Slave Wife

Slave Wife

Chapter VII

  I couldn’t believe how happy Donna seemed to see me, but after she told me all that had happened, I wasn’t surprised.  The past day had been quite difficult for her, but she passed that part of the test with flying colors.  Not that I told her that, though.  I chastised her for only getting two of her condoms filled, warning her that she’d be punished for her disobedience.  She should have done everything possible to get all 24 filled as quickly as possible, I said.  She blushed, but nodded in agreement.

  I took her to a nice downtown hotel that night, allowing her time to bathe and get cleaned up before putting her to bed.  I even permitted her to sleep on the fairly comfortable sofa bed, complete with a blanket and pillow.  I wasn’t quite ready to allow her to share my bed, but felt the impact of what I had planned for the next day would be only increased by showing a bit of kindness.

  After dressing the next morning – I gave her a sleeveless, knee-length dress and a pair of sandals to wear – we went downstairs for breakfast.  I had a nice sirloin, eggs, potatoes and toast.  She got corn flakes and skim milk, two foods she absolutely detested.  She ate with a smile on her face, though, evidently thankful for anything, since she hadn’t had any food in about 30 hours.

  After checking out of the hotel, we caught a cab to the airport – this time, I paid for the ride in cash, rather than with Donna’s ass – and after a short wait, boarded our plane for San Francisco.  The flight was uneventful for both of us; Donna sat demurely in the window seat not doing anything, while I read a couple of magazines I’d brought.  The flight was a little over six hours long, and she complied with my instructions to just sit and remain silent.  Towards the end of the flight I could see her wiggling a bit and figured she needed to pee, but she never said anything at all.

  After debarking, I told Donna to go retrieve the luggage while I got the rental car.  I was just finishing up the paperwork when she showed up, struggling under the weight of my three bags (none of which were equipped with wheels, for just that reason).  This being San Francisco, the rental agent didn’t even blink when I took a collar out of one of the bags, buckled it around Donna’s neck, and attached a leash to it.  In fact, she gave me a little grin and a sly wink.

  “She’s a bit retarded, and I need to make sure she doesn’t wander,” I explained, grinning back.  The agent just gave me a dubious look, knowing I was bullshitting her.  I led Donna, struggling under the burden of my bags, out of the terminal at the end of the leash, giving it a sharp tug a couple of times when she lagged behind. 

The car I reserved was a new Mustang convertible, and I was pleased to see that it was parked by itself, near the back of the rental lot.  I opened the trunk and waited while Donna struggled to lift each bag into it.

  “Go ahead and put your clothes into it, too,” I said, stepping back and crossing my arms to see if she’d obey.  She hesitated, then looked around furtively before lifting each foot to the rear and slipping the sandals off.  After dropping the footwear into the trunk, she looked around again, then hunched down and pulled the dress off.  She remained in a semi-squatting position, looking up at me with a fearful expression on her face.

  “We’re not going anywhere until you stand up,” I said impatiently.  “With your legs spread and your hands clasped behind your head,” I added almost as an afterthought.

I waited while she complied, tears welling up in her eyes as I made her stand there, exposed to the world.  Then, without a word, I unlocked the driver’s door and got in the car, leaving her standing there.  I let her sweat it out a bit, testing her fortitude, while I tuned the radio and lit a cigar.  Finally, I reached over and unlocked her door.

  “Get your ass in here, stupid, or do you like showing off your skanky body to the world?”  She literally jumped into the car, slamming the door shut so she’d have some protection from prying eyes.  I backed out of the parking space, waving at the lot attendant on my way out. 

I’d reserved a suite at an upscale hotel in Sausalito, which meant a drive through San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge.  Donna had just begun to relax when, as I was detouring through Golden Gate Park (I hadn’t visited it since my youth), I reached over and pressed a button on the dash, retracting the vinyl top.  Although it was now after dusk, Donna’s nakedness was exposed with every streetlight we drove under.  She could only sit there, shivering in the damp air and hugging herself, as I slowly drove through the nearly deserted recreation area, then back on to a main thoroughfare which took us to the bridge.

