Chapter 5

“Recorded for Posterity”

Picture this: You see a woman, of medium build, laying along the length of a sofa. Her brunette hair comes down just past her shoulders, though because her head is propped up on the armrest, some of it flows down the side of the sofa. One leg rests high along the top of the back, the other is stretched wide in the other direction.

You can tell she’s a large-breasted woman because her breasts are completely exposed. In fact, her whole body is naked. Her big tits lean a little to each side, not because they’re old or saggy, but because they’re natural, not implants, and that’s how natural breasts react to gravity. As your gaze travels down her flat stomach, you encounter a thin strip of hair, her pussy patch precisely trimmed to a line no more than a half-inch in width. It points directly to her slit, like the demarcation between left and right, east and west, right and wrong. Right now that slit is closed, despite the fact that her legs are spread so far apart. The skin around her mound is hairless, soft, and supple.

Two pairs of eyes gaze upon her. The first set has seen this all before, yet those eyes still hold a spark of interest and electricity. He has seen her like this before, but at the same time is seeing her like this for the first time. The second set of eyes has a hungry, predatory look to them. He, too, has seen a woman in this position many times, but not this woman. This woman is something new to him, and as such is something to savored, to be drunk in large gulps as well as small sips, a treat to his palate.

There are innumerable other eyes, too, the woman realizes. For the second man carries a camera, and who can know what eyes will be exposed to her dreadful exposure. He is contracted to keep a lock on the photographs, to destroy any duplicates. But can you honestly trust the word of a man who does this for a living? It was not, and is not, her decision to make, so she discards the thought to reflect on other, more pressing concerns.

She struggles to keep her right leg still as the camera records her naked body. It is not concerned with the beauty of her eyes, or the silkiness of her hair, or even her well-toned legs. Rather, it focuses on her most blatant sexual characteristics. Her breasts, awaiting the rough touch of a man in lust. Her slit, wet, warm and ready to receive any appendage a man might deign to offer her. Her mouth, prepared to stimulate and milk the next penetration of manhood, lips tight, tongue twisting, throat tightening. Is that to happen this day? She has no way of knowing.

The examination by camera becomes more deliberate, more intimate. On orders from one she reaches down and spreads her pussy lips apart, while the other records the steamy pink canyon that’s been exposed. She holds not the folds of her pussy, where her fingers might obscure a view of her intimate interior, but rather the base on each side of her mound, opening her hole from the bottom. At another order she shifts her fingers so she can flick her fingernail against her clit, urging it to engorge, though that’s hardly necessary. It’s already hard and trembling, a fact that is revealed with the next order, which forces her to pull back the hood of skin over her clit so the camera can capture even that raw nugget of flesh.

She’s long past the point where she cares what facial expressions the camera might capture. She moans and closes her eyes whenever she’s stimulated, grimaces when the demands strike her as to perverse, flashes anger when a comment from her tormentors cuts to the quick. It’s better, she thinks, than those vacuous women staring up with vacant eyes in all those pictures on the web. Reality has emotions.

She watches as one stands above her, a bottle of baby oil in his hands. He tips it and she follows the stream down, closing her eyes only at the last moment, when the viscous liquid splashes against her waiting tits, oozing down the mounds and pooling in the middle of her chest. For a moment she fantasizes that its syrup, then whipped cream, then cum. She returns to reality when a pair of hands begin smoothing the oil around and across her breasts, tugging and twisting and kneading and swirling. The friction warms the oil which in turn warms her flesh, and she imagines for a moment that her tits might spring into flame. Then the rubbing concentrates on the nipples — always the nipples — and the warmth stabs like lightning through her body and into her pussy.

A whispered conversation to which she is not invited. And then the order comes to pull her legs straight back, exposing both her ass and her pussy. A finger rubs the rim, the camera catching all. Then penetration, not painful, not unexpected. She’d been fucked, anally, that very morning, her bowels liberally coated with a sheen of fresh sperm. Her muscles had regained much of their usual tightness, but not all, and the elasticity allowed the finger to easily violate her asshole. It moved in, moved out, moved in, moved out, then another finger joined it, stretching her even more, but nowhere near the limit she could go. Not even as much as she’d reached in the morning, with a hard cock pounding into her butt.

