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Chapter 3 
 A couple of you guys who came up to Chicago to use my wife mentioned that she doesn't talk much. You're right. Completely correct. She doesn't talk much because I don't want her to. There are a couple of reasons and I want to tell you about them.

First off, she got nothing to talk about. What are us guys into? Beer, cars and guns, right? But, if I mention that I need my rotors turned or that some friend threw a rod, she immediately thinks it has something to do with sex. She doesn't know a round from a bullet and she thinks that recoil is how you react if you're afraid of guns.

So there really isn't a lot to talk about with her.

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Second, she's a fucking egghead. Well, she used to be anyway.

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Fucking brilliant, actually. She gave it up halfway through a full-scholarship Ph.D. in Anthropology. It's actually a great story. As an undergrad, she switched from psych to sociology to anthropology because she got more and more interested in cross-cultural studies of gender patterns.

I have no fucking idea what that means, John explained it to me once or twice before I gave up trying to understand. Anyhow, she spent two years in Asia living in small villages and watching how the men and women interacted and when she came home, she threw away all of her books, broke off with all of her friends and plunged herself into the nasty little underworld where I found her.

What she said she learned was that everything in Western society was bullshit. Women were put on earth to serve and service men.

Period. John's sure her upbringing had a lot to do with it, that she was primed to come to that conclusion from Day One. I don't know. But I don't really care. By the time I got her, she had forgotten just about everything she knew about independence and rebellion and had no goals at all other than to find a man and do everything she could to please him. I found her at just the right time. When I told John all of this, he nearly jumped out of his seat. Now, John's a pretty straightforward guy but he's also a mother fucking MASTER at the mind fuck.

He came up with a plan and I signed up for it immediately. This was back in about February. It was devious, simple, and devastating. He explained that underneath all that quiet submission and sexual depravity there's still a brilliant mind clicking away.

And that someday she was going to see that our marriage was totally fucked up and that would be the end of that. He wanted to do something about that. To make her experience the conflict between her potential and the life she was living. To have to confront it every day. It would push her deeper down, she'd drown in her own shame, wallow in the degradation of becoming just a piece of fuck-meat while inside her head was all this high-grade intellect with nowhere to go. He said that would push some women into depression but that he knew enough about Suzi to guess that it would have the opposite effect - she'd turn her inventiveness and creativity into finding bigger and better ways to degrade herself.

It was some kind of fucked up defense mechanism and he said she had it. The way he started was that he mentioned to her that he'd found and read one of her papers and thought it was brilliant and would be perfect for a conference he was attending.

She got excited and worked on it with him over the phone and email for two full weeks. She spent hours in the library, I let her miss shifts at work and even gave up a fuck-fest one Saturday when she said she was really "on".

When the paper was finished, John drove up and the three of us went out for a very nice dinner. I took her shopping and let her pick out a new outfit, a set of matching underthings, and an expensive pair of shoes. She got her hair and nails done, I put on one of my nicer suits and the three of us spent three hours out in public, between dinner, dessert, and coffee.

When we got back to the house, John asked her to bring three glasses of wine into the living room while he prepared the forms to submit her paper for the conference. She was giddy and excited, ran into the kitchen and brought back glasses and one of our better reds. Everything changed when she walked into the front room.

John was standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a dirty, tattered undershirt. His legs were thin and pale, the blue veins visible under the thin skin. He still had his stockings on. She could see the thin hair on his belly and his limp dick hanging down, a shocking eight inches and thicker than she (or I!) would have ever guessed.

But it was his balls that caught my eyes. Like two oversized plums hanging in a yellowish sack. I walked to her and took the bottle and glasses out of her trembling hands. "Come over here, you stupid little cow," John sneered. Suzi walked toward him, dazed and puzzled.

"I really do love your work," he said, reaching up to stroke her face. He held up a pocket knife, let it glisten in the light, then lowered it against my wife's belly.

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"Much too good to have been written by an ass whore like you," he said. With his left hand, he pulled at her skirt, then sliced into the fabric with the knife.

