Slave Wife Stories

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Slave Wife Stories
The greatest mistake you could make, when you got a fetish like mine, is trying to hide it.

I've been married to Cynthia for 5 years, and I've never found the courage to tell her about my thing. At first I was thinking something like 'come on buddy, it's weird, this girl could be the right one, don't make her run away'. Now, on the other hand, I worry about her reaction: after all this time, you think you know any little secret about the person you're married to. And when you find out there's something else? How do you take it? In short, we're really happy together, but if I was a little bolder, we may be even better.

Cynthia is 34, like me. She's pretty, cheerful and damn sexy. She's about 5'5'', brunette, long curly hair and dark-eyed, dark complexion, she has nice boobs (size 3 full) and even better butt, first thing I noted when I met her, at a volley friendly mixed match organized by our mutual friends. She had obviosuly athletic shoes on, but I've decided anyway, without seeing her feet, she would be the woman of my life. Feeling immediately kicked in, shortly after we started to hang out, and today we're here. I can still remember the first time I've seen (and touched) her feet: after a date, she invited me up to her house. We were a little tipsy: she let me sit on the sofa and after she kicked her ankle boots out she placed her legs with stockings on over my thighs. "Ohhh, my feet hurt so bad!", she exclaimed removing her stockings and touching the ball of her foot. "Would you give me a little massage? If you're good at this I swear I'll marry you", she added laughing. I grabbed her 5,5 size feet. Not gonna lie: my wife's feet are simply divine. Soft, meaty, right length toes and two irresistible big toes. I don't know why I tried to conceal my thing, the fact is that I just made a good (very good) massage to her feet. Later, I didn't look for other opportunities to go deeper. Of course, after cohabitation and marriage, I had much more chances, like some foot scene watching a movie together or Cynthia putting her feet on my face to make me smell 'em, but always as a joke. Sometimes I caress and kiss 'em, but just as lovely gesture for a wife.

Last month I heard Cynthia talking on her phone locked in the bathroom, laughing: she seemed amused. When she got out, still smiling, I asked who was.
"Steve, tomorrow we got guests for dinner". What? We usually talk about things we're gonna do. I was a little surprised but I just asked who would come. "Do you remember Johnny? Well, he's in town, he told me he'd like to see me after all this time, so I invited him to dinner. Oh, he's happy to see you too, of course...". Obviously I remembered Johnny: he was a Cynthia's youth friend. She has always sworn they've been nothing more than friends, but I had my doubts. Howewer, he's long since living in UK for job (he's a claimed engineer) and much time has gone by. "Ok honey, no problem, tomorrow I'll go to buy groceries".

The next day Cynthia spent several hours cooking her speciality and fixing up the house. Johnny came at 7:30 PM: it's summer, so he was wearing a sand-colored linen shirt and white linen trousers. He's a little shorter than me (about 5'8'') but I have to say he's a good-looking man, with his tanned skin and his medium-length black hair. That night, Cynthia was radiant and irresistibile: she was wearing a clear floral dress and easy flip-flops. I noticed she had just white-painted her toenails. We spent a good time together, just like good old friends, eating, chatting and drinking a very good white wine, brought by Johnny. My wife and her friend were tipsy, for sure more than me. Maybe this is the cause of what would happen shortly after.

