i've been working on another story, and it's turning out to be really long. it's not as realistic as the other one, probably because none of it has anything to do with my life, unfortunately. for one thing, i have never been married, and actually i have never been in love, so i don't know what i'm talking about! but this fantasy, of being a wife who submits to her husband's kinks so enthusiastically that it disgusts him, has been part of my fantasy life since high school. i guess the couple is based on my parents, but all the sex has nothing to do with reality. it's so long i've decided to divide it into chapters. it's also not finished, but just maybe i'll finish it as i go. it also has hints about my real identity and whereabouts.

Beth Likes It 

(chapter one) 

 I really thought my new husband would like me more if I did what he said. I knew he wanted some kinky sex, I knew that would be part of being married to him, and I thought I was prepared for it, I thought it might make things more exciting even, maybe I would like it and even if I didn’t it would be fun pleasing him. I thought of it as a challenge, and an opportunity for some spicy adventure… and honestly I thought it would foster intimacy between us. I guess I had read that somewhere, and I really expected it, I expected him to become very attached to me, I expected him to fall in love with me all over again, really, if it turned out I was the one who could meet his sexual needs so fully and without judgement. But this isn’t the way things worked out.

Ben had begun by wanting me to expose myself in public, or to risk exposure, like going out with him “commando” in a short skirt and no panties. We’d usually go to a bar, frequently on the less appealing side of town, and after awhile we settled on one bar in particular, a place called “Tito’s” which, while there were sometimes a few college kids hanging around,  was actually a pretty rough place. Their clientele consisted mostly of working men who were pretty hard drinkers, and pretty obnoxious, and we’d almost never see other women. It was not a place I would have ever set foot in if I were alone, but this was okay, because although I was small and somewhat of a bully-target, my husband Ben was a huge guy, and genuinely strong; just the sight of his frown would be enough to make almost any trouble-maker back away slowly. And of course he had a certain authority about him, he wasn’t a pushover. So I felt safe enough, at least inasmuch as I trusted him to protect me. And I did… well, I mean… Let me put it this way: I trusted Ben to not let anything happen to me that he didn’t want to have happen. Which was more than enough, at first.

But what was just “risking exposure” at first, quickly became frequent, full exposure. We went from just hubby and wifey playing in public, keeping our little secret that I had nothing on under my skirt, to flashing half the guys in the bar until everyone knew what was going on, and pretty soon we were sitting at tables full of rough, rowdy men who knew perfectly well I had nothing on under my skirt, or my top for that matter, and who passed me from lap to lap, continuously trying to grab, pinch, and very aggressively grope my ass, breasts, and pussy! And at first, hubby would stare them down if things got too intense, and they’d stop the moment he cleared his throat. But things changed.

Gosh, I just wanted to please my man. Honestly, that’s all it was, at first. But I must admit that so long as it was safe, I liked the attention. I did not stare, of course, but I was aware that these rough guys were erect under their jeans, and I knew why: because as per Ben’s instructions I was dressed like a street whore, and these drunken, horny guys were getting frequent glimpses of everything a lady was expected to keep private! 

I wanted to do everything my husband said, I wanted to make him happy with me. I wanted to be the woman who could fulfill his every sexual fantasy, and to help him discover a few he didn’t even know he had. And I wanted to be loved for it, adored and cherished by him for it. So when Ben dropped his half-empty basket of fries on the floor in front of our table and said “Beth, be a good girl and pick up those spilled fries” I did what he said. Even though we had joined a table with a group of strange, drunken men who were obviously trying to grope me. I knew he wanted a show, and I knew he wanted me to give the men a show as well.

So, gingerly at first, I knelt down to scoop the fries back into the plastic basket, which he had handed me. My skirt was so short that I could not squat without exposing my pussy to the whole snickering gang. I wasn’t sure what to do. Ben looked at me and I could read his mind. I faced away from the table so my back was to the guys and knelt down on the floor. The floor was sticky with spilled beer and my bare knees were touching it. I felt so dirty, but honestly, I was very excited, so excited that I could feel myself getting wet as a mop, which made it more shameful, because I get very wet when I’m aroused, wet enough that you can tell from a distance, if you look. 

It was a predicament, and sort of a puzzle. I had to reach down and pick up the fries with one hand while holding the basket with the other. I really had no choice but to balance on my elbows, there was no other way to get all the fries without tipping the basket. I was already on my knees, and now my bare naked bottom was sticking up behind me as I bent from the waist, and my skirt rode high enough so the guys at our table could see everything I had. I knew this was what Ben wanted, so I spread my thighs a few inches and tilted my ass as high as I could, arching my back and lowering my tummy towards the dirty floor. I could feel the open air against my wetness. I knew they were seeing my vulva from top to bottom, as well as my winking little anus. One of them gave a long, slow wolf-whistle, while others chuckled. As the moment lasted, I realized the chuckles were derisive… They were feasting their eyes on me, sure, but they were also mocking me for being such a whore. There was a meanness to it, and all of a sudden I felt unsafe. But also, as adrenaline coursed through my blood and made my heart pump faster and faster, also I noticed that my pussy was responding too. It felt hot, and swollen. And certainly wet, maybe dripping. I wondered if the men could notice this… I wondered if they could smell me.

