Receptionist - The cuck, the Bull and the Hotwife

You wake up in your huge bed in your huge bedroom in your huge house - well, technically still his house, but you own him so you own everything he owns – for the same reason you woke up every morning the last months: the pressure on your bladder.

You smile and put your hands on your huge baby belly and giggle as you feel the little one moving. It's been doing that for a couple of weeks now – you're in the 26th week, almost seven months after you first fucked your bull. You Had forgotten to take the pill that day, but whether it happened then or shortly after doesn't really matter, does it? The first time the baby moved made you cry, and laugh at the same time. Alexander - who would have been horrified at the thought of getting pregnant – would have called it hormones and scoffed but you haven't heard his voice since you settled into this body once and for all. Your male side may still be there, but it’s quite and docile as it should be.

You stand up and look at yourself in the mirror. You think you’re glowing, radiating a softness and femininity more than ever in this body. And of course your breasts have become huge. You smile. Your cuck can never stop staring and your bull and other lovers you take love to come on the big milkers.

You put on a robe – you love to be naked, but he might be up already and he only gets so see you naked as when he helps you dress for a date or or when he watches you being taken by other men – go to the bathroom to empty your bladder that is about to burst - heavenly – and step into the shower of your private bathroom.

Today's the day. The big one. As a man you never thought this would happen - told yourself you don’t even want it, but of course wouldn't have found anyone to have it with – as a woman, this became an option petty soon after you met your cucky. A reward for him if he’s nice for a few months, an act of finally making it official for you.

Wedding Day.

You smile as you step out, dry yourself and walk into the kitchen. The breakfast is about to be ready, smelling quite nice.

Your cuck is cooking as he does since you moved in – most of the chores are done by the personal, but cooking for you - and cleaning your private bathroom – are his job now. To put him into his place.

His cooking was terrible at the start – and you let him feel it every time, so he learned. Quite quickly. His breakfast is great by now, his full meals – passable. He will get the gist eventually. You smile as he serves your morning tea then standing next to you to wait patiently, naked, as he usually is, wearing nothing but his chastity cage. He hasn't taken that off for a second since you put it on months ago.

“Ready for the big day, little man?”

He beams at you smiling.

“Yes, Ma'am. Of course Ma'am.”

You have informed him you’re going to marry a week ago, after planning everything. He didn't have anything to say in the matter and didn't ask to. He's over that phase of your relationship in which he tried to maintain a tiny bit of his masculinity and power.

“Very well.”

You finish off your breakfast and stand up, it’s the queue for him that he's allowed to eat.

“I’ll get dressed. Don’t let me see your face until the ceremony at the beach, you know it’s bad luck if you see me in my dress!”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Not that you believe in that but every reason to not have him around is a good reason.

In your dressing room - you have dressing room – you slip into your dress: white, short, deep neckline, tightly hugging your female form - especially your swollen breasts and your large belly. Everyone knows your pregnant – and thanks to your policy of open relationship and transparency, everyone in the world knows its not his. And you're prouder of it than you ever were of anything else in your life. Lives. Everyone shall see. Also – you're so damn hot in this.

You put on your sandals – you’d love to wear high heels, but pregnant, at the beach in high heels is too much even for you to suffer for looking hot.

When you leave, he’s gone to his part of the house, the dishes cleaned and put back into the cupboard. He did them by hand, doing the dishes is part of his cooking duties and just because you're going to marry today is no reason to neglect those. You walk to the white limousine you ordered. A model of your… well, his company. For some more hours. After the marriage, everything that’s his is yours officially, too.

You wave at the paparazzi in front of the gate – you’re on good terms with most of them. Your revelation of the nature of your relationship with the one of the richest men of the world, the bombshell that you’re pregnant – not from him - the story of the celebrity wedding of the year breaking a week ago - makes you a popular source they cherish and treat well. You've made clear that your child will be save from them and if any of them breaks the rules of conduct you set, you’ll buy their news company and have them fired.

They all know you can. You just had your cuck buy one of the the most important social media sites. And run it to the ground because you let HIM actually manage it. You’ll not repeat That mistake.

You're alone in the limo - haven't arranges a transport for your cuck. You don't really care, he'll get there, somehow. The paparazzi also wait at the beach front. The actual area of your wedding is hermetically sealed of – you bought the land, so you have total control over it – but you grant them places at the entrance.

“Lexi – how do you feel on this great day.”

“Fabulous. I can only recommend to every girl out there to marry a rich, obedient, docile billionaire.”

