The Good Wife

“A good wife places the needs of her Man above her own,” she whispered to herself as she slipped quietly out of bed to make his breakfast. 

She’d had barely four hours of sleep after a full day yesterday.  Up at 4:30 in the morning to press his clothes for the day, clean the bathroom before his morning shower and prepare his morning meal, then make herself up pretty before waking him.  It was important to always look her best for him.  She knelt patiently at his side while he ate, in case he might need something she forgot.  She sighed silently, seeing tha the left nothing on his plate this morning; no leftovers meant she’d go hungry this morning.  After taking his dishes to the kitchen, she knelt on the floor, out of his way but near enough to know whether he needed anything.  More often than not, this meant sex of one fashion or another, but sometimes it was just a quick dusting of his shoes or straightening of his tie.  Today it was a simple blow job, kneeling between his legs while he sat in his recliner and read the morning news.

After he left for work, it was time for her to get ready for work.  A good wife was home when her husband left in the morning, and was waiting for him when he got home in the evening.  In order to comply with that basic rule, she worked outside the home just six hours a day.  Of course, her salary – a miserly piecemeal wage – were less than a tenth what a man would be paid for a similar job.  Assuming, of course, any man would be willing to do the work she performed.   Not that she ever even saw her paycheck; it was deposited directly to her husband’s bank account.

Women today had very few employment options.  One could be a maid (usually in a hotel, but occasionally a private position would become available), a waitress, or a laundress.  A privileged few would be selected for more professional positions – limited these days to nursing, child care and teaching young children.  Even those jobs were nothing like they were in the previous era, though.  A female nurse, for instance, was relegated to emptying bed pans and giving sponge baths.  Female educators were restricted to teaching pre-pubescent females, and the instruction was primarily geared towards those skills necessary to indoctrinate their young charges to their place in society, primarily cooking, cleaning, and sex.  On frequent occasions, a female teacher might visit a classroom of males, but only to serve as a visual aid when studying female anatomy or sexual responsiveness.

Those women lucky enough to land these “professional” positions, though, were usually the offspring of wealthy men who had the influence to get their daughters into the appropriate schools.  Regardless of position, however, a few things remain constant:  Women never held positions of authority over men, and any employment by a woman was completely at the discretion of the employer and husband – or father, if no man had decided to claim her. 

Kathy’s father wasn’t one of the influential few, and years earlier, the aptitude tests determined she’d be limited to working in a laundry.  She’d been working here nearly ten years now.   There were no breaks, not even to use the toilet – there wasn’t one for her use, anyway – or to change tampons during her menstrual period.  Many were the days when she left the sweatshop at the end of her shift, her thighs streaked red when the saturated tampon was no longer able to prevent leakage.

As tiring and humiliating as the work was, at least she no longer had to handle the filthy, soiled clothing.  She’d started, as all such females did, hand-washing soiled men’s undergarments, pre-soaking the yellow and brown stains on the boxkers and jockeys, and the sweat stains on undershirts, in her mouth.  After several years of this, she was promoted to  was promoted to laundering slacks and shirts, and then finally to folding.  She’d just recently graduated to pressing, and now toiled over a hot iron for her entire work day.

She was proud of her abilties, perfectly ironing as many as a dozen men’s shirts every hour, earning for her husband two cents for every shirt she completed.   It wasn’t backbreaking work, but it was exhausting.  Her workplace was hot and humid, occupied by nearly a dozen similarly situated women wielding steam irons, hunched over the short boards upon which they toiled without a single break during their shift. 

While it was important for women to look their best in public and at home, it was impractical to expect them to wear the sort of clothes they’d wear in public while at work in the laundry.  A row of coat hooks hung on the on the back wall of the shop.  Upon arriving at work, each employee would  strip naked, carefully hanging their clothes - either a short dress, or a miniscule skirt and top – on their assigned hook, then queue up and be issued a grey cotton pullover.  Female undergarments – other than push-up brassieres – had long since been dispensed with, and now could be found only in museums and at antique and collectable sales. 

At the end of the day, they’d toss their uniforms in a pile, from which they’d be reissued the following work day.  The smocks were old, stained and smelled of sweat.  They were never washed, simply worn by female after female until they disintegrated to the point they could’t be worn.  It didn’t matter who wore the smock yesterday, or last week, or even last year.  You wore what you were issued.

Since most of the women had been used for sex that morning – generally with no opportunity to clean themselves afterwards – the heat and humidity, coupled with the lack underclothes, resulted in a strong odor of used, unwashed cunt permeating the pressing room.  In another era, the thought of being forced to work under such conditions, with dried semen on one’s thighs, would have been unthinkable.  Today, it was simply the way things were.

Joyce – that was her name – felt a cool breeze as the door behind her opened, then closed.  She knew better than to turn her head; her focus was on her work, even when she sensed – smelled – the sweatshop’s owner breathing on her neck.  She’d become on of his favorites lately, a designation she could well do without, but dared not mention aloud.  Sam, the owner, was a fat, balding man with dark sweat marks staining his shirt.  Secretly, Joyce wondered when he’d last bathed; he always stank, and whenever he used her mouth, it was all she could do to keep from gagging at the rancid taste and smell.  She was a good wife, though, and willingly did whatever she needed to keep her job and provide for her Man, no matter how disgusting it might be.

