What's Love Got To Do With It?
by Jennifer Harrison

Please, please, please don’t read this if you’re offended by graphic descriptions of sex and violence, or can’t tell the difference between fantasy and domestic abuse.

How is it possible to find yourself in a situation where you are naked, tied up and on display at an auction for slaves? Not only that, but you are there because your husband put you there, because he is the one selling you. And not only that, but you agreed to it. How could anyone willingly submit themselves to this humiliation, to be bought and sold like some animal? Let me tell you how…

I met Matt at school, and it was infatuation at first sight. He was a couple of years older than me and one of the ‘cool gang’ so it was no surprise that all the girls were after him, and I developed a serious crush. I felt almost honoured when he asked me out - like most 16-year-old girls, I was not exactly brimming with self-confidence, and my body had barely started to develop at that age. I was even more nervous on our first date, because he was my first boyfriend - I was still a virgin, and very naive in the ways of the world.

Luckily, he turned out to be a perfect gentleman. We talked, we laughed, he walked me home, we kissed outside my parents’ house, and that was it. Two more dates followed, more laughing, more kissing, and some fairly innocent groping. What I also appreciated was that he was perfectly pleasant to me at school, not doing that thing that boys often do, which is pretending they're too cool to be seen dating the plain girl in year 4. My friends were very envious of me, but in a nice way. Their almost unanimous advice was that I should ‘put out’ for him pretty quickly, before he decided he could get more from somewhere else.

Our fourth date proved to be the fateful one. His parents had gone out for the evening and he asked me to come over. I was pretty sure I knew where this was going, but was eager to take our relationship (seems such a big word, given that we were just kids and had only been on three dates, but that was how I felt) to the next level.

When it came to it, he was loving, he was gentle, and the sex was not as bad as I'd feared it would be - funny what preconceptions you accumulate during childhood. Our relationship blossomed and, against all odds and predictions from our parents and friends, survived his move to university to study computer science. When I left school, I went to art college in another part of the country but, again defying our detractors, we kept seeing each other and we fell in love.

I dropped out of art college, unable to balance the work I needed to do for the course with seeing Matt at every opportunity. He successfully graduated and got a job in a startup software company, while I took a rather dull secretarial job in the same city, so that we could share a flat.

Our life together became very hectic then, as Matt struck out on his own, working all hours whilst earning virtually nothing, so that my lowly secretary's wage was paying the bills. It was very stressful, but the best time of our lives, enjoying each other's company and body to the full.

I had reached 20 when things became even more incredible. Matt’s business took off, we moved into our first house and, almost completely out of the blue, he proposed to me! Of course I accepted, and we had the white wedding my mother had always dreamed about. We worked and played hard for the next 18 months and it seemed life could only get better. And that's when it all started to fall apart.

We both wanted children and had been trying for the last two years, but without me falling pregnant. I wondered if it was to do with the stress of Matt’s work, and we went to the fertility clinic to undergo all the relevant tests. I can still remember that day, sitting in the doctor’s office, the tears on my face matching the rain running down the window panes, as he told us that it wasn't Matt, it was me. I would never be a mother. I just sat there and stared blankly at the grey clouds, all colour gone from my life, along with all hope.

We talked about adoption or surrogacy, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I had a desperate desire, a need, to be a biological mother, and it could never be.

As Matt became more successful, he worked harder and spent less time with me. Unable to concentrate at work, I gave up my job to sit at home, staring at the four walls around me. What use was I? I couldn't fulfil the basic requirement of every woman - to be a mother, to extend the line.

Sex, which had always been a great joy for both of us, became meaningless - what was the point of having sex if it can never lead to a family? Matt tried to comfort me, cajole me, he even had sex with my unresponsive body, while my mind drifted. But he soon found that unrewarding, and our love life petered out, along with the conversation. I still loved my husband very much, possibly even more than I had before, but I couldn't express it, I felt dead inside.

This situation had been going on for maybe six months when I found out how Matt was coping with my distant detachment. I had gone to sleep, but then woke up to find that he wasn't in bed with me anymore. I went to the bedroom door and was about to call downstairs when I heard noises from the office - it sounded like two people, but then I guessed it was coming from the TV. Maybe Matt was watching something and hadn't wanted to disturb me with the TV in the bedroom, but the noises sounded… violent.

I crept downstairs silently and padded, barefoot, to the open door. When I looked in, I saw Matt sitting in front of the computer, which was the source of the sounds I’d heard. It was at an oblique angle, but I could clearly see the image of a naked woman on the screen. Her arms were tied behind her back and pulled up towards the ceiling, her spread legs held apart by some kind of wooden pole, her mouth filled, leather straps criss-crossing her face. Behind her stood a man, dressed in black leather trousers and wearing a black mask. He was wielding some kind of whip, which cracked every time he swung it, the loud snap followed by a muffled scream from the woman.

I saw Matt staring intently at the screen. Then I saw his cock in his hand as he rhythmically masturbated to the image in front of him. I must have stood there for 30 seconds, not moving, not daring to breathe, unable to take in what I was seeing. The man on the screen put down his whip and, in a disgusting close-up, I watched as he rammed his massive erection into her wet cunt.

Suddenly, as if the spell had been broken, I ran back upstairs and got back into bed. Seconds later, Matt opened the door and asked, softly, if I was awake. I lay there, every muscle in my body tense, trying to control my breathing and keep it regular, as if I was asleep. Then he came over to the bed and stared down at me, asking again if I was awake. I kept perfectly still, hoping he wouldn’t touch me, as I knew I would scream. After a couple of minutes, he crept out and went back downstairs. For the first time since the doctor’s office, I felt wet tears on my cheeks.

The atmosphere the next morning was strained, to say the least. ‘Are you okay?’, ‘Did you not sleep?’, ‘What’s wrong, darling?’ – all the usual empty non-questions, accompanied by my non-answers – ‘I’m fine, honestly’, ‘No, I just feel a little run down’, ‘There’s nothing wrong, really, I’m just…’ A wan smile, a peck on the cheek, and he was gone. As if drawn by a magnet, I went to the computer.