Laughter.

“How’s the baby?”

“Perfectly fine.”

You pat your belly.

“Wakes me up in the morning and keeps me awake at night!”

You smile happily.

“Has he already accepted paternity?”

“Of course, the first day I told him. He's happy to take care of my child like it was his own.”

“Will he adopt once you're married?"

You snicker.

“LIKE it was his own, there'll never be a doubt that it isn’t. No, the child has a father, it doesn't need another. He'll just be the provider, without any paternal rights. OK, guys I gotta got, I can’t be late for my own wedding”

You throw them a kiss. They try to shout questions after you, but are well behaved and stay outside.

Inside the perimeter you're greeted by what used to be your cucky’s Greek Choir.

The three girls have in the last months become your closest friends, confidants. assistants Sharing the common interest to humiliate the pathetic little man who hired them has bonded you. United you. They helped you organise your new life, move into the big house, briefed you on your future husband's business – being always in his vicinity, they know the business better than he does - and now that you took the reigns, they taught you everything they know. He’s still the one going to work and giving orders, but all of his order come from you now.

The ladies are in anything short pink dresses – of course they are your bridesmaids, who else would be. You talk and giggle for moments, they touch your belly and grin happily as the baby moves. Then you spot the little one’s father, smile at him, as you walk over, hug him, kiss him passionately and hungrily.

You hear your bridesmaids giggle and feel the stares of some guests - everyone knows, of course, but some – particularly remnants of your fiancée's old social circle -and his family, of course, have trouble getting used to the idea of his bride to be making out with the big black man in the tan suit minutes before her wedding. They better get used to it if they want to stay in your - good grace and be allowed to maintain the proximity to one of the richest man in the world after he’s officially yours.

“How’s my baby momma?”

“Now that I've kissed you, I couldn't be better, stud.”

”And my baby?”

"Healthy and kicking!”

He puts a and on your belly and smiles. He fathered a few children for your future husband – they and their mothers are here today. But you feel he has a very special bond to your and yours.

Your father steps to you, kisses your on the lips and shakes hand with the black man. Your family got used to the idea of your unusual relationship quite well. You've learned a Lot about your relatives since you're woman, their open mindedness and sexual liberties they never talked to you about when you were a man but seem to have little problem revealing to their equally open minded daughter.

“I am so happy for you, Lexi. Catching one of the richest men in the world – and having him and his money so firmly under control.”

He snickers and you smile warmly. Of course your family has benefited immensely from your new status. Your parents moves into a house in your neighbourhood – obviously ten times the worth of their old one – and both your sister and brother now live in penthouse apartments they own in one of the best neighbourhoods in town.

You take your father's arm and the music start to swell. Seem like the groom has arrived as well.

“Shall we?”

"I’d be honoured."

He leads you through the rows of guests – on your side your mother and siblings in the front row and behind a mixed variety of black men – most of them you’ve had a tryst or two with - and white women who you’ve met, sharing your interest in ebony cocks. Your circle of peers. Your husband's side of the aisle is mostly pearly white, his family in the front row, obviously forcing themselves to grin and bear it.

They have known about the nature of their son's – relationships since their alleged “grandchildren” all turned out a lot darker than expected, but when you made it open, they threatened to break off contact.

You could persuade them - calculating to them how much of their family fortune is in their son’s hands – meaning yours - and how little they still own themselves. They adapted. They got over it.

In the second row are the children your future husband accepted as his own they varying shades of brown skin the only speck of colour in the groom's section. Their mothers all very white and all very grateful - you made sure their allowances were raised drastically as your gift to them for your own wedding.

In front of the dais waits the priest – an old kind black man. It was your bull's idea to invite the priest of his congregation to perform the ceremony and you couldn't have agreed more readily. If nothing else to see the face of your future parents-in-law when they were informed you’d be married by a black church instead of the WASPy evangelical community they call their religious home.

Your fiancée stands in front of him, in an ill fitting tuxedo. It's too hot and formal for the occasion at the beach, and it looks a size to big, making its wearer look smaller. You picked it, of course. For this exact same purpose. The father of your child has taken his place next to him - there was never any doubt as to who would be your groom’s best man – and makes him look even smaller in his tightly fitting tan suit.

As you stand next to him and nod to the priest, the ceremony starts. He's keeping it short, as you asked and you quickly get to the self written vows.

He starts. You have written his, yourself, too.

