My Slut Wife Life Ch. 04

"Training Time"

I learned a lot following my decision to become my husband's slut wife. Or, more specifically, his sexual property.

The first thing I learned was that he didn't have a plan. At least, not one that was as fully developed as the one he'd followed over the weekend. He was unpredictable, scattered, whipsawing from kind and nurturing to kinky and torturous.

The second thing I learned was that it was probably for the best that he didn't have a plan. Because being trained on a random basis was far more exciting than knowing what was about to happen.

The third thing I learned was that he wasn't going to hold to the "sessions" concept he'd told me about in our first weekend. He was going to do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it, most of the time without a single bit of warning. And I could either go along, or give up on the whole experiment.

I learned all that within the first 48 hours.

It started with the words, "You're not going to wear that, are you?" Every wife has heard those words. What was unusual this time was that I wasn't the one saying them. He was. And even more unusual, he wasn't saying that about an outfit I was going to wear out of the house. He was commenting on my morning clothing selection, which I always wore in the brief time between my getting out of bed and my sitting down in my home office. Usually he would leave for work somewhere in that hour or so. Sometimes... once in a while... OK, never had he ever commented on my clothing choices. Yet this time, he did.

I looked down at myself, expecting to see some sort of horrible color combination that would cause the dead to rise and start a zombie apocalypse. Because, honestly, given his taste in clothing, that's the only reason he would have call to question my taste. But I was wearing what I always did in the summer when staying at home: shorts, sandals and a t-shirt. Sure, I had my bra and panties on, too, but nobody mentions those because they're a given, right? That's why they're called unmentionables.

"And a bra and panties," he added, as if I'd forgotten something crucial.

"Well, yeah," I replied, surprised only because he seemed to be treating it as some sort of admission of guilt.

Sigh. He actually sighed. "I gotta get to work. We'll talk about it tonight." And then he kissed me and left for work.

Yes, I stewed on it for most of the day. How could I not? it's like someone saying they bought you a present, showed you the wrapped box, then decided not to give it to you until next Christmas. Infuriating!

When he arrived home, I greeted him at the door. No, not like in the olden days, with a cocktail and the promise of a foot rub. And not like in the porn movies, with a blowjob in the doorway. More like with a kiss, a "how was your day," a "let me tell you about mine," and a "I'm thinking about (blank) for dinner, but we can always go out." It's a long-running joke. And sometimes, we actually do go out.

I held my peace (quite heroically, I must say) all through dinner, before finally asking, "About what you said this morning...?"

"Yes, I've been thinking about that," he said, in that tone that implied that he was surprised that I'd remembered about it at all. "If you're going to be my property, we're going to have to do something about how you're dressed."

This time I literally bit my tongue while I turned that over in my mind. My first thought, of course, was "how dare he?" Then I remembered the agreement I'd made, just 48 hours before. Then I realized that it sure sounded different in normal conversation, when it wasn't wrapped in the throes of lust and playacting. Then I realized that this point was destined to come, because we wouldn't always be wrapped in the throes of lust, and being his sex toy would happen whenever HE wanted it to, and not on any schedule that I set. THEN I realized that this whole conversation in my head was stupid, because the reason I said yes to his proposition was to avoid having to make these decisions about why things were happening and what I should do about them, and instead just go with the flow and do whatever he says.

Then I answered, "What did you have in mind?"

He raised an eyebrow.

I rephrased the question, "What do you want me to do?"

He raised both eyebrows and cocked his head.

I shook my head, confused.

"Sir, he prompted, his eyes starting to turn steely.

Damn! The sound of his hand upon my ass reverberated through my memory. I lurched for the save, "What did you have in mind, Sir?" I asked him meekly, putting on my most submissive look, though I had absolutely no idea what that should look like. Dropping to the floor and kissing his foot would've been a little too obvious.

He sighed dramatically, as if he was already tired of suffering fools. "Let's do it this way," he said, pausing as if he hadn't already figured this out ahead of time. "Why don't you go upstairs and lay out your ten sexiest outfits. When you're ready, call me up, and we'll see what we need to do from there."

