Slave Wife

Slave Wife

Chapter VIII

When I opened the door to the tiny, unkempt room in the run-down hotel, the first thing I noticed was the stench:  wet cunt, sweat, and unwashed ass.  The long chain still securing her ankle to the base of the toilet, Donna stepped out of the filthy bathroom, a wet washcloth in her hand, when she heard the door open.  Seeing me, she breathed a sign of relieve and dropped to her knees. 

I quickly looked around the room, immediately understanding how my slave wife had kept her self busy during my absence.  Her breasts and cunt lips were swollen and red, more than they would have been just from the piercings and tattoos.  There was also a large wet spot on the gray, stained bed sheet.

“Piss yourself in your sleep, bitch?” I asked, pointing at the damp sheets.

“Uh…no, Master…I…uh….” she stammered.

“Oh, so you spent your time ‘entertaining yourself,’ is that it?”

“Yes, Master,” she said balefully.

“Well, no more of that.  From now on, you don’t cum until you’re told to.  I don’t care of you’re fucking a train of 100 porn stars, if I don’t tell you to cum, you’d better not.  Unless you want to earn a beating.”

“Yes, Master,” she responded, getting up from her knees when I motioned.  At least she got that part of the equation right.  I reached down between her legs and played with her swollen gash for a moment, watching her wince as my hand tugged at the rings.  She was healing nicely.  I raised my hand to her face, and without a word, she began lapping the thick, copious juices from it.

When my hand was clean, I ordered her back to her knees while I unlocked the chain from around the base of the toilet and attached it to her other ankle, wrapping the excess around and around so she had no more than eight inches of movement.  After handing her the crumpled, stained dress I carried, I once again restrained her wrists behind her back.

“Master, may I ask a question, please?” she said in a quiet voice while I applied the now-familiar handcuffs  I knew the idea of seeing a doctor was worrying her, but I wasn’t going to tell her anything yet.

“No,” I answered.  “Unless someone gives you the impression they want to hear your skanky voice, you keep that cock-sucking pie hole of yours closed unless someone is stuffing a dick in it.  Understand?”  Her mouth flapped open for just a fraction of a second, until I raised my hand as though to slap her, then she just nodded her head.

“Good.  Now, the first thing you’re going to do when we go downstairs is thank the desk clerk with a nice, sloppy blow job. “  I attached the loose end of the chain around her other ankle, then a leash to her nose ring before leading her down the stairs. 

The clerk was the same one as when we arrived, and I’d cued him in on my plans three days ago, after I locked Donna in her tiny room.  He’d managed to get himself laid by one of the other guests a few hours earlier, and his dick was covered in dried fluids.  Donna found this out as she knelt behind the counter, releasing her user’s cock using only her teeth.  I could only imagine what it smelled like for her, or how his cock must have tasted.  I heard Donna gag a couple of times as he shoved his filthy member down her throat, but she managed to avoid vomiting.  When she was finished, I had her thank the “gentleman” with a couple of nice, juicy kisses right between his hairy ass cheeks before giving a gentle jerk on the leash and leading her out to the car.

A short drive later, and we arrived at our first destination, a cluttered alley behind a large, nondescript office building.  Leaving Donna’s skimpy dress behind, I led her naked into the building through a small loading dock,  then up several flights of dimly-lit, seldom used stairs.  The stairwell was littered with trash and smelled of urine.  Donna was sweating from the exertion, having to literally bunny-hop with her ankles bound as they were.  Three, four, five floors we slowly climbed, a small whip I carried lashing down on Donna’s unprotected body every time she tried to stop.  By the time we reached the fifth floor, she was covered in a sheen of perspiration and welts, her ankles bleeding from the chaffing of the chains.  She was unable to manage the doorknob with her hands bound behind her as they were, so I chivalrously opened the door for her.

Once out of the stairwell, we entered a brightly lit, plushly carpeted hallway.  One wall was lined with offices, the other with a glass wall that provided a stunning view of the bay.  Due to the nature of the reflective glass, nobody could see in, but I wasn’t so sure Donna realized that at the time.  She tried to cower down as if hiding herself, but a sharp upward jerk on the leash forced her head and body upright.  Leading her down the hall, I glanced at the names on the doors, finally finding the one I wanted.  Without knocking, we entered.

The office belonged to my attorney, who was waiting behind his desk for us.  He was a large black man, muscular, with a shaved head.  He was the sort of lawyer who worked on the fringes of society and didn’t care whether his client was guilty or innocent, as long as the check cleared.  As a result, he knew people with the skills I was seeking.  A single chair was positioned opposite him, and after nodding at him, I  sat down.  I motioned for Donna to stand next to me, her legs spread as far as possible given the chains around her ankles.

