I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world until recently. After all, I'm married to the muscle goddess of my dreams, and I live to serve her needs. In return, she makes sweet, sweet love to me almost every night and only humiliates me and/or hurts me enough to keep me completely under her power. The time, place and circumstances of our first meeting are not really important to this story. Suffice it to say that from the moment I saw her I was captivated by her beauty, and when I learned of her great strength, I was enslaved by her power. When she discovered that I would gladly worship her and devote my life to serving her slightest need, she decided that we would be married. That's the way it is between us. She makes all the decisions. Sometimes she asks my opinion, but there is no mistaking the fact that she is the boss. I never really challenge this because I like it this way, but she still likes to remind me often how much stronger she is than me and pointing out that that gives her the right to rule. She enjoys humiliating me and intimidating me with her strength even more than I enjoy being humiliated and intimidated. Before I go any further, I suppose I should describe my wife. Her name is Megan, and she's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. The first thing I noticed about her were her hypnotic, almost cat-like, green eyes. The rest of her face is equally captivating with her full, pouting lips, her cute button nose and her soft, beautiful, kissable cheeks. Her face is framed perfectly by her naturally blonde, softly curling hair. As if Megan's face wasn't beautiful enough to make her the envy of almost all other women on the planet, her body is even more incredible. She's a tad over 6 feet tall which makes her about an inch taller than me. Her figure is an amazing 40DD-23-36. She has long, shapely legs that reach all the way to her perfect peach of an ass. When I first laid eyes on her, it was lust at first site. As I got to know her sweet, playful personality, her supreme confidence, her musical laugh and her challenging intelligence, my lust grew into love. Later when I found out that this incredibly beautiful, divinely feminine creature was capable of lifting a car over her head with ease my love turned to outright worship. The thing about her strength that's so remarkable is that you'd never guess it to look at her. That is to say, she looks very fit, but she doesn't have huge, bulging muscles. You'd hardly even notice her biceps""until she decides to flex them, that is. At rest her arms look no different from any reasonably fit woman in her late twenties. However, when she flexes her arms her biceps seem to explode off her arms into the most beautiful baseball sized feminine muscles imaginable. And her muscles are as hard as steel. In addition to lifting a medium sized car over her head I've seen my wife crush pool balls to dust in her bare hands, bend a tire iron in half with ease and punch a hole in a brick wall. She can also run a mile in less than three minutes. She really is a superwoman. I AM a lucky man. When I asked her how she became so strong, she joked that it must be because, "I eats me spinach." When I pressed her she admitted that she didn't really know. She'd just always been very strong""super-strong in fact""without really trying. She did workout at the gym twice a week, but that was mostly to blow off steam. For whatever reason, the gods pointed at her and said, "You will not only be extremely beautiful, but you will be impossibly strong." To my everlasting gratitude, the gods also pointed at me and said, "This ultimate fantasy goddess will choose you to be her mate." Our lives are almost a complete role-reversal of the stereotypical 1950s family life. I wake up first in the morning, start the coffee and start preparing her breakfast. Then I wake Megan for her morning shower. When she steps out of the shower, I'm standing there with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a towel. As she drinks her juice, I dutifully towel her off as we go through her itinerary for that day. As she gets dressed, I finish preparing her breakfast and fetch her morning paper. As she eats her breakfast and reads the paper, I make sure to compliment her several times about how beautiful she looks that particular morning. This last part is easy because she always looks incredibly beautiful""something of which she is supremely confident""but she still likes to hear me say it. I send her off to work with a kiss, and that's when my work begins. I clean the house, do the shopping, tend the yard and the garden, make light repairs, do the laundry, and prepare a nice dinner for my muscle-goddess wife. This is the way it is because this is the way Megan wants it. I never complain. It isn't like I have a choice. Megan rules our marriage because she is much stronger than me""much stronger than any man""and if I complain she will punish me. I know it, and it keeps me in line. Besides, I enjoyed keeping a spotless home for my wife-master. Believe me; I do not sit around watching daytime television. I work hard to make my wife's home life as stress free as possible. It's her world; I just live in it. I've even become something of a gourmet cook in hopes of keeping her happy. When she comes home from work or the gym""she works out on Tuesdays and Thursdays""I'm waiting at the door with a cool glass of lemonade or iced tea. I then walk her to her favorite chair, kneel at her feet, remove her shoes