Slut Boy Mega Collection Volume 3

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

The Perfect Marriage

“Slut-boy! I’m home!”

Hurriedly I mince out in my five-inch heels, taking quick, tiny steps because of the stainless steel ankle shackles that hobble me. As usual, I’m practically naked. All that my Mistress allows me to wear are sheer pink stockings and garters, a padded brassiere and of course my body-piercings, big inserted butt-plug, handcuffs, locked-on neck collar and the almost worn-out leather and steel chastity belt that imprisons my little sissy-worm. Over this last device is a frilly, lace-trimmed French maids’ apron, and atop my perfectly coiffed hair is pinned the matching cap. Other than that my slender, five-foot four-inch body is completely bare, with every last bit of unsightly hair meticulously removed. The heavy makeup Mistress likes to see me in is still perfectly applied despite a long day of housework, and I feel a timid, sneaking bit of pride in my pretty, petite, but terribly slutty appearance, as I hurry out to greet her with a drink and a smoke.

These are set on an elegant silver tray along with her cigarette lighter, which I quickly place on the table by her favorite chair. Mistress is over six feet tall even without her usual spike-heeled thigh-high boots, and she sniffs down her nose at me as I take her ten thousand-dollar mink coat. Under it, her long straight hair is a darkly shining almost purple black flood, as iridescent as a grackle’s wing.

“I don’t like that perfume, Slut-boy. Never, ever wear it again.”

“Yes, Mistress. I’m horribly sorry. I bought it on-line, and I couldn’t try it out first.”

“No excuses, Slut-boy! You know how I hate excuses! You’ll be punished extra-zealously for that tonight. Not only for failing, but more for the excuse!”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Without another word I hang up her coat, as Mistress folds her voluptuous yet muscular body into the well-padded armchair. Determined to make up for my error, I fall expertly to my knees at her feet, landing gracefully (if painfully) despite having my ankles hobbled. As I reach to remove her left boot, I give her my traditional greeting.

“It’s extravagantly fabulous to see you again, Mistress. You look breathtakingly beautiful as always. May I kiss your feet hello?”

“Only on the leather, Slut-boy,” she says sharply. Her almond Asian eyes draw down, narrowing at me threateningly. “And don’t get any prints on the polish! Or you’ll be doing them both all over again.”

“Of course not, Mistress!”

Both humbled and exalted, I place a gentle kiss on the dusty sole of her left boot. Then I take the stiletto heel carefully between my teeth and slowly strip that footwear off, taking the ordered precautions to the extreme. Likewise I kiss and remove her other boot, and at that Mistress groans and stretches her whole big frame, wiggling her toes in my nose contemptuously. With a huge sigh of satisfaction then, she takes a swallow of her scotch-and-soda and fires up her smoke. Then, to show that my slavish displays of contrition and submission are accepted, she smiles benignly down. “Okay, Slut-boy. You can rub my feet now. It’s been a long day already, and I’ve got a lot of dancing to do tonight.”

Transcendently blessed, bathed in rapture, I kneel before my Mistress then and expertly massage her feet, while she works on her drink and smoke and slowly unwinds. A terrible pain comes and goes in my groin, as again and again an attempted erection is defeated by the cruel leather and iron chastity belt. Still I concentrate on my current reward/duty, until at last both the alcohol and the opium-laced reefer are finished. Then I timidly ask my beloved wife what she would like for dinner.

“Nothing, Slut-boy. I stopped on the way home. And I’m going to a hot party later, so this evening your only duties are to bathe me and to divert my attention between now and then.” She muses a bit. “I believe I’ll punish you for a while first; work up a good sweat before bathing. I really despise that stinky perfume. Here!” She tosses a key down at me. “Unlock your feet and get in the playroom. I want you to strip and be ready for me in under one minute.”

“Yes, Mistress! Thank you, Mistress!” I quickly remove the ankle shackles; return the key and then scramble from the room. I pass down a long hall and then through the grossly opulent bedroom suite, where my glorious Mistress-wife reigns especially supreme. Despite my hurry then, my eyes flash naturally to the shiny cylindrical birdcage that hangs from a sliding track right next to and above that enormous, sumptuous feather bed. That nightly residence of mine is so tiny that even as small as I am, I must squat and scrunch down like a cowering frog in order to fit inside its low dome. Even then my face, ass, knees, arms and shoulders are pressed tightly against the round steel bars in my hog-tied posture. Shuddering at the memories (and anticipation) of what I habitually see and endure from this terribly confining and completely incapacitating perch, I quickly pass it by and enter what Mistress calls ‘the playroom’.

This big open space is extensively mirrored, and furnished with a medieval stretching rack, both vertical and horizontal torture crosses, stocks and pillories, angled benches and bondage horses and even a variety of suspension bars. Tables and pegboards everywhere are crowded with whips, paddles, canes, chains, ropes, harnesses, restraints, et cetera, as well as a wide and esoteric collection of other devices for torture and s****l subjugation.

Of course, by far and away the most numerous items are dildos. As I quickly strip out of my pumps, stockings, apron, cap and bra, I can’t help but eye all these and marvel at the incomprehensibly bizarre station I’ve somehow arrived at in life.

