Obediance

III

       It is no exaggeration to say that, as I lay naked on my bed, my life flashed before my eyes.  My whole life, I had been a good girl.  My parents had raised me to be modest and respectful, and I remained very close to them.  My husband and I had a wide circle of friends.  We were popular in the neighborhood.  Now I was on the verge of throwing all this away because of a silly dare my husband had made last night in a bar.  I decided that’s all it was, really – a dare.  I was not a whore who pleasured strange men under the table in bars; I was an adventurous wife who could be playful when her husband demanded it.  I decided to get up, shower, and put the craziness behind me.  I needed to get dressed in any event, because the husband of a friend of mine had promised to come over this morning to drop off a package that had been misdelivered.

       I was nude as I walked to the bathroom and paused in front of the mirror before stepping into the shower.  Yes, my makeup was a disaster, but given where my mouth had been last night, that was no surprise.  Yes, my hair was mussed.  But there was no denying my husband was a lucky man.  I cupped my breasts in my hands as my husband liked to do; they were firm but heavy, with prominent brown areolas and nipples that could be an inch long when aroused.  My sex was neatly trimmed, with just a small trim mound of hair – not enough to conceal my nether lips.  My rear – well, as I’ve already said, men like my rear.  Pleased with myself and no longer concerned about the weird events of last night (because that’s all they were), I stepped into the shower and washed myself thoroughly.  I stood naked before the mirror to air dry as I brushed my teeth thoroughly to rid myself of the taste of sex that lingered in my mouth.  Then I walked to my dressing room to get dressed quickly, in time for my friend’s husband’s arrival in 15 minutes.

       I turned on the light in my dressing room and froze in shock.  Then trembled in fear.  The extensive wardrobe that had hung in my closet only the night before was gone.  Entirely.  Where more than 30 dresses and pantsuits had hung 24 hours earlier, there now hung only five items.  Three were t-shirts several sizes too small for me.  The front of one read “WHORE.”  A second said “Slut” on the font.  The third  said “Suck on this.”  Given how small these shirts were and how large my breasts are, there would be no mistaking the meaning of that one.  On a fourth hanger hung a beautiful black lace negligee that tied at the neck to leave the breasts exposed.  Hanger number five bore a skirt so small that it would be impossible to sit down without exposing myself.

       Short of breath and with only seven minutes before my friend’s husband was supposed to arrive, I flung open my top drawer so at least I could pull on some panties before Dan arrived.  In retrospect, I don’t why I thought my panties would have been left there when my dresses and suits had disappeared.  Where previously I had a drawer overflowing with underwear, there now were four items: a tiny sheer black lace thong, a tiny red thong, a white panty that looked virginal until I saw an open slit where the crotch should be, and a black latex contraption that covered the sex but left the rear completely exposed.  Now in a panic, I flung open a second drawer.  Makeup.  At least that had been left to me.  Drawer three, which previously held scarves and the like, was a complete shock: Where my most conservative accessories had been now stood (and I do mean stood) a collection of absolutely obscene sex toys.  Even in my current degraded state, I blush at the memory of how I felt when I first saw them.  Standing up in the deep drawer was a ten-inch soft latex version of a male member (in case you can’t tell, one way I try to preserve my humanity is not to use the vulgar terms for the devices and acts to which I have been subjected).  Next to it was a pair of small clamps connected by a long silvery chain, apparently intended to be affixed to the nipples.  Four leather cuffs were in the back of the drawer, each affixed with clasps.  Finally, a device that looked like a thong in that it had a string that ran up the rear and a place for two legs to be inserted.  In front where the crotch would be was a plastic butterfly-shaped device, with a short but thick protrusion obviously intended to be inserted into the female sex.  Finally, there was a velvet mask or blindfold.  These were all the possessions I found in my dressing room.  I panicked as I realized that a male friend would be here in less than five minutes and I appeared to have a choice between greeting him naked or greeting him “dressed” in garb that would instantly identify me as a whore, or worse.  My heart raced as a I turned around and around my closet looking for some alternative.  My breasts heaved up and down as my breath came in short gasps.  The room began to spin.

       Just then the phone rang.  It was my husband.

       “Oh, darling,” I said, “Thank God it’s you.  Something’s happened.  When you were  out last night, someone robbed us, and my clothes are all gone.  I don’t know what to do because Dan is supposed to be here in a minute and I –“

       “Slut, calm down.”  My husband had never called me that.  “No one robbed us, and all your clothes are not gone.  They’re in your closet.”

