Story of submissive wife and a happy marriage do as she is told
Hi… my name is Linda. I’m 29, married, no children yet. And lately I can’t stop touching myself when I think about the secret that shaped my entire world.
Growing up, I never once heard my parents fight. Not a raised voice, not a slammed door, not even a sharp sigh in more than thirty years. As a little girl, I barely noticed. As a teenager I started to ache with curiosity. At sixteen I finally asked my mother why she and Dad never argued.
She looked at me with that slow, knowing smile she only wore when Dad wasn’t in the room, and she told me everything.
The night they married, my father laid down the law while she was still in her wedding lingerie. He told her, voice low and absolute, that he was in complete command. From that moment on she would obey every order without question, without hesitation, without ever uttering the word “no.” Her body, her mouth, her cunt—all of it belonged to him. Resistance was not permitted. Pleasure was mandatory when he demanded it, irrelevant when he didn’t.
She accepted on her knees.
Over the years the rules only grew more deliciously filthy. Mom was required to sleep completely naked every single night, sheets kicked down so that the moment Dad’s cock hardened he could simply roll over, spread her thighs, and sink into her wet heat without a word. She was forbidden to wear panties inside the house—her bare pussy always accessible, always ready to be bent over the kitchen counter, the arm of the sofa, or the edge of the dining table whenever he decided he needed to use her.
He chose her clothes each morning: skirts with no underwear so he could slide a hand between her legs at breakfast, blouses left unbuttoned just far enough for him to pinch and twist her nipples while she cooked, dresses he could hike up in a second to fuck her against the wall before work. She was to keep herself wet and open for him at all times. If he snapped his fingers, she dropped to her knees and opened her mouth. If he pointed to the floor, she presented—ass up, face down, cunt glistening and available.
“Satisfy any need the moment I have it,” he told her. And she did. Mouth, tits, ass, pussy—he took all of them whenever the urge struck, sometimes gentle and lingering, sometimes rough and relentless, always with the absolute certainty that she existed to be used.
My mother confessed that living under those rules ruined her for any other kind of life. The constant readiness, the denial of her own refusal, the way her body learned to soak itself the second she heard his key in the door… it became her deepest addiction. She said it was the only path to a truly happy marriage: total surrender, permanent sexual availability, and the blissful erasure of the word “no.”
She told me all of this while my father was still at work… and I could see how wet she still got just remembering.
Now I can’t stop wondering how thoroughly those same rules might sound when whispered against my own skin.
I revisit that conversation with my mother almost daily. The memory lives under my clothes like a second pulse—hot, insistent, impossible to ignore. I grew up on it, masturbated to it in secret, and carried it like a filthy heirloom right up to the day I got engaged.
My fiancé, Michael, was gorgeous—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, a smile that made my cunt clench. Great job, kind hands, and I loved him with every dripping inch of myself. When he called my father to ask for my hand, they met at a quiet pub. I expected the usual man-to-man talk. What actually happened was something else entirely.
Dad laid out the entire doctrine of a happy marriage in explicit, unhurried detail: absolute command, zero right of refusal, permanent sexual availability, naked nights, no panties ever, body always ready to be used. He explained what it meant to own a wife’s mouth, cunt, and ass outright. Michael later told me he sat there stunned, cock thickening against his thigh while my father spoke. He was shocked… and deeply, darkly intrigued. He never mentioned a word of it to me before the wedding. He simply looked at me differently after that night—hungrier, more possessive—like he was already measuring me for the collar I didn’t know I was about to wear.
We had a beautiful wedding. I walked down the aisle already wet, though I didn’t yet understand why. That evening we left for a five-day honeymoon. The moment we arrived at the hotel we had one quick drink at the bar; the whole time Michael’s hand rested high on my thigh, thumb stroking the bare skin just under my dress like he was counting down. Then he took me upstairs.
Inside the suite he locked the door, turned, and pointed at the bed.
“Sit.”
The tone was pure steel—nothing like the gentle fiancé I had known. My heart slammed. I sat. He stood over me, loosened his tie, and began to speak in that same low, absolute voice my mother had once described.
“These are the rules. They start now and they never end. I am in command. You will obey every order without question, without hesitation, without ever saying no. Your body belongs to me—mouth, tits, cunt, ass. You will sleep naked every night. You will not wear panties in my presence unless I dress you in them myself. You will keep yourself wet and ready. When I want your mouth, you open it. When I want to fuck, you spread. You exist to satisfy any need I have, the moment I have it. Do you understand?”
