He has promised you a surprise. A surprise and a gift when he gets home. And that is in just a few hours. But time enough to prepare yourself. Your body. Your mind. For him.
He didn’t give you any specific instructions. Just to be ready when he got home. And enough warning and enough time to enjoy the preparations. Luxuriate in it. Enjoy the process of becoming his perfect slave. His good girl. Taking the time to let everything else go, to focus entirely on him, serving him.
You start of course, by stripping naked. It’s not a rule in the house, in fact, he so enjoys when you wear those dresses with the short skirts. You of course wander the house nude often, but today it is to help with the mindset. The reminder that you are merely a toy. That you exist merely as a vessel for him to find pleasure.
It’s not true of course and you both know it. He cherishes you. He respects you. But that is part of what makes it all so fucking hot. Putting on the masks . . . Or maybe pulling the masks off . . And for a time living within that fantasy.
He is the man of the house. His word is law. You are his little woman. Your role is to serve. His every whim must be seen too. His every need satisfied.
You take the time to meditate on your role. Your place. To get into the right mindset to serve. You pull the yoga mat out and put it in front of the TV and pop in the DVD that you made with him. You pull all the shades and turn off the lights and then sit on the mat, crossing your legs, and press play.
The music starts first. Soft, simple sounds. Instruments playing light soothing tones. Exactly what you’d expect to hear with any meditation aid. But among it, barely audible, the sound of women sighing in pleasure, moaning in erotic pain.
After a minute of black screen, the pictures start. Pictures of women serving men. As is right. As is their place, you remind yourself. Each lasting a few seconds. Pictures that you have picked and saved for years while tumblr still allowed it. Pictures of the type of slave you want to be. Not the wanton whore, but the prim one. The proper one. The slave in lovely gowns, going to fancy balls, and bending to fancy gentleman’s every desire.
You know the photos so well by now. The order they will appear in. First the 50’s housewife in nothing but a corset vacuuming. Then the secretary with the sexy black lace stockings bending over to pick up spilled paper, revealing she was wearing nothing under it. The woman in the slutty french maid outfit, doing laundry, with a feather duster sticking out from her ass. The lady in the sexy lingerie, stroking the man in the business suit at the table while he seems to be negotiating with someone off camera.
You don’t exactly have a mantra. No magic chant that sinks you into submission. No hypnotic words of obedience. But when you go through this ritual, you try to meditate on what you should be learning. How you should act. How you should think.
These are women doing what they were meant to do, you think. The photo on the screen is of a number of nude women, serving beer from trays to men playing poker. Look how happy they are to serve, you think. Not embarrassed to be nude at all. They exist to please men’s eyes. One mans hand clearly between a serving girls legs, her face and bearing suggesting impending orgasm. You wonder what she did to please him enough to deserve such a reward.
This is what I should be, you think. For him. The photo changing to one from a kink movie, a secretary with a spreader bar holding her hands apart. In the movie, you remember, she walks the halls dressed like this, delivering his papers. A good girl, you think, doing her job no matter what impediments her master puts on her. Striving to serve no matter what.
The new photo appears of a couple in a car. He’s in a tuxedo and she’s in an expensive looking slinky dress. She’s bent over from the passenger seat clearly sucking his dick. I wish I was her, he would be happiest if I could be her, you think. So fancy, so cultured, and ready to show her place in the world no matter who can see. Totally free as his pleasure thing.
Are these thoughts true? Deep down you know they aren’t. Not truly. You are strong. You are smart. You are independent. If anyone, man, woman, or god, tried to tell you that your place was to humbly submit to men, you’d punch them in the face. Maybe not an actual punch. But at least a glare and a sharp word.
But the fantasy. The fantasy of it all. Especially with a man like him. Your man. YOUR man. A man who is a prize, but treats you like a prize. A man who demands more of you, and from himself. A man who will spank your bottom red, because deep down it gets you both off, then rub lotion into it to make sure it heals well. A man who tells you he loves you and means it.
For this man, you are happily a slave. For this man, you happily become the woman you fantasize about being. For this man, who treats you like a queen, you will become the whore. But the escort, not some street walker. And you will enjoy it. Because, while deep down you know its not true, that women aren’t meant to serve men, deep down, you know that you are happiest when serving him. Happiest when knowing you have debased yourself, that you and he have drawn pleasure from the debasement, and he says “good girl” and he says “I love you” and he says “you make me happy.”
