My Slut Wife Life

Chapter 5

"Recorded for Posterity"

Picture this: You see a woman, of medium build, laying along the length of a sofa. Her brunette hair comes down just past her shoulders, though because her head is propped up on the armrest, some of it flows down the side of the sofa. One leg rests high along the top of the back, the other is stretched wide in the other direction.

You can tell she's a large-breasted woman because her breasts are completely exposed. In fact, her whole body is naked. Her big tits lean a little to each side, not because they're old or saggy, but because they're natural, not implants, and that's how natural breasts react to gravity. As your gaze travels down her flat stomach, you encounter a thin strip of hair, her pussy patch precisely trimmed to a line no more than a half-inch in width. It points directly to her slit, like the demarcation between left and right, east and west, right and wrong. Right now that slit is closed, despite the fact that her legs are spread so far apart. The skin around her mound is hairless, soft, and supple.

Two pairs of eyes gaze upon her. The first set has seen this all before, yet those eyes still hold a spark of interest and electricity. He has seen her like this before, but at the same time is seeing her like this for the first time. The second set of eyes has a hungry, predatory look to them. He, too, has seen a woman in this position many times, but not this woman. This woman is something new to him, and as such is something to savored, to be drunk in large gulps as well as small sips, a treat to his palate.

There are innumerable other eyes, too, the woman realizes. For the second man carries a camera, and who can know what eyes will be exposed to her dreadful exposure. He is contracted to keep a lock on the photographs, to destroy any duplicates. But can you honestly trust the word of a man who does this for a living? It was not, and is not, her decision to make, so she discards the thought to reflect on other, more pressing concerns.

She struggles to keep her right leg still as the camera records her naked body. It is not concerned with the beauty of her eyes, or the silkiness of her hair, or even her well-toned legs. Rather, it focuses on her most blatant sexual characteristics. Her breasts, awaiting the rough touch of a man in lust. Her slit, wet, warm and ready to receive any appendage a man might deign to offer her. Her mouth, prepared to stimulate and milk the next penetration of manhood, lips tight, tongue twisting, throat tightening. Is that to happen this day? She has no way of knowing.

The examination by camera becomes more deliberate, more intimate. On orders from one she reaches down and spreads her pussy lips apart, while the other records the steamy pink canyon that's been exposed. She holds not the folds of her pussy, where her fingers might obscure a view of her intimate interior, but rather the base on each side of her mound, opening her hole from the bottom. At another order she shifts her fingers so she can flick her fingernail against her clit, urging it to engorge, though that's hardly necessary. It's already hard and trembling, a fact that is revealed with the next order, which forces her to pull back the hood of skin over her clit so the camera can capture even that raw nugget of flesh.

She's long past the point where she cares what facial expressions the camera might capture. She moans and closes her eyes whenever she's stimulated, grimaces when the demands strike her as to perverse, flashes anger when a comment from her tormentors cuts to the quick. It's better, she thinks, than those vacuous women staring up with vacant eyes in all those pictures on the web. Reality has emotions.

She watches as one stands above her, a bottle of baby oil in his hands. He tips it and she follows the stream down, closing her eyes only at the last moment, when the viscous liquid splashes against her waiting tits, oozing down the mounds and pooling in the middle of her chest. For a moment she fantasizes that its syrup, then whipped cream, then cum. She returns to reality when a pair of hands begin smoothing the oil around and across her breasts, tugging and twisting and kneading and swirling. The friction warms the oil which in turn warms her flesh, and she imagines for a moment that her tits might spring into flame. Then the rubbing concentrates on the nipples -- always the nipples -- and the warmth stabs like lightning through her body and into her pussy.

A whispered conversation to which she is not invited. And then the order comes to pull her legs straight back, exposing both her ass and her pussy. A finger rubs the rim, the camera catching all. Then penetration, not painful, not unexpected. She'd been fucked, anally, that very morning, her bowels liberally coated with a sheen of fresh sperm. Her muscles had regained much of their usual tightness, but not all, and the elasticity allowed the finger to easily violate her asshole. It moved in, moved out, moved in, moved out, then another finger joined it, stretching her even more, but nowhere near the limit she could go. Not even as much as she'd reached in the morning, with a hard cock pounding into her butt.