I checked his internet history. Wiped clean. I looked for temporary internet files. Deleted. What did I expect – he was a computer expert after all, not that he needed much skill or knowledge to bamboozle me. So I just started clicking on each of his favourites, one after another. There were hundreds, but I had time. I made coffee. I had lunch. I kept going.

And there, finally, I found it – in a non-descript folder, a harmless name, but as soon as I clicked it, the screen was filled by awful, disgusting images. Women tied, women in chains, women gagged. Sweating, crying, screaming. Being taken from behind, being forced to suck cock, being beaten. Image after terrible image, on and on, just an unstoppable torrent of filth…

I went back to the list of favourites, and the next one opened a window of links to films, and when I selected one, the room was filled with the sound of screaming, taking me back to the previous night, and the sight of my husband pulling himself off to something almost identical to this. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from it. I had to know what he saw in such awful pornography. Did he think of me like this, bound, gagged and whipped? The thought… appalled me…

I suddenly realised that it was almost time for Matt to return, I'd spent virtually the whole day looking at porn, and I hurriedly closed the computer down, having covered my tracks as best I could.

When he returned, Matt was as solicitous as he had been in the morning, but I wouldn’t talk about the previous night, just saying I’d slept badly. I was actually quite chatty and friendly towards him, making inconsequential conversation, and I wondered at my own behaviour. Eventually, I realised that now I had a secret as well, and I suppose I was feeling guilty at not confronting him on what I had seen. The result was that the whole issue festered, both of us not talking about the one thing that was burning us both up.

This went on for a couple of weeks before events took another dramatic turn. I had got used to the idea of going to bed alone, lying awake and listening for the tell-tale sounds from downstairs, then pretending to be asleep when he came up. So, it was a bit of a surprise when Matt came upstairs at the same time as me, undressing as if wanting to go to bed together, something we had not done for months.

I undressed on my side of the bed, stripping down to my panties before picking up my pyjamas. Suddenly, Matt was standing over me and I felt intimidated. As I put my arm into the sleeve of my pyjama jacket, he grabbed it and pulled it from me.

"For God's sake, just for once, can you not wear those hideous, sexless things?" he exclaimed in an angry, exasperated tone. I tried to grab the jacket back, and suddenly he was gripping my arms and pushing me down onto the bed.

"Leave me alone, you bastard!" I shouted, struggling to free myself from under him.

"You're my wife," he retorted angrily, "and I want what is my right!"

He was pinning me down now, sitting astride my stomach, his fingers tightly around my wrists as I kicked and fought below him. He let go of one of my wrists and I started to pummel him with my fist, but he yanked my other arm up the bed. I watched in shock as he pulled a rope which had been hidden below the mattress and slipped the noose tied at its end over my hand and tightened it around my wrist. The other end of the rope was already tied to the frame of the bed and, as he repeated the action on my other arm, it dawned on me that he had prepared all this beforehand - this was no spur-of-the-moment attack, it was a pre-planned assault.

"Let me go!" I screamed. "I'm not some fucking porn star in one of your fucking movies, get these fucking ropes off me right now!"

I had expected him to retaliate to my volley of abuse, possibly to slap me across the face to shut me up, but he seemed icily cold and calm as he proceeded to bind my ankles as well, so that I was spreadeagled on the bed.

"You'd better untie me right now," I spat at him, "or I'm going to be talking to a fucking divorce lawyer so quick it'll make your head spin! Do you really want to lose everything, Matt, for the sake of a quick fuck?!"

He got off the bed, standing and looking down at me. I felt frightened by his steely calm - I had expected him to rape me in a frenzy of frustrated lust, but this silent control was unnerving. I watched as he went round to his own side of the bed and opened the drawer in the bedside table. I was stunned when he pulled out what I immediately recognised to be a ballgag.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" I exclaimed in amazement. "This is not happening! Put that fucking thing anywhere near me and I'm calling the police!"

I thrashed my head from side to side, determined to prevent him from gagging me, and pulled desperately on the ropes, which achieved nothing beyond pulling the nooses even tighter around my wrists and ankles. Suddenly, he took hold of my lower jaw in a vice-like grip, forcing his fingers between my teeth to prise open my lips. He then started pushing the ball against my front teeth, forcing my jaws apart. There was a flash of pain as my jaw was forced to open more than was comfortable, and then the huge ball popped behind my teeth, which closed slightly in front of it. I tried to push the ball out of my mouth with my tongue but it was jammed fast, and the strap was hardly even necessary. But that didn't stop him from pulling it as tight as he possibly could before buckling it in place.

I looked up at him fearfully, unable to fully comprehend what was happening to me. I felt like one of those women in his porn movies, and I realised with a jolt that there was a frisson of excitement somewhere amongst the fear and anger. What was going on with me? Surely I couldn't be…

I was still amazed that he wasn’t crawling all over my helpless body, and maybe there was some frustration of my own at work there. He walked back to the bedside cabinet and took something else out, something that I now know is called a Hitachi wand, but at that time, what I saw was some weird stick that looked like a set of curling tongs with a large, bulbous head. He plugged it in to the wall and switched it on, and the sound of it vibrating gave me my first clue as to its purpose.

He sat down on the bed beside me, as I continued to struggle and protest unintelligibly around the massive ball, and I felt his hand on my breast for the first time in what seemed like an awfully long time. As he fondled me, he moved the vibrating wand between my legs, pressing it against the front panel of my panties. The impact was immediate and sensational. I let out a moan and threw my head back as the vibrations coursed through my body, centred on my clitoris. At the same time, he lowered his head over me and took my other nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking it vigorously.

All the months of pent-up frustration burst from me, and I writhed and moaned in ecstasy on the bed under his relentless manipulations. I reached my first orgasm quickly, and desperately wanted him to stop, but there was nothing I could do - I couldn't ask, tell or even beg him to stop with the gag in place, and I couldn't escape his attentions whilst tied down to the bed. There was nothing I could do except cum - again and again.

