Wife Enslaves, Beats Up, Cuckolds Her Inferior Husband
Wife Enslaves, Beats Up, Cuckolds Her Inferior Husband
During our first few months of marriage, Justin and I were annoyingly conventional. I saw myself slipping into the nightmare of trite middle-class life that had so thoroughly repulsed me during college. My life was becoming a sleeping museum of contemporary American culture — a living death. I quit my job, you see, and was lazy about finding a new one. My husband went to work, supported us, while I lazed around the house, cooking, taking care of the nothingness surrounding me, ordering it more nicely, disguising it into something meaningful and emotionally fulfilling. I was becoming a zombie: a television person: a housewife.
My husband began to really enjoy this. I was becoming more and more dependant upon him, hence he was in control. He liked this. He patronizeed me, issued orders only thinly veiled with politeness.
I couldn’t stand it.
My husband began spending more time away from home with his friends and colleagues from work. When he came home he was often exhausted, and our sex life suffered. Finally, I went to a sex shop and purchased various sex toys — two vibrators, and two large dildos. I was embarrassed buying them so I rushed. It was only when I returned home that I discovered that one of the dildos I had bought was actually a strap-on. An eleven-inch-long strap-on. Stiff and black, with little life-like veins and things.
One night while we ate my husband complained that his steak was too rare.
“Maybe you cooked it this rare for yourself, huh? Your period, something to do with that?”
“My period’s not for a week, Justin.”
“The point is, Uma, this is too rare.” He glared at me. Icily, irritated at his whining, I returned his look.
“Why don’t you just eat it, Justin? Afraid it’s still alive?”
Justin lifted his hand and pointed his index finger very close to my face. “Don’t you back-talk me, Uma. Pick this up off the table, and put it back in the goddam oven.”
I hesitated; I could feel my face flush with rage.
“And I mean NOW.”
The next few seconds seemed to consume hours. I was aware of three things: his finger aimed like a gun at my face; the echo of his bullyish voice reverberating in my mind; and the pounding of my heart in my chest.
Slowly, my hand rose up from my lap — I saw it move in front of me like an independent being, not at all under my control. Then, with my palm open, I struck my husband across the face: a loud, hollow slap. He turned bright red, and looked totally amazed. His face shook. To my surprise, I saw tears glisten in his eyes.
Kicking his chair back, Justin rose from the table. I’m sure if I hadn’t felt a little numb — if I hadn’t been totally amazed at what I had just done — I would have been afraid. But I wasn’t. My vision focused on the tears dampening the corners of his eyes.And then he was at my side, sort of hissing at me in a furious, raspy voice.
I stared at him, wondering what he was going to try to do to me. His face was still trembling; his fingers were moving, like they were gripping then releasing patches of air; struggling to form fists, then straightening out again.
“Get the fuck up, you lousy worthless cunt; you little fucking shit. Get the fuck up.”
I didn’t move. I felt little drops of spit from his mouth hit my face.
He disgusted me.
My husband disgusted me.
His language. His spit. His silly show of force.
Then he reached out and grabbed my hair and pulled me up from my chair. I cried out; he seemed to be trying to turn me around. I kicked at his shins — I might’ve hit him, because he began yelling — then I saw his arms flailing around. Blurs. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to hit me, or trying to shove me away. Then one of his elbows hit my head, and I got dizzy; things blurred a little, I think I was crying; I was still trying to kick at his shins, and I tried to slap him again, then I felt his forearm pound across my breasts.
And I suddenly stopped moving. Everything stopped moving. I felt pain. I was gasping. Crying. I looked at him. He was glaring at me. Grinning. He was grinning. I couldn’t believe it: he was grinning. Proud of having hurt me.
Again my hand flew out — instinctively, self-protectively — this time in a fist. It cracked squarely into his jaw. More spittle flew from his mouth. I wish I could’ve seen his expression, watched his pain. But my vision went red, and I began beating my husband up.
After I felt my fists hit his face and head at least a dozen times, after my knuckles began to swell up, Justin began weeping, pleading with me to stop. He was on the floor, begging, while I — rather relaxed — took leisurely whacks at his face. Enjoying the power. Humbling him.