We sat on the sofa, always drinking wine. I had to go to the bathroom, so I left 'em alone for a few minutes. When I came back in the living room, at first from a distance I heard Cynthia laughing, then I saw this scene: my wife laying on the sofa with her legs on Johnny's and her feet in his hands. He was giving her a foot massage. When they saw me, while Cynthia suddenly changed her facial expression, Johnny remained calm. "Oh, Steve, you don't mind if I asked Johnny a little foot massage, right? I've spent the whole day standing and now I'm exhausted". "Besides", added Johnny, laughing, "when we were kids I used to do it so many times!". Cynthia started again to laugh. I was feeling confused as never before. Maybe I had to get angry: yes, they have been drinking a lot, but who cares? Another man was touching an intimate (very, very intimate, to me) part of my wife's body. But, I don't know how to say it, I was finding that scene so intriguing. I chose to stay calm, sitting on a nearby little sofa, looking at 'em. Meanwhile, Johnny was keeping his job on: he alternated Cynthia's left and right foot in his hands. My wife seemed totally chilled out: actually, Johnny' hands knew very well her feet. After about ten minutes of massaging, Johnny moved to next level: he put Cynthia's feet to his face and started to kiss her soles and toes. "Mmmhhh they're soft as ever but smell has changed", he said, "now they smell of...a mature married woman! Eheheh!". "You stupid!", replied Cynthia kicking his face, for fun, laughing even louder. She looked at me, perhaps trying to catch my thoughts. She could think I was finding it a pretty normal, maybe a little malicious game she was doing with her youth friend. After all, to her husband feet could be a normal (indeed a little disgusting) body's part. The truth is I was having a war inside me: my pride was saying to stop 'em and beat the crap out of that guy; my cock, already erected, was saying it was all so fuckin' hot, for some damn reason. So I let 'em keep on, to see where they would get.

Johnny was already without brakes. I could hear him moaning while he was starting to lick Cynthia's soles and suck her horny toes. She was looking a little embarassed yet she let him do that. Indeed, she began to breath heavier, just like when we dry hump. "Oh, Johnny, take it easy", she tried to say, with little breath, "My husband's just here...". He stopped. He looked at me. "I now he's here. What's the problem? We're just messing around!. Do you mind Steve?". A mental healthy person would reply getting up and punching his face like a beast. But I just didn't know what to say. I didn't want to look like an asshole, but I wanted they would go on. So I just shrugged and said: "Well, if it's ok for Cynthia...no problem."

But as you can imagine, the scene has a development: while Johnny was starting again to kiss, lick and worship my wife's feet, Cynthia's right foot dropped and touched unintentionally (?) Johnny's family jewells. "Oh my God, what was that?", she asked her, opening her eyes wide. "You know what it is", he answered, taking down his trousers, "you know him!". My wife's friend pulled out of his pants a huge (I mean, huge) cock. "Have you missed him? Do you remember him like this?". Enough is enough. What pissed me off so bad was, not so much he pulled out his dick in front of my wife, shaking it ahead of her face, but above all the fact Cynthia lied me shamelessly. Before, not only he used to give her foot massages, but they used to fuck as hell. I was getting so angry with her. I got up and tapped Johnny's shoulder: "Now I think you're out of line". "Keep calm honey", tried to say a very embarrassed Cynthia. But in her eyes I was seeing not only awkwardness, but a genuine excitement, "we're just playing...maybe it was the wine". "Oh, come on man", replied Johnny, now more aggressive, "you know your wife goes crazy for this big boy, and you're no match". I was being humiliated in front of my wife. But even at that moment, my cock was up. Maybe this is the definition of cuckold , I thought. Completely dazed for my wife's eyes and Johnny's words, I came back to sofa. "Where were we?", said Johnny to Cynthia. And took her feet, putting on his cock. "Oh baby, he missed your feet, too".

Cynthia looked at me. This time there was grudge in her eyes. She expected her husband would react in a different way. So it turned out in an act of revenge. Always staring at me, she started to scramble Johnny's big dick with her to-die-for feet. Johnny began to moan and breath heavily. I was watching another man doing what I've never had the courage to do to my wife and her feet. After several strokes, Johnny took her foot off of his cock and put 'em on his face. Then, he took Cynthia's right hand putting it around his dick. He started again to lick and kiss greedly my wife's soles, while she was switching to a handjob. A savage yell anticipated the end: an oceanic cumshot came out from his cock, hitting all over my wife: her legs, her floreal dress, her face too. Finally, after he came, he grabbed her feet and used 'em to dry his big glans. He got up, went to the bathroom, thanked us for the nice time and left. Cynthia was still on the sofa, overwhelmed by Johnny's jizz. I was on the little sofa, and I had just came too, even if nobody noticed.

