The common domesticated sex slave
By Elascan  elaw3670@gmail.com 
He's strong and his wife dominates him.


Every morning Henry would wake up, do push-ups and sit-ups in the sun parlor,
clean up, eat two pieces of toast with margarine, wash them down with two
steaming cups of dark roast coffee, black, return to the master bedroom, open
the side of the closet double door with the full length mirror, and don a
three-piece suit (Gucci, Armani, Tailor-Made, he wore only the best). Every
morning his wife would creep behind him while he was picking one out. He would
catch a glimpse of her lioness frame in the mirror; her long, raven hair
mussed from rough love-making; a plain wife beater, her sleeping outfit,
strained by her C-cup breasts, sitting proud after 42 years. She would flex
one punching-bag thick thigh and push her knee into the back of his, forcing
him off balance. Her meaty, muscular ass, she could barely squeeze into most
chairs, would turn in full glorious view of the mirror, revealing a small puff
of black hair below. She would reach an arm with muscles like a wench line
around his side, pressing hard into his rippling stomach. Henry was proud of
his stomach, proud of his body.

When they married, ten years ago, he was a typical flabby, paper-pushing
executive. Then Virginia got him every night. He hit the gym hard, desperate
to close the strength gap between them and lessen his nightly mauling. He had
the frame for it, standing just over six feet tall (half a foot taller than
she), with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Before long his arms stretched
any shirt that didn't have at least two "X"s in the tag. He had to get his
suits refitted.

She would run her hand up his stomach and squeeze his pec lustfully. She never
got her hand around it, but what she did, she crushed. He would try his best
to stifle his pain-born grunt. She loved to hear him in pain. He tried to deny
her the satisfaction. Sometimes only the slightest noise escaped, more often
he screamed in agony. He would grab her wrist and try to wrench her hand free.
His twenty inch arm would shake like an overfull blender as he strained to
break her viscous grip. Virginia only squeezed harder. Sometimes she would
lean in close, press her full, crimson lips to his ear and whisper something
like, "come on, hun, pull harder with that big ole muscle. Watching it bulge
makes me so wet." She would crush his pec harder. Then Henry screamed every
time. His huge arm would strain impotently, unable to overpower hers. He would
grab her with his other. With forty total inches of quivering muscle, he would
finally overpower her arm, his face the color of the bricks along the outside
of their house and his veins ready to fling their charge all over the mirror.
This would provide her with free access to her true goal. He would have her
corded bundle of power half way off him, struggling to force it farther, and
he would feel the other come over his leg and past his underwear, her soft,
delicate hand closing around his cock like a boa constrictor, crushing it. He
would let go of her other arm and, reaching into his underwear with both
hands, try desperately to wrench loose her grip. She always used her strong
arm to grab his dick, and he couldn't move it with both of his. Her other hand
would clamp back onto his pec, crushing it again. With one quick, mighty
heave, she would pull him against her body. She was so strong it felt like
lurching down a terrifyingly steep incline on a roller coaster. He would feel
her bicep bending his ribs in, it was harder than they were, harder than bone.
Her soft breasts, like night and day to her biceps, would press into his back,
her nipples stabbing him like ice picks. She would pull his cock, tugging it
again and again, relaxing her grip so it could harden, easing off just enough.
It still felt like a boa constrictor was making a meal of it. She pulled hard.
She wanted Henry to fear she might rip it off with every pull. He did. He'd
yell in pain, pleading, "Please Gin- ARGH- please stop. Not today, please-
ARGH!"

He would strain harder, trying in vain to pull her arm away. Virginia loved
watching him strain against her superior strength. She would growl something
like, "Come on hun, get it off. Get it off, baby!" and jerk him faster. Before
long his dick stiffened in preparation to shoot his load despite the pain.
This was a crucial point. He had to act fast. He had to tell Virginia he was
ready to blow. He knew the price of failure.