The video plays on while you think, while you murmur, while you tell yourself that you will be his whore. His obedient house wife. His pet. While you feel yourself growing increasingly aroused. And since you have time, you even let your hands stray across your body. Touching yourself. Your neck. Your shoulders. Your chest. Your stomach. Your thighs. Between your legs. Not masturbation, not exactly. You have no intention of reaching orgasm. No intention of the tease and the denial that you know he’d want of you. That YOU want of you. But just to feel yourself and to remind yourself that everything you feel, everything you touch, is his.
Feeling happily submissive as the dvd ends, you turn to your chores. Not that there are many. The house is clean. That is a rule. His 50’s housewife must keep house after all, though he does so much more than any 50’s husband would have done. Enough that you are grateful, but at times annoyed. You enjoy your chores, your tasks, your enjoy how you slip into submissive fantasies while you work and when he does the chores it takes that from you . . . and he does so much of it WRONG.
Naked still, horny still, you take your time. The laundry that needs putting away. The dishwasher that needs emptying. The shelves in his study you ignore, they could use a dusting, but it will be more fun to do that while he is in there working. Maybe with a tiny skirt on. Maybe with a butt plug in to catch his eye.
But each step of the way, you reward yourself. You take a moment to stop, to let your finger tips touch. Your skin. Your lips. Your nipples. You tell yourself that you’ve been good. You tell yourself that he would be pleased. That you are his little woman. And as such you deserve rewards. He would say you deserve rewards. Pleasure. His little woman deserves rewards for her hard work.
His little woman. A sexist derogatory nick name that you can’t help but love, even if you’d smack him if you ever thought he REALLY meant it. If he truly saw you that way.
The first real urge to masturbate finally hits as you finish the chores. You feel pleasant. Your mind isn’t empty, that’s not the right term. You aren’t a bimbo. He doesn’t want a bimbo, he likes that you are smart. He likes that you can hold your own, even one up him. He wants you subservient, not stupid.
But your mind has simplified. You aren’t fully there yet, not fully a slave, but you can feel the slave mode starting to seep through you. The singular focus on being his little woman. His good girl. And the pleasure in that thought lets your hand stray between your legs and stay there longer than you really mean for it to. Leaning up against the wall, naked, laundry basket set aside, hand sliding, fingers finding those pleasure spots in just the way you like to be touched. Sliding, rubbing, pushing that pleasure into yourself. Pleasure that you are already thanking him for, even though he isn’t there. Because your body is his. The pleasure you get, is his.
You have to stop though. You have to get ready and you don’t want to be rushed and a bath with that lovely new oil sounds just right. He commented last time on how good you smelled after using it. And how that compliment had made you smile. Smile like a silly little woman.
You don’t know why you hadn’t already done it, but of course, you will need music. So you open your phone and look through your playlists. You have quite a few with names like “work out” and “cheer me up”, but you skip those for the ones called “light” and “hard” and “trance”. The dirty ones.
The dirty playlists are about sex. About being submissive. About fucking. You choose the one listed hard for now. It’s all mainstream stuff, stuff you would hear at any club, but not the sort of stuff you’d play if kids might be nearby. Mostly dirty pop songs. Songs that make you feel naughty. Songs about women being fucked hard after being fondled by men at clubs. Songs about women submitting. Songs that make you think of hard domination.
Think of pretty things in dark rooms begging for vile things. How you want to be that pretty thing. In that dark room. Begging him for those vile things.
With the music playing, you head straight to the grossest of steps. The enema. Disgusting but necessary if he plans to do more than slide a finger into your ass. And in a weird way, of course, you relish it. Not the act itself. But how carefully it fits into the fantasy of the perfect, clean, fuck toy house wife. You are hiding the mess from him. Hiding the grossness. So that in bed, he sees nothing but the perfect sexual being that you are for him.
A disgusting process, but you will suffer, happily, to be more perfect for him. Besides which, he sometimes asks the most vile things of you. Things that you will happily say yes to. GET OFF on saying yes too. And little things like this, make them just a bit less vile, and a bit more sexy. Better safe than sorry.
That taken care of, you get the bath ready and while it fills you walk into your closet. How to dress for him tonight?