Despite the recent stimulation, she still writhed and squirmed atop the fingers, her body willing them to go deeper, deeper, with more force and greater malevolence. Was there no depravity that she would resist?

Another whispered conversation and she was upright on the sofa, her legs spread, her pussy exposed, her ass hanging almost off the front of the cushions. More oil dripped onto her pussy lips. Then his hand, also slick with oil, penetrates her pussy lips, presses into her cunt hole. One finger, then two, three, four, the thumb folds into the palm. A slight twist which elicits a sharp grunt from her, and with an audible "thwock" his fist is deeply ensconced inside her pussy. She can feel his fingers wiggling around inside her. He slowly pulls his hand outwards, stretching her cunt hole in a way that's uncomfortable yet extremely erotic. She's fascinated by the image before her, the skin bulging out, clinging to his fist, like the way the earth's crust bulges just before an eruption.

Then, just as deliberately, he pushes his fist fully inside her cunt, the hair on his wrists scraping against her sensitive skin. She can feel his knuckles reach the back wall of her void. Knowing that he has invaded her so completely fills her with lust and shame. It's one of those moments when she is truly nothing more than his fuck toy; when he's doing nothing more than reacting to his sick and twisted urges. In response, she pushes away the hurt and humiliation, and lets his carnal appetite overwhelm her, drinking in his perversions and trying to enjoy it as her own. She gives in to her most base desires. She is the fully and completely the sex toy that he wants her to be.

His fist is in her for mere minutes, though it seems like hours. He has palpated her from the inside. He found her g-spot and made her writhe upon his hand like an insect stuck on the end of a needle. She moans with every movement within her, and he revels in his ability to get such a reaction from her.

She holds her legs up with one arm. With the other she clutches the back of the sofa. She feels denim brush against her hand there. Again. And again. The photographer is rubbing his crotch against her hand, without a break in the filming of her depraved fisting. She stretches her fingers out and feels the erection within. It's wrong to touch another man's cock this way, but she finds momentary delight in the illicit feeling. Besides, in four weeks she'll be entertaining this cock in her mouth and who knows where else. It's a small move from a blow job to a tit fuck. And who knew what kind of service this man would do for the privilege of fucking her cunt?

Then, with a swiftness that's almost shocking, he withdraws the hand, leaving her gasping at the sudden void. Her bladder is suddenly ready to give way; it's only with supreme effort that she keeps from letting out a stream of warm piss. It occurs to her that they would love to see her do just that.

The camera swoops in, the auto-focus light bathing her crotch in red light. Though the clicking sound is turned off, she knows that the photographer is taking dozens, if not hundreds of shots of her freshly fisted cunt. How big must the gape be of a woman just fist fucked? She can't see for herself, the angle is wrong, though she can sort of see her image reflected in the camera lens, weirdly distorted and horribly disfigured. She can only hope she doesn't look that bad.

Her husband, her owner, her keeper, looks down at her with a graphic leer. She has never felt so completely debased in his presence, though she knows from her travels on the internet that there are many levels below this that a woman can be forced into. Her emotions are at war, with one part mortified at how she's being photographed and recorded, yet another part experiencing a keen-edged thrill at being so out of control of her actions. She can do no wrong because she has no control.

At a two-word order she holds her legs tight to her chest, exposing her ass in the process. With an erection so stiff it appears to be steel, her owner steps up and sinks his shaft into her waiting anus. Well-lubricated from the spillover from the fisting, there's only a moment's resistance before the head of his cock crowns through her anal ring. He fucks her, slow and steady, pressing her hard into the sofa cushions, seemingly without a care for her physical comfort. After several minutes of this constant rhythm, he suddenly withdraws, his throbbing cock slick with oil and her internal juices. She's sure he will climb up on the cushions and make her lick them off. It seems like another good way to humiliate her and in the past she has been adamant about not engaging in ass-to-mouth. His face shows a knowing smile, as if he's guessed her thoughts and is weighing the benefits of forcing her to do the very thing she has been so against. Instead, he turns back and enters her slack pussy.

