Sausages for the Slave

There was a definite sense of finality in the loud 'click' of the lock at the back of the pig's head mask she had placed over my head. She set out my speech options as she unpacked the pig-trotter extensions she was going to place on my arms and legs.

Basically, while dressed up like a pig I was allowed to say 'oink' and nothing else. Two 'oinks' meant 'yes.' One 'oink' meant 'no.' Aside from that, I could try and make myself understood by giving as many 'oinks,' or oinkity oinky-like phrases, as I wished. Any use of normal language would be severely punished. I decided then I'd keep my oinking to the minimum. It wasn't my idea to play this piggy game.

"Them's my rules, OK?" she finished, as if her jokey tone would make them less onerous or be less rigorously enforced.

"Yes, Madam," I said, as I stretched my left arm out for her to fit the first trotter. A quick underhand slap hard up onto my exposed balls reminded me to rephrase my reply.

"You are a slow learner for a pig. Pigs are supposed to be intelligent, sensitive animals," she said, still smiling, "a little more restriction will help remind you of what you are, isn't that so, piggy?"

"Oink, oink," I gasped, winded and wincing inside my mask from the sudden and unexpected slap. It was not like her to ever do direct hands-on punishment. But I suppose a quick slap on the balls doesn't count.

"Good little piggy, that's better," she said. "Now let's get your arm into this," as she moved to slide the trotter over my hand and forearm.

"Oink, oink."

We'd had our little talk over dinner the previous day, my wife and I, mistress and slave respectively, in our cosy household of two. Well two and a bit, if you count the recent little addition of Alexa - the modified talking box. My wife was eating a nice chicken curry I'd prepared earlier.

My plate was empty. I was hoping to eat something, anything. It might be whatever she would choose to throw my way from her plate; a half chewed chicken piece maybe, some grains of rice stuck to it, or a bit of her side salad. Or else she could let me forage in the food bin afterwards. A normal dinner in other words.

After hearing all about her exciting day in the corporate world of big IT, I got my chance to explain that I wasn't too happy with the evolving set up, what with Alexa, the electronic talking box, becoming my boss and all that flowed from that. I was careful to sound respectful and humble, and grateful for all she does for me. I even had enough wit not to mention that I thought my good wife was pushing me ever further into the background away from daily contact with her. But to be clear about it, that was the real issue for me; the root of my discontent, really.

Surprisingly, she was all sympathy and understanding. I knew she had picked up on the little grain of my resentment towards Alexa from the moment Alexa arrived in my life. She said, as she generously threw me a few scraps from her plate, that she'd had a feeling for the last while that I was less than amused about the situation. She'd make some changes. Leave it with her. This was her in her effective executive mode. If there's a problem, I'll sort it. She sees herself as a get-things-done type of person.

She even asked me how I felt about getting fucked by Alexa. I answered honestly, that I didn't mind really. I could handle it. I took the chance to ask her what the yellow goo was that Alexa ejaculated into me and why so much. She took great pleasure in telling me that it was an emulsion of water and rapeseed oil. The idea of pumping me full to overflowing was to have me appreciate how women felt as men's cum slides out of them, making a wet gooey mess in their knickers, while the men just zip up their flies and walk away, free as a bird. No mess for them to deal with. Now you know what it is like for us."

"Yes Madam," was the only safe answer to that.

Sure enough, the new regime came to pass the very next day. Though I didn't realize it at first. My wife doesn't hang about. Do it now. That's what works in the corporate world. I could tell she was gee'd up for something as soon as she got home from the office. I was standing by the door to take her coat and work bag as she came in, as usual.

Her face was a little flushed and there a hint of perspiration on her upper lip. It could have been that she was just a bit out of breath, but thinking about it now, it was more likely she was having a little sexual rush and flush at the thought of the fun ahead for her. Her pussy was probably wet.

She had me go back out to the garage and get a bunch of carrier bags and packages out of the car for her while she showered and changed. Then I got her dinner ready as usual.

