My Slut Wife Life

Part 6

"First Use"

The Weekend When Everything Changed actually started on a Thursday. I remember this because I remember everything about the weekend. How it started. How it suddenly twisted into something different. And how the end of it turned out to be just the beginning.

In a few minutes, a bunch of other people will be learning the intimate details about the Weekend When Everything Changed. They won't have to listen to me tell it, trying to fill in all the details. They'll be seeing it, in full, living color, on a 60-inch TV in the middle of our family room. They'll be watching what happened to me on that weekend. And watching me as I watch. And when the show is over, another performance will surely begin. One in which I'm sexually used and abused by a group of people who had once been my friends, but are now my masters, mistresses and tormentors. A group of people who, according to my owner, will be so worked up by what they've seen that they'll want to recreate it. To put me in the same humiliating positions. To treat me with the same disregard for my personal wishes. To relieve their engorged cocks and pussies of the urgent need to orgasm, using my body and discomfort as the stimulation they need. The thought makes me tremble in trepidation. But, the thought also makes me hot.

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I remember that Thursday as being different in a lot of ways. For one thing, my owner hadn't used me for his perverted sexual pleasure for any of the five previous days. In fact, the last time he'd been inside me had been on the previous Saturday, when we'd made love, the old fashioned kind, with no orders or kinkiness or anything. I remember that it had left me feeling strangely underwhelmed. He came and I didn't come close. I remember feeling kind of like "is that all there is?"

Anyway, he hadn't ordered me to do anything perverted for four days. No blowjobs on the outside deck. No ass fucks in the kitchen. Not even an order to put on a lingerie show for him. Oddly, it had left me feeling a little adrift. After the intensity of the previous three months, I'd become a bit reliant on the adrenaline rush that I felt whenever he ordered me to debase myself for his pleasure. It was getting to be a huge turn-on. So much so that I couldn't orgasm without it.

I wondered, too, how he'd been able to contain the pent-up urges he should've been feeling. His doctor had given him those new, experimental pills that could not only keep him erect for hours at a time, but also kept him in a highly volatile state of sexual excitement. I'd discovered over the past few months that they also had the side effect of making him more aggressive, more sensitive to perceived slights, and less inhibited by society's rules. When he was on those pills, which was almost all the time, it was like living with a sexual time bomb that could go off at any point. And who better to assuage those urges than your live-in slut wife? Living on the edge like that gave me butterflies in my stomach. And kept me as wet between my legs as a cheap whore on a navy dock.

For those reasons and more, that Thursday began with a feeling of change in the air. I got finished with my work in record time, closing the door to my home office by noon. Around one o'clock I received a text from my owner/husband: "Holiday tmrw. Leaving early today." That was to be expected. Almost all of corporate America leaves early on the day before a three-day holiday weekend. And his office was more liberal about it than most.

Despite reminding myself that I wasn't a new bride who was addicted to the touch of her new husband, I almost danced around in rapt expectation as I waited for the next message, the one I imagined would come soon. That I was actually hoping, nay, praying, that he would come home and do nasty things to me would've been shocking just a few months earlier. Now, though, it was a treat to me as anticipated as a day at the spa, or finding a gorgeous dress on sale.

I'm certain he made me wait on purpose, playing another of the many mind games he uses to keep me enthralled and compliant. I know I'm being played, but it still works. The sound of my phone announced the arrival of another message: "Get ready." That was it. What I'd been waiting for. Those two words sent me into a frenzy of activity. First, a shower. I'd done that in the morning, but this would be more thorough. Every crevice, every crack scrubbed and scoured. Hair washed and perfumed. Asshole reamed clean. Pussy cleansed inside and out. A shaving of the legs, armpits and anywhere else a stray hair might want to grow. A thorough inspection of my pussy patch, shaved to a mere half-inch wide strip that narrowed to arrows on each end. I actually inspected it twice, because he would brutally rip out any stray hairs outside that area with enough force to bring tears to my eyes. And then spank me harshly for the transgression. It was a punishment for pain's sake, not pleasurable at all. So it was worth the extra effort.