Despite the recent stimulation, she still writhed and squirmed atop the fingers, her body willing them to go deeper, deeper, with more force and greater malevolence. Was there no depravity that she would resist?

Another whispered conversation and she was upright on the sofa, her legs spread, her pussy exposed, her ass hanging almost off the front of the cushions. More oil dripped onto her pussy lips. Then his hand, also slick with oil, penetrates her pussy lips, presses into her cunt hole. One finger, then two, three, four, the thumb folds into the palm. A slight twist which elicits a sharp grunt from her, and with an audible “thwock” his fist is deeply ensconced inside her pussy. She can feel his fingers wiggling around inside her. He slowly pulls his hand outwards, stretching her cunt hole in a way that’s uncomfortable yet extremely erotic. She’s fascinated by the image before her, the skin bulging out, clinging to his fist, like the way the earth’s crust bulges just before an eruption.

Then, just as deliberately, he pushes his fist fully inside her cunt, the hair on his wrists scraping against her sensitive skin. She can feel his knuckles reach the back wall of her void. Knowing that he has invaded her so completely fills her with lust and shame. It’s one of those moments when she is truly nothing more than his fuck toy; when he’s doing nothing more than reacting to his sick and twisted urges. In response, she pushes away the hurt and humiliation, and lets his carnal appetite overwhelm her, drinking in his perversions and trying to enjoy it as her own. She gives in to her most base desires. She is the fully and completely the sex toy that he wants her to be.

His fist is in her for mere minutes, though it seems like hours. He has palpated her from the inside. He found her g-spot and made her writhe upon his hand like an insect stuck on the end of a needle. She moans with every movement within her, and he revels in his ability to get such a reaction from her.

She holds her legs up with one arm. With the other she clutches the back of the sofa. She feels denim brush against her hand there. Again. And again. The photographer is rubbing his crotch against her hand, without a break in the filming of her depraved fisting. She stretches her fingers out and feels the erection within. It’s wrong to touch another man’s cock this way, but she finds momentary delight in the illicit feeling. Besides, in four weeks she’ll be entertaining this cock in her mouth and who knows where else. It’s a small move from a blow job to a tit fuck. And who knew what kind of service this man would do for the privilege of fucking her cunt?

Then, with a swiftness that’s almost shocking, he withdraws the hand, leaving her gasping at the sudden void. Her bladder is suddenly ready to give way; it’s only with supreme effort that she keeps from letting out a stream of warm piss. It occurs to her that they would love to see her do just that.

The camera swoops in, the auto-focus light bathing her crotch in red light. Though the clicking sound is turned off, she knows that the photographer is taking dozens, if not hundreds of shots of her freshly fisted cunt. How big must the gape be of a woman just fist fucked? She can’t see for herself, the angle is wrong, though she can sort of see her image reflected in the camera lens, weirdly distorted and horribly disfigured. She can only hope she doesn’t look that bad.

Her husband, her owner, her keeper, looks down at her with a graphic leer. She has never felt so completely debased in his presence, though she knows from her travels on the internet that there are many levels below this that a woman can be forced into. Her emotions are at war, with one part mortified at how she’s being photographed and recorded, yet another part experiencing a keen-edged thrill at being so out of control of her actions. She can do no wrong because she has no control.

At a two-word order she holds her legs tight to her chest, exposing her ass in the process. With an erection so stiff it appears to be steel, her owner steps up and sinks his shaft into her waiting anus. Well-lubricated from the spillover from the fisting, there’s only a moment’s resistance before the head of his cock crowns through her anal ring. He fucks her, slow and steady, pressing her hard into the sofa cushions, seemingly without a care for her physical comfort. After several minutes of this constant rhythm, he suddenly withdraws, his throbbing cock slick with oil and her internal juices. She’s sure he will climb up on the cushions and make her lick them off. It seems like another good way to humiliate her and in the past she has been adamant about not engaging in ass-to-mouth. His face shows a knowing smile, as if he’s guessed her thoughts and is weighing the benefits of forcing her to do the very thing she has been so against. Instead, he turns back and enters her slack pussy.