“You’ll have to release its hands if you expect it to sign,” the attorney said.  We’d gone over this before; he assured me that even though the entire event was being recorded, her signature was necessary.  I unlocked the handcuffs and ordered Donna to kneel with her tits resting on the table. 

“Sign these, everywhere there’s a red X,” the attorney said, sliding a sheaf of paper across the table so it rested between her naked globes. 

Donna took the pen he offered, and moved the papers to where she could read them.   The attorney lashed out, striking her left tit with a wooden paddle from his desk.  She yelled out in surprise and pain.

“I said sign the fucking papers, not read them, you stupid cunt!” he said dramatically, landing an additional stroke on her other udder.  “If anyone had wanted you to fucking read them, we would have said so!”

“It is rather stupid, even for a bitch, isn’t it?” the lawyer commented, shaking his head sadly as Donna grabbed the pen and began scribbling her name.

“Hell, not only is she a stupid cunt, she’s not even a halfway decent fuck,” I replied.  “You should have seen her the first time someone throat-fucked her, and when I told her to suck her own shit off my cock after I’d fucked her ass, she puked!”

Most of the documents wouldn’t hold up in court – hell, slavery is illegal, after all – but those that were valid annulled our marriage, gave me complete and sole control over all her belongings and our joint property, and began the process to have her declared my legal ward.  I would drop the incompetency papers off with a friendly judge, and in a few days, I would have the legal right to make all decisions for her – including determining what medical treatments she might need.

“Now that that’s over,” the attorney said after Donna literally signed her life away, “I suppose I should get paid.”  He grabbed Donna’s collar and literally dragged her out of the office and into an adjoining room.  She’d be “busy” for the next 24 hours.  I didn’t bother following; the attorney and I had discussed this earlier, and I’d be receiving a video of everything, anyway.   Suffice it to say that the attorney’s teenage son was about to learn all there was about the female anatomy.

I picked her up the next morning, and she looked like she’d been through the ringer.  Ah, if we could have the recovery time of a teenager for our whole lives!  It turns out sonny took her nine times – three in each hole, though you couldn’t really count the times she licked and sucked his cock clean without making him cum (which was each time he took her cunt or ass) – daddy did her twice, and each of the two cameramen took a few turns each, too.

I had her put her torn, filthy dress back on, and after clipping the leash I held to her ever-present nose ring, led her out of the building and onto the bustling street.

Since it was Sunday, the downtown area was filled with shoppers and sightseers, most of whom, I’m sure, never expected so see a sight like they were viewing – a barefoot, nearly-naked, obviously well-fucked female with dried cum on her face, hair and thighs, being led with a leash attached to a nose ring by a well-dressed, confident man.  As we stepped out into the daylight, I could hear the gasps of shock from elderly women, the derisive comments of younger ones, and the clicking and whirring of cameras and video recorders.  I was sure I’d find at least some of these on the internet soon..

There was plenty of footage (is that the correct phrase for digital movies?), as we waited a full seven minutes before the next bus came by.  Sure, I could have easily taken Donna to our next destination in my car, but the primary purpose of this trip was to degrade and humiliate her.  I knew how she hated busses, and those of the municipal transit system were a step down from even that.

Ninety minutes and four transfers later – because I wanted to take the ‘scenic route’ – we arrived at our destination.  Donna looked surprised when I started up the steps to the forboding edifice – the county courthouse – because she knew they wouldn’t be open on a weekend.  Her surprise, however, turned to something resembling fear when a security guard met us at the door, escorting us right in and showing us to the chambers of a judge who “just happened” to be in that day…thanks to a phone call from me, a college classmate, before the weekend.  Once inside the elevator, I had Donna drop the dress to the floor.  She was now completely naked…a common state for her recently.

“I think we should do this right, don’t you?” my classmate the judge said, standing as we entered his office, slipping on his robes and motioning us to follow him.  We entered an expansive courtroom through his private entrance.  He motioned for me to sit at the table usually reserved for the prosecution, and had the guard – now apparently serving as bailiff – escort my soon-to-be former wife to the other side of the room.  The chair a defendant would normally sit in had been removed, as had the table, so Donna simply stood there, eyes downcast, while the “bailiff” secured her.  First, so she could not audibly object, an overly-large ball gag, which stretched her jaws to their limits, was shoved into her mouth and fastened behind her head.  Then, after fastening a chain around her torso, he handcuffed her wrists, securing them to her sides.  Finally, although her ankles were already restrained, he locked yet another chain to her hobble.  The other end was fastened to the base of the banister separating the viewing gallery from the front of the courtroom. 