I headed for the stairs, meekly (I hoped), my mind already cataloging what I'd be putting on the bed. The first five were easy. Two were outfits he'd asked me to buy: thigh high stockings held in place with an old-fashioned garter belt, topped with a cleavage baring bra. No panties. He likes the way the garters frame my bare pussy and ass. Next onto the bed was a red satin teddy, worn religiously during the Christmas holidays. He gets to unwrap me. Then a sheer white negligee, with matching white panties. A favorite for big busted women because it really accentuates our tits. To those I added a full body stocking that he bought me for my birthday one year. It takes about ten minutes to put on, one minute to take off, and has an open crotch in case you don't want to go to all that trouble. He loves it, though.

Then I was kind of at a loss. We've been past the sexy lingerie part of our marriage for a while. Prior to the last weekend, he would ask "Ya wanna?" I would respond "Yeah." And we'd take off whatever we had on. No need for sexy clothes to seduce him. Hearing him head up the stairs, I grabbed a few more items nearly at random: a short white robe, a black lace set of bra and panties, a sheer white blouse I'd worn once without a bra, my favorite bikini, and in a rush as he started to open the door, my little black dress.

I stood meekly to the side while he paced around the bed, contemplating my motley collection of sexy clothes. Then, using post-it notes, he marked each outfit with a number from one to 10. "I'm in the mood for a fashion show," he said brightly. "You're going to model each of these outfits, and I'm going to grade it, from zero stars to five stars. The more stars you get, the more spanks will be deducted from your punishment for forgetting who is in charge here. So, you 'could' get enough stars to skip the spanking altogether. Though," he frowned down at the bed, "you might want to get out your come-fuck-me shoes and any other tricks to get all the help you can."

He started me out with the white negligee. I can't really recall what was going through my mind as I stripped off my clothes in the closet and slipped into the panties and negligee. I'm sure part of me must've thought this was ludicrous, being ordered by your husband to model for him. And letting him take pictures of it, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do. And I'm sure another part of me was bemused. After all, he'd seen every part of me that a man could see without doing major surgery. That he'd get excited by seeing my body partially covered is kind of amusing. But I think the better part of me was excited. Being objectified is a turn on for me. I could see how some women would like being strippers and baring all for a bunch of leering strangers.

Wearing nothing but the white negligee, the matching panties and a pair of white heels, I scored three stars. Standing before him in that outfit, and the nine that followed, my pussy got wetter and wetter. My nipples got harder and harder. And my body got hornier and hornier. By the end of the show, the scent of my sex filled the room, and I was almost drunk with the need to have a cock deep, deep inside me.

Of all the outfits, the body stocking scored five stars, the garters four stars, and most everything else, three or below. After 22 slaps, my ass would be on fire. And after 22 slaps, it was. So you'd think that I'd be focusing on that. But, all I wanted was for him to fuck me.

He knew that, of course. Knew it and used it to tease and torture me. I stood at the side of the bed, dressed in the stockings, garter, bra and heels, and waited breathlessly for him to decide on the next step that would, hopefully, take us one step closer to having his dick in my cunt.

Do you doubt that? Are you unable to fathom a woman being as sexually desperate as a man? So worked up that she'll do literally anything in order to have her itch scratched? Some men, and women, think that's unwomanly. That such women are sluts or whores or whatever. But I can't be the only woman who ever feels that way, can I? So worked up that my clit is as hard as any cock might get? If I am, then lucky me.

He beckoned me over and slipped his fingers into my slit, roughly parting my mound and jamming his digits deep inside. He rolled them around and around while I cantered atop his hand, trying to grind myself down on a limb that just wouldn't hold still. When he pulled free, his hand was slick with my cunt juice. It streamed down his knuckles and filled the air with a tangy scent. I almost crumpled to the ground at the vacancy between my legs.

"What do you want slut?" he growled simply and aggressively. "And how bad do you want it?"

I knew he wanted me to beg for it. And I was ready to do just that. In fact, begging for it would make it even better. I wanted to be his. Be impaled by his thick cock. Speared. Toyed with. Dominated. Crushed down into a quivering shambles. Taken. Overwhelmed. Turned into nothing more than an animal with only one purpose: to receive and encase his manhood.