Shock flooded me, followed instantly by a rush of heat so violent my thighs pressed together. The conversation with my mother roared back in full color. This was it—the inheritance. My pussy clenched and spilled fresh slick onto the expensive bedspread.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Louder. And address me properly when we are alone.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl. Now get on your knees and suck my cock. Swallow every drop.”
I slid to the floor, the carpet rough under my knees, wedding dress pooling around me like surrender. My hands trembled as I opened his trousers and freed him. He was already hard—thick, heavy, the head flushed dark and shining with pre-cum. The scent of him made my mouth water. I wrapped my fingers around the base, leaned in, and dragged my tongue up the underside in one long, wet stripe before stretching my lips around the swollen crown.
He groaned, low and satisfied, and rested one commanding hand on the back of my head.
“Deeper. You don’t tease what’s mine—you serve it.”
I opened wider and took him in. Inch by inch he filled my mouth, stretching my jaw, sliding over my tongue until he nudged the back of my throat. I gagged once, eyes watering; he held me there a second longer just to feel me struggle, then eased back. Spit already slicked his shaft and dripped from my lower lip. I hollowed my cheeks and began to suck in earnest—wet, greedy, obedient strokes. The lewd sounds of my mouth working him filled the room: filthy slurps, soft wet gulps, the occasional choked moan when he pushed deeper.
“That’s it… take it. You’re my property now. This cock owns your throat. Say it while you suck.”
I pulled off just long enough to gasp, “I’m your property— I’ll do everything you say,” then sank back down, swirling my tongue around the head before feeding him into my throat again. He started fucking my face in slow, deep thrusts, using my mouth like a cunt. Tears streaked my mascara; spit ran down my chin and splattered onto my cleavage. I kept my hands on my thighs the way I instinctively knew he wanted—open, submissive, offering.
“Look at me while you swallow my cum.”
I forced my watering eyes up. His gaze locked on mine, dark with power, as his rhythm turned ruthless. His cock swelled even thicker, pulsed hard against my tongue, and then he buried himself to the root and came. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded my throat; I swallowed convulsively around him, gulping every spurt, the salty bitterness coating my mouth as he held me there until he finished emptying himself. When he finally pulled out, a final bead of cum smeared across my bottom lip. I licked it clean without being told and stayed on my knees, mouth open, showing him it was gone.
Michael stroked my cheek with surprising gentleness, then fisted my hair and tilted my head back.
“Good girl. That’s the first rule satisfied. Tonight you sleep naked, legs spread so I can take you whenever I wake up hard. Tomorrow you don’t put on panties unless I hand them to you. And Linda… I am going to use every hole you have before this honeymoon is over.”
My cunt throbbed so hard I thought I might come untouched. I could already feel how soaked I was—my bare pussy lips slippery, aching to be filled next.
I looked up at my husband, the same rules that had kept my mother wet and happy for thirty years now branded into my skin, and whispered the only words that mattered.
“Yes, Sir. I’m yours. Use me.”
The next few days dissolved into a continuous, dripping sexual haze. I obeyed every command the second it left Michael’s mouth. He fucked my pussy raw whenever the urge hit—bending me over the hotel desk, pinning me against the floor-to-ceiling windows, or simply spreading my thighs while I tried to drink my morning coffee. He took my ass just as often: thick cock forcing its way past the tight ring, stretching me open until I sobbed and came with my face pressed to the mattress, his cum pumping deep into my bowels. Every single day I swallowed at least one load—on my knees in the shower, under the table at breakfast, or lying on my back with my head hanging off the bed so he could throat-fuck me until thick ropes of cum slid straight down into my stomach.
He spanked me for the pure pleasure of watching my ass turn scarlet—open-handed smacks that left me soaked and squirming, sometimes finishing by shoving three fingers into my cunt and ordering me to cum on them while my cheeks still burned. At least once every night I woke from exhausted sleep to find Michael already buried balls-deep in my pussy, fucking me in long, possessive strokes while I was still half-dreaming. I was never allowed clothes inside the room except for sky-high heels; I spent those days naked, nipples permanently hard, cunt glistening, the click of my heels the only sound as I walked over to present whatever hole he pointed at.
On the third night he decided we were going out.
He dressed me himself: a tiny black mini-skirt that barely covered the underside of my ass cheeks, nothing underneath so my bare pussy kissed the air with every step, a thin blouse left unbuttoned low enough that the full inner curves of my tits and the pink edges of my areolae were on constant display, and glossy red fuck-me heels.
“Serve,” he said simply. I answered, “Yes, Sir.”
