The Fucking Bitch

Author's Note:

Try to read the whole story to the end, without judging UNTIL the very end.

*****

Prologue

Laying very still on the bed, I was face down with my head turned to the side, contentedly watching with a slight satisfaction as he finished dressing and adjusting his tie. I had laid unmoving for the last few minutes with my face turned toward him, my left hand resting where he had dropped my limp arm after coating the wedding rings with his cum. He didn't bother using the cuffs and tethers this evening, which were at the ready on the corners of the bed. And I didn't give him the satisfaction of curling into a ball or begging him to stop. It will take more than the bastard would dare inflict to make me beg.

I saw him retrieve the memory chip from the camera within my view which recorded those last few minutes of action at my face and left hand. "I'll see that your husband gets these," he said. "He deserves to know what his wife is doing when he's hard at work." Then he left the room, without even saying

'Thanks'

!

Conducting a mental inventory of the damage, I realized it wasn't bad. Mostly it was just reddened skin from the paddling and cat o-nine tails, which had even been a little exciting ... most of the time. The stings from the riding crop were already forgotten and probably left no marks on my breasts, thighs, or labia. But there was just one lash mark across my upper back which might leave a welt for a few days.

I could feel the wet spot on the bed from the leakage under my hips, since he didn't give me time to recover or clean myself from his ass fucking before he insisted that I lay down for the flogging. But I was here to submit to his wishes as he wanted during the hours he paid for and to serve him as agreed.

I carefully rolled off the bed and trudged into the bathroom to wash off and run a brush through my hair. I was a worn-out mess. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wiped at the mascara smears and dark streaks down my cheek from my eyes tearing, and I started making myself as presentable as practical. Then I thought about it and stopped trying to wipe any more of the dried cum from my face, hand, or thighs, as it was the least of my concerns. I had more pressing matters, finding something to wear.

When I retrieved my dress, I could see it was ruined, at least for the night, with white cum stains and some brown crap which I couldn't completely wipe off. It was my favorite Johnathan Kayne! ... Too bad. I'll probably just toss it in the trash rather than try to get it professionally cleaned. It would only serve as a constant reminder of this night. But I still needed it for now, so I just stoically wiped away the mess as much as I could on the only thing I had to wear. After a spritz of perfume, I put it on and gave up. Turning a little as I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see the red line of that last lash mark on my back, the dress not completely covering it. He knew my dress was ruined and there'd be no way I could hide that mark! So, why bother with anymore cleaning. I left so I might arrive home before my husband came from work, with the rest of this cum still drying where it was.

Intro

Dave and I, Stacy, were two twenty-three-year-old college grads, and we knew we were ready for marriage. We had our degrees and good jobs! And after all of the parties and stuff we did together while dating in college ... we knew EVERYTHING about relationships and sex (with each other).

We were so in LOVE that we had to get married to settle down and start our family. And I got pregnant within the first two months of trying. It was a normal pregnancy, and as we discussed, I quit my paying job after the second trimester to take on the new job of "stay at home mom," raising our children and taking care of the house, while his job was to provide the money for all of us.

Pregnancy, with weight gain, bigger stomach, pain, and loss of energy, takes its toll on a woman's body, leaving little for much of anything else as a couple for long periods of time. My husband appreciated my breasts swelling to 38-E. But our sex life had its ups and downs for just under a year with my hormonal mood swings. And that tends to drive the first wedge into the "relationship" of marriage.

Even though I worked hard to lose those excess pounds after delivery, there's that extra sagging skin from the baby bump which takes time to tighten back into shape and the right clothes to conceal. Otherwise, I was soon back to being a MILF-shaped former cheerleader. I think it was after three months of those late-night feedings and all the mess when I first became suspicious seeing Dave's eyes wandering as he started to look around.

When he called me that afternoon with the excuse that he would be working late on a Friday evening, I saw the writing on the wall and quickly decided to make my own plans. I called my mother, asking if she could give me a break that evening and take care of the fruit of my loins, our little carpet crawler. Then I drove to his office parking lot in time to follow him and probably ten of his male co-workers, all heading in the same direction in four cars.