  The bridge’s toll booths are on the south (San Francisco) side, and I wasn’t sure how the booth operator would react to a naked passenger, so I put the top back up just as we approached and let Donna slide to the floor where she probably wouldn’t be seen.  I knew the California Highway Patrol always had vehicles on the bridge, and didn’t need to take any risks at this point.  Even though she was my wife and at least a semi-voluntary participant in this, I’m sure they could have found some reason to arrest us both.  Once we got back onto the bridge itself, though, the top came back down.

  Upon arriving at the hotel, I left Donna sitting in the car while I checked in.  The parking stall I selected was in an unlit area of the lot, so I left the top down, telling Donna that I expected her fingers to be covered with cunt slime when I returned.  I waited beside the car, staring at her until she understood what I was waiting for and began diddling herself.  Only then did I walk into the lobby, holding back a chuckle as I thought of her obviously embarrassing discomfort.

  After retrieving the room key (I told them we’d only need one), I returned to the car and retrieved Donna’s crumpled and now-dirty dress for her.   I gave her the room number, removed the leash from her collar, and told her to bring the luggage to the room.  With that, turned and walked away.

  The suite was on the fourth floor, and I’d already told Donna she was forbidden to use elevators (the better to work the excess fat off her ass, I said), so it took her two trips to lug everything up to the room.  Both times, the door was closed when she arrived, and she had to knock to request entry.  I laid naked on the bed, watching some mindless pay-per-view porn movie while she scurried around the room, putting everything away.  When she was done, I had crawl up onto the bed and use her mouth on my cock while I made comments comparing her appearance and lack of skills to those of the porn actresses I was watching.  After an hour of this, I finally grabbed her by the ears and forced her to deep throat me, finishing off in short order, and snuggling down for a good night’s sleep.  Donna had been fairly obedient, so her punishment for hesitating when I told her to strip in the airport parking lot was a night spent sleeping on the cold, hard bathroom floor.  Her uncomfortable night’s “rest” was just a harbinger of things to come.

  After a refreshing shower and shave, we went to breakfast.  I’d given Donna the choice of wearing whatever she wanted in return for no breakfast, or wearing what I chose, for which I’d let her order whatever she wanted.  With no substantial meal in almost three days, she chose the latter.  I handed her a tiny yellow string bikini top, a black leather micro-mini skirt, and a pair of clear plastic 5” heels.  She blanched, but knew better than to argue.

  The dining room was most interesting…or rather, the other diners (and the staff) found the view most interesting.  The bikini top was little more than an inch across at the front, barely covering her nipples, which were visibly erect thanks to the excitement she was obviously feeling.  The skirt revealed more than it hid, barely covering her bald slit when she stood motionless and revealing all if she took more than tiny, mincing steps.  The spiked-heel shoes didn’t help, as her bare ass was clearly visible with each wobbly step. I could smell the scent of her need standing next to her, and wondered how far the odor would exude. One of the wait staff, seeing us enter, quickly grabbed a towel and covered her chair seat for her.  She smiled at him, not realizing it wasn’t meant for her comfort, but to keep her from staining the upholstery.

  I told Donna she could have anything on the menu, but it really wasn’t very extensive.  She ended up with a cheese omelet, toast, and coffee.  I was planning on something more substantial later, so just had a bagel to go with my coffee.

  We drove back into the city after breakfast, this time letting Donna remain dressed (as skimpy as her outfit was), and keeping the top up.  I hadn’t clued her in yet as to why we were going back across the bay, but I had a feeling she knew she wasn’t going to like it.

  She didn’t.

Our first stop was a seedy-looking tattoo and piercing shop down on Haight Street.  Although her nipples were already pierced and decorated with tiny gold rings, I wanted to “decorate” my property even more.  I led her through the door on her leash.

  Inside, the establishment was pleasantly clean and had a hygienic quality about it.  I didn’t realize this was the norm, even for the extreme shops like this one, probably due to a combination of licensing and liability insurance reasons.  The walls were covered with photographs of tattoos and piercings on every imaginable part of the body.  I caught Donna looking around fearfully.