“Pick ‘em all up, Beth,” said my husband. His tone had meanness in it too, which was disconcerting. “Beth, I don’t want you to waste a single fry.” He must have seen me flinch, as the humiliation sent a chill up my spine.

See, this was the thing: I was trying my best to be perfect for him, but instead of loving me for it he seemed more and more disgusted with me. I knelt up and turned around with the basket. “I got them all, Ben.” I looked around innocently and could see a wall of wicked grins and hungry, glaring eyes. “Are they still good?” Asked Ben. I didn’t say anything. 

“Try them,” said Ben. I put a fry into my mouth. “Good girl,” said Ben. He wanted all the guys to see me eating off the floor. “Are you hungry?” He asked. I nodded. “Then eat them all, Beth. Eat all your dirty fries off the dirty barroom floor.”

This was not the first time he embarrassed me, but it was a whole new level of humiliation. I didn’t just feel like a slut, I felt like my status as a human being was being put into question. And I went along with it, just like I knew he wanted me to. And I responded to it, and when I rejoined the men in our booth I could muster almost zero resistance to their assaultive groping and pinching. And even without the steady friction I usually need, I almost came a few times, and my breathing and squirming made it obvious, not only to Ben, who did absolutely nothing to stop it, but to the whole group. And the funny thing was, the astonishing thing to me, was that it was the pinching, and particularly the very hard pinching, which had me on the edge of orgasm, and not so much the fingering and penetration. 

But on the drive home Ben didn’t talk to me, and back in our bedroom he called me a “disgusting slut”. 

“But I thought you wanted me to be slutty for you?” I whined sheepishly, embarrassed by the conversation despite the fact that I should have been miffed, because he was being so blatantly unfair. 

“Sure, slut,” he said meanly. “You say you do it for me, but you’re not supposed to like it quite so much.” Ben still had a judgmental, scathing tone to his voice, and I didn’t know what to say to this: he had obviously seen my dripping red pussy as I showed it off to all the guys, and yes I was still very embarrassed about that, and of the events that followed. And now I was feeling genuinely guilty, even though it didn’t make much sense for me to feel so. 

But Ben just looked at me disapprovingly, making me feel like I was somehow the one who started everything, I was the one who dragged him down this strange rabbit hole. And as I stood there half dressed, questioning my hold on reality and feeling maybe he was right even if it made no sense at all, feeling as if I was about to burst into tears and beg his forgiveness. I needed his forgiveness, even if it meant betraying myself, lying to agree with him that it was all my idea, that everything he made me do was my fault and he was right to be mad at me for it. 

But that made even less sense. Yes I felt guilty, and I would have gladly taken the blame. He was probably right that I was a slut, I mean I did get sopping wet, didn’t I? I did enjoy being groped and pinched by all those dirty drunks, didn’t I? I did let them pass me from lap to lap, giggling as they pinched my nipples and ass, sticking fingers and dirty thumbs right up my pedunda, sticking hot French fries right up my nasty vagina and making me eat them! Yes, it was me who did this stuff, right? And right in view of my husband? 

And I almost broke down in tears, almost let the guilt swallow me up, almost fell down in front of him, begging Ben to forgive me, promising him that I would never do it again. But something stopped me. In my heart of hearts, I knew that this was not the right interpretation. It was not honest. I did not want this to be the end of our adventures… And I knew, the truth was that neither did Ben. He did not want our adventures to end. No, he was conflicted, just like I was… but Ben loved this. Even now, angry as he was, he was fully erect under the sheets. Ben did not want me to stop trying to be a sexy slut for him… I knew in my heart he loved this. He loved my blind obedience, and my willingness to embarrass myself, to shame myself, to take whatever he could dish out, whatever the other men could dish out. Yes, he was mad at me for liking it too much, he didn’t want me to like it, he wanted me to hate it, but he still wanted me to do it. Yes, he wanted me to hate it, and still do it, unquestioningly, for him alone. That’s what Ben wanted. And the sudden realization that he wanted me to be mortified by all this, to be deeply shamed and sickened by it… Wow, it was a lot to think of. 

