The Good Wife

I am a good wife. A good wife does whatever her husband tells her to do.

When we first got married when I was eighteen, that meant submitting to the degrading treatment he subjected me to so fiercely. It was hard at first. The lashings, the body writing, the slapping — it made me think he hated me. He’d beat my ass until it hurt to sit down. He wrote “Whore” and “Slut” and, mockingly, “Feminist” on my breasts, hidden under my modest clothing. I’d have to smile and speak to others in public knowing that the messages written on my skin invalidated everything I said. He humiliated me on camera, forcing me to bark like a dog. He shoved toys up my ass. I would sit silently with his cock held obediently in my mouth while he watched TV. He slapped my face. He fucked my ass, never with the slightest warning. He said it was my job to be ready for him. He punished me for past minor indiscretions, never paying any mind to his own unrelenting cheating. For my husband, women were playthings, and I was his favorite toy.

I came to see his punishment not as malice, but as love. He was obsessed with me. It was his wild possessiveness that drove him to treat me like this. I knew it was better to be loved so passionately than to not be desired at all. He had never done any of this with his other women because he didn’t really care about them. They were just holes. Of course, he told me that I was just a hole, but that didn’t make it true. Besides, he felt safe with me. If I were an uptight shrew, he wouldn’t be doing any of this to me. This was his form of vulnerability — he couldn’t share these dark desires with anyone but me. I loved him, and I didn’t want him to repress his own needs. There were also the gentle times. He wasn’t always harsh and rough with me. It was just…a lot of the time.

I know you’re probably thinking that I’m a battered wife, a shrinking violet who is rationalizing her situation and suffering from marital Stockholm Syndrome. But I know it’s not true. I love my husband. He loves me. I do whatever my husband tells me to do. A good wife does whatever her husband tells her to do.

But then he asked me something I’d never expected. He wanted me to sleep with other men.

When he finally told me, I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to react. Was this a test? Would he actually let me sleep with another man? Was I supposed to like it? Did he want me to cum?

I reassured him that I didn’t want any other man. He slapped my face and told me that was a lie. I insisted it wasn’t. Another slap.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never been attracted to another man the entire time we’ve been together?”

“That’s not the same thing!” I cried, bracing myself for another blow. It didn’t come.

He exhaled. “If you’re attracted to other men,” he said quietly, “I want you to have them. I don’t want to deprive you of anything. And to tell you the truth, I would like it. I don’t know what that says about me. I just want to see you happy.”

“You make me happy,” I said, kissing him, my cheek still stinging.

“It’s just so embarrassing,” he confessed. He looked sheepish.

“It’s not,” I reassured him. “You’re not a…a, um…”

“A cuck.” He said flatly. But then he smiled. “It’s not about humiliation or inadequacy or anything like that,” he continued, mostly to himself. “I can’t explain it. I just…I like the idea. A lot.”

He glanced at me.

“It’s okay. It’s not a test. I want this. Don’t you think it would be fun?”

I would do anything my husband told me to do. He knew that. But I still wasn’t sure how excited I was allowed to be. I guiltily tried to ignore the swelling butterflies in my stomach.

As the days passed, his earnestness became clearer to me. He really meant it — he wanted to me fuck other guys. In front of him, of course. Nothing on my own. That was the rule. The truth slowly began to sink in and I could hardly contain my excitement. My mind raced with possibilities. I always wanted to be a real whore. A slut. I wanted to get a lot of dick. My husband knew all this about me — that’s why he wrote it on my skin — but I had only ever been with one man. I was going to rack up a huge body count, all with the permission of my husband. I suppressed a smile at the thought.

“Will you bring the men home for me? Or will I?” I asked him.

“Easy there, slut,” he said with a smile. “I’ll pick them out first. Maybe we’ll let you pick a few eventually.” He suddenly looked suspicious. “Why? Do you have someone in mind?”

“Oh, no,” I replied quickly. “Nothing like that. I just don’t know how you want to go about this.”

In fact, I did have someone in mind, although I’d never admit it. I could barely admit it to myself.

“I have some videos for you to watch,” he informed me.

“Okay,” I said. He often made me watch porn.

“They should give you an idea of what I’m looking for.”

I went into the bedroom with my laptop. He followed soon after with the vibrator. He allowed me to use it when he had me watch porn. He said it helped condition me. It was a good thing he controlled when I could have it. I’d use that thing all day long if he didn’t lock it up.

Once, he forgot to put it back in his safe. After he went to work, I plugged it in and masturbated for hours and hours. I came dozens of times. I didn’t even know I could. Naked, sweating, and in the middle of yet another orgasm, I heard the car door slam outside. Panicking, I wrapped up the vibrator and left it where I found it. I turned on the shower and tore the sweat-soaked sheets off the bed, throwing them in the washing machine as I sprinted to the bathroom.

“Hi, honey!” I said, too loudly as he stepped into the bathroom.

After some small talk, he asked me why none of my chores were done.

I froze behind the curtain. “It was, uh, just a lazy day today!” I said sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it when I get out.”

“No, that’s fine,” he said. “But get out now.”

I turned off the water and stepped out. I was dripping all over the floor. He gave my ass a gentle spank and a squeeze.

“Today is Friday,” he reminded me.

My jaw dropped open. “Oh my God…I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean…” I trailed off. There was no excuse.

Every Monday and Friday, I was instructed to wait for him by the front door, on my knees, my mouth ready for him the second he walked in the door. He’d slide his powerful cock across my outstretched tongue and fuck my face until he came down my throat. That was how a good wife greeted her husband.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I’d been so selfish. Masturbating the entire day my husband was hard at work. I neglected all of my chores. And I’d forgotten to give him his blowjob. All because I couldn’t turn off that stupid vibrator. I clenched my fists as a trickle went down one cheek.

“Hey…” he whispered, caressing my cheek. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I wish you’d just slap me in my stupid slut face,” I whimpered, choking back more tears. “I forgot. You give me so little to do, and I still fucked it up.”

“Don’t swear,” he said, firmly but gently. “How about I give you a spanking?”

I nodded eagerly, sniffling. I followed him into the living room. He bent me over his knee. The first one was gentle.

Do it harder, I begged him quietly.

He obliged. It hurt. “Thank you, daddy,” I breathed. He spanked me three more times.

“Feel better?” He asked.

I nodded, giving him a kiss.