  “May I help you?” the young girl at the counter asked.  “Maybe an ownership tattoo or piercing for your slave?”  Donna blushed when she said that, looking sheepishly at the floor.

  “Well, do you have a place where we can secure her while we talk about exactly what I want?”

  “Certainly, sir, just bring her this way,” she answered, guiding us behind a curtain to a large room where several men were receiving ornate tattoos.  She led us to a contraption that looked like a cross between a dental chair and a gynecological examination table, with stirrups and straps for ankles, legs, torso, arms and forehead.  She started to pull the curtains around it.

  “There’s no need for that.  My slave doesn’t mind being exposed…do you?” I asked pointedly.

  “No, Sir,” Donna mumbled.

  “We get that sometimes,” the girl said, “but I need her to sign a waiver.”  She pulled out a pad of pre-printed documents off the counter and handed it to me.  It was a basic release of liability, ensuring no legal action against the owner, operator or artists for any body exposure.  There was also a photography release, which if signed, would could mean up to a 15% savings.  I asked her about that.

  “Oh, we have a web site where we publish photographs of our work.  We don’t usually offer it, but when we have a particularly unique work or a slave, we do.”  She went on to explain that the discount began at 2% for relatively innocuous tattoos.  For 15%, they could photograph and post anything they wanted to.  I checked the 15% block and told Donna to sign the forms.

  “Okay, let’s get you set up then” I said, holding my hand out for the bikini.  Without losing a beat, she stood erect, head high and proud, and stripped in front of everyone there…me, the young clerk, three tattoo artists and the three clients.  She then gracefully sat down on the cold vinyl contraption, holding her arms and legs in place while she was securely strapped down.  Once again, she was completely helpless and totally exposed to a number of men she’d never met, but she was beginning to act as though being naked and spread out like this was the most natural thing in the world for her.  I actually felt some pride in how my slave was responding, smiling to myself as the receptionist led me back to the lobby, to a desk filled with photo albums.

  “So were you primarily interested in tattoos or piercings?” she asked politely.

  “Both, actually.  We’ve been married over 20 years, but now she tells me she wants to be my slave.  I’ve been putting her through a rather rigorous test of her desire, so to speak.  I’m actually hoping she’ll object to whatever I decide today, just to prove my point, but I expect her to leave here totally humiliated and changed forever.”  The girl just grinned.

  “I couldn’t help but noticed the piercings.  They look new,” she commented.  “A part of the test, I presume?”

  “Yeah, about three weeks ago.  A long story, but when she begged to become my slave, I sent her out to get shaved, pierced and fucked.  She did, too.”  It was my turn to grin.  I don’t know why, but I felt completely at ease talking about my wife’s sexuality in front of this girl, who couldn’t be half my age.

  “Okay, let me show you some options….”

  A half hour later, we returned to where Donna was bound, our plan of attack in hand.  Just to increase her discomfort, I told my slave wife exactly what we were going to do to her.  At least some of it.

  “Angel here tells me that the piercings I want will put you out of commission for several weeks, but there’s a way around that.  Instead of just piercing you, she’s going to punch holes in your skin and insert steel grommets.  That way, they can be used as soon as the swelling goes down.  We talked about it, and…you think you can do it, Angel?”  The girl was between my wife’s legs, spreading and tugging at her labia.

  “Yeah, I can do three in each outer lip, one in the inner.  There’s enough meat here for that.”

  “…so you’re going to get eight holes in your cunt lips.  Oh, and a big one though your septum…a nose ring.  A big one, so big it’ll smack into your teeth while you’re being butt-fucked.”  I just loved the fear-filled look on Donna’s face when I told her that.  “Any problems, cunt?” I asked.

  “No, Sir,” she answered quietly, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Good, because that’s not all.  Show her the rest, would you, Angel?”