"Please sir," I begged, my voice a gasp and a supplication, "please fuck me however you want. Take me. Give it to me." That kind of talk always made me giggle when I heard it in porn movies. Now, though, I could only wonder if I was wheedling and begging enough. It was all I could do to not jump atop his body and hump his leg.

When he stood up I sank to my knees. Of their own volition my hands scrabbled at his belt and zipper. I had to force myself to slow down, so desperately did I want to release his cock from its prison. When it was finally free it swayed in front of my face, the head red and angry, a hard spear announcing its deadly intent to all the world. His balls were full and ominous, the sac contracted to outline the eggs that held his cum. How much would he be spraying inside and outside my body this night? But that was a question for later... much later, after he'd rammed himself into my hole, had made me weep and whimper from the sheer power of his control over me, had reamed my ass with a vehement rage and fucked my face until my lips were battered into bruised submission.

I took him into my mouth, eagerly, greedily. I took him deep inside, until that demonic head was scraping the back of my throat. I sucked his cock. Kissed it. Slurped on it and swaddled it. I licked his balls and, ducking down, licked his asshole, reveling in the dirtiness of the creature I'd become.

I'd never been so obsessed with it. So open and ready to do anything for it. I felt untethered from reality, outside my body watching my body do things no respectable woman would ever dream of. I was torn between laying back and offering my body to him like a sacrifice to a powerful god, and wrapping myself around his legs, worshipping his manhood like a religious supplicant in the throes of a vision.

His orders to me were harsh and abrupt, and I responded with the quickness of an army private. Up. Lean. Crouch. He quickly had me bent over the bed, my ass an offering and an invitation. There was no question of his needing to stand on tiptoes or contort his body to find a good position. I squatted and spread and twisted until my cunt was directly in front of his spear; I eagerly moved the target to ensure his easy and accurate penetration.

He proceeded to fuck me then, savagely and powerfully. Not making love. Not having sex. Fucking, an alpha male taking his beta female. He speared me, his hips not so much thrusting as punishing, his cock ravaging the inside of my cunt. He pulled free frequently, reveling in the power of splitting my hole open again and again and yet again, forcing himself into me, raping me like a bedraggled prize on the battlefield. And I welcomed it. Was greedy for it. Usually, I can only feel his cock near the outside of my pussy. This time, it felt like my entire hole was a bundle of nerves. It felt like I could feel every ridge in his rod, every throbbing vein, the bony hardness rasping over my sensitive pink parts.

We have a couple of tall mirrors on our closet doors. We'd watched ourselves fucking in them before, but always in the dark, or illuminated by candles. Now, in the harsh daylight, I looked over to see what it looked like to take such a savage fucking. Through the sweat stinging my eyes and the hair swaying in front of my face, I caught glimpses of a powerful man holding an animal in place as he viciously fucked it from behind, its teats slapping together wildly, its rump slammed by repeated blows, its head bent low in utter resignation to its fate.

That image stays with me to this day. I see it in my dreams and my nightmares. It's the motivation and blame for what I am today. That fuck, more than any that came before or since, summed up what I was, what I wanted, and what I could be. In that image I saw a person who'd given herself over completely to a powerful man. Not just in body, but in spirit.

After his initial onslaught of violent penetration, I lifted my head and began fucking him back. He held still while I rammed my ass back against his groin, spearing myself on his fuck stick. I writhed, I wriggled, I clenched, using every trick I knew to bring him as much pleasure as I could. I was the sex slave every man dreams of having, totally committed to his pleasure and willing to do anything to provide it.

Along the way, I came. I came, as my girlfriend would say, like a freaking freight train. Bouncing and shuddering and squealing, orgasms reverberating through my body like echoes in a cave. My pussy was on fire, my brain was aflame. No matter how much of his meat he crammed into me, I was always hungry for more.

He stopped slamming into me only twice. Once, when I sat atop him, impaled on him, he had me stop bouncing up and down on his dick so he could take a series of pictures of my cunt encasing his girth. I slowly inched my way down as the shutter snapped incessantly, impatient to get back to the job of giving his dick a handjob using the folds of my pussy.