Eventually, he succumbed to his own desires, but by that time I was desperate to have him inside me anyway. He cut my soaking panties from me, then stripped naked in front of me as I watched hungrily. He didn't offer to untie me or remove the gag, and somehow I didn't want him to - I wanted to be fucked hard, just like those women I had been watching every day for the past few weeks. He didn't disappoint. He thrust into my hot, wet cunt roughly, and pounded away at me in a way that he had never done before. I climaxed again, before he spurted inside me, filling me with his seed.

After that, he went back to tormenting me with the vibrator, his lips, his tongue, and his fingers, until he was sufficiently recovered to fuck me again. This cycle was repeated for hours, and I was soon dripping with sweat, covered in my juices and his semen, where he had sprayed it around. By the time I finally felt him loosening the ropes, the clock was showing 3 AM, and he had been ‘raping’ me for the last four hours. He unbuckled the strap and pulled the ball from my mouth, releasing a flood of saliva which I wasn’t able to stop, as my jaws were so sore I couldn't move them quickly enough to close my mouth. Finally free, I curled up into a foetal ball and pulled the duvet up over my aching, sweat-soaked body. Matt climbed into bed alongside me and we both went to sleep without a word.

Nothing was said the next morning about what had happened, indeed we have never discussed it since. But it became our bedtime routine - he would throw me down on the bed and I would struggle, as hard as I could, genuinely trying to escape or hurt him. He would tie me to the bed, or chain me. I would shout and scream, throwing insults and threats at him until he gagged me. Then, once I was helpless and silenced, we would have sex - rough sex, the rougher the better. This might go on for hours, like the first time, or just until he had satisfied his own needs. Sometimes he would leave me tied up while he slept, other times he would release me. But we never cuddled, that was not part of our relationship anymore.

This continued for a couple of months. We were perfectly civil to each other, loving even, at all other times and in all other places, apart from the bedroom. But then came the night of the dinner party, and things changed again.

Matt had invited a key client and his wife to dine at the house – he badly wanted to impress them, and I felt under a lot of pressure to host the perfect evening. I spent most of the previous week making sure the house was looking immaculate, planning and buying the ingredients for the meal, and finding a new dress – a red, halter-neck, backless evening dress in which, I thought, I looked very good.

Interestingly, we didn’t have sex during that week, and I wondered why for a long while, before I decided that the only reason could be so that I didn’t have any rope burns or other marks which might lead to embarrassing questions.

The evening, I felt, went well – Matt’s client and wife were very charming, the food was neither burnt nor cold – my worst nightmare – and the conversation was reasonably light and lively, although Matt and the client talked a lot of shop, and his wife was so much older than me that we had little in common. But we managed fine.

We had just waved them off home, and I turned to find out how Matt felt it had gone, when I found myself staggering sideways, stumbling to the floor, a loud ringing in my ear and a painful sting across my cheek where the slap had landed.

“You useless bitch!” I heard him shout down at me as I tried to steady myself on all fours.

“That meal was dull! And couldn’t you even bring yourself to make polite conversation? His wife was bored out of her mind!” I felt his fingers twisted in my hair and I squealed as he dragged me to my feet.

“You look like a fucking whore in that dress, too!” he literally spat in my face, flecks of saliva hitting me on the cheek and in the eye. “Take it off!” Terrified by his unexpected violent temper, I did as he ordered, cringing before him in only stockings, suspenders, high heels and thong panties.

He strode over to the dining table and swept the plates, cutlery and condiments onto the floor with his arm.

“Lie down across the table and don’t dare move before I get back!” He watched me move to the table and bend over until my breasts were squashed against the polished surface, then strode out of the room. I heard him go upstairs, and I guessed he must be going for ropes or some other bondage. Amidst my fear, I felt my excitement rise as well, my mind racing as fast as my heart as I wondered what he had planned for me – I had no doubt that his anger was synthetic, an excuse for him to humiliate me in some new way.

When he returned, I couldn’t see what he’d brought with him as he put whatever it was down behind me, but I soon found out. He came around to stand in front of me and he had ropes, which he used to bind my wrists, with my arms stretched out across the table in front of me, the ropes tied off against the table legs. He went back behind me and I felt my legs puled wide apart, more rope around my ankles to hold them there. My head was yanked back painfully, and I opened my mouth to receive the gag I knew was coming my way, a ring gag in this case, with chin-strap to ensure there was no way of dislodging it. I was bound, helpless, at his mercy. And all I felt was excitement – the fear had been overwhelmed by desire, desire to be taken roughly and without compassion.

The multiple strike of leather thongs whipping down hard on my right buttock took me completely by surprise, and it was a moment before the sudden surge of pain registered. By that time, my left buttock had been similarly abused, and the inarticulate howl which emanated from my gagged mouth answered for both assaults. I had been spanked as a child, but nothing like this! The pain induced by the repeated and rapid slashing of the fronds across my delicate skin was not an erotic pain, it was a very real pain, like grazing your thigh in a fall on gravel. The skin burned, and every new lash brought another desperate cry from me, as I felt hot tears streaming down my cheeks, no longer tears of sadness and loss, but of anguish and humiliation.

When the beating finally ended, after what felt like hours of torture but was almost certainly less than ten minutes, I lay on the table, limp and breathless, as though I’d run a marathon. The whole area which had been flogged ached and glowed hot, and I imagined heat and light radiating from my arse like a three-bar fire. The only movement which came from me were the gasping sobs which heaved through my body as I tried to cope with the pain still throbbing in my buttocks. Whatever desire had been in my body had literally been beaten out of it, and all I wanted was to go and curl up in a corner and die. Sex was the last thing on my mind.

But that soon changed. I cried out and flinched as I felt his hand stroking my abused flesh, but then his long fingers worked between my legs, spreading my thighs and opening up the folds of my sex. His probing touch was gentle at first, gliding delicately along my slit, toying playfully with my clit, dallying delightfully around my entrance. Gradually, the pain and memory of the whipping faded, overtaken by my growing arousal, my cries and sobs slowly transmuting into moans and gasps.