She knows she hasn't regained the tightness that normally welcomes him. She can barely feel his dick in her at all. He solves this by pushing her onto her side and fucking the hole that's now pinched between her legs. This, this is a position she's never experienced. The feel of it is wholly different, despite the looseness of her cunt walls. The pushing and tugging during every stroke is sheer bliss. It needs only one thing to make it perfect. Slowly, carefully, she presses her hand between her legs, finding her clit and gently rubbing it, feeling like a thief stealing some pleasure for herself.

She's forgets about the camera. Forgets about the cameraman. Forgets about everything except the tantalizing sensations between her legs. He fucks her passionately. She rubs herself just as passionately, slowing down and speeding up in time to his rhythms.

When she cums, it's a burning nova exploding between her legs. A fireball that causes her to squeeze her legs even tighter, even as she screams her pleasure to the world. Moments later, he ceases thrusting and stiffens, his cock pumping burst after burst of cum into her wet crevice. How long had it been since they'd both cum together? Forever, or years at least. He hadn't been deep inside her upon shooting his load and she knew right away that some of his cum would leak out, would dribble out the crack and drip down her ass. He'd given her a cream pie, as the porn sites so graphically called it. A cumshot in her pussy. His cock emerges, leaving a wet trail along her thighs. He bends down and kisses her tenderly on the lips. At that moment she regrets that he came in her cunt. She wants to show her unyielding devotion to him, her thanks for his tenderness, by receiving his hot sperm upon her face and in her mouth. So he could gaze down at her and know that he hadn't just made her do something -- she'd also given something to him.

She's so sated by the explosive orgasm that she doesn't resist at all when she feels a hand upon her knee urging her to sit up and spread her legs apart again. It's the first time the photographer has touched her with purpose. He takes the camera away from his face to look into her eyes, and understanding passes between them. From this day forward, he will be in charge of her in a way that neither she nor her owner anticipated.

The camera captures the cum leaking out of her pussy. The sperm dribbled across her thighs. The oily dampness in her crack. She moves as ordered onto her hands and knees, so he can record her cream pie from the rear. Her tits dangle down, now forgotten. She feels a hand rubbing her ass and knows it belongs to the photographer. She looks over to her owner to find that he's not upset by the forbidden grope. She knows then that this is only just the beginning.

* * * * Two Weeks Earlier * * * * *

So, you might think that after that "cow" thing, that my life must be an unbearable hell of cruelty and humiliation. But that's not the case at all. As I said in the last chapter, people and animals that have no limits often create limits for themselves. My owner, having determined that he could do almost anything to me, including milking my tits like a cow, must've decided that was far enough. Maybe his conscience started to bother him. At least, that's what I surmise. We haven't actually discussed it. All I can say is that kind of combination hasn't happened again.

That's not to say that he doesn't continuously push me into uncomfortable situations, either to test my obedience or for his own perverted pleasure. The things I've been made to do... well, you're going to learn all about them in later chapters. Suffice it to say that it's not the kind of thing being discussed at suburban dinner parties on Saturday night. (Or maybe it is, and we just led very sheltered lives. Who knows?)

As my initial "training" continued, he came up with plenty of little surprises to keep me on my toes, and on my back. As I said before, any hope of wearing normal clothes was almost gone. Nearly every day he had me scantily-clad and ready for groping. The only time I could wear normal clothes was when I was on a Skype call with my clients, or during those infrequent trips to town when he couldn't find a way to put me in a potentially embarrassing clothing situation.

For instance, I thought that going to church would put our new lifestyle on hold. Nope. Under my prim and proper clothing, I was almost always sans panties. A couple of times, he had me wear a pair of garters and attached a metal washer to them with a string. Every time I moved, the washer would swing up against my pussy lips, reminding me it was there. When you're being distracted like that, it's hard to concentrate on the service, or even on what people are saying. People must've thought I was on drugs, or drinking or something.

A trip to the hardware store (we do that a lot around here) also became an adventure. Small-breasted women can go without a bra and not have to worry about much, especially if their top is of a heavier material, or their nipples aren't too pronounced. For big breasted women, it's much more obvious when you're not wearing a bra. I get lots of hateful stares from the other women shopping there. On the plus side, the salesmen swarm around, eager to help out. And since my nipples harden at the smallest whiff of a breeze, it always looked to them like I was ready to jump on the next cock to come around.