“C’mon, bitch,” he said, grabbing her hair and pulling her away from her workstation.  “I just fucked a cute little virgin cunt this morning, and need to get my dick cleaned,” he explained loudly so everyone could hear.  It amused him to humiliate his employees this way, as he did so often.

Rather than taking her into his “office,”  the rather hillarious term he used for the small room containing nothing but a well-used, cum-stained mattress, he simply pushed her to the concrete floor and had her blow him right there in front of all her peers.  Joyce submissively reached up and undid his trousers – he never wore underpants himself – and positioned her head to take his flaccid member into his mouth.

Kneeling on the floor in front of him, Joyce could see that her boss was telling the truth.  His dick was still shiny and wet with semen, vaginal fluid, and streaks of blood from the virgin’s now-broken hymen.  Trying to avoid breathing through her nose due to the rancid smell of her boss’s body, Joyce opened her mouth widely, ensuring her lips covered her teeth and leaned forward to take him into her mouth. 

“Take it, bitch!” he said loudly, forcefully shoving his wet, slimy member fully into her gaping mouth as he ripped the neck of her smock open, roughly twisting her sore nipples.  Fortunately for Joyce, the fat pig’s short, fat cock was barely long enough to reach her throat, but all that meant was that he pulled her face into his groin, smothering her face with the sweat-covered blubber of his belly.  He pistoned in and out rapidly, quickly cumming in his bitch’s mouth.  He never allowed Joyce to swallow right away, preferring to let his semen “season” for a few minutes, wiping himself off on her face and hair  before allowing her to empty her mouth with a quick swallow.  Even then the taste lingered, often for hours after he used her.  Then, with a quick slap to the side of her head, the sweatshop owner sent Joyce back to her task.

Apparently sated by the blow job, he left her alone for the remainder of her shift, allowing her to earn a few more pennies for her husband.  She was thankful for that and the fact that he at least hadn’t used anything but her mouth.  Having his semen drip down her legs from her cunt or ass was the most disgusting think Joyce could think of.  Even being forced to stick her tongue between his foul-smelling, fat, hairy ass cheeks – something she was required to do on a nearly daily basis – was preferable to that.

Joyce’s tedious shift eventually came to an end, her back, thighs and calves in agony from the constant standing in the stilettos as she gathered the clothes she’d pressed and placed them on a rolling cart for counting.  She’d managed to press 62 shirts;  she normally averaged over 70, but the interruption caused by having to suck her boss’s dick had taken too much time.  It wasn’t her fault, she knew - if Sam hadn’t fucked that other girl earlier, it wouldn’t have taken nearly as long for her to get him to cum in her mouth – but that didn’t matter.  Her husband wouldn’t be happy with the day’s take.

Sixty-two shirts meant $1.24 for six hours work, but as Sam carefully inspected them, he found two that had been improperly creased at the cuff, and set them aside.   She’d be fined ten cents for each one, which left $1.04.  She stood nervously while Sam pawed over the remaining shirts; she knew she’d be punished by her husband if her pay slip showed less than a dollar.   Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead as Sam carefully inspected the final shirt, his hand moving towards the pile of unacceptable work.  Joyce looked up at him with pleading eyes.

“Tell him I want you to work late tomorrow,” Sam said.  “All night.  I’ll send one of the other girls over to keep him company.  Take the photo book for him.”

“Yes, Sir,” Joyce said in a tired voice.  She was resigned to what was going to happen.  Her husband would agree, and she would end up the “guest of honor” at a party that would be little more than an all-night gang rape.  When it was over, she’d be expected to pull her regular shift at the cleaners, then go home and take care of her normal duties, all without any sleep.  Her four hours tonight would be restless, as it always was before an exhausting 48 hour ordeal.  About the only good thing was that the last shirt ended up in the “acceptable” pile, meaning that at least she wouldn’t be beaten tonight.  At least not for that. 

She slipped off the torn uniform and tossed it in the pile on the floor; hopefully, she’d get a better one tomorrow, but it was all a matter of luck.  Walking over to her assigned hook, she quickly donned the clothing her husband had sent her out with this morning.  Today it had been a pink skirt that barely covered her ass, yellow fishnet stockings and red stiletto heels.  The pasties he’d provided to cover her nipples were nothing more than used condoms threaded through her nipple rings. They did a fair job of keeping her nipples covered, as long as there wasn’t any breeze.  He usually let her wear some sort of a halter top, but it seemed to Joyce that he was displeased with her more often now.

On her way out of the door, she picked up the photo album that Sam kept on the counter.  It contained photographs of all his female employees, all naked, and most engaged in one sex act or another.  Joyce knew she’d be sucking her husband off tonight while he perused the pictures, picking out the one he’d be spending the next 48 hours with.

~ End~