He wasn't working. He lied to me!

Revenge

Looking down at my waist, I put a hand on my still sagging stomach. Exercise and eating right got me back into shape after the delivery. But without clothes to hide them, the stretch marks would not be an attractive look.

"Could I borrow that?" I asked the woman carrying a corset into the dressing room as the rest of us waited in the dark hallway.

She stopped and gave me a stare as if

'Yeah, right. Like I'm going to help you take their money.'

But she said "Honey, I make my living out there with things like this."

"Listen," I said trying not to sound desperate, but I really needed her help. "I'm just trying to make a point. ... And I'll give you any tips I earn out there tonight," and I raised my t-shirt to show her why.

Looking at the still sagging skin at my waist, she smiled. "Okay. Here, I'll help you put it on. You can work it for me. And I'll loan you a garter to hold the tips."

I pulled my t-shirt up and off, but I kept my bra on as she wrapped the corset around me and helped by tightening it in back. It did the job of hiding my stomach sag, making me a more presentable MILF.

"You know, you're going to need to lose the bra out there if you want to make any good money," she said.

"I know!" I replied. "But it's been a few hours since I pumped them, and I produce a lot. They'll drip without the pads!"

"Wow, you're lactating!" she exclaimed in surprise. "That's even better. Take it off and show them, and those guys will love it!"

When I was ready, I turned to stand in line behind the other five girls. We all wore the cat masks the management gave us, covering the tops of our heads and eyes. The female manager said it was to give us some identity protection in case anyone out there tried taking pictures. Although they're not allowed to take pictures, she said they can't catch them all. So, there's always a chance someone leaves with an illicit cellphone pic.

Now dressed in just my mask, cut-off jeans shorts, four-inch ankle-strapped heels, and white t-shirt covering my bra and corset, we waited for the announcer. The other girls appeared nervous with stage fright, probably only here reluctantly to appease some husband or boyfriend's fetish. They were mostly dressed in street clothes or t-shirts like mine. Three of them were carrying bottles of water in one hand, obviously planning to put on a wet t-shirt show. I was just here for the surprise of a lifetime!

"And here they are, gentlemen," the D.J. announced "for our amateur night we have six young ladies competing for your tips and the $100 door prize. Let's give them a warm welcome."

As the applause began, that was our signal, and the line started moving as the first girl nervously walked out onto the runway. The rest of us followed, and I was last to come out through the black curtains to emerge into the bright lights on the main stage. It was a small stage extending to my left and right a little where two or three girls might perform for the room in general. But we were all heading down the long runway extending out into the room. There were guys seated on either side of us, and if we stood in the center of the aisle they were not quite out of arm's reach from both sides.

I scanned the faces of the audience and those seated along both sides not finding my target until I leaned to my left to look down at the end of the stage. And there he sat at the very end. He was just looking up at the first girl there and holding a dollar bill in his hand, waving it at her with that leering smile you'd expect from a 24-year-old horny guy wanting to see her naked. I'd need to perform for the guys on both sides for each three-minute short song, before each girl at the far end would then return to my end, so we would all get a chance in rotation along the entire stage.

The manager told us when we signed up that this was "anything goes." We could do as much or as little as we were comfortable taking off, but that dancing to the music always helped. And of course, showing everything was the best money-maker. I was determined to make the best of the next six songs!

Fifth Song

We were almost done with the show. The other prudish bitches were still wearing their panties, and some even more than that. And they were getting some of the pity tips.

But, hey! Once you've spread yourself open in front of a roomful of doctors and nurses to watch as you push a small melon from your cooch, how much more embarrassed can you get? And squatting down and getting back up in four-inch heels isn't that hard after months of handling a baby almost 24/7.