and spend the next half hour massaging her feet. Then, making sure she is relaxed and all of her needs and wants are met, I finish preparing her dinner. Megan likes to refer to me at home as "the little wife". She insists that when I serve her dinner I wear a frilly apron. This is her way of reminding me that she is my absolute master. If I hesitate to put on the apron even for a second all Megan has to do is give me a sharp look that says "or else", and I comply. She's only had to punish me a few times. Now I know better than to defy her in any way. Megan's word is my law. Her slightest wish is my command. After dinner while I do the dishes, Megan relaxes and watches TV, listens to music or surfs the internet. After I finish cleaning up the kitchen, we usually end up in the living room smuggling on the couch. When I feel Megan's impossibly strong arms around me, making me feel safe, warm and protected, I know that it's all worth it. I not only worship and obey my wife-goddess-master, but I love her with all my heart. Usually around ten o'clock Megan tells me it's time for bed. This means that I wait in the living room for her until she tells me otherwise. This is the longest twenty minutes of my day. As Megan prepares for bed, I am forced to wait in anticipation of the night's events. It reminds me of the anticipation I felt as a kid waiting for Christmas morning""times ten! When Megan is almost ready for me, she commands me to "get ready" for her. That is my single to go brush my teeth, gargle with mouthwash and generally primp and prepare myself for our night of passion. I keep toothpaste, mouthwash, a bathrobe and the other supplies I need in the spare bathroom because the bedroom and its adjoining bathroom are strictly off-limits until I am given permission to enter. Before grooming myself for my muscle goddess, I ask her if she has any "special instructions" for me. Sometimes she likes me to wear special outfits depending on what mood she is in. For example, I keep a fresh adult-sized cloth diaper on hand in case she's in the mood to mother me. I also have a Superman costume for the nights when she wants to play the strong super-villainess who overpowers and dominates "the strongest man in the world." I have certain preferences, but honestly, Megan makes all of these scenarios so exciting and filled with erotic delights that I am more than happy to let her call the shots. It's not like I have a choice anyway. Besides, this is how I know that Megan really loves me. I know that she goes out of her way to keep our sex life exciting and fresh. She loves to see me fully aroused by her""something that she never fails to do. The truth is, Megan is so beautiful and alluring, that she could make me cream my pants from across the room if she was wearing a potato sack. She doesn't have to make the effort""she knows that she owns me body and soul""but she does anyway because this is her way of telling me that she loves me and appreciates all that I do for her. I'm now going to describe a "typical" night of passion between Megan and myself. "Typical" in quotation marks because, as I've indicated, there is no actual routine for us once I enter the bedroom. When I ask if there are any "special instructions" tonight, she replies, "No, baby." This means that I should just put on a fresh pair of pajamas. When I'm ready, I stand outside the closed bedroom door and ask, "May I come in?" "You may open the door," is her reply. As I open the door, I gaze upon the object of all my earthly lusts. Tonight she's dressed in nothing more than a red lace bra trimmed in black and a matching thong. The bra is sheer window dressing for her magnificent breasts which don't sag in the least with or without support. Her hair is loose and cascading around her shoulders. "May I come in?" I repeat. "You may enter when you address me properly," she replies with a slight edge in her voice""just enough to let me know she means business. "May I please come in?" I ask. She gives me a stern yet sexy look. "May I please come in, Master?" I correct myself. "Hmmmmmmm," she considers, "Maybe we need to get a few things straight first. You address me as 'Master' which is as it should be, and yet you're still on your feet." I immediately fall to my knees. "That's better," she coos, "Don't you think?" "Yes, Master." I reply. She's only a few feet away from me, and more than almost anything I want to close that gap between us so that I can kiss, lick, caress and worship every inch of her incredible body. The only thing I want even more is to please her, and I know it wouldn't please her for me to act without her permission. She allows me gaze upon her for several seconds""to take in the site of her beautiful face as she lustfully licks and bites her lower lip. She slowly moves her delicate looking hands from her feminine hips tracing her flat, toned abs and up to her large, succulent breasts. Then she takes a deep breath which challenges the confines of her lace bra and swivels her hips just enough to expose her magnificent, tight, hard ass to me. "You may crawl on your hands and knees and grovel at my feet" she says over her shoulder. "Thank you, Master," I say sincerely as I begin to crawl. When I reach her feet, I ask for permission to kiss her toes. She grants me permission for which I am grateful. "Do you like kissing my feet?" she asks. "Yes, Master" "Do you like groveling in front of me?" "Oh, Yes! Yes, Master." "Why do you address me as 'Master'?" she asks. "Because I'm your