       “No, they’re not, ____” I cried, using his name.  “You haven’t seen it.  Everything’s gone!”  I was sobbing now, tears running down my freshly made-up cheeks.

       “Slut,” he said again, “everything is not gone.  Everything a whore needs is in your dressing room.  I know exactly what happened.  Last night you went out bare-assed in public.  You sucked the cock of a complete stranger, swallowed his cum, and licked your lips in front of a crowded bar.  Then you came home and slept naked next to different man – another stranger – and you sucked him off too.  And smiled at him afterward.  You’re a whore, and apparently a good one.”

       “But _______,” I pleaded, using his name again.

       “You’re not going to use my name again, Slut.  Any woman who behaves the way you do needs a master, not a husband, so from now on you’ll call me either Master or Sir.  Do you understand?”

       “Yes, sir,” I whispered obediently.  “But Master, Dan will be here any minute.  What shall I do?  He can’t see me like this.”

       “In fact, he can see you.  Right now.  Turn around.”

       I froze again.  I slowly turned around and saw that there, in my window, was our friend Dan.  Staring straight at my nude body, obviously appreciating the full breasts he had previously seen only under clothing, and drinking in the view of my exposed sex.  This man and his wife played tennis with us.  We co-chaired a community fundraiser last year.  I instinctively moved my hands in a vain effort at modesty, trying to cover my chest and pubic area.  He smiled through the window and shook his head, then motioned to me to open the door.  Defeated, I dropped my hands to my side and strode across the hall to open the side door.

       “Dan, --” I stammered, completely flummoxed to be standing next to my friend’s husband in an obscene state of undress.

       “Elizabeth, I’m only going to say this once because I care for you.  Your life is going to change now.  In some ways it will be for the better; you’ll see.  The things you’ve stressed about won’t bother you anymore.  No more social climbing or trying to fit in.  All you have to do from now on is obey.  Just obey.  Men will love you, and most women you’ll encounter from now on will do their best to ignore you.  Your one function will be to obey.”  With that, Dan – husband of my friend, golf partner of my husband, regular down at the club – took a step toward me and reached out his hand to cup my left breast.  He lightly pinched the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, watching it grow erect.  “You see?” he  said.  “Just obey.”

       Leaving me standing there naked and speechless, Dan walked down the hallway to my kitchen as if he owned the place and picked up the phone.  I could hear him talking in a normal tone of voice, with no effort at secrecy or concealment.

       “Yes, I’m here.  You were right.  She opened the door completely nude.  Yes, in the full light of day.  Any neighbor could have seen her.  I agree – total whore.  All right, we’ll be with you shortly.”  I heard him set the receiver down and return to the dressing room where I stood nailed to the same spot.

       “All right,” said Dan.  ‘Let’s get you ready.”  He reached into my drawers and first took out the clamps.  He affixed one clamp to each of my nipples, leaving the slender chain hanging between my breasts.  It was surprisingly heavy.  He then took the butterfly device out of the drawer and knelt down in front of me, with his face at roughly the same level as my sex.  “Slut, spread your legs wider,” he ordered.

       “Dan, I don’t know how it came to this, but if Lisa” – that was Dan’s wife, my friend – “is home, I’d like to talk to her.”  He stood up and slapped me hard across the face. 

       “Slut, don’t ever use my name again, and forget you ever knew Lisa.  I tried to be kind and explain things to you, but let me be clear: You are a whore now, our community property.  You are not to use your voice unless spoken to.  Your body belongs to us now.  You have no name now.  You exist for only one purpose.  Don’t make me punish you further.”

       I stood silently before him, tears welling up in my eyes.  He got back on his knees and returned to work inserting the butterfly device into my womanhood.  I was ashamed and crying.  In some ways, sucking and licking the manhood of a complete stranger felt less degrading than standing naked and exposed before a man I knew well.  Nonetheless, I obediently relaxed  my muscles to allow him to insert the device between my lips.  Then he stood up.

       “Follow me to the car, Slut,” he said.

       “Sir, what shall I put on?”

       Smack.  He slapped my naked rear and looked into my eyes, hard.  “This is the last time I’ll explain it to you.  You don’t speak unless spoken to.  You are wearing all you need to be wearing.  Now march out to the driveway and get in the car.”

       I started to sob, but I knew it was futile to argue.  I was going to walk out my front door naked, my breasts clamped and chained for all to see, unsure where I was going.  The only thing that gave me comfort was the knowledge that I was following my husband’s – no, my Master’s – will.  Clinging to that thought, I took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and walked naked into the noonday sun toward Dan’s car.