The day he found out was a Monday. It was just like any other, except that he
was a little crankier than normal, a little on edge, and a little aggravated
at nothing. As she jerked him off, he decided he was sick of dancing to her
tune. When he was ready to come he said nothing, then proudly exploded all
over his underwear, himself, and her hand. Silence fell. She held his penis
for another minute, unmoving. Her brutal squeezing stopped. It felt like the
calm before the storm. Henry's breath caught in his throat. He found himself
wishing, praying to a god he didn't believe in, that he could take his
reckless action back. Virginia slowly pulled her hand out of his underwear,
releasing his pec with her other. Still she said nothing. He spun around,
backing off a step and retreating part way into his closet. Like a small
child, pulling a sheet of cotton over his head at night, Henry melted into the
suits around him. Virginia stared into his eyes. Without lifting her gaze, she
slowly brought her hand to her mouth, thrust her tongue out, and methodically
licked up every last drop of his cum. Then she took a step forward. Henry
pleaded, "Gin, come on, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it was an accident." She took
another. He started to shake. "Gin, please, please. Look, we can get it back.
Just grab it again, I got more where that came from," he forced a weak laugh,
"come on, you know I'm good for more." She seemed oblivious to his words,
stepping up to him.

Her hand shot out like a viper, smashing into his throat. The impact snapped
him back like a punching dummy. He coughed violently. His body was lifted into
the air. He grabbed her arm as she carried him out of the closet with one
hand. She marched him over to their California King, his legs flailing
uselessly. She smashed him onto the bed. She let go, turned around, and sat on
the bed. Her enormous ass flattened as she reached back and grabbed Henry by
the hair. She fell into a kneeling position, pulling his face deep into her
ass. His world became her soft, warm flesh and the sea-salt smell of her
womanhood. He braced his hands against her cheeks and tried to push his head
out, but her arm was too strong. She pulled him farther and farther in, until
he could get no air. She let go and squeezed her ass, trapping him. He pushed,
leaning back with all his weight, but her ass was way too strong. He struggled
to draw a breath, getting none. Soon, he could no longer feel the warm
softness of her ass cheeks.

When he woke up, he was face down in her ass; her cheeks relaxed enough for
him to draw breath. They lay on their stomachs. He heard the TV. He tried to
extricate himself quickly. She smashed her ass into the air, its bulk slapping
loudly into his shoulders. His hands fell from under him. He felt her soft
cheeks turn to silky boulders and he could get no air. As he struggled in the
final few seconds before unconsciousness, he heard her say, "oh, no sweetie,
your punishment isn't nearly over yet; better think of an excuse for why you
won't show to work today."

It went on well into the evening. He would wake up in darkness. Sometimes it
would take a minute for him to realize where he was. As soon as he stirred,
she would bury him deep in her crack and squeeze her ass again, sending him
back under. Though his day was spent in her sexy fold, it was a day of keen
torture: twelve hours without breathing when he wanted to, a day in darkness.

Virginia taught him his lesson, and taught him well. He knew the price of
failure. He was not eager to pay again. "Gin, I'm ready," he would say. She
would clamp down on his cock hard enough to overpower its automatic spasms and
hold him like that for a good minute, violently squeezing it every few
seconds, till his cum relented. Then she would smile and stroke it gently,
moaning in his ear, "good. It's right where I want it," before returning to
bed and falling back asleep.

The effect was a terrible priapism. He was required to go all day without so
much as touching it, not allowed to relieve the pain and bursting pressure. It
was horrible for his health, but she didn't care. By the time he returned from
work it was a rod of iron. As soon as Henry closed the front door he would
frantically pull his suit off and lay it as gently as he could over the back
of the couch, before she charged him naked, her breasts bouncing high into the
air, her legs pumping furiously, her ass swaying like an unbalanced washing
machine, and tackled him to the ground. If he was still wearing his suit she
would tear it off, ripping it to shreds. She would yank out his iron-hard cock
and mount it hungrily. His dick, the slightest touch away from exploding,
would try to release its load, but she would clamp it shut with her vagina.
She would brutally ram him with her huge ass, pumping him so hard the windows
would shake and dishes would fall from the shelves. Her full tits would slap
noisily against her chest, but the sound of her skin slapping against his
could be heard for blocks, drowning out his pleas of, "Please Gin, that's too
hard. You're hurting me." It went on for hours, just another day in the life
of the common domesticated sex slave.