As a webcam broadcast it around the world, Donna found out what the documents she’d signed the previous day were.  She’d agreed to have our marriage annulled – which would mean no right to alimony or other financial consideration; she’d petitioned to have her name legally changed to ‘fuckmeat,’ and she’d signed a permanent, general power of attorney authorizing me to act on her behalf in all aspects of her life.   Finally, the judge declared, anyone who wanted to change their name to fuckmeat was obviously no of sound mind, so he declared her incompetent and awarded me unsupervised guardianship. 

I thanked the judge for his time and shook his hand while fuckmeat sobbed and lavished kisses over his finely-polished shoes.  She was, I’m sure, surprised that he wasn’t interested in a more tangible means of payment for his work, but he had his own stable of slaves waiting for him.  It was time for our next appointment.

I didn’t bother having fuckmeat get dressed this time.  As a slave, I explained, she wasn’t permitted to sit on furniture, and that included my car seat.  Instead, she knelt on the floor of the passenger’s seat and alternately diddled herself and licked her fingers clean while I drove. 

Our next stop, as I promised her, was a medical clinic.  Not an ordinary one, however; this clinic was housed inside an old warehouse on what was formerly a military installation across the bay in Oakland.  Located on the waterfront, it had once been a staging area for supplies going off to various wars, but had been deactivated years earlier during the defense drawdowns of the 1990’s.  Although the physicians working here were licensed, and many were well-known in their professions, the clinic itself was more secretive, unknown to all but a select few within the BDSM world.  Some of the procedures performed were experimental, usually on “throw-away” slaves who had outlived their usefulness to their Owners, but most often, patients were here simply for unusual or unethical body modifications.

I could see the fear in fuckmeat’s face as soon as we entered the building.  The clinic was actually a building within a building; the inside of the warehouse was lined with cages, most with little more than a single mattress inside, but about a dozen of which contained naked women.  While their ages and ethnicity were all different, one thing was the same about each of the caged slaves:  none of them appeared happy with their current living conditions.  Fuckmeat’s eyes glanced furtively around as she took in her surroundings, assuming correctly that she’d soon join these forlorn women awaiting whatever abuses were in store for them.

A door at the end of the long hallway opened into a typical medical office waiting room, complete with white-capped nurse receptionist who dutifully took my name and invited me to have a seat.  She even offered to cage my slave for me, but I was enjoying the look of fear fuckmeat’s eyes, so declined.  It was only a few moments before a doctor, wearing the obligatory lab coat, invited us into an exam room.

The room itself was not unlike those I’d seen in the offices of other doctors, but there were several differences.  Most striking were the video cameras hanging from all four corners of the ceiling, all aimed at the exam table.  However, there were other obvious differences.  For instance, the exam table itself was simply a grey steel mechanism, without the padded mattress and roll of paper so common elsewhere.  The stirrups, where a normal woman would put her feet for an obstetrical examination, held heavy straps and, as I’d seen in an internet video, could be separated far enough to dislocate the patient’s hips.  Additional straps hung from the sides of the table, as well as an extension where the slave’s hands would be bound.  For now, though, we were both content to have fuckmeat kneel at my feet while the doctor examined her mouth.

“Hand me that syringe, would you?” he said, after sliding some sort of rubber blocks between fuckmeat’s molars to keep her mouth open.  He took the syringe, and with a laryngoscope in one hand, peered deeply into my slave’s throat, carefully positioning the needle before depressing the plunger.  Fuckmeat was too scared to move, though I did hear her utter a low moan as the needle struck home.

“That should do it,” the doctor said.  “Have your slave try to speak,” he suggested a few moments later, after removing the rubber blocks.

“Tell the doctor ‘thank you,’” I commanded.  We both laughed as her mouth moved, but not a sound came out.

“You won’t be talking for quite a while,” the physician said.  “I’ve paralyzed your vocal cords with Botox.  It’s not permanent, though…it should wear off in a few months.”  Donna looked up, tears in her eyes.

“It’s more convenient to keep them quiet, you know,” he commented, looking at me.  “All the chatter, and then there’s the extra work of punishing them when they say anything out of line, like refusing an order.  So, I know we had some preliminary talks, but have you decided exactly what you want done?”