Was my husband really that sadistic? Did he really want to make me hate myself? Did he really want me to feel like a worthless whore? I was realizing, all at once, that this was what he wanted. It was very strange, very scary to me. But at the same time I felt intensely attracted to it. I felt intensely, insanely attracted to Ben’s sadistic streak. I think I had always known he had this in him, and on some subconscious level it had always thrilled me. Ben was a big man, an authoritative man who was used to having his way. I was a small, weak-willed woman, and I was his wife, his “little wifey”, as he sometimes called me. He supported me, I had no money of my own, no income besides what he gave me for groceries and expenses, no education to speak of, no skills or work experience. I was entirely dependent on this big brute, my husband. And I liked it. And I liked it better now, maybe. Suddenly I was very aroused, sweating, getting wet down there, weak in the knees, blushing and hyperventilating. My heart was pounding in my chest… Ben was staring at me, and I felt like he could see right through me!

Then suddenly an idea struck me.  Suddenly I realized how I might be able to turn this all around, save my marriage, make Ben happy with me beyond his wildest dreams, and perhaps even salvage the evening! Or at least lighten the mood, and keep everything fun and sexy between me and my Big Ben!

So I somehow broke the grip of his eyes on me, I turned away, and I smiled coyly and said, “Well…” and I paused, trying to get the words right. “Well Ben, I guess I must be a bad girl, huh?” I blushed and winked at him. He just looked at me, puzzled. 

“I mean… You are right. We both know it. So…” I batted my eyelashes at him. “So don’t you think I’m just a very, very bad girl?” He still just stared. He didn’t seem to get it.

“I mean… Please, Ben. Don’t you agree?” I started to move my hips in a sexy, grinding sort of dance, like a strip tease, though I was already nude under my nighty. “Can’t you see I’m just a very naughty, nasty… slutty… little girl…?”

Ben shrugged, still pissed off at me.

“And what happens to bad girls?” I asked, flipping my hips around as if to indicate my imaginary bunny tail.

Finally Ben got it. “They get punished,” he said, starting to smile. 

But the smile quickly disappeared, replaced by a serious expression. “Bad girls… like you… SHOULD get punished!” He was a little over-enthusiastic all of a sudden, and as he started moving towards me to grab me with his huge, muscular arms, I fought an urge to run.

But I let him grab me. And I let him hold me down. He positioned me with my ass in the air, just like I had been in the bar, with all the strangers witnessing my sopping wet vulva. And it was sopping wet again.

I thought he was going to spank me, but instead he managed to pull his belt swiftly through his belt-loops, doubling it over. And suddenly he was whipping my bare behind, harshly and savagely! Oh god and it hurt like he had soaked my ass in kerosene and lit it on fire! Each terrible lash felt like it was cutting through my delicate skin, but it wasn’t, although he did leave me with some serious welts. And afterward he threw me on the bed and fucked me senseless. I started cumming the moment he entered me, exploding continuously to his violent thrusts until he had finished raping me. Because it was rape; it was the first time I had been raped by him or by any other man; I know this now because rape is different than sex, it’s a very different experience whether you have technically consented to it or not. Ben rapes me all the time now, and he lets other men rape me as well, and I like it; but this was the first time, and I believe it changed every aspect of our relationship, permanently.

Because Ben knew he was hurting me. And he knew he was raping me. Not just “technically” raping me, since I did in fact struggle and plead for him to stop, and he DID NOT stop. Quite the contrary, my struggling and pleading resulted in a firmer grip around my skinny wrists, more weight locking me into place on the bed as he rammed his huge cock deep into me. But that’s not all. Even when I cried, he could hear that my cries were mixed with moans, my choking and sobbing escalated seamlessly into convulsive gasping and grunting, partly born of pain but tipping quickly into out-of-control pleasure, a pleasure inseparable from the pain and humiliation, rendering me helpless to protect my dignity, rapidly pushing me beyond any limits I had ever known, igniting a fire I had never before felt except in hints and traces, a fire which rose from deep within my belly and boiled over, exploding, repeatedly, into one loud, screeching climax after another!

And usually, after intense sex, Ben kisses me softly and rolls over on the bed to sleep. But tonight was different, tonight he stood up, bolt upright, his face red and his muscles seeming to pulse beneath his skin. He looked down on me with contempt, and I could not look at him for more than a second, because we both knew everything had changed. Then he reached down and grabbed me by the hair. And with a mighty heave he lifted me from the bed, and he spit at me, right in my face. He had never done anything like that before.

And although I was surprised by that contemptuous and degrading gesture, something deep within me resonated with it, I felt as though there could have been nothing more fitting and appropriate under the circumstances. He was a normal, lustful, red-blooded, and proud man. I was, as we both suddenly realized, a disgusting, perverted whore. I had already destroyed our marriage, and there was nothing Ben could do now but punish me for it, punish me with all his might for disappointing him. And my punishment had now officially begun. But it was far from over, and in my heart of hearts I hoped that it would last us for the rest of our lives.