She stood, trembling and sniffling as he sliced her clothes into thin ribbons, talking the whole time. "I'm going to give that paper to one of my grad students. He's working in the same area. Did you really think I was going to let you go? Let you get on stage in front of all those normal people? Do you really think anyone would believe that an ass slut like you could produce a piece like that?" She was down to bra and panties now, the panties sliced in ribbons but the elastic still around her hips.

"And your draft? Your notes?" he said as he cut the straps and then sliced the cups out of her bra. "Shit. Worthless shit. Just like you." He cut the elastic and the remaining pieces of my wife's panties fell to the floor. She stood there, shoulders hunched, mascara streaking down her face, her titties hanging out of the holes he'd cut in the bra.


They looked awkward and stupid and somehow made her look even more pathetic than I'd ever seen her before. John crouched down and ran the blade down the inside of each leg, peeling off her stockings like a banana skin. He finished by having her step out of the shoes, then stood back up.

Without her heels on, he towered over her off and she slumped her back even further. He took her by the hand. "Come on," he said. John led her into the bathroom and handed her the finished paper. "Tear it up and throw it in the toilet," he ordered. "Where it belongs." She was sobbing now, tears streaming down her face, body shaking. She tore the pages crossways, then again and again until it was in little pieces, the paper fluttering down and floating on the water. "Go on," he said with an evil grin.

"Squat down and do it." Suzi looked at him with terror in her eyes. "No, please, you don't mean it." I watched him standing there like a statue, not saying a word. She broke slowly but she broke. After a few minutes of dead silence, she lifted her right leg and straddled the toilet bowl, then squatted and put her hands over her face. "Uh, uh," was all John said and my wife lowered her hands to her sides. She stood there, knees bent, squatting, but nothing happened. "Not as easy as it is in your stories, is it?" John said to me.

I shook my head. "I guess not." He leaned closer to my wife now, his face inches from hers. "Should I turn on the water? Will that help?" She stopped sobbing and sniffed hard, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

John stepped back, leaned against the wall. "We have all the time in the world, you know." She stared into his eyes with hatred and anger, her hands in tight fists at her sides. John just laughed.

Suzy lowered her head and after another minute or so, I heard the stream shoot out, soaking the pages, pissing on her hard work, two weeks of her life, two weeks of excitement and the possibliity of her old life coming back. As usual, John was right. It broke her down to an entirely new level.

Ever since then, he's been picking up a little bit of pocket money having her write research papers for undergrads. He promised it would never interfere with anything I had planned and stuck to his promise. It was horrible for her. She would get about two assignments a week and have to figure out how to complete them between the housework, the fucking, and everything else that was going on.

And John was a taskmaster. The papers had to bring in a grade of 95% or better or he showed up the next morning with his belt and punished her for slacking off.

She wrote paper after paper, good, original work, and he took them and sold them to the students for $30 to $100 each. Suzi threw herself deeper and deeper into her ass slut role with each new assignment. As John predicted, being confronted by the extremes of her life produced some kind of effect in her head that had her bouncing back and forth like a ping pong ball.

Ronny noticed it right away. She was more eager than ever to put on the kinky fetish outfits he and Rick brought over. One night, he showed up with a thick, black rubber dildo and an ass plug. She nearly ripped them out of his hands and tried to shove both of them up her ass before he even had his pants off. She tried all different kinds of positions to force their cocks deeper into her ass.

And she kept begging me to bring Wallace back to beat her. I wasn't much interested in that, having her as an ass-only fuckhole was enough fantasy for me. Pain was a whole different thing and I didn't much care for it. But she insisted and it eventually became a ritual that every time she finished a paper, Wallace was there.

She sat naked except for a thin scarf wrapped around her hips (his idea) as she put the last touches on it, then printed it and put it in an envelope for John. He watched her the whole time, his eyes burning into her, knowing how badly she wanted it and working himself up to a new level of frenzy every time.

I sat and watched him, his hands twitchy, standing up now and taking off his shirt, then taking the long, dark leather bullwhip out of the bag, flicking it across the room a few times. As soon as she came back into the room, he was on her, the whip slicing through the air, biting into her titties, raising red stripes and small welts. She offered herself, standing straight, back arched, arms behind her back, tits shaking back and forth under his merciless blows that never seemed to stop.

He was closer to drawing blood these days and it scared me but he never crossed the line. Not yet. Anyway, enough about that. I was explaining to you why she never talks.