He had a black eye; a bloody nose; fattened lips. I grabbed his hair — “how do YOU like being jerked around by the hair?” — and pulled him up to his knees. I pressed his head back against a wall with my crotch; ground his skull against it like I wanted to turn his brains to powder. I Pounded my groin against his face, driving his head into the wall rhythmically: boom, boom, boom.
Then, using his short hair like a leash, I led him toward our bedroom while he walked on his hands and knees.
“Why haven’t you been in the mood for sex lately, Justin? Hm? You haven’t been having an affair, have you? With one of the guys at work? You’re not queer, are you, Justin?”
Justin moped that he wasn’t.
“I’m not sure I believe you, Justin. I think you like to take it up the ass. I think you’re afraid of women. I think I frighten you; that’s why you’re too tired to get it up most nights.”
I must have snapped some psychological cable in him somewhere, because he tried to escape; he leapt to his feet — surprising me that he had that much energy left — and took a swing at my head. He was too close to get much momentum in his swing, and I leaned even closer to him, holding up my own arm to block his dizzy-headed, limp attack.
But I was alarmed that he was still capable of putting up any fight at all, and I was also a little tired of messing around with featherweight artillery, so while I stood inches away from him, I snapped my knee up as rapidly and forcefully as I could.
I was at the perfect distance: my knee drove hard into his crotch, evoking a horrible wail from him, sending him in a desperate dive to the floor, where he writhed, clutching at his maleness. Sobbing in pain.
Looking at my pathetic, beaten husband — my toppled, defeated man — I became bitter. Contemptuous. I realized I had married half of a man. A weakling. Soon I learned that all men are that way — when handled correctly — but at that time my husband was the sole target of my contempt.
And I decided to rape him.
Quickly, I proceeded to our bedroom — opened my closet — and, stripping down to my panties, I strapped on the eleven-inch dildo. Then I went back out to the living room where my husband still lay on the floor, shaking, clutching at his groin, his sobs toned down to steady weeping.
I moved up behind him, and ordered him on his knees. At first he stalled, then I kicked him in the side, triggering a deep, gasping sound from his chest.
“Do as I fucking say, Justin.”
He moved jerkily to his knees, his head swaying visibly.
“Now undo your pants.”
His crying picked up again.
“Undo your FUCKING pants or I’ll slice your balls off with a paring knife then Fed-Ex them to your goddam parents.”
Justin undid his belt, then unbottoned and unzipped his trousers.
“Now put your hands on the carpet.”
He obeyed. He was on his hands and knees. The huge artificial penis extending from my crotch like a swordfish’s spike, I moved up behind my husband, predatory, ready to ravage his tight little ass. I reached around him and gripped his balls; pinched them — he gasped, his voice feminine — and yanked down on them. Pushing the large, bulbous head of the dildo up between his legs, I began rubbing his balls roughly against it.
“You feel this, Justin? This is what real manhood feels like. Not a little cocktail weiner like yours, Justin; not like your little nibble-nuts. This is what a MAN feels like. You ever felt a man inside you? At work, Justin? Your boss, maybe? Ever let him take you?”
Justin wept a denial.
“Well then, I’m going to show you what a real man does. Maybe you can learn from this, Justin, so that one day maybe you can please me like a man.”
Then, releasing his little balls, I took my husband’s virginity in a ruthless fashion.
“Just pretend I’m one of your little buddies at work, Justin.” I speared the dildo between his cheeks, pounded it deep into his body.
“Just pretend this is one of their little peenie-weenies.”
By the time I was finished with him, by the time I thought I had proved my point to him, my husband’s voice was gone from him crying out so loud, at times screaming. I had broken several of my fingernails on the flesh of his buttocks. While I was screwing my husband’s hole I nailed him in the balls a few more times; at one point I grabbed his nuts and tried to crumple them up like croutons in my fist, making him recite the Lord’s Prayer while I did so. For several days he couldn’t walk without limping, for I had badly bruised his groin in various places with my elbow and my knees. His rectum was torn; bloodied.
And it took more than a week for the bruises to leave his face.
My husband, I determined, was the sort of man who required discipline from a woman.
Our relationship became, for a time, a prolonged struggle in which he attemped to re-assert himself as the dominant party — in response to which I inflicted further punishments upon him. I realized I had solidly acquired the position of dominance in the relationship and I had no intent of relinquishing it.