Is he taking you out? You know he loves the grey dress that shows off your cleavage. He stares in a way that would be embarrassing, if not so endearing. Such honest enjoyment of your form. Or maybe the black one with the almost-too-short skirt and the slit that makes it just a bit too naughty to wear anywhere nice? He likes to grab your ass in that one. Though, really, he always wants to grab your ass. Maybe the white one that you have to go bra-less in with the totally bare back, it does feel so nice when he runs his finger tips along your bare back in public. You feel so . . . owned, so publicly claimed when he does it.
Or are you staying in? Perhaps a costume? The slutty maid? Maybe the cheerleader outfit you haven’t shown him yet? No, you have a strong feeling that tonight isn’t the night for such silly sexy play.
How about something that just says, ‘fuck me, fuck me hard, and fuck me now.’ Some lingerie? There is that black set he got you for your birthday that he likes so much. But then there is also the white set you haven’t shown him yet. A top that leaves your nipples exposed. Thigh high stockings and totally crotch-less panties. How is it that wearing clothing, if you can call the thin fabric clothing, that covers up everything but your most intimate spots, be sexier than being nude?
You settle on the white lingerie. You look sexy as hell in it and he’d commented just last month how he’d love to strip you bare and find you in something sexy and crotchless and take you like that. Right there on the spot.
You also set out the grey dress. You won’t be putting it on, not unless he wants to go out.
As you slide into the tub, enjoying the smell of the oil, the feeling of the warmth soaking into your body, you let your hands roam. You let one hand find your nipples and the other go back between your legs. You won’t cum. You aren’t allowed and tonight doesn’t feel like a night that you should go into with a punishment owed. Plus, it’s so hot denying yourself. Being so aroused, so turned on, that his mearest touch will send spikes of pleasure through you.
Had you always found self denial so hot? Or was it just something he had done to you. The knowledge that he was controlling your very pleasure. Taking ownership of your most intimate places?
You imagine him coming home to find you dressed in the lingerie. Him smiling as he takes your head in his hands and pulls you in tight for a kiss. His hand sliding down your back to your ass, squeezing, before sliding back up, fingers teasing your lower back. You imagine his head sliding from your mouth to your neck. Teeth bared, but not hard enough to leave marks. Mouth moving to your shoulder, your breast with its bare nipples.
You pinch the nipple in your fingers as you imagine his teeth biting down, moaning in the tub, moaning against his imagined form. Imagining its his hand, not yours, rubbing the pleasure between your legs. Imagining his fingers working you just the right way. His mouth finding new spots on your body to kiss. To lick. To bite.
You are his good girl. His little woman. His perfect little slut. And while it doesn’t come fast, that isn’t your goal, no, you take it slowly, the need to orgasm starts to grow and grow. But you are his good girl. You make your hands stop. The effort is as painful as it always is, especially when there is always that small part of you excited at the idea of being naughty. Of being punished.
But that’s for another night. You don’t know what he has planned. If it will be something sweet or something that stings. But he’d likely not like you to start the night that way. He is much more likely to want to find you needy. Wanting. Dripping in arousal.
So you reach for the soap and begin the process of getting clean. Extra clean. For him. And you think on your mantra. How you are getting clean FOR HIM. How your body must be fresh FOR HIM. How the good 50’s housewife is always perfect and clean. FOR HIM. You let your mind sink deeper into that pleasant submissive space and start on your hair.
The last piece is to shave for him. The 50’s housewife would never be caught dead with hairy legs or an armpits, even if you think its an outdated and unnecessary custom. It’s not for all women, shaving off the hairy examples of maturity, but it is for you.
The smoothness feels nice. If feels FEMININE. It feels submissive. He didn’t give you time to get a full wax, so the razor must do. You shave everything else as well. He doesn’t mind a small bush, but you know he prefers you totally without hair. More feminine he says. And whether or not you agree with that statement, every time you shave yourself bare you still get turned on thinking about how you are doing it to be feminine for him. Sluttier for him. Submissive for him. You take extreme care while you shave, removing every hair, but especially careful when you move the razor to your ass. What lady has hair on her asshole? After all, who knows which parts of you will be on the menu tonight?
You will need the time to let your hair dry so you stop lingering in the tub. You dry off. Attend to all those lovely lady things that men typically ignore. Moisturizing being the one you find most shocking that they ignore. It makes your skin feel so soft and nice.