  “Sure,” she said, holding out a few glossy photographs of previous work.  “First, your Master took the time while we were talking to get you signed up at an online Slave Registry, and they were nice enough to send him a bar code with your registration number on it.  So this is going on the back of your neck.”  She held up a graphic she’d printed off the computer.  “Next, I’m going to tattoo this on your ass cheek.” She showed another photograph, this of simple block letters reading, “Property of Master (followed by my name).  Please return after fucking.”  “Then, across your abdomen just above your slit, I’m going to tattoo your registration number again, this time without the bar code.”  She waited for a moment, allowing Donna to take it all in.

  “You should really feel lucky, because your Master initially wanted me to tattoo a butterfly on your cunt, using your lips as the wings.  When I told him it would take a month to heal, he changed his mind.  So, do you agree to this?”

  “Yes, Miss,” Donna answered after only a moment’s hesitation.

  “Good, let’s get started.”

  Several hours later, it was over.  Local anesthesia was offered, but I decided to give Donna the full experience of being pierced in several of the most nerve-filled locations on the human body.  Each time the punch was used to create a hole in her tender skin, she screamed in pain.   

  At the last minute, I also decided on a nice faux pearl stud in the center of her tongue, and another grommet about a half inch from the front of her tongue.  The stud would, I was told, enhance the feeling of any blow jobs, and the grommet meant I could just clip her tongue to her nose ring (or anything else) whenever I wanted to.  Angel used what looked like a pair of Kelley forceps to grab Donna’s tongue and pull it out as far as it could before clipping the handles onto a small chain hanging from the wall.  This not only immobilized Donna’s tongue but freed up Angel’s hands for her work.  Donna moaned when the stud pierced her tongue, but when Angel punched the hole for the grommet, the sounds that came from my wife’s throat were unworldly, like those of a wounded animal.  She was unable to do anything, though, bound as she was, but endure.

  After the piercings came the tattoos.  They weren’t nearly as painful, though still uncomfortable.  Almost as an afterthought, I had “I (heart) ass fucking” tattooed on her right butt cheek, opposite the ownership notice.  Once the work was done, I allowed Angel to photograph the work for the company’s web site, let Donna have a few sips of water, and then had her get dressed.

  I figured Donna would need some time to recuperate, so before I took of to take care of other business, I paid for three nights in a cheap, run-down hotel off Polk Street, in area notorious for “alternative lifestyles.”  The clerk took my money without saying a thing about the nearly naked woman with the leash attached to her nose ring.

  The neighborhood wasn’t one you’d want to spend much time in, but Donna wouldn’t have to worry about that.  I was restricting her to the room, making sure she didn’t leave by not only chaining her ankle to the toilet (with enough slack to give her full movement through the room) but taking her clothes with me when I left.  Assuming she was able to get out of the chains, she’d be naked unless she used one of her sheets as a toga.  And if she tried that, she’d probably get raped before she left the floor.

  I had some business to attend to and Donna needed some time to recuperate, so planned on leaving her along for at least three days.  I wasn’t totally heartless, though, as I left her six cups of instant oatmeal to keep her nourished.  There was no microwave oven, though, so she’d have to mix it with hot tap water.  Flatware wasn’t a concern, either; that’s what she had fingers for.

  My business only took a few hours, but I decided to spend a couple of days relaxing and taking in the sights.  I left Donna to her own thoughts (and worries), as I strolled through town, stopping at Fishermen’s Wharf for a sidewalk crab salad, visiting the Maritime Museum, and even taking a trip out to the old abandoned prison on Alcatraz Island.  Each evening, I returned to my comfortable hotel room after dining on a nice, tasty meal, and slept like a baby.  Whether Donna slept well or not, I cared less.

  On the fourth morning, I called the hotel and had them connect me to Donna’s room.  I’d instructed them previously that I didn’t want any outgoing calls, giving the clerk an extra fifty just to make sure.  When I asked, he informed me that she’d picked up the receiver twice (or so their computer said), but hadn’t attempted to call anyone.  I thanked him for his time, and had the call transferred.

  “Get showered, slut.  You have a medical appointment this morning,” was all I said, hanging up the phone immediately.  One more thing for Donna to worry about…what kind of medical appointment?  Well, she’d soon find out!