His next message came as I stood in the bathroom after the shower, my skin burning brightly from the incessant scrubbing, my pussy tingling in anticipation. "Box 32," was all it read, though it held a world of meaning for me. I walked nude into the adjoining closet. One whole wall is covered in small cubicles, each filled with a shoebox. Each shoebox is numbered. Inside each shoebox is a pre-assembled sex outfit, usually lingerie, stockings and sometimes shoes. We'd spent the last few months putting these together to suit any mood he might have. Much easier than his trying to describe what he wanted me to wear over the phone. And yet another reminder that I was his property, to be dressed however he wanted.

This box contained a black leather teddy, with three significant attributes: it was cupless at the top, so my tits would be in full view; it zipped all the way down the front, so he could expose as much of my front as he wanted, ending with holes at the bottom, exposing my mound and asshole; and it was held in place with just straps across the back, so I was almost completely exposed back there. In addition to a pair of black fishnet stockings, the box also held three pieces of paper. The first indicated that I was to wear a pair of black knee-high boots with tall stiletto heels we'd recently purchased. The second indicated that I was to wear a certain black dog collar, with the tag that read "Bitch" on it. Nothing too unexpected. It was the third paper that got my attention. He'd clearly added it recently. Because on the third, it said that 30 minutes before his estimated time of arrival, I was to locate the butt plug with the black tail on it, and then insert it into my ass, leaving it there until he told me to remove it. Just reading the note got me horny. There were so many things he could do with a well-stretched anus. So many nasty, manly, ugly things.

I prepared for the upcoming adventure with the care and attention to detail that other wives might give to creating a gourmet meal. The house was perfectly clean. An easy-to-make and eat meal was ready in the refrigerator. And in the teddy, stockings and boots, with my breasts jutting out and the nipples lightly powdered, I looked just like a call girl. A very high-priced call girl.

I'd just finished wiggling the butt plug into my anus and checking to make sure the tail hairs weren't snarled when I heard a knock on the door from the garage. Was my owner home early? My nipples tingled at the thought. But why would he be knocking? I admonished myself to stop asking questions and just let it all happen. It's much more enjoyable that way.

When I opened the door, expecting to see my owner, I was met instead by another, older, more worn face. Hans. I tried to keep my disappointment out of my expression, as Hans often makes "suggestions" to my owner that usually end up being extra humiliating and painful to me. I needn't have worried. Hans' gaze was fixated on my exposed boobs, the black leather below it, and the mounds of my pussy peeking out from the leather between my legs. His eyes never strayed up past my neckline. Without a word to him, I turned around and headed back into the kitchen, giving him a good look at the butt plug and tail trailing behind me. "Looks like he's finally started treating you like the bitch you are," he called after me, lugging his camera equipment through the door. I resisted the urge to stick out my tail-adorned ass at him. It would've proved his point.

Clearly, Hans' appearance meant that my owner wanted to record part or all of the evening's proceedings. Fine. I could deal with that. Just closing my eyes took care of most of it. My problem with Hans was that he insisted on sharing "great" ideas with my owner, usually about how he can better train, use or punish me. Hans has been taking pictures of dominant/submissive couples for a long time. He's seen a lot. Much of it more intense than I had been ready to do right away. Or ever. At first, my owner had given in a lot and done what Hans suggested. Lately, though, he'd been refusing those suggestions. My hope was that we'd be without Hans soon. Not soon enough, though.

My other problem with Hans was a deal that my husband had made with him a couple months earlier. In exchange for recording our activities, I was to give Hans a blowjob. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Hans would be the first person to get a blowjob from me other than my husband since I got married. That's right. No cheating, so far, for this newly activated whore. And if I'd been given the choice of all the people on this earth that I'd like to service, Hans wouldn't make the list. Giving Hans a blowjob would likely be a harsh, brutal and ultimately painful act, filled with many tears from me and many perverted orders from him. And surely ending with him spraying his jizz all over my face and tits, and probably making me scoop it all up and lick it off my fingers. Something I normally don't mind. But not for a man like Hans.

But if my owner's intentions were to make me pay off Hans with his blowjob, would he have made me get all dressed up for it? My gut told me otherwise. Hans would be getting his blowjob as a throwaway gesture, not as part of the main event. My owner would be saving that for himself.