I welcomed his fingers inside me like a long-overdue visit from an old friend, the exquisite feelings augmented by the use of the thumb to stimulate and tease my growing bud. I felt him push two, then three fingers inside me, but I wanted more, I wanted his cock inside me, slamming into me, fucking me hard and fast. I got more, but not as I’d envisaged it. Somehow, he managed to get all four fingers into my dripping tunnel, but then surpassed the weirdness of that by sliding his thumb in alongside and forcing his entire hand into me, until I screamed at this new source of pain.

I had heard the term ‘fisting’ before, but had thought it was an urban myth, impossible, but here I was, experiencing it ‘first hand’, to make an awful pun. When I thought about it, I suppose it shouldn’t be that surprising, given that a baby’s head manages to get out of there. But I wasn’t thinking about that then, I was trying to cope with this strange mix of feelings – pain, or at least severe, disturbing discomfort, but also intense pleasure. I’d always thought of myself as a ‘clit girl’, not achieving orgasm from purely vaginal stimulation, but I was wrong. Very wrong. He forced the orgasm on me, almost like an act of violence in its own right, and I screamed and cried out as loudly as I had at any point while being flogged.

Once again I lay exhausted, feeling the sweat between my body and the highly polished surface below me. Enough, I thought, surely enough? But then I realised he hadn’t even satisfied himself yet, and that was what this was all about, wasn’t it – him getting what he wanted, nothing to do with my needs or desires. A disturbing thought suddenly occurred to me – he wasn’t doing this believing it was what I craved… was he?

I flinched reflexively as I felt his hands on my buttocks, but then his fingers were working between them, and they were cold, slippery. As one of them probed into my anus and worked its way inside, I realised what this presaged, and I started to shake my head and moan in protest. I had never had anal sex, and the whole idea was disgusting to me. and then I thought of the practicalities – his cock was pretty long and thick, and my arse was very small and tight – and I redoubled my effort to dissuade him, now pulling and tugging at the ropes. But I already knew he had done too good a job for me to break free or even defend myself in the slightest way. Whatever he was going to do to me, I couldn’t stop him. I felt a strange swirling in my stomach, knowing how utterly defenceless I was, and that he was about to do something hideous to me.

It was every bit as awful as I’d anticipated. Firstly the pain – I thought I had been ripped open when he thrust his stiff cock into me as deep and as hard as he could, and I screamed louder than I had all evening. It didn’t get any easier the more he did it either, every thrust feeling like a knife into my guts, which wasn’t far from the truth. My body slid across the table on its slick coating of sweat as he banged into me, the edge of the furniture cutting into the front of my thighs, each penetration accompanied by an animal grunt from my husband, getting louder and more violent as he approached his climax.

This was overlaid by my feelings of shame at being ‘buggered’ like this, reducing me to some kind of animal, just as Matt’s vocalisations seemed to strip him of all intellect and compassion – he was a rutting stag, and I his mute victim, passively tolerating his assault. But then I remembered that animals didn’t go in for anal sex much, they were too busy perpetuating the species. No, this humiliation was a uniquely human invention, a painful and degrading way for this man to demonstrate his total power over this woman.

He finally came in a crescendo of inarticulate cries from him and desperate screams from me. His semen felt hot inside, greasing the track of my rectum in a way completely unfamiliar to me. As he pulled out, my poor, abused sphincter tried to close but, loosened by the pounding that it had received, it couldn't prevent leakage. I could feel something warm trickling down my leg, a disgusting feeling, and I wondered whether it was white, brown or red. I was too exhausted to sob, but tears trickled down my cheeks and onto the table.

A few minutes later, Matt came back into the room - I hadn't really registered that he'd left me alone - and put down his laptop on the table in front of me. He clicked a couple of links and the screen was suddenly full of the image of a naked woman being fucked in the arse, just as I had been. It took me almost 30 seconds before I realised that it was actually me! He must have videoed us while he buggered me, and now here it was, in HD! I felt as though I was going to be sick, and I let out a wail of despair at this new, terrible humiliation. As if to bring me down even further, my formerly loving husband started masturbating right in front of me, rhythmically pulling on his fully restored erection only a couple of inches from my face, until he grabbed my hair and held me in place while he sprayed his cum in my eyes, in my hair and in my mouth.

It was only when he turned out all the lights and I heard him going upstairs that I realised that he was going to leave me there for the whole night, tied across the table, cum dribbling down my thighs and dripping off my lips, throbbing pain from my anus and buttocks, and aches everywhere else. As I lay there, I tried to understand what was happening to us. We had started out in a deeply loving relationship, but now seem to be in an abusive one. I wondered if it was my fault for denying Matt his ‘conjugal rights’, that somehow I'd driven him to it, but I dismissed this - I refused to play the victim. So, was this desire for kinky sex and sadistic mistreatment a recent development, or had he always had these feelings and suppressed them throughout our marriage, perhaps now giving vent to them in frustration, feeling that he had nothing to lose? I couldn't tell.

And what about my own feelings? I couldn't deny that I had enjoyed the rough sex we had had up until now and, despite the pain and discomfort I was feeling right now, even the fact that it looked like I would be spending the whole night draped over this table, I was not considering going to the police, or getting a divorce. Why was I willing to accept this treatment? I ruled out the possibility that I might be feeling guilty about neglecting Matt, that seemed too easy. Even as I lay there in the dark, I knew that I was somehow excited by the abuse I had received, and eager to find out what the new day would bring.

I must have eventually fallen asleep, because I was awoken by the feeling of the ropes being untied from my wrists and ankles. I let out a huge groan as I realised how stiff my limbs were from being held in the same position for so long, and I had to peel myself off the table to which I had become almost welded by sweat. As I straightened up, I unbuckled the gag strap and pulled it out of my mouth, immediately suffering an intense ache in my jaw, which I tried to massage away.

"Get this shit cleared up!" Matt growled at me as he gathered up his bondage equipment.

"Can I go and take a shower first… please?” I asked meekly.

"Just fucking get on with it, bitch!" he shouted, slapping me on the back of the head. It was clear that his temper hadn't improved, and I scuttled over and began picking up the plates, cutlery and other things he had pushed onto the floor the previous night.

