unpacks it, letting me see the biggest ones and telling me how 'lucky' I am to be looked after so well.

As she fucks me with them, she insists that Tom's cock feels much better than a rubber one, though I'll never be able to make the comparison. She seems fascinated by the notion of me 'imagining the dildos are Tom' as she gleefully thrusts them in and out of me.

Linda's most oppressive rule for me forbids me from masturbating. Ever.

She'd made a strong case to Tom, convincing him that because orgasms were to be used to 'keep me in line', they should be strictly limited to occasions deemed necessary by them. She furthered her argument by suggesting that allowing me to masturbate might delude me into thinking I still have some freedoms and might encourage me to 'become unruly'.

Through observation, Linda has realised that my watching her and Tom together seems to stimulate me. While this is ashamedly true, the matter is more complicated than she sets out.

I hate being forced to witness them as they fuck; it twists my insides up and makes me feel nauseated. At the same time, it has a drastic wetting effect on me, something I've not yet been able to make peace with. I'm constantly conflicted about my reaction.

I've spent a lot of time analysing the issue, wondering if I am some sort of pervert or whether anyone placed in the same situation would react in the same physical way as I do. I can't understand it and it's not something I can prevent.

Every time Linda checks on me after I've been subjected to one of their live sex shows, she seems to take my sodden thighs as a compliment, some sort of validation that I need to be kept with them. I'd give anything to have her not find me in this condition. It's mortifying. When it comes to the issue of my own masturbation, something so private, I abhor her interference.

I become internally conflicted when I'm left miserably frustrated on occasions when they've decided I'm to be denied an orgasm. Part of me is thankful for not having been coerced into an orgasm; the other hates them for the alternative.

Once or twice, and resenting every moment of it, I've waited until the dead of night, until I'm sure they're both asleep, and tried to slip my hands under the covers. I've made sure to bite down on my pillow to disguise any noises I might make as a result of fingering myself but both times have failed to complete the task.

Tom is an extremely light sleeper, and I've always been terrified by the thought of him waking to find me lost in a moment of frigging myself. Part of the fear is my uncertainty of what he'd do if he ever caught me indisposed like that, especially with Linda's restrictions on it. Would he wake her, or would he ignore it, and tell her in the morning? Would he drag me out of the bed and take me down to the dining table for reprimanding? I wouldn't like to find out.

Assurances were made about my wellbeing. Tom and Linda haven't defaulted on making sure that I'm adequately fed, and that I don't come to any 'physical harm' with them.

Everything else they'd promised carries various conditions, designed by Linda.

She'd pledged to keep me clothed, and while she's technically abided to her word; she chooses what I wear every day. My once acceptable attire has been replaced with ugly ensembles, never less than third hand, acquired from charity shops and jumble sales. Linda relishes the chance to truss me up in ugly, mismatched prints and unflattering fitting garments. She takes the opportunity to show off her selections to Tom, who couldn't look more repulsed by my appearance if he tried.

Linda, on the other hand, always dresses herself impeccably, ensuring that there's no likeness between us. She uses my repellence to ensure Tom could never find me desirable again.

I'm permitted to shower twice a week, but I'm never alone when I do. Any attempts I've made to groom myself, shaving my legs for example, have been forbidden. Linda is so insistent that I remain unappealing, and knowing Tom's newfound aversion to body hair, she's removed all my former means of hair removal from the house. She personally attends fortnightly salon appointments herself, and boasts when she returns, telling me all about her various waxes, and how much Tom will enjoy her silky smoothness when he next fucks her.

She can't help but remind me how much he bemoaned my not placing great importance on personal grooming and insists that he's far happier now he's with a woman who knows how to present herself. She delights in mocking my bristly legs, and now hair laden mound. If I ever rise to her ridiculing and request to be allowed to groom myself, she laughs and asks 'why I'm suddenly wanting to impress'.

I remain patient and bide my time in waiting for an opportunity to escape my current situation.

Both Tom and Linda are eagle eyed in making sure that any grand plans I may be harbouring are scuppered; they both have a lot to lose if I ever got loose. In the spirit of this, they lock the doors and are committed to knowing where I am in the house, at all times. I'm certain that their overbearingness will soon reduce, and I vow to be ready when it does.

"Are you finished with your food Gabrielle?" Linda asks me, snapping me back to reality, from the daydream I'd been having.

"What?" I say, startled by the question.

Tom casts an eye over. "That's not the way you answer when you're asked a question, Gabby," he scolds.

"Sorry," I say, not wanting to invoke any wrath and push them towards wanting to take me to the dining room.

"Pardon," I correct myself.

"Are you finished with your food?" she repeats, standing from her seat at the kitchen table.

"Yes," I say and feel Tom's eyes boring into me.

"Thank you," I add, for good measure.

"That's fine," she responds. "You can stay there for a few minutes while we do the washing up."

She picks up the plastic plate from in front of me and carries it over to the sink. Tom collects the remaining dishes.

They serve all my food on plastic plates now. I'd reacted angrily to an antagonising comment by one of them a couple of weeks ago and thrown my plate to the floor. They'd punished my outburst, and after discussing it, they'd insisted on me eating food from non-breakable plates from then on.

I sit at the table, half listening to them talking, half off in my own mind.

From what I manage to pick up, Tom is telling Linda about his day; something about one of his clients making an inappropriate comment about the size of his muscles in relation to other appendages. Linda is interested by what he's saying, and commends his response, citing the need to maintain professionalism. I internally scoff at the idea, recognising Linda's jealousy, a trait she earnestly tries to hide from Tom. I'm sure he's noticed it already; he dealt with my own jealousy for years, after all.

They work together to wash and dry the dishes, and once they're finished, they beckon for me to go into the living room, following a few steps behind.

As is customary now, they sit together on the sofa, and I take my new normal seat in the far corner of the room, on the floor. It's designed to show the hierarchy of the house and despite Linda's insistence that they're going to get me 'my own chair' soon, it hasn't yet materialised.

They talk between themselves quietly, laughing occasionally, keen to not include me.

After a few moments, Tom demands my attention. "Linda tells me you were awful to her this morning," he asserts, making it sound like a statement, actually meaning it as an invitation to explain.

I look at him blankly, not prepared to apologise.

This morning, he'd affixed me on the dining table before he'd left for work; in his own words 'allowing Linda to work from home for a while, without worrying about me'.

She'd come in to 'check on me' after about an hour and spent some time boasting about how Tom would be meeting her parents over the weekend. She'd delighted in explaining that this gesture was a sign of his commitment to her and that she was certain her mother would absolutely adore him. I'd immediately hoped for the opposite; enjoying the idea of my estranged husband being disliked by his new in-laws.

When Linda had suspiciously asked about my sudden smiling, I had smarmily suggested that maybe Tom's willingness to have an affair with her might influence her mother's verdict on him.

Linda had been shocked by my candour, and instead of accepting my valid criticism, flew off the handle. She'd angrily defended Tom's decision to be with her and listed the benefits that it brought him. She'd then insisted that I needed a round with the wand to sort my bad attitude out.

She'd used all the tools at her disposal to punish my verbal disonence. She'd utilised the clit clamp to pin back any shielding skin that might lessen the intensity of the wand's highest-level vibrations. Feeling this to be insufficient for my alleged rudeness, she'd impaled me with a dildo to worsen my morning.

Her assault had been slow and carefully thought out. At one point, she'd pressed the vibrator flush against my exposed clit and demanded I apologise to her. I'd squealed and protested as much as I could, but ultimately given in and screamed out a garbled apology to make her stop.