While I worried, I busied myself at the kitchen sink. Not to accomplish anything, but because my owner has a thing for half-dressed women in the kitchen. Seeing me there, my tits exposed, my ass freshly scrubbed with a butt plug tail protruding, was likely to get his heart racing. Ultimately, I hoped, pumping more blood to his cock.

Off to one side, Hans was already filming, no doubt zooming in on my erect nipples or the contrast between my ass and the leather. The usual cheesy pornographic shots. Which is why he caught my delighted teen-like reaction when the door to the garage opened and slammed shut, and my owner/husband strode into the room. Pausing only a moment to caress my ass, he left to drop his briefcase in the office. Then, returning to the kitchen, he perched upon the bar stool near the breakfast bar, leered darkly and ordered, "C'mere you."

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"C'mere you." Watching the slut on the screen eagerly run to that man wasn't like watching myself on the screen. I'd done that often enough. Usually it was a private viewing, held by my owner to humiliate me by showing just how slutty and uninhibited I'd acted during a recent adventure. Or to embarrass me by pointing out how I looked with a creampie in my cunt. Or just to relive a particularly intense session. Just me and him and whoever might be online if he'd invited someone else to watch.

Now, though, I was watching in the company of a bunch of people. Friends who'd become like strangers to me. Evil strangers. People who had once cared for me as a person, but now only cared for the sexual and psychological pleasure I could bring them. There was Jimmy, my owner's best friend. Martha, sitting obediently at her husband Sean's feet, once my best girl friend but now dedicated to tormenting me. And Krista and Jason Davis, long-time friends from the days our children went to school together and now eager participants and observers in my training. All watching the slut on the screen respond to a abrupt request by happily traipsing across the room and plopping herself with relish upon the man's lap, facing him and obligingly lifting her breasts so he could more easily suckle on them. And doing it all with so much joy that it couldn't be acting; she truly had to be that happy to offer her body to him. The audience was primed to see the Weekend That Changed Everything. But first they'd get to enjoy What Came Before.

Up on the screen, a slutty brunette with big tits, a black teddy, thigh-high boots and a tail sat astride a man dressed in blue jeans and a casual business shirt. Despite the tail protruding from her ass, she was grinding her cunt back and forth across his crotch, clearly trying to speed his erection and masturbate along the way. At the same time, she lifted her tits up to his chin level, offering her flesh for his licking, sucking or biting pleasure. Grinning evilly, he accepted the offering, cramming as much of her tit meat into his mouth as possible, stuffing it in so deeply that his lips stretched back and his teeth gleamed white against her skin. Unsatisfied, he used his tongue to lick the length and breadth of each boob, leaving wet trails that often crested on each hard nipple, which were teased and tortured with the rasping flat of that tongue, until the attached body squirmed and squealed in blissful pleasure.

She arched her back, enjoying his attention, pressing her body against his, curling her limbs around his trunk, worshipfully kissing any inch of skin that came within contact of her lips. He let her grind upon him, relishing her sensual movements, inhaling her lust and ingesting her passion. She writhed like a snake upon him, massaging his chest with her tits, rubbing herself up and down him like an animal rutting against a stump, oblivious to everything but the primal urges coursing through her.

He reached between her legs, finding her mound first, then parting the lips with one large finger, hooking it inside her and tugging her cunt back and forth. She moaned, a cry that was both desperate and despairing, as if she wanted more but couldn't find the words to beg for it. He grinned and chuckled, rubbing her cunt more and more furiously, as if he could set it aflame through friction alone. Her tits bounced and shook, fleshy flags waving and snapping as the body beneath the heaved in reply. Beads of sweat broke out upon her forehead, and she thrust her tits up and out as she rode upon his prodding fingers, completely oblivious to the camera, the cameraman, or any surroundings.

Just as her cries were reaching a crescendo, when it was clear that her tensed muscles were about to let loose, he pulled his finger from her cunt and thrust it brutally into her mouth. Her muted mewls of pleasure turned to whimpers as she realized that her orgasm had been delayed, postponed or possibly cancelled. Gasping, she sucked her own juices off his fingers, eyes alternating between a hateful glare and a desperate begging.