“When you’ve cleared up down here, come upstairs,” Matt ordered as he left the room, leaving me to it. Somehow, this new, aggressive, dominant husband was having an effect on me – I found myself wanting to obey him, wanting to submit, which confused me, always having considered myself a strong, independent woman, an equal partner in our marriage, not some doormat. As I worked to clean the dining room, my heart was still racing as I imagined what he might have in store for me upstairs.

When I went into the bedroom, however, I got a shock. The floor was strewn with black bin bags, all full and, when I saw the empty wardrobe, I realised they must be stuffed with my clothes.

“W-what’s going on?” I stammered.

“This stuff is all so old-fashioned and irredeemably unsexy,” Matt replied with an evil smirk, “they’re all going to the charity shop.” As I watched in stunned horror, he started opening my underwear drawers and tipping the contents into another bag.

“B-but… what will I wear?!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t worry,” he responded, “I’ll replace them with some more… appropriate garments. Now take these bags and put them in the car.”

Luckily, the car was in the garage and that’s attached to the house, so I could fill it without going outside – it was cold and raining and, given that I was still only wearing stockings, suspenders and heels, would have been distinctly unpleasant, not to mention would risk a neighbour seeing me in my current state. Even so, I was soon shivering in the chilly air of the garage.

“Put this on and get in, we’re going to town,” Matt said when I had loaded all the bags, handing me what turned out to be one of his old T-shirts.

“I can’t go out like this!” I protested. “I’m filthy!” Matt looked annoyed that I hadn’t immediately obeyed but, after looking at the state I was in, grudgingly threw a towel at me.

“Wipe that crap off, and be quick about it!” he barked. I did as I was told, then pulled on the T-shirt, which was only just long enough to cover my buttocks, making me very nervous about exposing myself. It was only when I went outside into the rain that I realised how cold I was going to be as well.

When we got into the nearby town, I had to carry the bags two at a time to the charity shop in the high street, which gave me several problems - one was that, with my hands both occupied, I couldn't pull down the T-shirt to make sure that I was fully covered; another, which I only realised after a few yards, was that carrying two heavy bags and staggering along on high heels was causing my unrestrained breasts to swing from side to side alarmingly, making it clear to anyone that I was not wearing a bra. Added to this, the rain was starting to make the T-shirt stick to my skin, and when I looked down, I noticed that my nipples were very firm and clearly poking through the thin material. The whole image of a woman walking around in such completely inappropriate clothes down the busy high street was not a pleasant one.

I felt relieved when I finally managed to squeeze through the door of the shop and stumble inside. But things didn't improve - now I had to face the shop assistant, an elderly woman who already looked completely shocked to see what looked like a woman who had just come back from an all-night session at an Ibiza rave. I explained that I had brought some clothes in for them to sell, and that I had several more bags outside. She looked at me suspiciously, and made me wait while she opened one of the bags. Unfortunately, it was one of the bags filled with my underwear, and she found herself staring down at push-up bras, thongs, stockings and suspenders belts. Her look of shock and suspicion got a whole lot worse.

I had to make this embarrassing trip five times before everything was delivered, and by the time I got back to the car, I was drenched and shivering in the cold. The journey home was undertaken in silence, which left me plenty of time to think about the purpose of our trip. The only reason I could think that Matt would take away all my clothes was so that he could humiliate me - both on our visit to donate them, and around the house, where I would have nothing to wear. This reasoning seemed to be borne out when we got back to the house.

"Take off those clothes," Matt ordered, "you'd better save those, that's your ‘going out’ outfit from now on. I'll order you some things to wear around the house." I stripped out of the wet T-shirt, the stockings, suspenders and heels, leaving me naked.

This was to become my normal condition, I wore nothing whenever I was around the house during the day, cooking, cleaning, even working in the garden - which thankfully was not overlooked. It was only when Matt came home that I would be allowed to dress. And not just wear whatever I wanted, Matt would tell me what I was to wear from the extensive range of clothing he had provided.

The packages started to arrive a few days after I had given away every item of clothing I owned, and there was an almost exclusive preference for latex. Latex stockings, underwear, bodysuits, dresses, hobble skirts, crop tops, gloves, and so on. This was augmented with leather accessories such as corsets, waist cinchers, shoes and boots.

I was shocked by this mountain of fetish gear, but as soon as I tried it on, I found it incredibly stimulating to wear. I loved the way it felt, hugging me, squeezing me tight, emphasising my breasts and hips, making my legs seem longer. And it looked sensational, making me feel like an absolute sex bomb. So I had no problem with Matt’s obvious rubber fetish.

Elaborate bondage paraphernalia began to arrive as well. Arm binders, leg binders, posture collars and hoods, as well as harnesses and straps of all kinds were added to my wardrobe and frequently used to restrain me for hours at a time while Matt fucked me or, sometimes, while he just watched me. Occasionally, he even left me bound while he went out for the evening, sometimes with a vibrator driving me wild with frustration for hours, buzzing away inside me on a low setting. If I was lucky, he would fuck me on his return, but not always, sometimes he would let me stew in my bondage and frustration all night.

I didn’t realise how he had also expanded his range of punishment tools until he whipped me one night. He had chained me with my arms stretched above me, using the anchor points newly installed in the bedroom ceiling, filling my mouth with a rubber penis attached to the inside of a panel gag. With me entirely helpless, he brought out his new implements, deliberately laying them out on the bed in front of me to frighten me. It worked.

As I looked at the floggers, canes, crops and whips, I started to freak out, pulling frantically at the chains holding me and screaming into the gag, shaking my head violently. I know Matt saw my distress, he was watching me struggling, but he merely smiled and made a big show of selecting which one he was going to use on me.

It turned out he wanted to try them all, presumably to find out their different handling properties and effect on me. He started with the cane, using it on my buttocks and then on my breasts, closely examining the lines left on my skin, the sensitivity after each stroke, and how much I cried before, during and after being beaten. After a few experimental swings, he put the cane back and took up the crop, repeating the exercise for comparison purposes. This was followed by the flogger and, finally, the whip.