She knows she hasn’t regained the tightness that normally welcomes him. She can barely feel his dick in her at all. He solves this by pushing her onto her side and fucking the hole that’s now pinched between her legs. This, this is a position she’s never experienced. The feel of it is wholly different, despite the looseness of her cunt walls. The pushing and tugging during every stroke is sheer bliss. It needs only one thing to make it perfect. Slowly, carefully, she presses her hand between her legs, finding her clit and gently rubbing it, feeling like a thief stealing some pleasure for herself.

She’s forgets about the camera. Forgets about the cameraman. Forgets about everything except the tantalizing sensations between her legs. He fucks her passionately. She rubs herself just as passionately, slowing down and speeding up in time to his rhythms.

When she cums, it’s a burning nova exploding between her legs. A fireball that causes her to squeeze her legs even tighter, even as she screams her pleasure to the world. Moments later, he ceases thrusting and stiffens, his cock pumping burst after burst of cum into her wet crevice. How long had it been since they’d both cum together? Forever, or years at least. He hadn’t been deep inside her upon shooting his load and she knew right away that some of his cum would leak out, would dribble out the crack and drip down her ass. He’d given her a cream pie, as the porn sites so graphically called it. A cumshot in her pussy. His cock emerges, leaving a wet trail along her thighs. He bends down and kisses her tenderly on the lips. At that moment she regrets that he came in her cunt. She wants to show her unyielding devotion to him, her thanks for his tenderness, by receiving his hot sperm upon her face and in her mouth. So he could gaze down at her and know that he hadn’t just made her do something — she’d also given something to him.

She’s so sated by the explosive orgasm that she doesn’t resist at all when she feels a hand upon her knee urging her to sit up and spread her legs apart again. It’s the first time the photographer has touched her with purpose. He takes the camera away from his face to look into her eyes, and understanding passes between them. From this day forward, he will be in charge of her in a way that neither she nor her owner anticipated.

The camera captures the cum leaking out of her pussy. The sperm dribbled across her thighs. The oily dampness in her crack. She moves as ordered onto her hands and knees, so he can record her cream pie from the rear. Her tits dangle down, now forgotten. She feels a hand rubbing her ass and knows it belongs to the photographer. She looks over to her owner to find that he’s not upset by the forbidden grope. She knows then that this is only just the beginning.

* * * * Two Weeks Earlier * * * * *

So, you might think that after that “cow” thing, that my life must be an unbearable hell of cruelty and humiliation. But that’s not the case at all. As I said in the last chapter, people and animals that have no limits often create limits for themselves. My owner, having determined that he could do almost anything to me, including milking my tits like a cow, must’ve decided that was far enough. Maybe his conscience started to bother him. At least, that’s what I surmise. We haven’t actually discussed it. All I can say is that kind of combination hasn’t happened again.

That’s not to say that he doesn’t continuously push me into uncomfortable situations, either to test my obedience or for his own perverted pleasure. The things I’ve been made to do… well, you’re going to learn all about them in later chapters. Suffice it to say that it’s not the kind of thing being discussed at suburban dinner parties on Saturday night. (Or maybe it is, and we just led very sheltered lives. Who knows?)

As my initial “training” continued, he came up with plenty of little surprises to keep me on my toes, and on my back. As I said before, any hope of wearing normal clothes was almost gone. Nearly every day he had me scantily-clad and ready for groping. The only time I could wear normal clothes was when I was on a Skype call with my clients, or during those infrequent trips to town when he couldn’t find a way to put me in a potentially embarrassing clothing situation.

For instance, I thought that going to church would put our new lifestyle on hold. Nope. Under my prim and proper clothing, I was almost always sans panties. A couple of times, he had me wear a pair of garters and attached a metal washer to them with a string. Every time I moved, the washer would swing up against my pussy lips, reminding me it was there. When you’re being distracted like that, it’s hard to concentrate on the service, or even on what people are saying. People must’ve thought I was on drugs, or drinking or something.

A trip to the hardware store (we do that a lot around here) also became an adventure. Small-breasted women can go without a bra and not have to worry about much, especially if their top is of a heavier material, or their nipples aren’t too pronounced. For big breasted women, it’s much more obvious when you’re not wearing a bra. I get lots of hateful stares from the other women shopping there. On the plus side, the salesmen swarm around, eager to help out. And since my nipples harden at the smallest whiff of a breeze, it always looked to them like I was ready to jump on the next cock to come around.