The second time he squirted baby oil all over my tits and ordered me to give him a tit fuck. Squeezing my tits tightly together, I slid up and down his pole, greasing it up and rubbing it down, licking the angry head whenever it came near my lips. That oil had another purpose, I quickly came to realize. When his dick was slick with lube, he turned me over and crammed his cock into my ass. He didn't slip it in. Didn't nudge it in. He crammed it in, harshly stretching my anus and painfully stretching the ring of muscles almost to the breaking point. At least, it seemed that way to me. My vacant bowels had a new resident, and it was going to trash the place in its desperate search for ecstatic pleasure.

Once he had his dick in my ass, all interest in pictures was gone. He had only one purpose, only one focal point for all his lust and wrath and madness. He fucked me in the ass while I was bent over the bed. He fucked me in the ass while I kneeled on the bed. He took me in the ass while I lay on my back. He penetrated my ass while I lay on my side. He even leaned me upside down and mounted my ass from above, his fuck stick like a pile driver pounding into me, splitting my anus open, reaming my bowels, slamming his flesh into mine with as much violence as the spanking he'd given me that first night.

I took it all. Reveled in it, in fact. My mind was as focused as it had ever been, more focused even than the days that I'd given birth to my children. I was minutely aware of every stroke, every slap of flesh on flesh, every time a part of him got close to my clit, or his arm brushed my tit, or his cock left my ass. Every contact outside of the incessant pounding of his cock inside me set off sparkles of electric shocks throughout me. I orgasmed almost continuously, in that way that all women do when you're building up to a big one, where you're not getting enough to get pushed over the edge, you're there, almost there. At that point where your mind screams how can I get any closer without going off, and then you find there is another level, and another after that, each infinitesimally closer to the cliff, the point that's going to push you over, where a simple brush against your nipple or a stretching of your pussy is finally, finally going to release all that pent-up energy, and allow it to explode with a scream and a wave of spasms turning you into a virtual pool of jello, the pleasure reverberating from skull to curled toes like waves washing back and forth in a bathtub.

I don't know how long I stayed at that point. The mini-orgasms were leaving me weak. My body squealed for release in no uncertain terms. But an anal fuck, even one so enthusiastically delivered, just doesn't provide the kind of stimulation that I need to get off. And while I would normally rub my clit to get myself off, that was not permissible. Though it might have been. I just never thought to ask for permission. My mind was occupied with other matters.

It didn't help that as we changed positions, he would have me suck his cock in between to help get him back to full erection. I'd never been a big fan of ass-to-mouth. In fact, I thought it was unsanitary and dangerous. This night, all those fears were forgotten. I couldn't wait to gobble on his cock. If it tasted of anything, it tasted of oil and sweat. But I didn't really taste much of anything. I was too busy sucking its rigid shaft, licking the sac surrounding his balls and helping him fuck my face whenever the spirit moved him. And then trying to return to the precipice when he returned to violently violating my body with that wicked, wicked shaft.

It happened while I was laying on my back on the floor, my sweat-soaked body jack-knifed in half so that my anus was high enough and open enough for him to comfortably ream it. He'd made me suck him long enough that my gaping asshole had a chance to close a little, the muscles beginning to recover their tightness. When he'd returned to his quest of dominating me fully, I'd felt a familiar tension in my ass as his cock had to push through the ring. I don't know how many strokes it took, or long it took, but suddenly his cock had left my ass and was spurting stream after stream of lava hot jizz all over my pussy, spurt after spurt covering my raw pussy, like shots from a water gun.

When the boiling hot cum hit my clit it pushed me over the edge too. I came long and hard, a scream escaping my mouth before I even knew it had formed. My muscles contracted and contorted randomly, my toes curling painfully and my fingernails digging into my palms. I screamed again and again, wailing as the pent up pleasure released like a dam. If I'd had a cock, the cum would've blasted high enough to splatter the ceiling. As it was, my pussy spunk bubbled out, leaving a pool of tangy-smelling liquid smearing the floor.