From my perspective, it was all horrible. Just like that first time, I got no erotic kick out of being hit, it just hurt, a lot. By the time he finished, I was covered in sweat and tears, but thankfully not blood, he had not whipped me so viciously that he broke the skin, although it felt like it. In a lucid moment, I wondered how long it would be before that taboo would be broken too.

After he released me, he threw me down on the bed and fucked me mercilessly, clearly turned on by the whipping and, I had to admit, so was I. It made for a very erotic session, and as I became more active, more vocal, he took a cloth and stuffed it into my mouth, while reaching up and tying my wrists to the headboard, fuelling my passion even further until we both came to a very satisfactory climax.

And so, over the next couple of months, my life became one of drudgery while I worked around the house in only my slave chains, periods of boredom when Matt locked me away, times of intense fear and suffering when he was particularly sadistic, generally followed by an overwhelming pleasure while being forced into some disgusting or degrading sexual act. But, throughout this harsh and dispassionately cruel treatment, I never protested or tried to stop it. The truth was that I liked to be treated like a sex slave, it fed into some deep, submissive trait within me. It wasn't that I felt I deserved this treatment, it was that I wanted it, more than anything else. I felt like I was permanently on heat, and only Matt knew how to satisfy me. I was a willing participant in my own humiliation and degradation.

And then one evening, everything changed again.

Matt had left me, as he sometimes did, with my arms tightly restrained in an arm binder, my legs encased in a leg binder, a tight leather corset squeezing my waist, posture collar restricting my neck, panel gag covering half my face and fully inflated in my mouth, blindfold locked on my eyes. He had gone out for the evening, but instead of leaving me on our bed as he usually did, so that he could take me when he returned, he had put me on the floor in the spare bedroom. I wondered at this at first, but he had inserted an egg vibrator into my cunt before leaving, and I was soon distracted by that.

I heard the door shut as he returned, and fully expected him to come for me and either whip me or fuck me, or possibly both, but I was disappointed. I was left alone for the entire night, sleeping as best I could in my tight bondage, once the batteries in the vibrator had run down.

In the morning, when he released me, I put on my manacles, collar and chains, and went to start my usual routine of cooking his breakfast before he left for work and starting the cleaning. But he had already had breakfast and left almost immediately for work. When I went into the bedroom, I immediately knew he'd had someone there, a woman, I could smell her on the sheets, I could see the marks where he had cum, and where she leaked.

I was in shock. Despite his terrible treatment of me, as far as I knew he had never cheated on me. I didn't know what to think, and I spent the rest of the day in something of the daze, unable to work out what this meant to me, or to our relationship. I knew I had to raise this with him, and that actually frightened me. I was sure he would fly into a rage, and I knew that the consequences of that could be very painful. Still, at the same time, that thought also caused me some nervous excitement. If he got really mad, maybe he would fuck me again…

When he returned, I served him his food, but instead of going back into the kitchen as I normally did, I stood beside the table, my eyes firmly on the floor near his feet.

"What do you want, cunt?" He spat at me, making me even more nervous.

"D-did you… have a woman here last night?" I asked hesitantly.

"What the fuck is it to you?" he responded aggressively, continuing to eat his meal.

"I… I wasn't… is this how our relationship works now? Do we have an open marriage?" Matt let out a short, mirthless laugh.

"What's wrong, slut, feeling insecure?" he sneered. "Yes, I suppose we do have an open relationship - I can fuck who I want, and you can fuck who I want too!" I looked at him in alarm at this comment - was it a joke, a clever throwaway remark, or… He saw my expression and smiled.

"Yes, you heard right. I may want to use you to entertain my friends, or to give me a little leverage at work, loaning you out to clients in return for their business. Would you like that, whore?"

I blushed and looked hard at the carpet, saying nothing.

"Yes, you would, wouldn't you?" he accused. "You're such a tart, you'd love the humiliation of having to fuck or suck some total stranger, wouldn't you?" I blushed even deeper, but I could feel the wetness between my legs, betraying the truth of what he said.

My sessions in the spare room became more frequent, and he made no effort to hide the fact that he was bringing women back to the house. Often, I could hear them talking and laughing downstairs, classes clinking, before they went up to the bedroom and made love, often noisily, making no attempt to keep quiet for my sake. As I lay there in my tight bondage, I felt tears of shame on my cheeks, but a different wetness between my legs as I grew more and more aroused by their activities, and more and more frustrated by my inability to scratch the itch in my cunt.

One night, I could hear the sound of a woman giggling, and I realised that she was very close by me.

"Sarah, I'd like you to meet my wife," I heard Matt say, "Darling, say hello to my ’friend’, Sarah."

"Hi there," I heard the woman say, "very nice to meet you!" I heard her giggle drunkenly. Given that I was very effectively gagged, I didn't try to reply. But clearly, Matt thought I should have made more effort.

"Be polite, cunt," he growled, suddenly twisting my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making me cry out in surprise and pain.

"That's better. Would you like to play with her, Sarah?" I couldn't believe what was happening, but there was nothing I could do except lie there and listen to them.

"Ooh, what do you mean by ‘play’ with her?"

"Here, use this. Try it on her breasts."

"Are you sure? Is she… okay with this?"

"She loves it!"

I jumped as I felt a cane tapping my breasts, just above the nipples. It wasn't painful, just kind of playful as she nervously tap-tap-tapped.

"No, do it harder! She won't get anything out of it and unless you really hit her!"

"I'm not sure," I heard the woman say, "I don't think she wants me to do this!" I felt the inflated gag in my mouth reducing in size, and then the panel being unbuckled and removed from my face. I exercised my aching jaw, wondering what Matt was up to.

"Darling, would you tell my young friend here what you would like her to do?" I suddenly felt incredibly nervous. This was a bizarre new way to humiliate me and I cursed my cruel husband in my head, while at the same time feeling my arousal grow.

"I… I want you to punish me, Sarah," I stammered, "I need… I need you to… hurt me, Sarah. I want you to make me scream in agony, beat me, Sarah, thrash me!" I was panting after this little speech, so totally aroused that I was squirming against the tight leather straps and buckles holding me. If she couldn't see how much I wanted it by then, she would have had to have been blind.