Her mind wasn't on her food either. But while explaining her immediate plan she wolfed down her dinner enthusiastically, such was her hurry to get on to the implementation stage of this wonderful initiative. If my wife is excited about her plans it usually means I should be very nervous about those plans. She said she had got a piggy outfit made for me that very day by her bespoke kinky outfitters that she had used for my other uniforms. Probably cost a fortune.

She wanted me to do a podcast for her tomorrow while dressed as a pig. I would have the usual remote vibrating dildo inserted and she would control it from her office make me cum while the punters were betting on how long it would take.

She told me to go get her carrier bags and take out the piggy outfit. I laid out the various pieces on the kitchen worktop. There was a full size pig head mask, totally enclosed type, a pair of trotter gloves for my hands and a bigger pair of trotters, like pink thigh boots really, for my feet. The final item was a length of pink frilly tulle - mysterious.

"It's the year of the pig," she said. "Our Chinese subscribers will bet serious money on your performance tomorrow."

She had me get naked and stand in the middle of the kitchen floor. My gentle reminder that I hadn't gotten to eat hardly any dinner yet was brushed aside with a 'later' as she pulled on this piggy mask over my head. It was made of strong pink latex. She zipped it closed at the back, really tight. 'Ouch.' It was like a second skin, a thick rubber skin that was locked over my head.

The mask was a candy pink, round faced, cheery cartoon pig. There was a permanent big happy smile painted over the rather thin and narrow actual mouth opening. An almost circular snout stuck out about two inches from the rest of the face, further hiding the mouth opening beneath it. I was going to be a happy pig; always happy.

The outside third of my eyes were covered by the mask so that I had a narrow field of vision straight out over the flat pink snout that fitted snugly over my nose. The small eye slits pressing against my eyes made them water initially, blurring my vision. Added to that, the eyeholes were set a little too close together. Maybe that was part of the piggy look.

Blinking hard to clear my vision I recognised a different look on my wife's face. Now that I was locked into my pig's head, it was like she'd got me where she wanted me and was feeling a bit giddy at the ease with which she had done it. It was a 'gotcha' look; a 'gotcha' combined with an 'and you deserve all you are going to get, you pathetic loser' look.

The fact that I could breathe without difficulty was a relief. Two reasonably sized holes under the snout lined up with my nostrils and allowed me to take deep breaths to ease the initial claustrophobic panic of feeling the mask grip my head all over. The mouth of the mask was in line with and stretched tight against my mouth.

Even though the mask had a fat bulging chinless chin on the outside, it was shaped to tuck in tight like a shelf under my chin on the inside. Because of this snug fit the pig mouth opened perfectly in line with my mouth when I moved my chin to open my mouth.

She had held up a small mirror for me to see myself. The overall effect was definitely more like a kid's porky pig mask, or a Miss Piggy mask, rather than one of those realistic scary pig's head masks. My real mouth was could not be seen against the painted on black smiling cartoon mouth. I opened my mouth as wide as it could, which was about half the normal stretch, and stuck out my tongue. The plastic of the mask stayed tight against my lips and moved with them to form as small black hole in the middle of the happy pig smile, with my tongue sticking out of it. It was a pretty effective and workable head as far as mouth, nose and eyes went.

I had pink floppy latex pig ears up high on either side. Needless to say, they did nothing for my hearing. My real ears were covered by the chubby cheeks on each side of the mask. It meant that outside sounds were muted and muffled by the extra thick latex. So I was blinkered and partially deaf due to this mask. It was then that she set out the new speaking rules for me; piggy-speak only while I had the mask on. I had to listen hard. But the rules were not complicated.

The 'trotters' that fitted over my hands were quite sophisticated items. They were two pink stiff thickish rubber tube-like fittings, a bit like pink elbow length gloves, only pig's trotter shaped. They were soft and rubbery at the top or elbow end graduating to harder plastic as they went down. At the bottom the hoof briefly divided into two separate thick plastic toes or trotters; the true cloven hoof. She had me keep my fingers bunched and straight as I slid my hand into the trotter, like I was putting on a long gauntlet type glove. The inside was coated with some lubricant.

The first two fingers, the index and middle ones, slid into a single space just right sized for them while my little finger and ring finger were contained is a single separate compartment alongside. It was like a glove with just two thick fingers spaces. My thumb slid into a separate thumb-hole back behind the first two holes; all snug and secure.

