The Perfect BDSM Slave Marriage: Part 1

Susan arrived home with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.  Her long blond ponytail bobbed happily behind her as she made her way to the kitchen.  She’d had a great day training out-of-shape losers at the gym.  Getting paid to put fat couch potatoes through their paces was her dream job.  They would work and sweat to lift a hundred pounds as she watched.  Then she would lift three hundred pounds in front of them.  Susan could practically see their dicks shrivel as she stripped them of the last of their manhood.

Her hot pink athletic shorts and white ribbed tank top superbly showcased her strong tanned arms and legs.  The U-shaped neckline framed the top of her ample cleavage, teasing gazers by concealing her exquisite bosom.  Although she was supremely fit and well-built, her features were still feminine enough to make onlookers drool with desire.

Gynarchic Arrangement

While neither of us has ever worked again, for reasons you’ll read about in a minute,  Susan kept her job just to humiliate a variety of fat losers, and I kept mine as a weekly columnist as an excuse to voice my political opinion.

Susan’s sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as she playfully skidded into the kitchen.  I was chopping onions when she kissed my long neck.  I’m a tall slender woman with long legs and chiseled features.  I keep my jet-black hair in a short butch cut to project an air of harsh power.  I enjoy feeling powerful and cruel.

Being a newspaper columnist I have the luxury of working from home.  Thus, I was dressed comfortably in black shin-length tights, a black tube top with chrome studs adorning the top edge, and black and white gladiator sandals that showcased my perfectly polished black toenails.

“Hey Rachel,” she said.  “Where’s the loser?”

I paused playfully pretending to think.  “I think I left him in his room,” I finally said.

“Sweet, do I have time for some fun before supper?” Susan said.

I nodded.  “Let me pop this into the oven and I’ll join you,” I said.

A minute after I put the vegan lasagna in to cook, we were standing over a naked man who was shivering in a fetal position on the dirty mattress of his bedroom.  I say ’bedroom,’ but there’s no actual bed.  We keep him on a used mattress on the floor in the corner of the black-painted windowless room and do what we want to him, whenever we want.

You see, Saul has Cerebral Palsy, which means he has full sensation,  but can’t control his body to walk, feed himself, or do anything else with his arms and legs.  He’s completely at our mercy.  Saul is fifty, twenty years older than I am, and inherited a fortune when his parents died.

Being crippled and lonely, it was easy to seduce him. Once we were married, I’d been content to be kind to him and simply sponge off of his millions.   We’d been married a few weeks when he told me his fantasy. He confessed to having a fantasy about being at the mercy of a sadistic female caregiver.

We started slowly, mind you. I wouldn’t let him have butter on his bread, or sauce on his pasta, I only gave him warm water to drink, etc… Plus, he had to keep his eyes down, call me ’ma’am,’ that kind of thing.

The more I got into it, the more I got turned on by being a sadistic BDSM slave owner. Seeing him suffer came to make me wet with pleasure.  Eventually, I fired his nurses and moved Susan, my real lover, into the house.   We have his money, property, and him as our plaything, our BDSM slave.

“P-p-p-please f-feed me t-t-t-today,” he begged with a labored stutter.

I looked at Susan confused.  “Did you give the maggot permission to speak?” I said.

“I didn’t give the maggot permission to speak,” she said.  “Did you give the maggot permission to speak?”

“I didn’t give the maggot permission to speak either,” I said.  “Nobody gave you permission to speak Maggot!  Besides, I fed you yesterday.  Do you ever get fed two days in a row?!?!”

“N-n-no M-m-mistress R-r-Rachel,” he said with his nose to the mattress.

“Sounds like somebody is being selfish,” I said.  “Who has the right to be selfish in this house?”

“Y-y-you and M-m-mistress S-s-s-susan have the r-r-right to be selfish,” he struggled to say.

“And, how selfish do we have the right to be?” Susan said.

“Y-y-you and M-m-mistress R-r-Rachel have the r-r-right to be o-o-one h-h-h-hundred p-p-percent s-s-s-selfish,” he said.

“And, do you have the right to be selfish?” I said.

“N-n-no M-m-mistress R-r-Rachel.”

“That’s right Shit Stain!  Come to think of it, you have no rights at all!  I think you should be punished for your selfishness.  What do you think Susan? “

“I think you’re right dear.  In fact, since he asked for food out of turn, I think he can go two extra days between meals.”

It was Tuesday, and my nether regions moistened at the thought of making him wait until Saturday to eat whatever we decided to feed him.  Sometimes it was thin oatmeal, sometimes baby food, or even dog food.  It just depended on what amused us at the moment.

“Brilliant!” I said with a wide smile.  “Of course, I think he also deserves some pain for being so greedy and selfish.”

Susan grinned, took two whips from the wall, and handed me one.  They were hand woven bullwhips with solid oak handles covered in leather.  It felt good in my hand as I stared down at the groveling mass of flesh at my feet.

I slid my right foot beneath his itchy unshaven face.  “Kiss my foot,” I said sternly.  “And keep kissing it the entire time you’re being whipped.  Understand?”

“Y-y-yes M-m-mistress R-r-Rachel.”  He strained to hold his head up as his parched quivering lips made love to my foot.  My first blow landed squarely between his shoulder blades making him jump and convulsive in a spasm of pain.

We laughed as Susan’s first blow crossed the small of Saul’s back to cause pain to his tender kidneys and liver.  He jumped and convulsed even more violently, sending Susan and me into fits of uproarious laughter.  We skillfully made sure each blow delivered the maximum amount of pain possible in order to maximize the entertainment value of his involuntary reactions and our pleasure.

“Don’t you dare stop kissing my foot!” I commanded.  “I don’t care how much it hurts, you keep kissing my foot!”

As much as he twitched, writhed, and suffered, he absolutely bathed my perfect foot in kisses and tears.  The feeling of total power sent a wave of orgasmic ecstasy through my loins.  Susan and I removed our shirts, and each reached with one hand to play with the other’s nipples.  While my pathetic BDSM slave groveled and suffered, Susan and I each achieved multiple orgasms.

My lovely paramour and I entertained ourselves that way until the savory aroma of well-seasoned vegetables and tomato sauce tickled our nostrils.

“Smells like it’s time to take dinner out of the oven,” I said.

A gleam filled Susan’s eye.  “As long as we’re starving him as punishment, let’s eat in here.”

“I love it!” I exclaimed gleefully.  “Watching us eat, while he starves will be absolute torture for our BDSM slave.”