The punishment I chose for my husband took a variety of different forms: some mainly physical, some psychological. For example, about a month after I first raped Tim, I coincidentally ran into a man I had met a couple of times in college. The guy was still extremely handsome; I lusted after him in college — it turns out the feeling was mutual — but we had never gone out. Surprising myself, I asked him on a date.
“I thought you were married.”
“I am. I can still date other people, though.”
“Oh, you mean: your husband wanted to see other women, so you decided that it’d only be fair if you could–”
“No. My husband isn’t allowed to see other women. But I see other men.”
“He knows about it, yes.”
“What does he say?”
“I haven’t asked his opinion.”
A couple of days later, I slept with this man, Mack, in my (and my husband’s) bed. I had arranged it so that Justin was lying in the narrow space under the bed while Mack and I made love on the mattress above him. So that he could feel the weight of our loving bodies against him.
Mack was an extremely well-endowed, strong man. Really quite an ox. The first time he screwed me while my husband lay silently under the bed, I found myself moaning and crying out in a way I never had before. I couldn’t help myself; Mack’s immense organ filled me more than any man ever had before. He was skillful, sensitive, and physically commanding. After about fifteen minutes of sex, I began to orgasm, and came continually for the next ten minutes. My body felt like it had been struck by lightning.
His refractory period was almost instantaneous. After his copious, thick semen splashed into my vagina, he soon got hard again, and guided his giant cock into my mouth.
“That’s it. Come on, baby, just a little wider…”
I could barely get it into my mouth; at one point, whimpering, I tried to pull away from him, but he held my head in place.
Before he came, he decided to pull out of my mouth and have me ride his cock. My pussy already felt stretched; I was certain I’d be sore the next day. But feeling his shaft penetrate me so deeply, stretch me so wide, I lost my head in ecstasy, and began riding him in a thrashing, delirious way.
After he left that evening, I found my husband weeping under the bed. I told him I’d be like that with him, too, if he had the equipment of a real man. I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out from under the bed, then made him suck Mack’s semen from my vagina. My labia, my mons, my clitoris — everything between my legs was drenched in his thick seed. I made my husband lick me clean. When he was done, I noticed that he had an erection — his cock was stiffer, fuller than I’d seen it in quite a while — so I told him his little weenie didn’t impress me, then slammed my foot against his balls. He collapsed onto the floor, holding his nuts like he was afraid they’d break off his body and escape. He wept for at least half an hour. I yelled at him to shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t control himself. Finally I had to smack him a few times.
One evening I talked Mack into letting Tim suck his balls for a while, while I fellated his (Mack’s) cock. As soon as Tim — following my orders — fell naked on his knees before Mack, he began weeping. I slapped him across the face and told him to stop being suck a stupid baby.
“Uma, I think your husband’s afraid to see a real cock up close.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I think it’s the balls, too. His balls are tiny compared to yours. Look.” I grabbed Timmy’s nuts and pulled them forward to show Mack. When I saw that Tim’s eyes were closed, I punched him in the cheek, grabbed him by the hair, then made him look me straight in the eye.
“Tim,” I told him, “You will never, ever know what’s it’s really like to be a real man. You’re not a man at all, Tim.”
I brought my fist into his nuts — he wailed — then forced him to begin licking Mack’s balls.
Mack enjoyed the scene. At one point he spat on Tim’s head and told him to be more passionate. Then he slapped my husband across the face because Tim couldn’t manage to get both of his testicles in his mouth at once.
“You must feel like shit, little man,” he talked down at my husband. “You’re shit in bed, and your wife knows it — because she’s got me.”
Mack decided he wanted to force his meat into Tim’s mouth. Tears were streaming down Tim’s face as Mack held him by the head — occasionally slapping his ears — and reamed his face.
Occasionally I acted out with Mack. It was entirely accidental; it’s like my habitual free-and-easy nastiness with Tim got the better of me and I accidentally mistreated Mack. In every one of those occasions, though, he punished me sternly.
Once, for example, Mack hurt me by shoving his huge penis into my mouth too fast, so I instinctively swatted at his balls. I only whisked them with my fist, but it still hurt him, and — before I could defend myself at all — I was on my stomach and he was spiking me up the ass. I cried like a baby while he did it; I had never felt such excruciating pain. It felt like my lower body was being ripped apart and sprayed with flame. My husband sat staring, a confused look on his pathetic face.
