Victims of the Revolution

John laughed once, a quick bark, as he locked the door to my room that night.

The weeks passed painfully, emptily. I became locked into my routine, thoughtlessly completing task after task in the dull habit of repetition. I tried to think of Allison as I had always known her...a smart, confident, beautiful creature whose features softened with her devotion for me. Instead, all I could see was that tiny creature reaching up to service the needs of the massive brute above her. At night, I cried.

I thought a lot about what she had said. I wondered what was going on...was he releasing himself on her face, or worse, in her mouth? Was she now providing blowjobs on demand for her new master? What skills had he required that she learn?

Did they cuddle at night?

It was too much to stand, and so I pushed it away and tried to focus on making the most of this new life.

That is, until the great oaken doors again opened, and Micheal and my wife began spending time around the rest of the house.

Micheal seemed never to need to work. He spent his time swimming, watching movies, reading books, and talking on the phone with important people. He entertained guests often, but during the day he was rarely fully clothed. His large, hairy frame could be seen moving from place to place, followed directly by the small form of a shapely woman. She had long hair, wonderful breasts, a submissive demeanor, and a seductive figure.

She was my wife.

When he swam, she lay on a towel and watched. Under orders, she watched him, and nothing else. When I would walk by to deliver towels or drinks, she wouldn't take her eyes off him to even look at me. She wasn't allowed to. Her bikini was a tiny thing, but it was more than he wore. He swam nude, and afterwards she would towel him off gently. He liked her to be very thorough at this, and it would often lead to other needs arising.

When he talked on the phone, she sat on the arm of the chair or knelt at his feet. If he had clothes on, he liked her to arch her back and wait patiently. Sometimes he would reach up and feel a breast as he talked. If he were nude, he liked her to kneel between his legs and keep her vision locked on his member. Her true master.

Important, longer calls were often taken in his office, so that she could move beneath the large desk and assist him if he wished. He hated to have to wait until the call was over.

When he went into the restroom, she always followed him in. I never knew why, or dared to guess.

When they weren't in the swimming area, my wife was usually partially clad. This might involve lingerie, a silk nighty, or attractive underwear. She always had lipstick on, and looked fit and well-groomed. I only occasionally had to see her please him.

It was a heartbreaking thing to see. If I'd had to see it often, I might have gone mad. Micheal made no amends about taking his pleasure where it struck him, and once even gave me a long, drawn out list of orders while my wife's head bobbed in his lap. The slurping sounds served as a backdrop to the commanding of my chores for the day. He smoked a cigar, rambled off the list, and gripped the back of her head. He finally let me go when she began lavishing wet kisses upon his massive testicles.

His pleasure became more complicated, too. He expected, and got, more. He liked to finger her pussy and make her lick the juice off his fingers. He always came in her mouth. Always. It never stopped making me nauseous to think about.

It was a sight to see, the pair of them. Micheal stood at least fourteen inches taller than her, and outweighed her by a tremendous amount. He was muscled, but not fit and with that thick gut hanging over her when she knelt. He was covered in hair. His manhood dangled thick when it was soft, and looked grotesque and massive when engorged. She learned well how to deep throat it.

When guests came over, Micheal would dress up and clean up. Allison was relegated to lingerie, and would follow him around the house being commented upon and occasionally groped by important people. At one party I was serving drinks, and I saw an old wrinkled man talking in depth with Micheal about some business deal. After some discussion, he pointed to my wife. Micheal shrugged, nodded, and patted her ass.

To my amazement, the old man walked away from the part and up the stairs. My wife followed meekly behind, eyes to the floor, her ass almost visible in the short silk dress. He could easily have been her grandfather. They returned twenty minutes later and Micheal made a lot of money later that week.

Worst of all was when Micheal would be gone and I would see my wife dutifully following the lackey, John, around the house. I don't know why she was made to do this or what she did beyond follow him, but he spent long periods of time in his offices when she was with him. I thought of his creased, greasy face and slimy smile and wanted to kill him.

Don't think that this just all happened, either. The situation grew like a weed, slow but certain. The more agonizing experience I had with her servitude of my former friend, the more depressed and angry I became. It grew slowly, with each day bringing some new nightmarishly erotic adventure. I tried to find excuses to be near them, but Allie was not allowed to speak to me. Not allowed even to look at me.

Micheal rarely spoke to me, but occasionally he would offer a friendly hello as I waited on him and cleaned his house. I didn't mind not talking to him...it was hard to have him speaking to you as you knelt there, with his veiny cock limp before you.

His older sister visited once, bringing her daughter. The fat brat was a tyrant at the age of 16, and was delighted to hear that Allison and I were husband and wife.

"Oh, that's so awful Uncle Mike!" She laughed. "Do you, like, fuck her a lot?"

He shook his head. My wife knelt at his side. "They were my friends, before they were slaves, and I do not require that of her."

She scoffed. "Then why keep her?"

"She assists my needs in more..." he reached down and slid two fingers completely into my wife's mouth. She sucked at them. "...enjoyable ways."

The girls' eyes went wide. "Does she do girls, too?"

Mike laughed. "She hasn't yet, but I've had her studying. Why don't you go give her a try?"

From where I stood, I could see Allie's eyes widen in fear.

"Aw, hell yeah!" The girl jumped up and walked over to Allie. "Hey, bitch!" She gripped my wife's hair and yanked her head back, so that she was looking up at her. She put one leg up on the chair and pumped her thick, disgusting hips suggestively at my wife's face. "Ready to eat some pussy?" She slapped her, once, hard. "Huh? Ready to get your face rode?" He traced one chubby thumb across my wife's lips. "Aw, yeah, you are. Don't worry...if'n you ain't too good we got all night to get it right."