My owner loved the attention I got in those situations. He knew it made me feel uncomfortable, but also knew that it got me wet, once the initial shock of being the center of that kind of attention wore off. Besides, what was I to do when he said I could choose any two articles of clothing to wear to the store? If I picked the bra, I wouldn’t have the top to go over it. And if I picked the panty, I wouldn’t have the jeans to go over it. So, for the most part, trips to the store were done without bra or panties. Fortunately, it was starting to get cooler in our neck of the woods, which meant that I could dress a little more heavily, such as in a sweatshirt or sweater. Though sometimes I ended up in a zip-up fleece jacket, and then he could control the amount of cleavage that I showed. And back in the car, he could make me unzip it all the way, giving him free and clear access to my boobs and nipples during the drive home.

At home, though, there were no limits to the depraved ways he could dress and undress me. It didn’t take long for him to decide that my closet of lingerie was seriously lacking, and we spent the good part of two weeks going on an online buying binge. He’d always liked the way women looked in a bodystocking, especially the crotchless kind, so we ordered a great number of them. Full body ones, sleeveless ones, topless ones, wide netting, narrow netting, string netting… the list is endless. I can literally wear a different style of bodystocking for three straight months without repeat.

And that was only the beginning. Think of every manner of lingerie and slutty dresses that you can use to partially cover or uncover the female body, and I have a few samples in my closet. While he likes the bodystockings, my favorites are the leather harnesses. They’re a bitch to get into, with all those straps and rings and openings, but once I have one on I feel like an Amazon princess. They hide nothing, of course. My tits are right out there for anyone to see, and the leather strips between my legs only accentuate the mound of my pussy. But when I’m wearing one of those and a pair of thigh high boots, I feel like I could be a dominatrix, ready to order around my submissive mate.

Ha. Like that would happen. Usually when he dresses me in the harness, it’s so HE can use a leather crop to administer some “behavioral modification” to any exposed part of my flesh… which is all of it. The harness is also a good way to snag me and pull my body into a better position, usually so he can fuck me harder, deeper or more easily. Still, I like wearing one.

There were lots of times, though, where pure, unadulterated female nakedness was all that he wanted to see. Every day for a full week he ordered me to wait for him to return from work by kneeling on our bed, completely naked, on all fours in the ass up position, my butt and pussy pointing at the door. He ordered me to prepare my anus by oiling it up, and prepare my pussy by masturbating until it was hot and juicy. On each of those days, he approached me from behind and, without a word, mounted me like a dog and raped my ass or pussy.

One of those times, after savagely fucking my ass and cruelly spanking my ass cheeks, he pulled out and spewed his sperm up and down my ass crack. Then he ordered me to put on a pair of panties without cleaning myself up. I spent the rest of the night struggling to contain his semen within the thin fabric, not wanting to let it stain or ruin any of our furniture. By the time we settled down to bed, the panties were soaked and showed no signs of starting to dry. Want to spend an uncomfortable night? Try to sleep with a pair of wet, cum-soaked panties binding up between your legs.

Remember in an earlier chapter when I said that it seemed he didn’t have a plan? Well, maybe he did it consciously, or maybe it happened by accident, but all these little indignities began to desensitize me to the incremental steps we were taking. When you’re walking around the house bottomless with a buttplug shoved inside you, it doesn’t seem so bad to go to the hardware store without any panties. When you’re forced to greet your husband with an oiled up ass pointing in his face, you feel a lot less uncomfortable when he reaches under your dress in the church parking lot and strokes your bare pussy. And when he’s already fucked you outside while the neighbors are watching, it’s a lot less embarrassing when he pushes you to your knees in the forest and makes you suck his cock, and then makes you wear the facial that’s dripping off your chin during the long walk home. (And then eats out your naked cunt while you’re stripped and spread-eagle across the hood of the car, with the garage door open, revealing everything that’s going on to whomever might be walking down the road, such as the new neighbors from down the street who pretend not to be watching but surely notice a bare woman’s body heaving and groaning while a man has his face placed firmly between her twitching legs.)