Later that night I apologized to Mack, and begged him to forgive me. He apologized back for being so rough, but explained that his testicles were very sensitive, and that he reacted very protectively whenever they were threatened at all. He held me in bed for about half an hour, spooning me, stroking my breasts, reinforcing our affection. He let me touch his huge balls — each as large as a jumbo egg. I stroked them gently — I could almost feel pure masculine energy emitting from them — and I wished I had never inadvertently hit such glorious objects.
We ignored my husband, slumped like a trash bag against a wall.
After Mack left that evening I raped my husband again — perhaps more viciously than I had before. I made him stand above a mirror on the floor, bent over, while I sodomized him. I wanted him to see his own facial expressions — see his body shake and seize up — while I fucked him. Then I threw him to the floor, and lashed at his groin with a thick leather belt. When he tried to cover his genitals with his hands, I’d direct the belt against his face or chest.
I made him spend the night in the back yard — naked. The whole time he sat huddled, quivering, clutching himself for warmth at the side of the garage, where he thought it was least likely that anyone would see him.
Eventually my husband seemed to give up the idea of ever being equal with me in our relationship. Instead of whining about my treatment of him — the way I occasionally woke him up in the middle of the night by anally raping him, or by stuffing phallic objects (dildos, carrots, etc.) into his mouth, etc. — he began threatening to leave me. He was “threatening to run away,” like a child.
I had essentially two kinds of responses that juvenile tactic. The first was shutting him up — and hopefully deterring further idiotic outbursts — but phsycally punishing him.
The second way was by creating a scenerio for him of what would happen if he ever did indeed run away.
“Most likely, Justin, I’ll track you down, bring you back, and then I’ll castrate you. Clip off your balls like a couple of kumquats.”
I told him this while we both lay in bed — he with his hands tied to one of the bedposts behind him. I reached under the blanket and cupped his testicles in my hand.
“And I’ve given it some thought. I’ve decided that when — because I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, it’s just a matter of when you piss me off enough — when I castrate you, Justin, I’m going to get it on videotape. And I think I’ll send a copy to your parents. Don’t you think your mother would love to watch that? She never thought I was good enough for you.”
I squeezed my husband’s nuts firmly. He whimpered; his eyes were tearful.
I told Justin I’d make him watch the tape of him being castrated over and over while I sodomized him with huge strap-ons, phallic vegetables, etc. on our living room floor. I’d make him re-live he emasculation as a daily ritual.
And I told him I’d take him out to nude beaches to show everyone his modification. I’d guide my eunuch around and chat with strangers about how pleasant it was to have a sexually void husband to serve me, and to act as a toy for me and my genuinely male lovers. I’d let the strangers examine his scars, and tell them about how he wasn’t really a man to begin with.
I mentioned that I might like to castrate him in the desert somewhere — or on the grounds of some isolated state park. I’d let the blood of his wound seep into the ground. Later I’d take my lovers to that spot, for them to screw me where I had terminated my husband’s masculinity. The disembodied spirit of Justin’s maleness would remain at that spot; hover around us; take part in our sexual encounter.
I told Justin that perhaps I’d dry his testicles and hang them from leather cords above the doorway to our house as good luck charms. And, perhaps, with his crotch mostly empty, I’d make him decorate the space where his nuts once dangled with prettier ornaments: things like Christmas tree decorations, or beautiful crystals, or bunches of aromatic herbs.
Or maybe I’d videotape myself at the dinner table, eating his cooked testes with him sitting beside me, watching. Weeping. My poor husband — I’d even make him do the cooking. Then I’d reach over to him with the fork: “Open up, Justin. Your turn to take a bite. Open your mouth, eunuch: it’s your food.”
Maybe after castrating him I’d freeze the testicles, then, periodically, I’d remove them from the freezer and — with him tied firmly, totally unable to move — I’d throw them, over and over, at his cheeks, his nose, his eyes.
“I’ll keep smashing you in the groin, though, Justin — with or without your little balls. I want you to think of that part of your stupid male body as a horrible fucking weakness, not a source of strength.
Your groin’ll be like a little graveyard attached to your pathetic body. One that you can’t escape from.”