Mitchell's Journey from Cucked Husband to Sub wife Michelle
Chapter 1 Thursday Changed My Life
I had been married for six years to a beautiful intelligent woman, whom I loved deeply, when I gave her up to be sexually owned by a man who dominated us both, and then my whole universe changed. This whole strange set of circumstances may have been precipitated by something I witnessed after my freshman year in college.
The summer after my first year of college, I had a job as delivery boy in a high-end Manhattan deli. I loved the job; the tips were great and the work not very taxing, packing up and delivering over-priced groceries to well-to-do Manhattanites.
One of my favorite customers was a lady who had standing order at the store. Every Thursday afternoon, I'd deliver a pound of expresso coffee beans, a half-case of Pellegrino water, a jar of extra virgin olive oil, and other miscellaneous items to her penthouse apartment. The building had two sets of elevators, two in the lobby and a service elevator in the back, for deliveries.
Since it was the only apartment on the top floor, the service elevator opened almost right into her apartment. The backdoor faced directly across from elevator in a small entryway. I usually found this door unlocked and walked right in with the groceries. The kitchen was elevated about four steps. Normally, I would see Mrs. Smith at the foot of the steps, by the time I had gotten her groceries put away.
Mrs. Smith was my favorite because she would talk to me, not like a kid, but like a real person, and she would give me a $5 tip each time. But even more than that, Mrs. Smith was really "HOT!" She was what could be described as statuesque; about 5'9" with amazing tits plump, and definitely all-natural. Unlike fake plastic tits, one could tell they had some heft to them.
She was probably in her late twenties (at most 30). She would wear revealing skintight clothes that would expose her assets to best effect. Standing at the top of the stairs, I would always get an eyeful before getting a bit of small talk and my tip. Great times! Her tops often revealed most the top of her breasts, and her cleavage disappeared down her front going on as if forever. One could get lost in that valley.
At first, I would take just quick furtive glances, but they were so spectacular that it was hard to keep to quick glances. It'd feel like a second, but I would find myself daydreaming, and suddenly she would stop talking, and I'd realize I had been staring again. She didn't really seem to mind, and would make some flirty joke about it, like: "Hey sweetie, can I help you find something down there?" but her tone shows it was just playful teasing of a hormone-driven teenager.
One Thursday afternoon, doing the usual: I came in, put the groceries away, and turned around expecting to get my usual show... but she wasn't there. In the nearly three months I had delivered to her, I never ventured very far past the kitchen. We would do our little one-act play at the foot of the kitchen stairs, and I'd be on my way. Immediately next to the kitchen was a dining/living area. I looked around with no real focus, but noticed a picture on a side table. Mrs. Smith stood next to a man, who I guessed to be her husband (I had never seen Mr. Smith or anyone else in the apartment). It was a vacation picture; they stood in front of a beautiful beach with clear blue water--it looked like the Caribbean.
They made an odd couple; he was a small man, and she, as mentioned, statuesque. She had at least three inches on him, and maybe a few pounds too. She wore a bikini which highlighted her incredible body; not only did she have those fabulous titties, of which almost all but her nipples were visible, and their tips could be seen pushing against the top. Her legs, long and muscular, but very feminine, led to wide hips and a narrow wasp's waist.
He, on the other hand, was quite scrawny. He held her hand tightly, as if he might blow away in a stiff breeze. They looked to be about the same age. His legs were like toothpicks and his arms like thin wire. He was wearing nothing but tight speedos, and his "package" looked more like a postage stamp. Mrs. Smith's visible cameltoe made a bigger bundle in her bikini than his "manhood." I smiled, as I thought to myself, "mine may be small, but at least I'm not this poor bastard... and, look at the hot wife he got."
Having delivered the groceries, I could have just left. She would usually pay in cash each week, but had an account at the store. But I was hesitant to leave without a tip, and--to tell the truth--getting another look at those marvelous tits. Summer was ending soon, and I would not have many more opportunities. Still... I had to get back, so I was about to turn to leave, when I heard a faint voice, coming from the very far end of the long hallway past the living/dining area.
I called out, but weakly (like someone who doesn't really want to be heard), "h-h-hello...?" I imagined Mrs. Smith popping out of one the rooms without a top, or something like that... and walked toward the noise. The apartment was huge; the building took up almost a quarter of NYC block, and though the top floors narrowed considerably, it was sill huge.
I walked past a small bathroom and many other doors to the very end of the long corridor. The door was about three quarters open, and I could see clearly into the room. What I saw froze me to the spot in shock and arousal. There... was Mrs. Smith, on her knees, naked, except for high heels, and a man (not the man in the photo) stood before her, fully-dressed with his crotch maybe five inches from her face.
Although I could only see him in about 3/4 profile from behind his left shoulder, I recognized the man instantly as another customer in the same building, Mr. Jenkins. Unlike, Mrs. Smith, he was not a favorite. In fact, I dreaded delivering to him. He was picky, sending stuff back--like if a can had even a tiny dent, or a crinkled label. When I picked out his orders in the store, I would check and recheck them to make sure everything had the latest sale-by-date, that the produce was fresh and never bruised, etc. I wasn't always the one who picked out orders and sometimes I'd have to make two trips because someone else had not taken the kind of care I usually did.
He always seemed in a bad mood and rarely tipped at all, and when he did it was a "keep the change"--as in under a dollar--type of thing. The service door to Mr. Jenkins's apartment was never unlocked, and I often had to wait there longer than any of my other costumers. He would also never let me in. He would go through the bags as I held them out to him in the hallway, rejecting anything he arbitrarily thought was inadequate. He would then take the bags from me, and shut the door in my face, without so much as a thank you.
"Show me how much you want it, slut" he was saying to Mrs. Smith, as I approached the partly open door.
"Please, please, Sir," she begged; her voice aquiver with desire.
"Please...what? Tell me what it is you want?"
"Please, let me suck your cock, Sir," she whispered, barely audibly.
Suddenly, he unbuckled his belt and held it menacingly over her as he said, "speak up, I can't hear you, slut. Do you need......encouragement?" Then he landed a firm blow on her gorgeous tits, leaving an ugly angry red line across the breasts I had idolized for weeks.
"Let your whore suck your big cock; I beg you, Sir, please!" She nearly shouted, as she sobbed.
"Tell me, slut: do you deserve my cock?"