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Once John saw the effect that writing those papers was having on her, he suggested I consider having her keep silent. It would be tough, very, very tough, for such an intelligent woman to not be allowed to express any of it. We toyed for a while with the idea of having her put on a hillbilly accent, make sure to speak in only single syllables, bring her to Nascar with me in a pair of Daisy Dukes and pass her around the pits. We toyed with putting her out on the street where she'd have to play dumb to keep from getting her ass kicked by the other whores.

But in the end, it seemed better -- more humiliating, more a sign of her absolute obedience -- to keep her home and in near-total silence. What I *did* insist on was sex talk. I made her talk non-stop for the guys who came over to fuck her. "Fuck me deep in the ass." "I love a hard cock." "Let me lick your balls." "Your asshole is so, so tasty." "Do you like my titties? Do you want to bite them?

Twist my nipples? Tie me up?" That was the only kind of thing that came out of her mouth anymore - whore talk. Sometimes, I'd make her just sit beside me during dinner and keep up a litany of filth while I ate. I'd make her give me a blow by blow of what the last guy was like, or the last group of guys, or I'd make her make up stories about herself going into bars and picking up strangers and licking their balls and opening her pussy lips and begging them to push their fingers into her cunt and sucking their cocks and balls, on and on just as long as she was uncomfortable.

Once she started getting excited about it, I made her stop and waited until she was calm again. I wanted her swimming in her humiliation, getting right to that moment where it turned her on, then pulling back. She got to be pretty good at it.

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In fact, I'm thinking I might get her involved in phone sex. Anyone out there got any suggestions about how to get her started? --- Last Thursday, John brought a van full of guys up from Elkhart to spend some time with my wife. Three of them were in their late twenties, two were in their forties and then there was John.

John was nearly sixty and was the one who introduced all of us to each other. I haven't said a lot yet about my friend John. John had taken an MA in History a long time ago, taught for thirty years and retired.

Now, he spends a lot of his free time around campus near Elkhart, advising other grad students. He likes being around the older ones and hangs out with them often, drinking beer and eyeing the female undergrads. I met John about nine years ago in an online chat. I was between women and spent a lot of my time drunk and surfing porn sites. He and I got to know each other and tried to get together about once a year just to shoot the shit and fish. John didn't care that I wasn't a college guy - in fact, I'm a high school dropout.

Still, I've done pretty well. I've got a natural knack for computers and made a decent amount of money with a software product I put out a lot of years back. I burned through it all, though, and now have to depend on a shitty job doing network support for a bunch of asswipes as a big corporation.


Anyway, John knew about Suzi right from the beginning and was always sending me suggestions. He'd done a lot of the legwork for our two Germany trips and planned to go with us but caught cold the first time and had some kind of stomach bug the second time.

He did a fair amount of pimping for me lately - he still surfs the buttfucker websites - and this weekend, he was bringing up a batch of guys to take turns with my wife. This time, they were all guys who'd already taken advantage of her in a different way. These were all guys she'd written papers for. John got a big kick out of that. He'd done it before a few weeks earlier.

Brought up two guys she'd written homework for. They nearly shit their pants when they saw her. They were expecting some kind of librarian-looking dumpy middle aged woman, but instead she opened the door in a corset and stockings, no bra or panties, and six inch heels. She was blindfolded and wearing a ring gag. They were on her in a second, tag teaming her mouth and ass for three hours before they slowed down long enough for John to introduce them to each other.

She was a whore like that, just letting complete strangers fuck her without even knowing her name. I guess once a whore always a whore.

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Usually I don't even bother telling them her name anymore either, it's a turn on. Most of them don't care anyway. She's just a hole. A warm, wet, tight hole. Not much else seems to matter.

The half dozen guys in the van were no different. John told me that nobody even asked her name during the whole two hour car trip. They arrived a little after midnight.

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John has his own key so he let himself in. We were already asleep but John knows the ropes and he came straight into the room and pulled the sheets off of my wife. I opened my eyes and saw him and a cluster of shadows at the door. "She's all yours, guys," I said, rolling over and pulling the covers back over my head. "John, you guys use the guest room, OK? I'm tired. Just don't leave a mess."