Unmoved, he turned to other pursuits, grabbing each of her breasts in his calloused hands and squeezing tightly, pressing until her flesh pushed out from between his fingers. Savagely, cruelly he clenched his fingers, then pulled and twisted her tits like a hound worrying at a ragged toy. She gasped at the sharp pain, and now, instead of pushing herself at him, she tried desperately to pull away. But there was no pulling away, as he held her in place with her breasts alone, dragging her towards him even as she twisted in the other direction.

He pulled her against him and leaned in, whispering something in her ear that not even the camera's sensitive mike could pick up, "This is only a fraction of the pain your whore tits will feel tonight. This is your punishment for being so slutty all those years, wearing bikinis and tank tops so that other men would look at you and get hard-ons. Now you will pay, you filthy slut!" His voice grated in her ear. He didn't even sound like himself. He sounded like the devil himself had taken over his body. She quailed at the tone. He would make good on his promise, she felt sure.

With a sudden movement of his legs he dumped her onto the floor. Though surprised, and with the threat still echoing in her brain, she managed to twist into a kneeling position, the butt plug now painfully pinned in her anus. He lifted one foot imperiously and she recognized the gesture. In less than a minute she had removed both his shoes and socks, and pressed her body and face flat against the floor as she strove to cover each foot in a bounty of kisses and licks.

The camera followed her down and she could feel its great eye upon her, memorizing the moment when she left all humanity behind and became no more than an animal begging for affection from its owner. As if to drive home that thought, his next order came, "For tonight, you will call me Master, and I will call you bitch." Master, master, master, master she repeated to herself, trying to drive home the memory while licking the dirty and scum and sweat from his sacred feet. He is not Sir. He is Master. She forced her mind to remember. She'd surely be punished if she didn't.

A tug on the hair told her to rise, and a tug on the teddy's zipper revealed the rest of her, like the flesh of a lobster released from its shell. He fondled her tits some more and fingered her cunt, as if considering what to do with her. At a curt syllable from him, she moved into Stand for Inspection, her tits thrust out and her hands laced behind her head. She didn't look resigned about what was to come. Instead, she looked eager for it, her hard, erect nipples lending truth to the notion.

"Strip off those filthy, cum-stained clothes," he said harshly, flicking the teddy distastefully with his fingers. "I'm sure you've leaked your nasty juices all over the crotch. Take off the boots, too. Then crawl like a bitch into the living room, swinging your ass like the dog you are."

She removed the teddy and then the boots, aware the whole time that her movements were causing her legs to open and her pussy to stretch and rub. Each movement aggravated the pinching of the butt plug within her anus, causing her to wince and whimper. She was aware, too, that the cameraman thought her predicament to be very amusing, and he filmed every contortion and grimace with a sense of satisfaction. As she crawled across the hard wood floor, knees painfully aware of every crack and crevice, she wiggled her hips and ass so that the tail bounced and swayed in a tantalizing rhythm. It wouldn't be long, she knew, before another kind of stem would be plugging her butt. The kind that moved, reamed, and might ultimately leave a load of sticky cum coating her bowels.

In the living room she stood before him, completely vulnerable in her nudity and obedience, as he began to prepare her for the night's activities. First he slipped leather wrist braces onto her, locking them onto her with a small lock. Next, the same braces were locked onto her ankles. Both wrist and ankles braces had a number sturdy metal rings and clips attached to them. Using these, he snapped her wrists together and, using a rope from a bag nearby, tied her hands high over her head, attaching the rope to an eye screw embedded into one of the wooden beams. A screw she'd never noticed before. Next, tying a rope through the rings on each ankle, he ran the rope through two eye rings attached to the baseboard on either side of the room. These too were new.

After a couple of adjustments, she was effectively bound in place, kept from moving her feet closer together than shoulder width, and kept from toppling to the ground by the bonds holding her arms straight up to the ceiling. She'd been bound by him before, of course. In her first week as a slut wife, he'd tied her to the outside deck. But this was new. Her face shifted from curious to distraught and back again, unsure whether she would like what was going to happen next. Her Master had no such qualms.