To complete the picture, the trotters were hardened and stiff at the toe merging into a hard shiny nail or horn like texture to make them more life-like. The tubes became softer, more elastic up towards the elbow and were tightened on with Velcro strips. Once she had tightened the Velcro straps above and at the back of my elbow, my hands were trapped and it was impossible for me to pull the 'trotters' off.

'Bend over and put your trotters on the floor. Lean on them to put a bit of weight on your hands to help them to settle into the trotters.'

I gave an 'Oink, oink,' as I gingerly placed my two hands on the floor. The shooting pains in my groin from the slap were easing now. I was able to focus on other things and noted that the design of the trotters was very realistic. By moving my fingers I could move the two toes apart slightly and bring them back together. It was a bit like I was making Mr. Spock's Vulcan salute upside down, the old 'live long and prosper' V-sign.

As my two front trotters spread from my weight pressing them onto the kitchen floor, it brought a third trotter behind them that contained my thumb into contact with the floor. I put more weight on my hands but the design of the trotter wouldn't allow the trotter toes move apart anymore than about an inch from each other. I was like a sprinter getting into the ready position at the start of a race.

My wife loosened the velcro straps to let my arms settle down in the trotters and then pulled the top of the trotters up tightly as high as she could and re-fastened the velcro over my elbows. As I stayed there, bent over, with my front trotters on the ground she placed one hand on my ass cheek and rested it there. There is something very humiliating in being bent over naked with your wife resting her hand on your ass without a care in the world. She owns you and she is letting you know it.

She slid her hand between my legs and gently massaged my balls, still a little sore after the slap. "My, but you're beginning to look like a real piggy, aren't you?" she murmured somewhere into where my ear would be, her hand still rubbing and squeezing my balls gently. I began to get stiff. Which was the whole idea of her attentions, no doubt.

"Oink, oink," I grunted, as she gave a slightly firmer squeeze and a tug. I think she was enjoying herself a little more than usual.

The mask was a bit claustrophobic and I was hot and clammy inside it. That made me breathe a bit faster than normal. Well that, and the whole situation, plus being bent over. All sounds and voices coming from outside had were muffled by the thick layer of latex over my ears. Her voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well outside the door.

The trotters she had ordered for my feet were more like dull pink latex boots that came up over my knees. There were long zips up the back starting from base of each heel. The boots swelled into much thicker shaped and padded section at knee height and then tapered away to normal thickness before stopping about nine inches above the knee. The thickness at the knee would protect my knees when I was down on all fours: Thoughtful. That knee thickness continued around to the back of the knee.

She had me sit on a chair while slipping each foot in comfortably enough to the boot end. Again the inside was lubricated and my feet slid in and fitted snugly at the base of the trotter. She had me hold each foot up horizontally as she zipped up the boot from the heel to its top above the knee. I could feel the top of the boot pull in and tighten as the zip came past the knee and reach the top of the boot. Another loud click told me that these boots were also made for staying on.

When the two boots were on she told me to stand. The first thing I noticed was that the trotters became hard down towards the foot, same as for the hands, but more so. That was to be expected, as was the fact that I had two big toe nails of hardened shiny plastic at the end of my foot, and a bit of a cloven hoof effect. But there was no movement in the foot part of the boot. It was all solid plastic.

What was surprising was that I could only stand up on my toes inside the boots. Clearly the hard plastic from the top of the ankle and foot area was moulded to keep my foot arched, and raised. It was like being in high heels with no heel and there was nothing I could do about it. I could rest my heel against the boot, but it made no difference, I was still standing on my toes. I could not drop down onto the flat of my foot.

The second surprise was that I couldn't straighten my knees fully. The thick plastic at the knee area must have been moulded and hardened at so as to keep the knees bent, sticking my ass out at the back. It meant I had to bend forward at the waist for balance. As a result my arms hung in front of me, like when a chimp or gorilla stands on two legs. It made me feel bit Neanderthal. Like I was not too used to standing upright and would have preferred to be on all fours. I could feel my ass pushing out behind me. In fact, I had an urge to drop over onto all fours. It felt like it would be more comfortable, but I didn't. She hadn't told me to.