The point is, in a little more than eight weeks, I’d gone from the typical suburban wife to a woman who would drop and suck her husband’s cock at no more than a nod from him, baring my body no matter who might be watching, and generally acting like a rutting animal with no more on its mind than satisfying the insatiable urge to scratch its primeval need to procreate.

It was about this time that my owner decided he wanted to do a better job of recording our intimate actions for posterity.

Since the very beginning of our new lifestyle, my owner was very interested in photographing my body in a variety of semi-nude and nude positions. As the weeks progressed, I graduated from posing with lingerie to revealing more and more of my most intimate body parts. He finished up that series with a 50 photo expose on the inside of my dripping pussy, with special emphasis on my erect clit. He followed that up with another series on my gaping asshole, wet and quaking from a raunchy anal fuck. And he was always keen to take pictures of his cum decorating his slut wife: a creampie dripping slowly from my cunt, an anal creampie bubbling from my ass, a facial that coated my forehead to my chin, a load moisturizing my tits, his jizz warming my feet, and the classic load in the mouth.

From there, he moved on to recording himself as he fucked, used and abused my body. Sometimes he would hold the camera himself, other times he would put it on a tripod, so he could keep his attention on his own pleasure and bending me to his will. It was clear, though, that after a week of experimentation, he wasn’t getting the results he wanted. He wanted it to look more like a porn shoot, with multiple angles and closeups when the situation called for it. What he got was a clearly homemade effort, with a shaky camera and crappy sound. You could barely tell who I was, and could barely tell how big his dick was. Clearly not acceptable to someone who wanted to expose his wife and show the world how dominant he was.

One Friday night, that changed for good. That’s when our lifestyle started down that slippery slope to another level of depravity. That night, he had me wear an open bust black one-piece bodystocking to greet my owner at the door. Crotchless, too, of course.

I met him at the door and he immediately put aside his briefcase and computer bag, then pulled me into the kitchen, where he dropped the seat cushion from one of the chairs onto the floor, then nodded at it, while he sat down in the chair. I knew exactly what to do without a word from him. Pushing the cushion between his outstretched legs, I dropped down onto my knees, undid his pants, and pulled his sacred cock out.

I had just begun to suck his inflating snake into my mouth when I noticed movement in the doorway we’d just come through. There was someone there! Someone there watching us! I started to pull my head back so I could warn my husband, but he forced my head back onto his cock with a not-so-gentle shove. I looked up at him, with the warning hopefully in my eyes, only to find him gazing down at me in bemusement. He knew there was someone inside the house and watching! And he didn’t care.

It was simple but misguided instinct to try and cover my exposed breasts and pussy. But it soon became clear to me that one arm wasn’t going to cover my big tits, and covering my pussy didn’t matter as long as I was kneeling on the floor and sucking a big thick dick. So I turned my attention to the why and how of it.

He knew there was someone there. The only way into the house was through the garage. So he either invited the person in, or they’d wandered in on their own. Who would wander in? A delivery man? The postman? A neighbor looking to borrow something? Whoever it was, it wasn’t someone that I wanted to be watching me performing fellatio on my husband. Especially not dressed in a bodystocking that left nothing to the imagination, but did leave my bare tits and pussy out where anyone could see them. I wasn’t sure what was worse: displaying my near nakedness or performing a sex act in front of an unknown person.

That thought, bewilderingly, made me want to get as much of his cock into my mouth as possible. To keep anyone from seeing the length and girth of his erect manhood? Then I thought about how THAT would look to the observer: me being such a cock slut that I’m so eager to deepthroat him. But then I thought that I might actually be a cock slut, because my thudding heart revealed that I was once again excited by the idea of someone watching me do something dirty and kinky and promiscuous. Such was the confusing swirl of my thoughts.

Even as I contemplated all that, I had to decide what to do with my free hand. I was only allowed to have one hand on his dick while I sucked it. He’d made the rule at the beginning, reasoning that two hands would be a handjob, so if I was ordered to give him a blowjob, only one hand was allowed. So normally I would use my free hand to rub my pussy, which he allowed as it would get me all worked up. But now I felt self-conscious about playing with my pussy while a stranger watched so closely. Whoever it was would be close enough to see that I was as horny as a rutting animal, completely unable to keep my hands away from my dripping pussy and hardening clit. So I let my hand just settle on my thigh, though several times I noticed that it had gone back to lightly stroking my pussy lips, and I’d have to force myself to remove it.