My owner loved the attention I got in those situations. He knew it made me feel uncomfortable, but also knew that it got me wet, once the initial shock of being the center of that kind of attention wore off. Besides, what was I to do when he said I could choose any two articles of clothing to wear to the store? If I picked the bra, I wouldn't have the top to go over it. And if I picked the panty, I wouldn't have the jeans to go over it. So, for the most part, trips to the store were done without bra or panties. Fortunately, it was starting to get cooler in our neck of the woods, which meant that I could dress a little more heavily, such as in a sweatshirt or sweater. Though sometimes I ended up in a zip-up fleece jacket, and then he could control the amount of cleavage that I showed. And back in the car, he could make me unzip it all the way, giving him free and clear access to my boobs and nipples during the drive home.

At home, though, there were no limits to the depraved ways he could dress and undress me. It didn't take long for him to decide that my closet of lingerie was seriously lacking, and we spent the good part of two weeks going on an online buying binge. He'd always liked the way women looked in a bodystocking, especially the crotchless kind, so we ordered a great number of them. Full body ones, sleeveless ones, topless ones, wide netting, narrow netting, string netting... the list is endless. I can literally wear a different style of bodystocking for three straight months without repeat.

And that was only the beginning. Think of every manner of lingerie and slutty dresses that you can use to partially cover or uncover the female body, and I have a few samples in my closet. While he likes the bodystockings, my favorites are the leather harnesses. They're a bitch to get into, with all those straps and rings and openings, but once I have one on I feel like an Amazon princess. They hide nothing, of course. My tits are right out there for anyone to see, and the leather strips between my legs only accentuate the mound of my pussy. But when I'm wearing one of those and a pair of thigh high boots, I feel like I could be a dominatrix, ready to order around my submissive mate.

Ha. Like that would happen. Usually when he dresses me in the harness, it's so HE can use a leather crop to administer some "behavioral modification" to any exposed part of my flesh... which is all of it. The harness is also a good way to snag me and pull my body into a better position, usually so he can fuck me harder, deeper or more easily. Still, I like wearing one.

There were lots of times, though, where pure, unadulterated female nakedness was all that he wanted to see. Every day for a full week he ordered me to wait for him to return from work by kneeling on our bed, completely naked, on all fours in the ass up position, my butt and pussy pointing at the door. He ordered me to prepare my anus by oiling it up, and prepare my pussy by masturbating until it was hot and juicy. On each of those days, he approached me from behind and, without a word, mounted me like a dog and raped my ass or pussy.

One of those times, after savagely fucking my ass and cruelly spanking my ass cheeks, he pulled out and spewed his sperm up and down my ass crack. Then he ordered me to put on a pair of panties without cleaning myself up. I spent the rest of the night struggling to contain his semen within the thin fabric, not wanting to let it stain or ruin any of our furniture. By the time we settled down to bed, the panties were soaked and showed no signs of starting to dry. Want to spend an uncomfortable night? Try to sleep with a pair of wet, cum-soaked panties binding up between your legs.

Remember in an earlier chapter when I said that it seemed he didn't have a plan? Well, maybe he did it consciously, or maybe it happened by accident, but all these little indignities began to desensitize me to the incremental steps we were taking. When you're walking around the house bottomless with a buttplug shoved inside you, it doesn't seem so bad to go to the hardware store without any panties. When you're forced to greet your husband with an oiled up ass pointing in his face, you feel a lot less uncomfortable when he reaches under your dress in the church parking lot and strokes your bare pussy. And when he's already fucked you outside while the neighbors are watching, it's a lot less embarrassing when he pushes you to your knees in the forest and makes you suck his cock, and then makes you wear the facial that's dripping off your chin during the long walk home. (And then eats out your naked cunt while you're stripped and spread-eagle across the hood of the car, with the garage door open, revealing everything that's going on to whomever might be walking down the road, such as the new neighbors from down the street who pretend not to be watching but surely notice a bare woman's body heaving and groaning while a man has his face placed firmly between her twitching legs.)