Donna – fuckmeat – knelt there silently while the doctor and I talked about what was going to happen to her, knowing she had no way of stopping it – or even expressing an opinion verbally.

“The first thing I’d like is for her to have a set of huge tits – cow udders, if you will.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” he said, reaching down and pinching various parts of her body.  “She does have a bit of flab, and hormones would probably help somewhat.  We have a new procedure, almost like liposuction, where we remove fat cells from one part of the body and inject it into the breasts.  Much less to worry about than implants, particularly if you’re going to continue abusing them.  From the looks of her, I’d say we could easily get her to a 52DDD, maybe as large as a 56H.  You should know that it’s difficult to find brassieres in those sizes, and they tend to be expensive.  Walking with the additional weight will be difficult, and may cause considerable back strain.”

“Not to worry, she won’t be wearing bras anymore…nor much of anything else.  And I don’t really care if her back hurts.  Besides, she’s going to be crawling most of the time anyway.”  I looked down at my kneeling slave, imagining what she’d look like with tits that would be so large her arms would bow outward at the sides and she’d never be able to see the ground. 

“And the other things we talked about?”

“Well, I liked the idea of clitoral enlargement, but I’m concerned that she’ll get off just by walking around.  I want to keep her in need, but without having her cum all the time.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the doctor laughed.  “It takes some time, but we have a conditioned reflex program here.  We’ll fix things so she can’t cum until she hears your voice tell her to, and as a side benefit, you’ll also be able to make her cum on command, whether she wants to or not.”

We talked for about an hour, fuckmeat crying in enforced silence as we discussed the procedures that were going to be performed.  I decided to have her teeth yanked out so I wouldn’t have to worry about her biting any more cocks. They’d also do an experimental form of gastric bypass surgery, making her stomach 25% the size of the patients who normally have the procedure, and resulting in her eating nothing but a bland paste diet for the rest of her life.  A few snips on her leg tendons and her feet would be forced into a permanent tiptoe position, requiring her to wear nothing with less than a six inch heel or risk toppling over.  Laser surgery on her eyes would reduce her vision to well below legally blind, making anything more than three feet away an indistinct blur.  And finally – and this was the one that caused her to break – removing her uterus altogether would not only solve the problem of unwanted pregnancy (I had no desire to breed her, even though she was still fertile), but also those messy menstrual cycles.  Injected hormones would replace those that now-unnecessary organ had previously provided.  Fuckmeat just collapsed in a heap on the floor when that was discussed.

The entire process should take between four and six months, the doctor explained, during which time fuckmeat would need to remain in the clinic.  Her living accommodations would be one of the cages we saw coming in, but her days would be much more than laying around waiting for another operation.  No, the doctor explained as he strapped fuckmeat into the examination table, there would be much more.  When not actually in recovery, she’d be expected to perform tasks suitable to her station in life, including scrubbing floors, providing tongue baths to other patients, and learning how to truly fuck and suck. 

It would all be expensive, he said, but there were ways to recoup at least some of the money.  This piqued my interest, so I asked him to explain.

“Well, there’s always folks willing to pay for a quick piece of ass, or more,” he said.  “For instance, on Wednesdays, the group home for mentally disturbed teens brings their clients here to get laid.  It helps keep them under control, relaxes them, and they know that misbehavior means they don’t get their weekly fuck.  We can also rent out our patients for anywhere from a few hours to a week or more.  We have an exclusive list of clients, all of whom have been specially screened and are willing to pay exorbitant fees for a slave.  We also use them as mannequins for a local tattoo and piercing school, but I see you’ve already marked your slave, so that probably wouldn’t be of much interest.  Whatever fees we receive, we split with the slave’s owner.  Now, yours isn’t much to look at, but we could probably get $5,000 a week rental fee; more if you’d allow events to be recorded.”

“Allow?  Hell, I insist on it!” I exclaimed. 

“Good.  Then just sign here, and check the options you’d like us to consider,” he said, handing me a form.  I looked it over and checked everything except snuff, dismemberment, and permanent physical harm. Signing it, I returned it to the doctor.

“Well, that should take care of everything,” he said to me.  “Would you care for one last fuck in her old body?”

“Nah,” I said.  “She’s too easy, not to mention loose.  I can’t even feel it when I fuck her, and she gives crappy head.  No thanks, I think I’ll go pick out a young teen from your rental area.”

And, with that, I turned on my heels and walked out, leaving my former wife stretched out, naked, on the examination table with the doctor who was going to transform her into a living, breathing sex toy.