"Take some steps, piggy. Get the feel of it."

"Oink, oink." I took a few careful steps in a circle around the kitchen floor, my trotters clicking on the tiles, my arms swaying gorilla like in front of me. I had a strange high stepping, trotting gait due to the bent knees and being on my tip toes, like I was carefully picking my way through a mess of dog poo on the footpath. I came to a halt facing my wife.

Whopp! I felt a sharp stinging, searing line of pain across the back of my ass.

"I didn't tell you to stop walking, piggy, did I?"

"Oink." I quickly continued trotting around in the circle. Driven by the throbbing line of hurt on my ass. She seemed to have an actual cane in her hand. I never saw this before. So the slap on the balls was not a one off. My wife has taken to directly punishing of her slave.

This was very much out of character. She was rotating slowly in the centre of the kitchen, swishing the cane like a circus ring master. I continued trotting around her, faster now, my feet click-clicking in my hard plastic trotters, my hand trotters held up at the jogging position. Jogging on tiptoe with my knees bent was odd and, I'm sure, looked odd. But I kept going so as to give no excuse for that cane to come anywhere near my sore ass again.

It appeared that the mental difficulty she always had when it came to hitting me was gone. Her way around it previously had been to focus on the mind games; happy be the mentally controlling Domme, same as she enjoys being the boss at work. She has no problem seeing me, her husband, as a naughty boy who needs to be ordered around, given jobs to do, given out to, verbally humiliated, sent to his room, denied food and so on.

She did recognise the need for the ultimate sanction of physical punishment to keep her slave in line. But her preference was always to get others to do it. Formal lengthy punishment sessions are contracted out to her enforcer. For more immediate punishment she gets me to place myself into the T-bar restraint and has Alexa the robot whip me.

So this is new. This getting hit, hard, by my wife. It must be dissociation. She no longer sees me, her slave husband, when she looks at this smiley pig before her. She just sees a cartoon pig; the sort that bounces back from getting walloped with a fence plank or whatever. Just like Porky Pig in the cartoons of yore. Off I go running around again smiling my dopey cartoon pig smile. And obviously she is happy enough with the notion that animals have to be kept in line with a crack of the whip or whatever, including cartoon animals.

"That's enough, piggy." The sharp slap of her cane across the front of my chest brought a stop my circular trotting, and snapped me out of my musings on my Mistress' conversion to the joys of physical discipline. "You seem to be well able to manage walking on your trotters. For the podcast tomorrow I'll want you to dance in front of the camera. We'll practice that after you eat."

"Oink, oink," I agreed, happily. This was a positive development; her actually giving me food. She went to one of the heavier carrier bags I had brought in from the garage and took out a medium sized sack. It looked like one of those catering packs of muesli; about ten or twelve pounds weight. CONSUPP said the label, and in smaller print beneath 'purveyors of especially formulated food concentrate and supplements mixed to client specification. Ideal for large domestic pets, horses, etc.' I'm the etc. I suppose.

Reaching under the worktop and into cupboard she retrieved the big aluminium bowl and placed it in the corner. I could hardly believe my piggy eyes as she tore open the sack and poured at least two pounds of the contents into the bowl. It was some kind of kibble type nuggets, like dog food. Then she got a large quart carton of full milk from the fridge and poured the lot in; full two pints, and stirred the lot around with the tip of her cane. Up to now I used only get skim milk, glorified water.

"We can't have our dancing pig going hungry, can we? Now, down on all fours and eat that. All of it."

"Oink, oink." I click clicked over to the corner on my trotters and folded myself down in front of the bowl. No doubt all this was being caught on camera, and she probably had a corner floor camera recording too. The best bits would be edited into the podcast. But all anybody would see was a pig making a pig of himself. So what?

I got into position with my ass dangerously exposed up in the air, my front trotters flat on either side of the bowl and stuck my head in. I hadn't allowed for my snout which banged into the far side of the bowl, tilting it and slopping a bit over the side. Sure enough, a sharp whack of her cane on my raised ass immediately admonished my sloppiness and nearly made me slop some more over the side.