The bar was dim, blues and slow R&B rolling out of the speakers. Maybe twenty people, mostly men. Michael chose a table in full view of the room and within minutes had his hand under my skirt. Two fingers slid between my already slick lips, parted me, and began pumping in and out while his thumb smeared circles over my clit. I sat there with my legs obediently open, biting my lip, soaking his hand in full sight of anyone who cared to look. He fingered me until my thighs trembled and a wet spot formed on the chair beneath me.
We had been there about forty-five minutes when a good-looking stranger—tall, confident, hungry eyes—walked straight up and asked me to dance. I looked at Michael. He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, and whispered, “Go dance. Show him a good time. Make that cock hard for me.”
I took the man’s hand and let him lead me to the small dance floor. I was still dripping from Michael’s fingers; I could feel my own juices coating the tops of my thighs. The band slipped into a slow, filthy groove. The stranger pulled me flush against him. I melted in, rolling my hips so my bare mound rubbed slowly over the growing ridge in his jeans. He hardened fast—thick, long, unmistakable. One of his hands dropped to my barely-covered ass and squeezed; when I only pushed back harder he gripped tighter, fingers sliding under the hem and brushing the naked bottom curves of my cheeks. I rested my head on his chest. He kissed my neck, open-mouthed and wet, and murmured how sexy I was, how soft my ass felt, how he could tell I wasn’t wearing panties. I answered by grinding my soaked cunt harder against his cock, letting him feel the heat and the wetness seeping through his pants.
When the song ended he kissed me full on the mouth. I opened instantly, sucking his tongue, letting him taste me while my hand briefly cupped the heavy bulge I had created. He walked me back to the table, offered to buy the next round, and headed to the bar.
Michael’s eyes were dark with arousal.
“Tell me everything.”
I did—how hard the stranger’s cock had felt, how big it seemed, how I had ground my naked pussy against it.
Michael smiled slowly.
“When he comes back, sit next to him. The second he gets up to take a piss, you follow. Get him into the bathroom, drop to your knees, and suck his cock. Swallow every drop. Do you understand my command?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The stranger returned with drinks and slid into the booth beside me. Conversation stayed light while his hand settled on my bare thigh and began climbing. Under the tiny skirt his fingers found my cunt, already slippery and swollen. He rubbed up and down my slit, then pushed one thick finger inside me. I clenched around it and almost came on the spot. He added a second finger and fucked them slowly in and out under the table while Michael watched across the booth, calm and proprietary.
After a few minutes Michael stood, offering to get the next round. Almost immediately the stranger excused himself to the men’s room, dragging his fingers out of my pussy and giving my clit one last deliberate flick. I waited two heartbeats, then rose and followed three steps behind him.
He pushed the bathroom door open. The second it started to close, I slipped in after him, shoved him hard into the nearest stall, and slammed the latch shut. His eyes went wide. I was already on my knees on the filthy tile, hands tearing at his belt and zipper. His cock sprang out heavy, flushed, and fully hard—thicker than I expected, veins standing out, the head slick with pre-cum. I opened wide and took him straight to the back of my throat in one greedy swallow.
“Fuck—oh shit—” he groaned, hands flying to my hair.
I sucked him like the well-trained property I was: wet, loud, sloppy. Spit poured down his shaft and balls as I bobbed, twisting my fist around the base, tonguing the underside, gagging myself deliberately so my throat convulsed around him. I looked up, mascara already starting to run, and moaned around his cock so he could feel the vibration. He started thrusting, fucking my face in short urgent strokes. I let him, relaxing my throat, taking every inch until my nose was buried in his pubic hair and my chin dripped spit onto the floor.
Less than three minutes later his cock swelled and jerked.
“I’m gonna cum—fuck, swallow it—”
I clamped my lips tight and took it. Hot, thick ropes blasted across my tongue and straight down my throat. I swallowed convulsively, milking him with my mouth until I had every drop, then slowly pulled off, licked the head clean, and tucked his still-twitching cock back into his pants. I stood, wiped my shiny chin with the back of my hand, and left him leaning against the stall wall in pure shock.
I walked back to the table, sat down, and crossed my legs like nothing had happened. Michael’s gaze locked on mine.
“Did you do exactly as you were told?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did you enjoy sucking his cock and drinking his cum because I commanded it?”
My pussy clenched hard at the memory of the stranger’s load sliding down my throat.
“Yes, Sir. I enjoyed it because you commanded me to.”
Michael’s smile was dark, proud, and full of filthy promise. Under the table his hand slid between my thighs again, feeling how obscenely wet I had become.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Tonight I’m going to fuck every load you’ve swallowed right back out of you. And we’re just getting started.”
I was throbbing, empty, and perfectly, blissfully owned.
“Yes, Sir. I’m yours. Use me however you want.”
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