The Second Wife

I slid off his lap and stumbled to my stockinged feet, my bottom red from the spanking I'd just received; my painted eyes red from it as well. I wiped the tears off on my bony shoulders, bare except for the slender white bra straps. I pulled my matching panties up from my ankles and then tugged upward the sticky lace tops of my white thigh-highs while saying to my husband:

"I'm sorry, Sir. I deserved that. It won't happen again without your permission. I... promise."

"It better not you little slut. You think I'm not watching? You post an ad on Deanslist offering to suck guys' cocks on their way home from work? You think I won't see it? Think I won't recognize the photos? The pics? Most of which I took myself you asshole? You ungrateful little slut bitch! Don't you ever think for one minute I'm not watching you. Ever! You hear?"

I nodded and repeated that it would not happen again.

"It better not you cunt," my husband's weight shifting on the middle cushion of my couch. "If I had the time tonight, believe me, I'd tie you up and whip the piss out of you. You'd wish you were..."

"Yessir," I said, head bowed in submission, hands folded in front of my lace panty. He ran a hand up and back—over the contours of his full head of razor-cut, silver-grey hair. Asked, in an altogether contrary tone:

"What's for dinner?"

My teary face brightened. I so much wanted to please my husband! I put a hand to the left side of my own head, making sure my blonde wig was straight, in place. "Beef Bourgogne. It's—"

"Beef again?" looking up sharply. "You served me beef last week. You trying to kill me? Don't you know I have a bad heart?"

My bleary eyes fell to the floor again, to stockinged feet's slender splay. Through the reinforced toes of my thigh-highs you could see the cherry-red of my freshly painted toenails. My husband—he was so hard to please! I never knew what to expect!

"I could make something else," I offered.

"What? At this hour?"

"An omelet? Or...?"

He laughed, condescendingly. "Omelet. Yeah, is it breakfast time, bitch?"

"No sir."

"Then I don't want a fucking omelet! Go! Scram!" the back of his hand waving me away. "Go make me dinner. Kill me, you useless slut."

I did not eat with my husband. I'd had a snack around 5 pm, after I finished preparing my body and dressing for his arrival. My role in our marriage was to cook for him at dinnertime, wait on him, attend to his every need and field his compliments or complaints. Usually the latter. The red Bourgogne I'd slow-cooked the stew in, in the crockpot, filled his wine goblet as well. I hovered in the kitchen doorway, expectantly. A ghost, almost. I kept his water glass full. Bach played in the background, at low volume. A harpsichord. The Goldberg variations.

He ate, mostly in silence. This was a good sign. The meat was tender, obviously. My husband never once picking up his silver-handled knife.

"This is tasty," he finally said. I smiled.

"Thank you, Sir."

"But it's beef again." My husband looked up. Again with the beef! "Don't ever serve me the same protein twice in two weeks, understand?"

Protein? "OK."

"OK," he said mockingly, distinguished head wagging. "Have you ever heard of chicken? Pork? Lamb?...Duck? Mix it up, bitch!"

He dug back in with his fork.

"I will, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Don't be sorry just...do it!"

"Yessir."

My husband paused. Wiped his mouth on the pale grey napkin. Took a sip of wine. Picking up his fork again he pointed it, wagged it, at the colorful admixture on his plate. Purplish beef, potatoes, carrots, green peas... "Look," he said. "I'm not an ogre. I'm not one of these spoiled-brat Hollywood...stars. Never grateful for anything. Prima donnas. I spent seventeen fucking years on ships, in the Navy. This is good grub tonight, honey. I mean it. Very good. Just..."

"I'll mix it up, Sir."

"Exactly."

About midway through the meal my husband asked for more water, even though his glass was mostly full, and popped one of his little blue pills. "I only take these with food," he explained for the umpteenth time. "And lots of water. Otherwise I get headaches. My doctor..."

"Yessir. I know, Sir," filling his glass nearly to the brim.

"Tomorrow's a big day on the Hill. That tax legislation. The Americans First bill. We're rewriting the Code." He sipped more wine. "I have to be...sharp."

"Yessir. More stew, Sir?"

My husband held forkless hands over his plate, thick fingers splayed. "No. I'm starting a diet."

My best times with my husband were always when I was down on my knees sucking his cock or when I was on my elbows and knees and he was, simply, fucking me. He might slap my already-sore ass while ramming it home, he might call me "his little slut," or "bitch," or worse, but the rest of the pretense fell away. He simply fucked me up the ass for five or six frantic minutes, shot his load up my clean rectum and was done with it. It was great, fulfilling. A moment of marital bliss.

"As I've said to more than one female intern over the years," he liked to joke, in mid-fuck, "this way I can't get you pregnant."