slave." I dutifully reply. "But is it fair that you should be my slave?" she teases. "Yes, of course." "Why is that?" she asks. "Because you're so beautiful," I reply between kissing, licking, and generally slobbering over her exquisite feet. "I must say that you're doing a splendid job of worshiping my feet, Slave," she compliments. A feeling of pride wells up in my chest. I get butterflies in my stomach. I love pleasing my master, and feel true pleasure at this compliment. Before I can express my gratitude however, she tells me to stop and look up at her which I do. She then bends down and effortlessly picks me up in her arms. "Before we continue," she says, "I want to get to the bottom of this master-slave business." She carries me over to the bed and sits down with me on her lap. "Comfy?" she asks. "There's no place else I'd rather be at this moment," I sincerely reply. "Okay. You say you're my slave because I'm so beautiful." "Yes, Master." "Does that mean you'd be the slave of any woman who's as beautiful as me?" "No other woman is as beautiful as you," I answer truthfully. She smiles at me and says, "Good answer!" Then she kisses me with such passion that my dick instantly pops out of the hole in the crouch of my pajamas. "Looks like we have a visitor," she says as she lightly rubs the head of my exposed penis. "Oh, Master, that feels so good," I say, my toes curling in pleasure. "I like rubbing your cock," she says in a low whisper. "Do you really think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world?" "You know I do." "What is it about me that you like?" "I love your hypnotic eyes," I say as I lightly kiss one and then the other. "I love you cute little button nose," I say and kiss it. "I LOVE your full, sexy lips," I say as I lightly lick them then playfully nibble her lower lip. "Your sexy neck and shoulders," I continue as I kiss my way down slowly approaching . . . Then Megan takes charge. She reaches back with one hand, unclasps her bra and asked, "What do you think of my tits?" "I love your tits. I WORSHIP your tits." I reply. Thrusting them out slightly she commands, "Show me." For the next several minutes I kiss, lick, suck, nibble, caress and do everything I can think of to show Megan how much I worship her tits. I'm still sitting in her lap, and as I slaver over her tits, she resumes rubbing my raging cock. As my breathing begins to get heavier indicating I'm about to explode, Megan removes her hand from my penis and gently pushes my head away from her breasts. I know that resisting her is futile yet I offer slight resistance anyway until she quietly orders, "Stop." I know at this point that I'd better do as I'm told if I don't want to be punished. "We'll get back to this later," she says giving my penis a loving pat. "But I still want to settle this slave business," she says matter-of-factly. "Let's suppose, for the sake of argument that there was another woman as beautiful as me""whose face and tits and ass were as spectacular as mine""would you be willing to be her slave as well." "No, Master! Of course not!" is my emphatic reply. "Does that mean that there's something other than my physical attractiveness that makes you my willing slave?" She, of course, is toying with me. She knows that she has me wrapped around her pinkie, and she knows exactly why. She just wants to hear me say it. "Well, Master, as you already know, it's a combination of things." "What things?" she demands. "It's your incomparable beauty combined with your amazing super-strength." "Oh, you like my super-strength?" she taunts. "You, you know I do," I stammer. "You mean this super-strength?" she asked as she grips my ass cheek with one hand and begins lifting me into the air. "Y-Y-Yes," I answer my voice quivering as I rise. "The fact that I'm sooo much stronger than you, that turns you on," she asks. My mouth goes dry, but I manage to squeak out a "Yes". "Because you know that I'm much, much stronger than you, right? You know that with my super-strength I can crush bricks and bend steel and lift a car over my head with one hand, right?" "Y-Y-Yes." "But how can that be? How can such a beautiful woman also be so strong?" "I don't know," I reply, "But it's true. Not only are you the most beautiful, sexy, alluring woman in the world, but somehow, you're also the strongest person on Earth." "That hasn't be definitively proven," she says. "But you know it's true," I say. "Yes, I suppose so, but doesn't my awesome super-strength intimidate you as much as it turns you on?" she asks innocently. "Almost," I reply. "What do you mean by 'almost'?" "I mean that I am very, very intimidated by your super-strength. I know that if you chose to unleash your incredible power against me that I wouldn't stand a chance. I know that you could beat the shit out of me""along with ten other men""without even trying. I know that if you wanted to you could go out tomorrow and break all weightlifting world records by at least double." "That's true," she interrupts, "Especially the part about being able to beat you up." She lifts me a little higher and gently gives my ass a squeeze for emphasis. "Go on." "But as intimidated as I am by your awe-inspiring power, I'm even more turned on by it. You're a fantasy come to life for me." "Is that why you work so hard to please me?" she asks. "Yes, Master." "Am I the supergirl of your dreams?" "Oh God, yes, Master." "Is that why you worship me?" "Yes, Master." "Is that why you are willing to grovel and crawl at my