It's been a few weeks: Johnny has come back to UK and something has already changed between me and Cynthia. Anytime she calls me, I do best to answer immediately. Whatever she asks me, I do best to do what she says. Otherwise, my wife's threat is to take home every night a different man, to let him fuck her feet in front of me. I've become my wife's slave.
You should have hit him square in the nose with all your weight behind it. Grabbed him by his neck, dragged him through your house and threw him to the curb.

Then, rip into your wife for lying. She has a lot of making up to do.

You just lost ALL respect from your wife.
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65
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
Charles
George
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Judicial Punishment
Kevin's Poem
Kim
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
Loving Domination
My Visit
Penitence
Plimsolls
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Cleaning Maid
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters
Z

Chapter 8 - I Settle Into My Life As A Slave

The following week passed slowly. As she said, I was left on my chain, ignored by everybody, the entire week. I seriously wanted to get off my chain. I had spent hours examining every link of my chain. Every link was securely welded. I had carefully explored my collar, and the padlock, with my fingers. They were heavy steel, with no possible way to get them off. The chain was attached to a heavy steel ring, which was bolted into a huge stone block at the end of the wall, by the gate. There was no escape from the chain. They had made sure I could not escape!
 I was left to spend the week totally naked, on my chain. I had at most one gate-opening to do each day, and I did them as efficiently as I could. I did not dare get another punishment. Most days I had absolutely nothing to do. I just waited, a slave, on my chain.
The next Sunday, I was taken back to the pillories again. This time I only had twenty strokes. When I say ’only’, I simply mean I didn’t get additional strokes. I was allowed one minute to masturbate, in full view of the ladies. Then I got twenty strokes from the black bitch with her leather strap. The twenty strokes were still absolute agony, and left me weeping with pain. But at least I didn’t get seventy, as one of the other poor slaves did. 
As I stood locked in my pillory, listening to his screams and watching the ladies laughing as he was strapped, I resolved yet again to be a perfect slave! I would be content to live on my chain! I would be completely docile and respectful and obedient! I realized that the Ladies here had perfected a method of converting men into total slaves! They used good heavy chains and regular hard strappings! After experiencing the chain, and a good hard strapping in the pillory, none of us would ever intentionally be disobedient, ever again! We each knew we could not ever get off our chain! And we each knew the consequences of not being good! We had all been made into total slaves. Even me.
I think I spent almost three months on my chain by the gate. I lost track of the exact date, but it must have been about three months. I gradually grew very lean and fit. I did have extra strokes on two occasions, by being too slow with the gate. In my opinion, the two ladies who accused me of being slow, were unreasonable, but I had to accept the punishment. I was simply informed that I would get extra strokes. I was not asked to speak, so I had to accept in silence.
After three or four months, the summer was ending, and I was moved, escorted in tight shackles, to indoor barn work. In the barn, before my shackles were removed, I was padlocked into an even heavier collar, with an even heavier chain. My new chain was longer, about 30 feet long. Heavy thick steel links. There was no escape from this chain. The end of my chain ended in a thick steel ring that slid on a horizontal steel beam bolted to one wall of the barn. I could move along the entire barn on my chain, by sliding the ring along the beam. The steel beam did not extend to the door however, and my chain pulled me up just short of the door. The windows were set high in the wall, and were heavily barred.
My supervisor visited me in the Barn. She gestured to me, to stop work. I immediately ran and knelt before her, the closest to her that my chain would let me. I missed her! She had been strict, but decent. She had been kind to me. I respected her.
She stood before me. I knelt naked, chained, at her feet. I so wanted to touch her. But I dared not. She passed her hand though my hair.