I used to be a perfectly normal person—whatever that means. But that’s not the way my Mistress wanted me. And believe me, whatever my Mistress wants, my Mistress gets. Ever since the moment we met, I’ve never been able to say no to her. I’ve never won a single argument, or had my way in the slightest conflict. Conflict? I no longer even know the meaning of the word. I’m so captivated by her that is literally beyond my ability to withstand even the barest hint of her displeasure.

Before I met her at the sheltered age of seventeen, I’d never even had a date, much less a girlfriend. Being short and slight has always been a considerable social disadvantage for me. And of course this woman overtops me by a good nine inches, outweighs me by fifty pounds. She is just so f*****g beautiful, so big and strong and impressively stacked… Not only that, she’s consummately self-assured, confident to the point of arrogance, so goddamned downright dominate that I have no conscious volition whatsoever in the matter. I always have and always will just cow before her instinctively.

An exceeding rich, powerful, and stunningly gorgeous Asian woman of twenty-five, Mistress picked me out of a freshman mixer during my very first week of college. After only two completely innocuous dates, with not even a single kiss between us, she suddenly demanded that I drop out of school and marry her. I would keep her house and she would support me. Practically swooning with horny disbelief I agreed, and it was as simple as that.

I was immensely stunned and flattered (not to mention turned on) to be chosen by such a gorgeous, wealthy woman. And apparently I had exactly the kind of diminutive size and weak, vulnerable, meekly submissive malleability that my highly discerning suitor was looking for in a husband—not to mention a rather effeminate face and shiny brown shoulder-length hair. On my eighteenth birthday, barely a week after meeting, we were legally married on her specific and rather complicated pre-nuptial terms. And then immediately my beautiful and demanding new wife began to transform me utterly.

Whoever said ‘you can’t change a man’ never met my unbelievable Mistress. A comprehensive process of systematic emasculation that is still going on to this day got underway at nine o’clock on the morning of our union.

I thought it a bit strange when she declared that she was keeping her own name, and even stranger when she insisted that I should change my last name to match hers. But she kept going on and on about male-dominated society’s contemptibly sexist traditions, getting angrier and angrier, and unable to argue with her I soon acquiesced. Then the minister at the ceremony was another smirking Asian woman—as were nearly all of the invited guests—but that wasn’t unduly alarming either. It was only when we were shut up together in our locked nuptial boudoir that things got really bizarre.

It was still only early afternoon, but Mistress’s plans had called for no reception. With much cheering (or perhaps jeering) in their singsong Oriental languages, the guests conducted us grandly down halls and up several flights of stairs to the enormous, ornate marital chamber. There with much hilarity and several unsettling looks and gestures in my direction they locked us in. Timidly I presented my statuesque new Vietnamese wife with my carefully chosen wedding present, frilly, hot pink lingerie for her to wear during the surely sublime upcoming consummation. Unfortunately, instead of generating a mood of sweet, gentle romance like I’d intended, this gift only brought on another long tirade about stereotypes and stinking American male sexism. In the end, after much browbeating and haranguing, Mistress punished me by forcing me to don the sexy stockings, slit panties, and see-through silk camisole that I’d purchased to dress up her. Yet even when I complied she wasn’t satisfied, and she proceeded to apply lipstick, eye shadow, and other thick make-up to my face. Dousing me with perfume, she finished by braiding several matching ribbons into my hair. After all that, when I was at last fully attired and made-up like the cheapest little slut for her, she declared that she was using the black bow tie of my shed tuxedo to bind my hands together behind my back. By this point I was beyond arguing, and I even felt a strange kinky thrill as my big strong wife placed me into bondage for the very first time. But then once I was secured she suddenly just picked me up and flung me down onto the enormous, pillow-piled feather bed. Grinning evilly at my sudden chagrin, she tore off her wedding dress to dramatically reveal incredibly skimpy silver-studded black leather lingerie. Then she landed on me like a ton of silken bricks.

Shoving me roughly facedown on a pile of pillows, she hauled off and viciously beat me, using her hairbrush to spank my behind like an erring little boy, all the while berating me for the outdated, narrow-minded, chauvinistic attitudes represented by my wedding gift. Then, while I whimpered and sniveled contritely beneath her, blubbering at the agony in my butt (oh if only I’d known what horrors were coming!), Mistress donned and gave me her nuptial present, a ten-by-two inch hard rubber strap-on dildo.

She gave this to me brutally, repeatedly, again and again and again over the next eighteen hours—just as she has on every other day of our ten years together since. In that indelibly memorable marriage bed, I was the tender young virgin who bled, the shocked initiate who bit the pillow and screamed with pain and shame at the unprecedented invasion, not my almost manly wife. I even had my mouth and throat raped too, as my pitiless Asian taker forced me to learn to service her big hard c**k with both of my body’s available holes. Then, after an eternity of gagging, I once again found myself facedown and butt up, legs splayed wide and cheeks split apart with her enormous p***s attacking my ass, spearing me, stabbing me, gouging me into submission, establishing once and forever our respective s****l roles. Indeed, despite that night’s incredible anal and oral excesses, and all the uncounted subsequent similar invasions, to this day I remain technically a virgin. My gorgeous, beautifully built spouse has never yet deigned to let me enter her amazing body; indeed she has never touched my p***s at all except with a device designed to deliver torture. Nor has she allowed me to ejaculate, or even achieve a complete erection in over ten long years of marriage. She hasn’t even lowered herself to kiss me yet.