With all those thoughts fighting for attention in my head, it was hard to concentrate on giving my owner a good blowjob. I sucked at his sacred cock, licking the shaft until it gleamed, and using the raspy back of my tongue to massage the sensitive underside. I forced him down into my throat until my lips met the root, holding him there even as my throat gagged against the breath-stifling intrusion. I licked his balls thoroughly, swathing the sac with my spit, crushing my face into his groin. I licked behind his balls, too, planning to give him a rim job, but he demurred. So I went back to sucking and munching on his fat fuck stick.

Every so often I would dart a glance at the stranger in the doorway, but he/she remained obscured in shadow. All I could do was wonder who it was, and to force that speculation out of my mind to try and concentrate on administering a blowjob that my owner would enjoy. Maybe it was a test? That made sense. To see if I could keep my concentration on his cock, where it should be. I endeavored to pass this test.

“Nice,” my owner said, his first words since returning home. “Now push that off and give me a tit job,” he ordered, shifting his ass to the edge of the chair. I complied with his order, tugging the netting off my shoulders and arms, and pushing it down to my belly. Somehow I felt more exposed than before, even though my boobs had been fully exposed through the holes in the fabric. My owner doesn’t usually like using a lube for a tit job, in case he wants to chew on or lick my tits afterwards. So my spit has to suffice.

I kept my eyes on his face as I pushed my tits together and slid them up and down over his erect cock. A tit job for him means that I do all the work, unless I’m laying on my back and he fucks my cleavage like its just another tight hole for him to fill. Sliding up and down on him, pressing my boobs together and making sure that every stroke is a tight one almost made me forget that there was someone watching. Every so often I would take a break and rub his cock head over the part of my nipple that was exposed by the clamps. I don’t know how it feels for him, but I love the touch of his cock on my nips. And his manhood looks so ominously potent next to the soft flesh of my boobs.

“Enough,” he finally said, pushing me away hard enough that I almost fell over. Earlier in my training I would’ve wondered if I’d done something wrong. But now I knew that it was just another way to remind me that he was in charge. His next command, “Worship,” had me crouched down on the floor so low that my tits were pressed against the floor. I pressed my lips against his shoes, deliberately kissing them in a display of obeisance that my owner expects of me as often as he desires. If his feet are bare, I’m also to lick his soles and toes to show how grateful I am to him that he would allow me to serve him. It makes me feel like a worthless slave when I do it, but despite my humiliation it gets me revved up too.

“Good,” he praised me, as I waited in the worship position for his next order. “Now strip and stand for inspection.” I hurried to rid myself of the bodystocking. Then I stood in the inspection position, my hands clasped on the back of my head, my legs slightly apart, my body erect and my bosom thrust out, giving my owner full access to every part of my body. Because his head was below mine, I kept my eyes staring at the floor. It’s not permissible to assume a posture that’s above his.

“Impressive,” a voice sounded from the doorway, almost causing me to jump out of my skin. In my eagerness to please my owner, I’d forgotten about the stranger! “It seems well-trained, and not too hard on the eyes,” the voice – it was clearly a man – stated. I wanted to look and see who was talking, but my training was quite clear: never break position unless I’m told to. So all I could do was keep staring at the floor and hope that the man would come into my view at some point.

“Yes, she’s taken to the training quite well. Though she has a long way to go,” my owner added, tucking his cock back in his pants and rising from the chair. “Someday she might be a valuable piece of property.”

“So you are master and slave?” the voice inquired. It sounded like an innocent question, but I thought I could hear a tone of greedy desire behind it.

“Ah, no. I am the owner and she is my property,” my owner chuckled. “I’m not a big fan of being called ‘master.’ So I have her call me ‘Sir.’ It confers more respect. Or so I like to think.”