“I promise to love and honour and obey you, for I am nothing without you. You are the light of my lief, the only purpose of my being. I am honoured that you chose me and promise to ever make demands beyond my station, fulfil all your needs and desires and never be selfish trying to put my own needs above yours. I accept that you own and control me and I could hope fro nothing more."

Mumbling from his side of the aisle – adopted children of your husband an the mothers excluded - Laughter and female sighs and “Awws” from yours.

You speak up.

"I promise to treat you as you deserve, keep you in your place and always grant the the right amount of attention. I promise to properly reward you if you are a good husband who does his duties and supports me in all my goals and satisfies all my needs and I promise to guide you in the right path, firmly and strictly if you ever forget your place below your wife.”

The reactions from the audience get more animated until the priest clears bis throat.

“Do you want to take this woman to be your legally married Wi.. Hot-wife?”

You chuckle as he correct his usual formula to the one you asked for.

“I do.”

“And and you want to take this – man – to be your legally married cuckold?”

“I guess...”

“In front of witnesses and God, by the power invested in me by the First Church of the Black Messiah, I pronounce you Wife and Husband.”

You wanted him to change that to cuckold, too, but apparently the law doesn't accept that in a weeding. Best he could do was say wife first and husband second.

“Until **** or the will of the Lady of the House do you part. You may kiss the bride”

You hubby sighs – he’s been informed what is experted and to the shock of his and the amusement of your side of the aisle, he goes to his knees and kisses your feet in the sandals while you pull up his best man and passionately kiss him on the mouth.

The music starts playing, your side of the ails applauds frantically, the other side more reluctantly – again, only the mothers and mixed raced kids are more enthusiastic.

You link arms with the two man and laughingly join the crowd, as the gather around the buffet you organized. There'll be no huge party, this wedding is, after all, not an act of love. Not the start of a dream marriage. It's an official act to finalise your husband's status as your cuckold, a celebration of your as his hot-wife, a strong, confident woman who took over all his life.

But this special day is not about the man you just married. He's still a pathetic weak, irrelevant part of your life, just there to provide you with the material things you need and amuse you with his antics while you enjoy the real life with the father of your child and your various other black lovers. So – reason to celebrate YOU, but a grant party would make it seem like it’s an actual wedding.

You hug your siblings and parents, take the congratulations of everyone – honest and happy from your friends an the mothers of your husband’s adopted children, cold and reserved from your in-laws and your cuck's old social contacts. Take the first dance – not with your hubby, of course, but with his black best man. And then the sun sets and your legs get heavy - disadvantage of the pregnancy but worth it, you call it a day, say goodbye to the guests who are fee to keep celebrating - you notice only your half of the small party had enough fun to stay - and retreat to his - your - Yacht, that is harbouring at he nearby marina.

You take your limo, making out with your bull in the rear all the way, your husband sitting next to you patiently. You kiss hungrily - marrying the other man made you hot and horny for your lover, put a hand in his pants and rub his enormous hard cock while he massages your swollen tits – he loves doing that since the grew larger.

As you arrive you get out, arm in arm, joking and teasing while your husband follows you to the boat in a proper distance.

You’ll spend the next month on it, travelling the world for your honeymoon. You'd stay longer, but you want to be back home in time for the baby to drop. Just in case, you have a an obstetrician on board who gets generously paid to to take a month off of his usual duties to be there just as an emergency backup.

Other than him and the crew it'll be just you, your new husband and the father of your child for a whole month. You fully expect to pick up a lover or two in the harbours you anchor - you'll mostly travel the Caribbean - but most of the time it’s you, your man ans your cuck and the open sea. You can’t wait.

The Captain receives you at the wharf.

“Mrs. Jordan. Mr… {last name}. Congratulations. Please come on board."

You smile - he's the first one to address your husband by his new name – of course you insisted he takes your last name, you’re a modern marriage, after all. You assume it will take a while until everyone - employees, media and his fan boys alike – accept the big man’s new name. His family probably never will, they were furious when he told them. But the people you pay adapt surprisingly easy.

You enter your cabin – bigger than the apartment was that you lived in when you were a man – slip out of your dress and signal the big black man to get naked. No matter how often you see it, the obsidian black, muscular body always makes you wet. He kisses you, gently stroking your belly with his bay in it – his eyes widen as he feels it move. He grins proudly.

You look at your new husband.

“Get naked and take your position!”

These are the first words you speak to him since you're married, is first word are just the one you ant to hear.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

He drops his pants and takes his clothes off, standing in front of you two naked but for his chastity cage, a truly pitiful sight to behold. Without hesitation...