“I’ve come to say goodbye, dear Peter. We must all move on. You could only be our gate slave for a short time. We need our slaves for harder work, to keep the farm going. I managed to get you transferred to a chain in the Barn. I hope you are grateful. The Barn is much easier work than work the fields! You would not like being a chained slave in the fields! You have a new supervisor now. You must obey her as you would me. I hope you don’t think I was too cruel with you. I was strict, as I had to be. But you endured so well! I was proud to be your supervisor. We have a new slave coming tomorrow, and I will put him on the gate, on your old chain. But I wish I still had you! Goodbye, dear Peter.”
She turned and left me. I think she was crying.
My new supervisor was a heavy set blond. She dressed in black leather, and always carried a short, black single tail whip. She liked to use it, hard, whenever she had the slightest reason. It hurt like hell! I disliked her immediately, and she disliked me.
I spent all that winter in the barn, on my new chain, alongside the five other slaves who were already working there when I arrived. The other slaves kept their eyes down and did not stop their work as my collar was fitted and padlocked. We were not allowed to talk to each other. Each of us were naked, collared, and secured to the same steel beam, by an individual long, heavy chain. I saw that each of the other slaves also had an IRS number tattooed on his right buttock. I was so glad they hadn’t tattooed me. I guessed that they could not do that for me, since my Contract was only for 12 months. I certainly would not ask for any time extensions! I would be so happy when my 12 months were up and I finally got out of here!
We spent our days on manual labor, mostly threshing wheat, tying straw into bales, and similar work. No thought or skill was needed, just brute strength. We worked naked. We were not allowed tools, so it all had to be done by pure manual labor, with our hands. It was hard, mind-numbing, primitive work of absolute boredom. It probably could have been done by a machine, or by using modern tools, much faster and easier. But the Ladies liked to use slave labor, and it clearly amused them to work us, chained, like animals.
Our supervisor wrote our daily and weekly work quotas on a blackboard on the end wall each morning. She then inspected us. She then made us kneel and kiss her boots as she stood before each of us, in turn. She enjoyed making us do that. My first tentative kissing was rewarded with severe lash from her short whip. It was agony! I immediately kissed her shiny boot fervently, licking and kissing, kissing and licking. She laughed, then passed on to the next slave. After that, I always kissed her boots very, very well. The whip bitch. That is what I started to call her. The name fitted her perfectly. She was exactly that. A blond whip bitch. A vicious bitch, with a whip. With six chained male slaves to whip, just as much as she liked.
After we started work in the morning, the whip bitch mostly left us alone in the Barn. She looked in on us during the day, at unpredictable times, sometimes opening the Barn door, and sometimes using a small peephole in the door. We never knew when we were being watched, so we felt we were being watched all the time. There was no need to supervise us more, since we were each on our chains. If we were not working when she looked in on us, we would have extra strokes. No excuses were accepted or even allowed to be presented. There was no real need to check that we were working. None of us would dare break a rule, and if we failed to complete our daily and weekly quotas we would have extra strokes.
We worked in silence, naked, on our chains, hour after endless hour. Speaking was forbidden. None of would risk getting caught talking. Even if one of us had spoken, I suspect the others would have reported him to the whip bitch, in the hope of some reward. Good luck to that! Personally, I couldn’t ever imagine the whip bitch ever showing any kindness, not to any man, anyway.
We were her chained male animals. We were all wonderful examples of men, physically. I felt strong and healthy. The work and diet had made my body supremely vigorous and healthy. The Company had at least kept that promise to me. But I was not a man. Not a real man. I was chained. I was a slave. A slave to the whip bitch.
At about midday the whip bitch would bring us a bucket with assorted scraps. She would dump the scraps in a stone depression, and our water in a trough beside it. We had to wait until she tapped us on the shoulder, and then we were each allowed to eat and drink in turn. She enjoyed having six strong men completely under her control. And she had her favorites. She allowed her favorites to eat first, and get the best scraps. I was always allowed to eat last. We had to drink from the trough like animals, and had to eat like animals, with our hands clasped behind our backs. We were kept completely naked on our c
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