“She is not a ‘she’ but an ‘it’,” the man responded. “Very good. I shall endeavor to remember that.” His voice had a hint of German in it. Not an accent, per se, but just an undertone. His next words gave me a chill. “May I inspect it?”

“Sure,” my husband replied in a bland tone. “That’s what you’re here for, after all.”

Alarm bells rang in my head as those plain words broke through the surrealism of the moment. I was standing completely naked, my tits, pussy and ass totally exposed, with my hands behind my head in a stance indicating pure submission, and my husband had just invited a man, a stranger, to inspect my body. The last man to have done that, besides my husband/owner, had been the doctor. And even he had the decency to dress me in a thin paper gown before reaching inside and examining me. This man was no doctor, and I could tell from his voice that this man had left decency behind a long time ago.

“It seems to be in good shape,” the man stated. His voice came from over my right shoulder, and I could hear him moving around me. “It has a nice coloration, and its flesh appears to be pleasingly firm.”

“It exercises daily,” my owner confirmed. “And it gets a daily dose of special skin moisturizer, if you know what I mean,” he said with a smile in his voice.

It? It? It! Now my owner had picked up that infernal way of describing me. They continued to discuss me as if I wasn’t in the room, commenting on the firmness of my breasts, the fine trimming of my pussy patch, the size of my mouth and its ability to suck cock, the muscles of my thighs and the size of my feet. And each time, they described me as an “it.” Worse, I couldn’t look at them to see if they were baiting me. I had to keep my eyes locked on the floor.

“Does it have a name?” the man asked, when they’d finally finished dissecting my physical appearance.

“It changes every day,” my owner answered. “And I haven’t assigned one for today. But for simplicity’s sake, you can call it ‘Tits.’ It seems appropriate at the moment.”

The man barked a short laugh. “Yes, it does.” He moved to stand in front of me. “Now, Tits, you may look at me. You will call me Mr. Hans. That, of course, is not my real name. But it will do for what we need to accomplish. Please do not forget the ‘Mister.’ It is a sign of respect for me and my craft. And I would hate to see you punished for forgetting to show respect.”

I raised my head to look at the man who’d just examined nearly every inch of my body. He wasn’t what I expected. He stood about 5-foot-eight, was of average build, and seemed to be in his early 60′s. His grey hair was closely cropped, and he looked not unlike the many older men who always seem to be prowling the aisles at the local hardware store. Not grandfatherly, but not menacing either. Until I saw his eyes. They were flint grey, and I saw a darkness behind them that couldn’t be disguised by the easy way he held his body. Those eyes said ‘predator.’ And I was standing exposed and defenseless in front of him.

He looked at me a moment longer, as if to make sure that I recognized exactly what he was, before turning to my owner and asking, “May I make a more thorough inspection?”

No! I stared at my husband with a look that could only be read as, “Don’t let this man anywhere near me,” but he barely even looked my way before answering, “Of course. If it will make your job easier later on.”

Mr. Hans turned back to me and gently palmed both of my tits. “They are as firm as they look,” he said over his shoulder. “And they are what size?” he asked. I looked to my owner in shock, but he only nodded his permission to speak.

“They are a D-cup, Mr. Hans,” I responded, surprised that I didn’t stumble over his name.

“Very nice, very nice,” he murmured, squeezing each one a little tighter before rubbing the face of his thumb across the top of each nipple. That last bit almost made me break posture, it weakened my knees that much. After giving each breast a final squeeze, he lightly stroked my waist and hips. Then, at his direction, I opened my mouth so he could inspect the inside. He held my mouth open with his thumb, and rested his hand against the side of my throat. I could feel his fingers lightly pressed against my jugular, and knew he could feel the pulsing of my blood beneath those fingers. I became keenly aware that a simple squeeze of his hand could throttle my life from me.

He knew that I knew that. I could see it in his eyes. I wondered again why this man was here. And if my husband knew just how dangerous he was.

“Have it bend over. I want to show you something,” Mr. Hans suggested. Though I didn’t want to do it, though I was embarrassed beyond belief, I still bent over at the waist and held myself in place against the kitchen counter. I felt Mr. Hans touching my ass cheeks and the slit of my pussy. “See, here, how its mound is visible when it’s bent over? That makes for good shots. Men like to see that. Want to see what they’re getting into, I guess.” He barked another short laugh.