feet?" "Yes, Master." "But do you really like being my slave?" she asks. "More than anything," I reply with complete sincerity. Then I add, "This is the way it should be. Your beauty would give you power over me anyway, but combined with your incredible super-strength . . . . Your power over me is complete and absolute which is as it should be." Without the slightest strain, Megan stands up, still holding me with one hand, and fully extends her arm in front of her. As I sit in the palm of her delicate yet incredibly strong hand, she looks at me and gives me a sexy smirk. "Is this the kind of super-strength that turns you on?" "You know it is, Megan" I reply. "Did I say you could call me by my first name?" she asks sternly. "N-N-No" I reply, then I add, "I'm sorry, Master." All the time she is holding me completely off the ground with one hand and her arm fully extended in front of her. "That's okay, Slave," she says drawing me in close to her. "After all, you are my husband as well as my slave, and I do love you very much." By the time she finishes saying this she has drawn me in so that my raging hard penis was fitted snuggly between her magnificent breasts. She slowly begins to move me up and down between her tits as she clenches them tightly together. Every third stroke or so she licks my dickhead mixing her saliva with the pre-cum dripping out of my penis which lubricates my dick so that each loving stoke between her tits is smooth and pleasing. The feeling of weightlessness combined with fucking a pair of magnificent tits is something that every man should experience once in their lives. However, I have to admit that knowing that I might be the only man who ever has makes it all the more erotic and pleasurable for me. Just as I'm about to explode""and believe me, I hold out as long as humanly possible not wanting this experience to end""Megan lifts me higher and takes my cock completely into her mouth. Then she sucks and swallows every last drop of cum as it gushes out of me. Just to make sure she gets every last drop, she gives my dick and balls a thorough tongue bath all the while holding me in midair. Then she throws me several feet through the air onto the bed. Jumping on top of me like a wild jungle cat she pins my arms down with a grip stronger than steel cables and proceeds to fuck the living daylights out of me. There is no questioning her ability to make my dick hard over and over again. It's almost as if I acquire a small fraction of her superhuman power when we are in the throes of passion""at least in one small part of my body. We rarely get through a love-making session without me having at least two orgasms and her having at least five. When I've finally had enough""most nights she makes me beg her to stop""she kisses me on the forehead, wraps her powerful arms around me and we drift off to sleep together. This is the sweetest feeling in the universe as far as I'm concerned, and I usually fall asleep thinking that I would not trade my life with anyone else on Earth. Before I met Megan, I use to dream about going to bed with four or five busty glamour models at a time. I used to fantasize that they were all my willing love-slaves. Now that I have Megan, I know that SHE is my ultimate fantasy. I know that I would rather be her slave than to be the master of all those other women I used to dream about. Needless to say, my greatest fear in life is that somehow I will fail to measure up. After all, Megan could literally have any man that she wanted. If she couldn't win any man she wanted with her amazing sexuality, she could surely take any man by force with her astounding strength. Seriously, we used to sometimes watch those "World's Strongest Man" competitions they show on ESPN and laugh about how much stronger Megan was than all of the contestants. As we'd watch some Nordic strongman struggle with the atlas stones, Megan would laugh because she knew she could easily handle two of them at a time if she wanted. If she knew how to juggle, she could handle three or four at a time. What would I do if Megan ever did choose someone else? Could I stop being her slave even if I wanted to? And how would I ever again get back the happiness and joy I knew with her? How could any other woman even begin to compare? My life would be over. It was something too terrible to contemplate. Then one day my blackest fear came true. About six weeks after the love-making session I described above, Megan arrived home later than usual. At first, since it was a Tuesday, I figured that something must have held her up at the gym. However, it was more than that; I could tell that something was weighing on her mind. When she walked through the door, I was waiting as usual with a cold gas of lemonade. I knew better than to bring up the fact that she was late. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. However, I was shocked when the first thing she said when she walked in was, "How soon will dinner be ready? I'm starved." When I told her that I could have it on the table in ten minutes she said, "Okay. Do that while I grab a quick shower." I wondered why she hadn't showered at the gym. I wondered why she didn't want her usual foot rub. It seemed like she was trying to avoid me, but I knew better than to nag her about any of these things. She would simply remind me of who was in charge, and the way she was behaving I wasn't sure of what method she would use to remind me. She hardly said two words throughout dinner. Later, while I did the dishes, she went to the bedroom, and I thought I heard her talking to someone on the phone. As I was finishing up cleaning the kitchen, she came in, sat down at the kitchen table and said, "Baby, we have to talk." She called me "Baby." This was a good sign I thought. "What is it, sweetheart? What's the matter? Did something happen at work?" "Baby, I've met someone," she said in a steady tone. I couldn't believe it. