Family Slave Wife

The leather of the cigarette case felt smooth against my fingertips as I knelt beside the leather armchair. “Come here, slave, and light my cigarette.” Tom’s voice cut through the low murmur of the television and the soft clink of ice in glasses. I crawled the short distance across the thick Persian rug, the hem of my short black maid’s skirt riding up until the cool air kissed the bare cheeks of my ass. No panties. Never panties. That rule had been burned into me years ago.

I struck the match, the flare illuminating the hard lines of my husband’s face for a second before I brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette he held between two fingers. He inhaled, exhaled a stream of smoke that drifted over my head, and nodded. “Good girl. Now get us more beer. This party is just getting started. Right, guys?”

“Hell yes,” Mitch answered from the couch. My son sat with his legs spread, one arm around Alicia’s shoulders. The girl was twenty-two, all long legs and high, firm tits barely contained by a thin white tank top. She watched me with bright, curious eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Bring the good stuff, Mom. And hurry. Alicia’s been waiting all week to see what a real family slave looks like.”

My pussy throbbed at the words. Twenty years of training had wired my body to respond to humiliation the way other women responded to romance. I rose, smoothed the tiny white apron that did nothing to hide the way my heavy breasts strained against the low-cut bodice of the French maid uniform, and walked to the kitchen on the six-inch heels Tom insisted I wear every evening. The click of those heels on hardwood was the only sound for a moment. Behind me I heard Alicia’s soft laugh and Mitch’s answering chuckle.

I pulled four cold bottles from the refrigerator, the glass sweating against my palms. My nipples were already hard, poking visibly through the thin black fabric. They always were when the men used that tone. Slave. Mom. Bitch. The words had become my name.

When I returned, Tom took his bottle without looking at me. Mitch took his and set it on the side table so he could keep his hand on Alicia’s thigh. I offered the third bottle to the girl. She took it, her fingers brushing mine deliberately, then tilted her head. “On your knees when you serve me, slave.”

I dropped instantly. The position was second nature. My knees sank into the rug, thighs spreading just enough that the cool air found the wet slit between them. Alicia leaned forward, studying me the way someone studies a new toy. “She’s prettier than I expected,” she said to Mitch. “Look at those tits. And that mouth. God, I can already picture it wrapped around my clit.”

Mitch grinned, the same crooked smile he’d had since he was a boy. “She’s had a lot of practice. Dad’s been training her since before I was born. Right, Mom?”

I kept my eyes lowered the way Tom preferred. “Yes, sir.”

Tom exhaled another plume of smoke. “Tell Alicia how it started. She wants the full story. Don’t leave anything out.”

My cunt clenched. He loved making me narrate my own degradation. I settled back on my heels, the short skirt offering no coverage, and began the way I always did when ordered to recount the beginning.

I had been nineteen on our wedding night, a virgin in a white lace nightgown that Tom tore open before the hotel door had even finished closing. He was thirty-four, already successful, already certain of what he wanted. I had been raised to believe a husband’s happiness was a wife’s only purpose. My mother had told me that the day before the wedding. “Whatever he asks, you give. A good man provides. A good woman obeys.”

Tom provided. He also demanded. On the second night of our marriage he ordered me to suck his cock. I hesitated—shy, inexperienced, still thinking sex was something that happened under covers in the dark. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply took his leather belt from the chair, ordered me onto the bed face-down, and whipped my bare ass until I sobbed and begged to take him in my mouth. The welts lasted a week. I never refused him again.

Over the years the training deepened. He taught me to present myself every morning: on my knees, thighs open, cunt displayed, ready for whatever use he chose. He taught me to clean his cock with my tongue after he pissed. He taught me to thank him when he fucked my ass without preparation, when he came on my face and made me leave it there while I cooked breakfast, when he invited friends over and ordered me to service them while he watched. I learned to come from the humiliation itself. My body betrayed me every time. The harder he used me, the wetter I became.

When Mitch turned eighteen, Tom decided the next stage. I had refused at first. The idea of my own son touching me made my stomach turn even as my nipples tightened traitorously. Tom didn’t punish me that night. He waited. Three days later he took me to the basement, stripped me, gagged me with a thick rubber ball, and bound me spread-eagle to the heavy wooden table he had built himself. Ankle and wrist cuffs bolted to the corners. A thick leather strap across my middle. I was completely open, completely helpless.

Mitch came down the stairs with his father. I screamed into the gag until my throat burned. Tears poured down my temples into my hair. Tom spoke as if I weren’t there. “This is your mother, son. But from now on she’s also your slave. Feel her. She’s already wet. She can’t help it.”

Mitch’s hands were hesitant at first. Then bolder. He squeezed my tits, rolled the nipples between his fingers the way Tom showed him. He slid two fingers into my cunt and found me dripping. I sobbed harder even as my hips tried to push against his hand. Tom laughed. “See? The body knows. Now watch how she likes to be fucked.”