The music is still thumping along and you didn’t even notice that you had started to sing along, “All the things that are on my mind, Vanish as I touch myself” as you sit down at your makeup chair and get out the hair dryer. As you start to work on making yourself pretty for him. No, that’s the wrong word and he’d yell at you if you said it that way. You are pretty. He thinks you are beautiful. It’s that you are styling yourself. You are taking the lovely canvas that is your face, your hair, your body, and painting onto it. Styling it. The way he styles his hair. Painting yourself, but only a bit. Just enough makeup to highlight your eyes. To make your lips pop. To give your cheeks that aroused look, not that you will need much help there, your crotch is almost throbbing at being denied, at being so deep into submissive mode.
You take your time with this as well though. The putting your face on. The getting ready for him. Naked, and still damp. Listening to your dirty songs. Thinking of his hands on you. And finally, finally, going back to the closet to slide into the lingerie. To snap the snaps. To adjust the straps. To adjust your flesh so its shown off just right.
You stop to look in the mirror and are pleased. You look like a slut. A whore. A strumpet. But a classy one.
You have maybe 30 minutes before he comes home. 30 minutes to do anything that you want. But what does the perfect 50’s house wife do? She waits for her husband meekly, ready to see to his every whim. He doesn’t smoke a pipe. He doesn’t need slippers. But he drinks.
In the kitchen you get the little bucket of ice you bought just for days like this, and fill it. Then you make the drink he likes, the one with the rum and the juice, and slide the cup into the bucket of ice to stay chilled. You carry the bucket over to the chair by the door and set it down next to it and kneel at its foot.
You switch the music to the lighter playlist. The one that no one would question. Slower sexy songs. Ballads. Romantic music. Better for you to trance out to. To fantasize and lost track of time.
You consider the image you want him to see as he opens the door. You kneeling next to the chair. Waiting for him. How best to angle yourself to show off the lingerie. So he can see how tasty you look? You try a few positions out. Try to imagine what it will look like from his point of view. Back straight, chest out, knees spread open so he will be able to see that the crotch-less nature of the panties.
You find the position you like. The position that in your mind says, “I am naughty, but your humble servant.” And hold it. He won’t know how long you have sat waiting. Knees hurting. He can’t know without seeing. And it might be many, many, minutes still. But you will know that you held the pose. That you waited, patiently, for him. To be seen by him. To be loved by him. To turn him on.
And you start to imagine what he might do.
Will he leave the front door wide open? The street is far enough away that you’d have to be walking just past in the road to see in and even then, it might be hard to see exactly what you are doing, but it would be clear that it was something strange and sexy.
Will he have some new sex toy? He promised a gift. A surprise. Something sweet? You’ve been curious about those suction vibrators. Hinting even that you’d like one. Or something mean? That cane he was looking at the last time you were in the good sex store. Or that giant butt plug he keeps threatening you with.
A thousand ideas run through your head. Images where he unzips and makes you suck him until he sprays onto your chest. Where he bends you over the chair and slides into your ass with little but his own spit for lube. Images where he walks in and makes you go out with him to a club, only giving you time to throw a large coat on. Where he just stands and watches, demanding you masturbate to orgasm in front of him as he pulls out his phone and threatens to post the video to the internet. Images where you are in pleasure. Images where you are in pain. Images where you get fucked. Images where you give pleasure.
But image after image, no matter what he does, no matter how good it feels or how bad, or how treasured it makes you feel, or humiliated, you feel happy. You feel calm. Because you are his little woman. You are his good girl. Nothing he would ask of you would be wrong. Everything he might ask of you would be sexy and hot and you would do it without question.
The door opens and he doesn’t seem at all surprised to see you. He smiles. It starts off a fond and loving smile. But as his eyes drift down your body, taking you in, the outfit you have, the pose you strike, the knowledge that you have been waiting for him, it changes. The smile slides to hungry. You shiver at the change. Shiver knowing that after all this time, he still gets this turned on by you. That he still wants you.
“Welcome home, sir,” you say, and you are smiling. Because you can see it in his face. That you are sexy. That you are beautiful. That you are his little woman. His whore. His princess. His good girl. You are his. And he is yours.
**************
End Part 1 – Not sure what the surprise he has in store for “you” is, but I’d love your suggestions
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pbqs63/his_little_woman_part_1_fbdsm
Excellent writing…