Quickly taking off my shorts, panties, and bra, I tossed them back onto the main stage within the first minute of the first song. I swayed and moved to the music on stage in just my mask, corset, and four-inch heels. I mostly faced toward the black curtained main stage during the first five songs. The few times I turned toward the end of the runway, I always made sure one of the other girls was blocking the view. I was waiting for the last song of the set for my grand finale.

I'd put on a good show for all of the guys who could see me, squatting down to spread my knees wide, or leaning over and shaking my two milk-filled jugs as they leaked onto the stage. My milk bottles were now painfully ready to burst, with a good amount dripping off the nipples without any help from my hands. With the audience reactions, I doubt the management would mind mopping the stage at the end of the show. But they would need to clean it for the next dancers by the time I was done. I was aching to pump my boobs to relieve the pressure. But just the swaying back and forth to the music was enough to make it obvious I was leaking.

A few times, I sat on the runway, picking my legs straight up and spreading them open, showing my shaved pussy to two or three guys on one side of the stage. As each one held out a dollar bill, I'd pull the garter open with one finger to allow him to slip the folded bill lengthwise under that elastic. I had already shifted plenty of those bills together to make room for more since we started.

I smiled mischievously at these latest three admirers and beckoned with the fingers of my right hand for a few more dollars, then I pointed down at my slit. I had my left hand poised there with the fingers on the left side which I pulled slightly to give them the hint of what might be. When they reached into their shirt pockets and pulled out several bills, I put my right hand down and spread it wide open letting them stare deep into the pink inside! And after they slid the last of those dollars into my garter, the fifth song ended.

With the beginning of our last song, it was finally ...

Showtime!

As the girl at the end of the stage turned to head to the back of the line, she was still wearing her bra, panties, and running shoes. I rose and stood facing the main stage, and I stepped to the side and edge to give her room to pass. The last song of our set started, and I turned toward him. Looking down, I gave him a sexy smile as he leered up at me, still clueless and possibly a little liquored up. Squatting down onto my heels, I noticed his two friends to his left and right shift their chairs around for a better view of my vagina.

He just stared straight into my nether region as I spread my knees open for them to see me in all my glory. That's when I reached up to grab one of the cat ears on my mask, pulling it up and off, and he looked up in recognition. His jaw dropped open as his eyes grew wide in shock as I squatted in front of him and his friends, my tits and pussy on full display for the whole room.

"That's right, dear," I said in a sarcastic tone. "Mom's watching our baby! I left enough bottles in the refrigerator. So, here, this one's for you!" and I reached for my right tit, grasping and squeezing it enough to send a thin stream of milk at his shirt.

When the milk hit his shirt, Dave shouted, "You FUCKING BITCH!" as he wiped at it. When he angrily started getting up from his seat leaning in toward the stage, the bouncer came over putting a heavy hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"That's right," I said shouted back at him, still remaining in my squatting position. "I'm YOUR fucking bitch!" Then I looked down at my mons to draw his attention, as I shouted, "But you're NOT fucking THIS bitch tonight!" and I slammed my knees back together.

As I stood and looked around the room, the guys were all going wild, shouting their catcalls. The ones closest to him patted him on the back asking, "Is she your wife?"

"Yeah," Dave said reluctantly as he looked down at the milk stain soaking into his shirt.

"Wow! Busted, man! But she's awesome!"

"Okay, guys," I shouted to the room as I dropped to my knees on the stage in front of my husband, as the bouncer kept his hand on Dave's shoulder. Sitting back on my heels, I put a hand under each tit, hefting them up a little and everyone could see the milk dripping off my nipples. "While supply lasts, anyone who wants a taste can drop a dollar on the stage and hold out an empty beer glass."

The men started lining up on both sides of my husband as he sat there looking up at me. They'd guzzle their beers, drop their dollars on stage, and hold out the emptied glass as I'd aim and squeeze some of the milk into it. Then he'd clap a hand on Dave's shoulder saying "Hey, thanks," "What a show," "Your wife's great!"

I lasted a few minutes before starting to run dry. Then the dancer who loaned me the corset came out to help me up and helped pick up the money from the stage. Dave's face stiffened in his embarrassment, and I could see that he was seething with anger. But with his friends and co-workers crowding around and the strip club bouncer leaning in to keep him under control, my husband wasn't moving.