"I think we'll leave the gag off for now," Matt said, "that way, we can hear her screaming, as well as hearing her beg from more. Give it your best effort, Sarah!"

There was a momentary pause, and then I screamed as a line of fire scorched across my breasts, several inches above my nipples. That first, hard stroke seemed to loosen the girl’s inhibitions, and was quickly followed by several more, and I was soon crying and sobbing as the pain increased. After perhaps half a dozen strokes, she paused and, as I gradually got control of myself, I heard her breathing heavily.

"Is that better?" she asked, and I'm sure I detected her excitement under her panting breath.

"Yes, thank you, Miss," I gasped, still trying to process the pain.

"Do you want me to do it some more?" I hesitated, not quite able to believe what was happening.

"Yes, please, Miss," I responded quietly.

"Then beg me, cunt!" Sarah ordered, the lust now quite clear in her voice. My sense of humiliation and arousal rose even higher.

"Please… Please beat me again, Miss, harder!"

She did not need any further encouragement, and the cane slapped down onto my tender flesh again and again, making me squeal and howl in distress. The caning stopped, and suddenly I felt her soft lips around one of my tortured nipples, her tongue flicking out against it, making it stand proud. Moments later, her teeth bit down sharply on the flesh around the areola, and I was screaming again. She switched to the other nipple and gave it the same harsh treatment, before leaving me alone with my pain.

I lay there, moaning and sobbing, for several minutes before anything else happened. Then I heard Sarah speak again.

"Is it okay if I cane her cunt now?"

"You don't need to ask, darling, just do whatever you want," I heard Matt reply, hearing the amusement in his voice.

I tried to steal myself for the blow I knew was about fall, but it made no difference. As the Rattan cane swiped down onto my shaved lips, I screamed even louder than before, desperately rocking from side to side, trying to turn over and protect myself from this terrible abuse. But I felt the spike of a stiletto pressing down on my corseted stomach, holding me in place, as blow after blow rained down on my unguarded sex. Soon the pain was beyond bearing, but that didn't stop this unknown girl from continuing to lash my most sensitive area with total abandon.

At last it stopped, and my wild screams finally subsided to a forlorn sobbing. I heard the sound of footsteps leaving the room and then the door shutting, and I realised I was alone. I think the sex session which ensued was one of the loudest I'd had to endure - it seemed that Matt and his latest girlfriend had become extremely aroused by their torture of me, and I was forced to listen to their pleasure in each other.

The next morning, when Matt came to release me, I got my first sight of Sarah. She was standing in the doorway, naked except for a towel wrapped around her wet hair, and my first reaction was ‘what perfect, unblemished skin!’ It was obvious that she had been neither beaten nor tied up during their marathon on the previous evening. She looked incredibly young, barely eighteen, as well as slender and beautiful. I felt old and ugly by comparison, and my skin was filthy as well as hideously marked. I could certainly see why Matt might prefer this gorgeous young girl instead of me.

Sarah became a fixture around the house. She moved in and, as she didn't work, she spent her day at home with me. However, that was about as much as we had in common. While I spent my day naked except for my slave chains, doing the housework, she had beautiful clothes which Matt had bought her, and she spent all day relaxing - going shopping, reading, watching TV, or texting her friends. I was expected to make her meals and provide her with hot and cold drinks throughout the day, as if I were her slave.

In return, she treated me with barely concealed contempt, scrutinising my work and often punishing me with the cane or the crop for perceived failings. Sometimes, she would invite her friends around and I would be expected to wait on them, while they made derogatory remarks about me, or had ‘fun’ by whipping me or making me masturbate in front of them. This all fed into my submissive relish for humiliating and degrading treatment, turning me on with their cruelty.

When Matt came home, he greeted Sarah as if she were his wife, rather than me. I was nothing more than a servant to them, providing food and drink while they stared lovingly into each other's eyes. For some reason, I didn't feel jealous. I still loved Matt, deeply and, I suppose, irrationally. But something inside me made me accept this perverted relationship. It didn't make sense then, and it doesn't make sense to me now, it's just the way it was.

I seemed to become an integral part of their lovemaking as well. They would chain me up in the bedroom and use me as a whipping post in order to get themselves to the pinnacle of sexual arousal. I would then be left to watch them make passionate love on the bed in front of me. Afterwards, they would lie back and look up at me, discussing what new tortures they could devise for me, with no attempt to conceal their sadistic glee at my suffering - indeed, I believe they flaunted their passion for each other, along with their contempt for me. And still I revelled in my degradation.

On other occasions, I would be used as some kind of sick warm-up act, having to perform fellatio or cunnilingus as and when required to get them ‘in the mood’. I was also Sarah's ‘stunt double’ whenever Matt wanted anal sex - she found it grubby and disgusting, but that didn't stop her watching while Matt fucked me in the arse.

The cage seemed to be the next logical step. Rather than have to take the time to shut me away in the spare bedroom in whatever bondage they deemed necessary, Matt had a large pet cage installed in the main bedroom. When I was freed at the end of the night, I would be expected to crawl into my cage and lock myself in. I would then have to endure the night, listening to them making love or just cuddling together, like young lovers, while I tried to get to sleep on the thin mattress of my prison.

This curious menage a trois persisted for about six months before my world came crashing down.

"We have some marvellous news, slut," Matt announced one day, as he and Sarah stood holding hands and I was on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. I looked up and saw their happy faces, and assumed they had come up with some horrible new way of torturing me. They had, but it was not what I expected.

"Sarah is pregnant!" In those three words, my worst nightmare came true. My mind seemed to go numb and, although Matt continued speaking, giving me details of the due date, preparations to be made and all manner of things, I didn't take any of it on board.

"Of course, we can't continue as we have up to now," Matt continued, "we can't have a naked slave around here when the baby comes." Something finally registered in my brain.

"W-what do you mean?" I asked. “What will happen to me?" Matt smiled down at me, and wasn't a pleasant experience.