He thought it was funny, but all it did was make me wonder what men would be seeing my pussy in that position? And what kind of shots was he talking about? Then, even with all the poking and prodding my owner was letting Mr. Hans do, I wasn’t prepared for the command to Spread. Was this it, I wondered, as I got down on the floor, laid back and spread my legs open? Was my husband/owner going to let this man fuck me? To penetrate me in a way no other man had done since before we started dating? And would I put up with it, or would this be the time that I would put an end to it all, to refuse and go get dressed, knowing that my husband would be shamed by my behavior and but wouldn’t press the issue, ending forever our experiment into the dark side of sex.

It certainly seemed as though I was going to have to make that decision as Mr. Hans stood between my legs, an erection clearly growing in his pants. And it seemed even more certain when my owner gave the “spread wider” command, where I spread my legs apart as wide as I can and then pull my pussy lips apart so they can see deep into my cunt hole. Was this going to be how it would happen? Would he soon be dropping his trousers to reveal his throbbing cock, and make me hold my pussy lips apart while he slipped his rod into the sheath of my cunt, the journey smoothed by the gallons of juice forming even now in my nasty fuck hole? Could I let him take me that way, urge him to fuck me harder and deeper, and be a willing receptacle for his load of sperm?

He seemed to know what I was thinking as he gazed down at me, his eyes hungrily devouring my naked flesh, my willing tits and my welcoming cunt. He seemed to know that he could have me, right there, right then, ignoring my husband’s weak protestations as he took whatever he wanted, making me scream and moan in a mixture of humiliation and ecstasy. He would fuck me silly, leave me both drained and overflowing, filling me with enough sperm to coat parts of my cunt that had never been touched before.

Then he stepped away, leaving me open, exposed and relieved, trembling in the knowledge that I wouldn’t have protested, wouldn’t have ended the experiment, but would have taken him between my legs, letting him violate me under the auspices of being a good slave, but knowing deep in my heart that I was nothing more than a slut that would’ve enjoyed the feel of his cock roughly raping my cunt, giving sexual succor to any stranger who happened along.

“It has potential,” Mr. Hans said to my owner, as I lay still spread out on the floor, evidently forgotten. “Potential and a willingness to obey.”

“It is very obedient,” my owner agreed. He stepped over to stand between my legs, then leaned right over my open cunt. “Stay still,” he ordered, then dribbled a gob of spit onto his lips, and then let it fall directly into my open cunt hole. He’d never done that before, but I remained still, thankful that he hadn’t let it drop someplace even more degrading, like on my face.

“So,” he said, turning back to Mr. Hans. “Can you work with this? And do you want to?”

“I think I can find time in my schedule for a new project,” Mr. Hans replied. “You do understand that in addition to any plans you might have, I’m likely to have some suggestions of my own. That’s why you’re hiring me, instead of some punk kid with a cheap digital camera.”

“I understand,” my owner replied. “That is why I answered your ad. I want something that’s memorable.”

“And as to my fee?”

They wandered into the other room, presumably to discuss the fee, while I continued to lay on the floor with my thighs cramping as I tried to keep my legs spread wide and my pussy pulled apart. It never even occurred to me to relax my position. My mind was engaged elsewhere.

Mr. Hans was clearly a photographer. That much was clear. But also some kind of a specialist. Someone who specialized in adult photography? Kinky pictures? Submissive wives? I had too many questions and not enough answers.

My owner returned alone and put me in the Kneel for Inspection position, in which I kneel, sitting back on my heels, with my hands clasped behind my head. Much more comfortable than being left in “Spread Wide.” I heard the front door slam. Mr. Hans had left.

“So, Tits, as you may have guessed, Mr. Hans is going to be our official photographer for a while. He has some very interesting ideas on how to best show off your assets. And some ideas on how I can train you better,” he explained. “I was a little worried that his fee would be too high, but it all worked out perfectly in the end.”

He undressed quickly while I knelt there, my mind keenly focused on every word. He stepped forward and rubbed the tip of his cock back and forth over my closed lips, before nudging it forward in a clear sign that I was to suck him, and apparently without using my hands.

September 2018
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