He dropped his pants, stroked his thick cock twice, and shoved into me in one hard thrust. I was so wet there was almost no resistance. He fucked me with short, brutal strokes while Mitch pinched and twisted my nipples. “The beauty of a trained slave,” Tom grunted, “is you never have to worry about her pleasure. Just take what you want.” He came deep inside me, flooding my cunt with hot spurts. I came too, shame and orgasm tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart. Tears kept falling.

Tom pulled out and told Mitch to climb up and jerk off on my tits. My son straddled my waist, his heavy balls resting on my stomach, and stroked himself while his father held my head up so I had to watch. The first thick rope of cum hit my cheek. The rest painted my neck and the upper slopes of my breasts. Mitch looked almost dazed when he finished. Tom told him to go to bed. After he left, Tom untied me, bent me over the table, and whipped my ass until I couldn’t stand without help. “Next time you will submit willingly,” he said. “Or the whipping will be worse.”

Two days later I was back on the table, gagged again. This time both of them were naked. They played with my body until I was shaking with unwanted arousal. Then Tom said, “Your turn, boy.” Mitch climbed between my spread thighs. I screamed into the gag as the head of my son’s cock pressed against the same cunt he had come from eighteen years earlier. He pushed in. Thick. Hard. Young. He fucked me with the clumsy eagerness of a first-timer while I cried and came around him. He lasted maybe two minutes before he flooded me with cum. Tom made me kneel and clean Mitch’s cock with my tongue. When I hesitated, the belt came down across my ass until I opened my mouth. Mitch hardened again while I licked. Tom held my head and ordered him to fuck my face. “Your pleasure, not hers.” Mitch did. He held my hair and used my throat until he came a second time, pouring straight down into my stomach. While he did that, Tom shoved his cock into my ass and fucked me hard enough that the table creaked. They came together—son in my mouth, father in my ass—and Tom reached around to pinch my clit so I came with them, moaning around the cock still pulsing on my tongue.

That was the beginning of the second stage of my slavery. From that night forward I belonged to both of them. The basement became a proper dungeon: chains from the ceiling, a St. Andrew’s cross, a spanking bench, cages, plugs, gags, clamps, crops. I spent many nights locked in the cage while they watched television upstairs, the remote vibrator in my cunt set on a random pattern that kept me hovering on the edge for hours. In the evenings I wore the maid uniform and served drinks, lit cigarettes, acted as a footstool. When either of them needed to piss I escorted them to the bathroom, took out their cocks, held them while they relieved themselves, then licked every drop clean before tucking them away. Sexual use was constant. Sometimes separately. Sometimes together. Sometimes they invited friends. I learned to take three cocks at once—mouth, cunt, and ass—without complaint. I learned to beg for more even when my body was already sore and leaking.

Last week Mitch told me he had shared the truth with Alicia. She had listened, asked questions, and then said she wanted to see it for herself. She wanted to use me. The idea had kept my cunt wet for days.

Now she was here, looking down at me on my knees with that same curious hunger.

Tom stubbed out his cigarette. “Enough history. Alicia, she’s yours for the next hour. Do whatever you want. Mitch and I will watch. After that, we all play.”

Alicia stood. She was taller than me in her heels, lean and athletic. She circled me slowly, one hand trailing across my shoulders, down my back, over the curve of my ass. “Take the uniform off. Everything. I want her naked.”

I stripped efficiently. The little black dress, the white apron, the garter belt, the stockings, the heels. I folded each piece neatly and set them aside the way Tom had taught me. Naked, I knelt again, knees spread, hands behind my back, tits thrust forward, cunt on display. Alicia walked around me once more, then stopped in front of me and pulled her tank top over her head. No bra. Her tits were high and firm, nipples already tight. She pushed her short skirt down and stepped out of it. She was bare underneath, her pussy smooth and already glistening.

“Lick me,” she said simply. “Make me come with that slave tongue.”

I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to her cunt. She tasted clean and slightly sweet, her outer lips soft, the inner ones already swollen. I licked slowly at first, tracing the length of her slit, then focused on her clit, circling it with the tip of my tongue the way I had been taught to pleasure women when Tom sometimes ordered it. Alicia’s hands settled in my hair. She didn’t guide me gently. She held my head and ground her cunt against my face, smearing her juices across my nose and cheeks. “Deeper. Get that tongue inside me. Fuck me with it.”

I obeyed, thrusting my tongue as deep as it would go while my nose rubbed her clit. She rode my face harder, hips rolling, thighs trembling. Mitch and Tom watched in silence, both of them already hard. I could see the thick outlines straining their pants. Alicia came with a sharp cry, flooding my mouth with more wetness. I kept licking until she pushed me back.

“Good start,” she panted. “Now on your back. Legs spread wide. I want to sit on that face while your son fucks you.”

I lay back on the rug. Alicia straddled my head facing my body, lowering her still-dripping cunt onto my mouth. I licked automatically. Mitch knelt between my thighs, already naked, his cock thick and leaking. He rubbed the head up and down my slit, coating himself in my juices, then pushed in with one long thrust. I was so wet there was no resistance. He bottomed out and stayed there for a moment, letting me feel every inch of my son’s cock stretching my cunt.