"You will have to be sold," he said matter-of-factly, "it's all arranged, I have a man coming in the morning. We'll miss you, of course. We’ve both enjoyed you so much, but sacrifices have to be made when you're starting a family."

"What do you mean, ‘I have to be sold’?" I asked, utterly unable to comprehend what he was talking about.

"There's a slave auction happens every few months," Matt replied calmly, as if we were talking about selling vegetables at the market, "you will be taken to the auction and sold to the highest bidder. I've put quite a high reserve price on you, I feel you deserve at least that - it will guarantee that whoever buys you will at least value you.

“Of course, if the reserve isn’t reached, then we'll have to deal with the situation in a slightly different way. My contact at the auction tells me that any surplus stock can be shipped off for basic brothel work. You won't fetch much money if that happens, but then I don't need the money."

I looked at my husband and his pregnant lover in astonishment. Through everything that had happened between us, I still thought that, somewhere in his cruel, sadistic heart, Matt still had some kind of feelings for me. But the coldness with which he had told me my fate finally drove that ridiculous hope from me. It wasn't that he had told me that I was to be sold as a slave. No, it was that I was to be replaced as a wife and mother, finally to be thrown on the scrapheap.

That sense of betrayal finally galvanised me into resistance but, of course it was too late. Matt dragged me upstairs and locked me in my cage. I shouted and screamed, firing foul abuse at both of them, before breaking down in racking sobs, begging and pleading for them to recant this terrible purpose. Throughout, they sat and watched me, relaxed and smiling, enjoying my performance, feeding off my anguish and terror. The next morning, two men arrived and packed me into their van, driving me away from my home and into an unknown future.

And that is how I came to be at this slave auction. I am taken out of the van with my wrists and elbows tied behind my back and a hessian sack over my head so that I can see nothing of where we are. I am led across some tarmac, through a door, then into a large open space, and I can hear voices around me, lots of people. The sack is pulled from my head and suddenly I can see the reality of my situation.

There is a large crowd of people milling around, and they seem to have been provided with drinks and canapés, as if this were some cocktail party. I am in some kind of warehouse and, as I look around, I see the line of naked women, other slaves being put up for sale like me. There must be around a dozen women, all different sizes, shapes, ethnicities, the only things they have in common are that they are naked, their arms are tied behind them, and they are clearly terrified, as the sound of sobbing and wailing testifies.

Along one wall, I see a line of crucifixes, and as I watch, one of the women is forced up against the cross and her hands and feet are bound to it, so that she is slightly raised above the crowd, and perfectly on display. This seems almost sacrilegious, but then I guess the Romans crucified a lot of people, not just Jesus.

More women are being put up on the crucifixes now, and I am led down the line to my own. I see that, above each cross, a price has been written, and I guess this is the reserve price. I see that above my cross, it says ‘From Current Owner (Husband) $83,000.’ Before I get a chance to look at the other sums to see where I ‘rank’ amongst the goods on offer, I am turned around and pushed back against the wooden crucifix.

Ropes are tied around my wrists, and I am hauled up until I am forced to step up onto the narrow wooden platform for my heels, and my arms are now stretched out on either side of me. The ropes are tied off around the crossbar, while my feet were bound together against the main post of the cross. The men who brought me here now move away, and the gaggle of prospective purchasers move in to assess my worth.

The crowd is mainly men, and they look a very disparate group - some of them look like aristocrats, others farmers, some could be business executives, others could be estate agents or geography teachers, it's impossible to tell. They prod and poke at my body, checking my breasts, feeling between my buttocks, and slipping their fingers into my cunt to see how loose it is.

I am already red with shame at being on display like this and being felt up, but my humiliation is deepened when I realise that my cunt is dripping wet, and the men sniff their fingers, some even lick them to see what I taste like, others wipe them clean against my thigh.

A woman comes up to me, one of the few here, and she is talking as she's looking at me. But I realise she's not talking to me, she's talking to the person at the other end of her mobile phone, feeding back information about me.

"She's definitely been used quite heavily," she says as she fingers the lines of the whip on my skin, "but she has nice tits - here, take a look." She points the phone at me, and I guess that she is feeding video directly back to the buyer at the other end of the line.

"No, no piercings or tattoos," she continues, "so a decent blank canvas to work with once these blemishes have healed." She listens to the response in her earphone, and then moves along the line to the next slave without another glance at me. Does that mean the buyer is not interested in me? Should I want them to be interested in me? I realise that, if I don't attract a buyer, I will end up in an even worse situation…

On the far side of the warehouse, I see a large TV screen, on which is being displayed an Internet page. I see a row of pictures with numbers underneath them, though I can't see any details from this distance. With a jolt of surprise and fear, I realise that this must be being streamed to the Internet as well - which means that anyone, anywhere in the world, could be looking at me right now and deciding whether I am worth the amount of money above my head.

The auction is about to start. Each woman is announced in turn, and her height, weight, ethnicity and a brief backstory is given. It appears that most of the victims on sale here are women from the streets or have been trafficked from abroad. There is a flurry of bidding after each announcement and, once the sale price has been agreed, the woman is taken down and led away, once more bound and hooded. One of the women seems to take it particularly badly.

"You can't do this!" she screams as she is taken down and bound once more. "I shouldn't be here! This is illegal! I'll get the police onto you!" and so on, until the staff gag her and lead her away. I feel strangely sorry for her - she has clearly not come to terms with her terrible fate, unlike me.

"And now we have something a little different," the auctioneer announces when they get to me, "this sale lot has been a slave for many years already, owned and trained by her husband, and comes to us as a willing participant. As you can see, her reserve price is quite high, but she comes highly recommended, has been trained to satisfy both male and female desires, and would be a delight for any true sadist. Who will start of the bidding at…"

I try not to listen to the bidding, all I know is that I have exceeded the reserve price and so will not be dumped in some disgusting brothel. I don't know who has bought me, but maybe it doesn't really matter. I know that I will be used and abused, maybe better, maybe worse than I have been for the last few years by my husband.

Somehow, that prospect doesn't frighten me as much as it should…

The End

Copyright© 2014 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.