Micheal chuckled again, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "She learns fast. But take all night, anyway. She's thorough, Tanya. Let her be." He winked.

She grinned, standing there with my wife's hair in one hand and her fat hips directly in my wife's face.

"Don't hurt her, though, Tanya," he warned sternly. "Nothing too painful or long-lasting."

"Uncle Mike!"

"Your mother told me all about the games you play with slaves. That's not to happen with mine."

She pouted, then shrugged. "Whatever. Let's go, bitch, you've got a whole lotta body to taste!"

I stared, the last of my will leaving me, as this fat teenager stomped up the massive staircase with my meek wife in tow. I was for some reason struck by how small my wife's face looked, contrasted with the ass swaying before it. I hoped she would be alright.

"Slave," a voice said from behind. I turned to face Micheal, fearing I was in trouble for not attending to my duties.

"Master," I offered.

He smiled. "Come, sit with me. Let's talk."

"Are you okay?"

I could have laughed, he sounded so sincere. He watched me a moment, looking surprisingly tired and pained. I didn't answer.

"I suppose not," he leaned back. "I really did mean for this to help you. To save you, Peter." He sighed.

"I never get to talk to her," I whispered.

"I know."

"I love her."

He looked at his hands. "I know."

"Do you?"

He looked up. "Love her? No. No, I suppose not. But this isn't about love."

"You can say that again."

He watched me for a moment, earnest concern becoming calculating thoughtfulness. "Maybe I should give you two the weekend. Would that be fair?"

My heart quickened. "I would like that."

He nodded. "Yes, that seems fair to me. Tomorrow is Friday. She will be delivered to you, and you will both have the weekend off. Feel free to use my television room...the one closest to your quarters. The kitchen as well. Consider it a vacation."

"Thank you, sir." I somehow felt that I should not have to say such a thing to him. Upstairs, I suspected, my wife was hard at work.

The "vacation" was not all I had hoped it would be. Allison wanted nothing more than to avoid physical contact, beyond hugging or cuddling, and there seemed to be virtually nothing to talk about. We watched TV, wrapped up in a blanket together, and slept facing away from each other. She must have known this hurt me, for she apologized, but she explained that after weeks of forced sexuality and sleeping in the arms of a fat hairy man who used her, to be able to feel like a human rather than an attachment was glorious. We made love once, but that was all.

On the final day, we got up and had oatmeal for breakfast. Slaves always ate oatmeal for breakfast. Then, as we started to move towards the door for our daily walk, Micheal entered the room. He wore boxers and a robe, which was open and trailing him like a cape.

"Good morning," he smiled. "I hope you two have enjoyed this time. I'm afraid I have need for Allison, and we will have to cut this vacation short. We will do it again sometime, though, I think."

"That's not fair!" I shouted. "We still have one day!"

He froze, tilting his head, and his face turned red. "Excuse me, slave?"

I would not stand down. Not on this matter. "You promised a weekend. We have one day. I want to go for a walk with my WIFE, Micheal."

He turned to Allison, her gaze had gone instinctively to the ground. "And what do you think, my pet? Do you think I am being unfair?"

She lifted her head only enough to glance at me, and then at him. She nodded softly.

Micheal's hand suddenly swept the countertop, smashing the flower vase that sat atop it and sending glass sprawling across the floor. "Then I can see that once again, I have made a mistake! I told you once that I did not do favors for ungrateful slaves. Now I see that ungrateful is exactly what you are. So the favors end now." He snapped his fingers, and Allison rushed to him. She started to kneel, but he wrapped one hand about her throat and pulled her face to his. He looked into her eyes.

"Do you remember C.J., Allison?" She barely moved, but let out a breathy sound that could only mean fear.

"Who is C.J.?" I asked. Micheal looked at me with contempt.

"C.J. is a friend of mine. A friend who is a bit more demanding and perhaps a bit more," he grinned, a sadistic sneer, "playful with his pets. A friend who thinks I am too gentle with my own." His gaze went back to Allison. "From this day forward, I agree with him."

All color left Allison's face. She shook her head as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Goddamn it, Micheal. You need to cut this shit out now!" I started for him. John the lackey must have been behind me the whole time with a stunner, because something caught me between the shoulder blades and for a brief moment, all I knew was pain. Then I knew nothing at all.

I awoke in my quarters, muscles aching and a small burn in the middle of my back. An alarm was beeping. It had been nearly 24 hours, and I was being summoned for my chores.

I was told that I was to clean the kitchen, first. Apparently, there was some broken glass waiting to be taken care of. I knelt there, sore and unable to fully clear my head, collecting the fragments off the tile. Halfway through the cleaning, my wife walked in.

I looked up as she opened the fridge. She was naked except for a pair of bikini briefs. She quietly took out all the ingredients to the tri-meat sandwiches Micheal loved. She didn't look at me.

"Allison," I whispered. She ignored me.

"Allie!"

She sighed, and shook her head.

I wanted to cry. "Please," I whispered.

She looked over at me, at last, and tears welled up.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She watched me for a moment. Love, pain, yearning, and then, surprisingly a heated anger that seemed directed at me. Her face finally settled into a hurt contempt that left me terrified. She quietly picked up a pen and wrote on a napkin before continuing to make her master's lunch. When the sandwich was ready, she silently dropped the napkin next to me and left. Tears streaked her cheeks.

I picked up the napkin, and started to cry. It grew on me, coming in sobbing waves, until I could hardly breathe.

It said: "New rules. I am a sex slave. No part of me is safe. You are being sold."

Underneath, she had written in rushed and angry letters: "At least he never fucked you."