Afterwards, down on my knees yet again in my bedroom, I would gently, assiduously, wipe my husband's still-engorged cock clean. He had a wife to go home to, after all.

A second wife. A first I guess you would have to say. She had an old-fashioned name: Martha. I was jealous. She got her husband for six nights a week; I got him for one. Life just isn't fair sometimes. On the other hand...

While I treated him to his usual post-coital back massage, my panties pulled back up, my wig adjusted, red lips refreshed, I always found my part-time husband to be, well, more conciliatory in tone and gesture.

"This tax bill we're passing...," he opined recently, typically. "It will help everyone. The middle class. You. Everyone. Trust me."

"That's good, dear."

"Damn right it is! As for what you do in your spare time, darling..."

(I loved it when my sweet, sadistic husband called me darling!)

"Listen. You wanna suck a guy's cock during the week? Multiple guys? Bottom for 'em? I don't care. Fuck it. You're a relatively young girl. You have needs. I get that. If I had more time during the busy week...

"But I don't," my now quasi-magnanimous husband continued. "Just email me, OK? About what you're getting ready to do? Copy me. Our secret source. If I have any objections I'll most certainly let you know."

"I will, Sir."

"And if I do—object—to any crazy thing you're getting ready to do...? That's it. Understand? Forget it! I'll whip your ass!"

"Yessir. Of course," I replied to my prone husband, rhythmically kneading the bulky flesh of his shoulders. He was tight tonight. My hands, over the course of fifteen or twenty minutes, unless there was an emergency nighttime vote on the Hill, would work their way down his spine, his aging flesh, to his pocked, hairy glutes. Which I would part. Pressing my face to his crack, I would lick it. Kiss his ass—his hole. He loved it when I tongued him—rimmed him. Sometimes he farted—just for laughs.

"Be a good American wife. Kiss my ass you fuck!" he would frequently, jokingly advise me.

I finished with his hamstrings, and the bulbous backs of his calves.

At the end of our all-too-brief Wednesday nights of sadism, food, anal sex and massages...I would follow the Great Man, my Dom, my husband, to the front door. I had an apartment in Georgetown, a discreetly located one. He paid my rent and utilities—in cash—the rest was up to me.

Is it any wonder I solicited other guys, plumbers and the like, for blowjobs and such? I also worked at a nearby Target four days a week, stocking shelves. Men's clothing, mainly. I hated it! I scraped by.

My dear husband, inside the front door, would often, in parting, reach out and squeeze my bra cups. Aside from a lipstick tube (stolen from Target) they were empty, of course.

"When are you going to get a boob job?" my husband would ask.

"When are you gonna pay for it?" my smiling reply. He was always vulnerable at these moments, when leaving. At other times he would've slapped my impertinent, painted face.

"This tax cut we're passing tonight..."

"Maybe if I had healthcare, I could afford it."

"If people like you had healthcare...," giving my pantied balls and cock a further squeeze, a grope, "...we wouldn't be able to afford the tax cut, would we, pussy?"

I tried to push his hand, his vise grip, away. It was getting...painful. My husband's teeth were bared, gritted. "You love it, don't you?"

"Y-yes," my strangled reply.

"You my wife?"

"Yes!"

"What?"

"Yessir!"

"I'll whip the shit out of you!"

"I'm your wife! I love you! I'll do anything for you..."

The famous Senator, my husband, let me go. "You're a cunt," he said. "Now call that doctor guy. I gave you his number weeks ago. Call him! Grow some tits or I'll...!"

"Yessir. I will, Sir. I want to please you in every way."

Through the blinds I watched my husband climb into the back of the black limo that had been idling downstairs ever since his weekly Wednesday evening arrival hours ago. I was so lucky.

I was so lucky. There was Beef Bourgogne left in the crock pot. I scooped it out into a Chinese bowl and sat down at the table. The fresh sperm of the fourth or fifth most important man in America was lodged deep inside me, under the seat of my lace panties.

I sipped the leftover Pinot Noir in my husband's glass as I ate my stew. It—everything—was pure bliss. I was a wife! I'd performed my duties superbly tonight, it seemed to me. Yes, I was naughty. Yes, I deserved my weekly spanking...

My husband loved to inflict pain. And I loved to receive it—up to a point that had not yet quite been reached. We were getting there. Bring it on, darling!

It was coming up on 8:30. In a half hour some guy, a plumber—no, a drywall installer, was supposed to show. He was working late, a second job. Married.

Dressed fem, as I had been for my husband, I would welcome him to my apartment and then get down on my stockinged knees and suck his needy cock. I would swallow, every single sweet drop. Ungrateful, he would pull his pants up and leave. Fucker!

It was a another Wednesday night. No wonder women hated men.