After the manager gave me the one-hundred-dollar door prize, I looked at the bouncer, saying "Keep him there for at least ten minutes." At the end of the stage, I grabbed my clothes, and didn't stop to dress as I went through the curtains, ran out the back door, and climbed still naked into my car to make the most of that ten-minute lead.

Head Start

Being out of his angry reach, I planned to keep it that way. I called ahead to my mom and told her to pack up the baby, telling her we'd be spending the night at her and dad's house. So, I drove straight to her place, arriving to meet them when she got there.

I explained everything to my parents, describing how I handled the liar, and that it was probably best if he came home to an empty house to cool off and sober up. My parents stayed out of it and let me make my own decisions on how I wanted to handle his angry rants the next day.

It took two weeks for him to finally cool down and start to talk to me in a civil tone, and I eventually moved back into the house. Dad and the local police had warned Dave that there'd better not be any violence, and he was smart enough to realize I had him cornered. It took another two months after that before I allowed him back into our master bedroom. We had fight after fight, to end all fights during those next few months.

His ego and pride were hurt that night at the strip club, and he was embarrassed that his friends at work were chiding him almost every day over his stripper wife's show. It seemed that someone did get away with a few illicit pics of me, and my husband saw them all at work, ... repeatedly, even by some people who weren't there that night. One manager showed him his cellphone, asking "Hey, have you seen this?" The picture showed me kneeling onstage, with my hands on my thighs as a man's hand squeezed my left tit into a beer glass for the last few drops to try getting his dollars' worth.

It just took time for him to become numb to their insults before he finally realized they were jealous! When they started shyly asking him, almost begging for me to do private shows, he knew he had something the other guys didn't, a sexy and VERY playful MILF! A MILF they ALL wished they could have waiting at home every night!

So, we made a pact: Never lie to me, and if he ever wants to go out with the guys, all he has to do is say so! He can do whatever he wants. But so will I.

It was six months later before he again even considered following the guys to a strip club. But this time he called me to admit it. And when he did, ... we all make choices!

Over Twenty Years Later

My husband, Dave called late this afternoon, saying he couldn't go to the theater with me as we planned, because he was "working late." I had heard it before.

We already bought the tickets, and I was so looking forward to seeing that play tonight! But I wasn't going alone. So, without my husband to escort me, I needed another date.

Tilting my head back a little, I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror, running a finger under my chin to see it still wasn't sagging. Not bad for a woman in her late forties!

I was getting ready for my night out, dressing and doing my make-up. Heavy mascara, long eyelashes, and very bright red lipstick on my full, pouty lips. I know it probably makes me look like a hooker. But this is my look for these special date nights when my husband has to work. At five feet six, and just 130 pounds, with long auburn hair down to the middle of my back held back with hair clips to see my lips, I can still attract attention. My now 36-C breasts sag a little but are still handfuls any man would like to massage.

Tonight, I'm wearing my four-inch black stiletto heels with the ankle straps for that hint of restraint, my favorite, six-hundred-dollar black mini-dress, and a white pearl necklace. I'm not wearing a bra or panties this evening with this dress, since I don't plan for them to be on very long, and they'd just get in the way.

I glanced down at my left hand with the diamond engagement and gold wedding rings there, a subtle touch I knew a date sometimes likes. Women appreciate the "shiny things" on their finger, and some even think of them as status symbols; bigger and more expensive is better. I think for men, those rings symbolize ownership. My husband insists I wear my rings, to ensure other men know I'm already taken and unavailable ... but it doesn't always work that way. Some men see those rings as a magnet, attracting them as a challenge to have some fun with his wife and make him a cuckold.

"Not bad,"

I thought when I stood at the floor-length mirror, and I turned to either side running my hands down my flat stomach and along my hips.

"No need for either a corset or Spanks for this ... well, not quite fifty-year-old cougar."