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. I knew I heard her correctly, but she must not mean what I thought she meant I told myself. "You mean you've made a new friend? That's nice, sweetie." "You know what I mean," she said looking me straight in the eye. Then she repeated those awful words, "I've met someone," and added, "Someone else." "Do you love him?" I asked not really wanting to hear the answer. "Her," she corrected. Slightly stunned by this I quickly recovered. "Do you love her?" "Yes. I do." A million questions raced through my head. How? Where? Why? What does this mean for us? What does this mean for me? How can you do this to me? All I could manage to verbalize was "Wh-wh-?" before I broke down sobbing uncontrollably. For a minute or so Megan let me cry. Then she got up from her chair, gently picked me up, cradled me in her strong arms and whispered, "There, there, baby." I put my arms around her neck and placed my head on her shoulder and sobbed. My only thought was to hold on to her for dear life and hope that somehow this would all blow over. Megan repeated things like, "Let it out, sweetie" and "It'll be alright," as she carried me over to the couch in the living room. She sat down with me on her lap, stroked the back of my head and tried her best to console me. After several minutes, I managed to find my voice. I raised my head off her shoulder, looked at her through tear-stained eyes, and asked "How can you say 'It'll be alright,'? How will anything ever be alright again?" As I looked into her eyes, I could see tears welling up in her eyes as well. As a tear rolled down her cheek something inside me knew that I was going to have to pull it together somehow. This was serious, and it wasn't going to do any good for me to fall apart. I started to get up. Megan tightened her grip on me and asked, "Where do you think you're going?" I told her that there were obviously things for us to discuss and I thought it might be easier for me if I was sitting in another chair. She seemed to consider what I had to say for a few seconds and then slowly released her grip on me. I got up and sat in the closest chair to the couch and turned it slightly so that we were facing each other. "Okay, let's talk," I said. Megan nodded. "First of all," I said, "I have to know how much leeway you're going to allow me in this conversation." "What do you mean?" she asked. "Well, Megan, sweetie, we very rarely discuss things on equal terms. Usually you say 'Jump!' and I ask 'How high?' and then ask for permission to come back down. If we're really going to talk about this, I have to be able to ask you some questions and expect some answers almost as if we were equals." "Yes. I can see that. Go ahead and ask. If I feel that you're going too far and forgetting who rules around here, I'll let you know," she stated. "How will you let me know?" I asked, my heart filled with trepidation. "I'll tell you so," she said. "Okay," I started out slowly, "Who is she; where did you meet her." "Her name is Laurie. I met her at the gym." "So she's the reason you were late tonight?" "Yes." "And she's the person you were talking to on the phone after dinner?" As soon as these words left my mouth, I was afraid that I had already overplayed my hand. We hadn't really talked about the fact that she'd been on the phone after dinner. I was a afraid that she might think I was spying on her. She looked at me a little funny""like she was trying to figure out how to respond. She must have decided that under the circumstances she was going to give me wide latitude. Finally, she simply said, "Yes." "Do you love her more than me?" This is one of those questions no one really wants to ask unless they are sure that the answer is going to come out in their favor. I didn't want to ask it. I feared what her answer might be, but I had to know. It was worse than I imagined. "I love her more than anything." Then to add insult to injury, "Even you." As she said this, however, I could see that tears were beginning to well up in her eyes again. As much as her last words had devastated me, the site of her crying devastated me even more. "Why are you crying?" "Because I don't want to hurt you, Baby. Please, don't think that my loving her means that I don't love you. I do love you. Very much. I don't want to lose you." "I guess I really don't see . . . ," I struggled to understand. She tried to explain. "I don't WANT to lose you, but I CAN'T lose her. I'm obsessed with her. I wish more than anything that I could tell you that it's over between her and me, but there's no sense in kidding myself. I know I'll see her again. I know it." "And you know you'll fuck her again?" I asked. "Yes." "So where does that leave us?" I asked. "Do you want me to leave to make way for her?' "No." "Wait . . . ." It was slowly dawning on me. "You want both of us, don't you?" Before she could answer I went on, "You know that you own me and that I won't go anywhere if you order me to stay. You know that I'm your slave. What do you want to do, move her in as slave number two? Or . . . as slave number one? I guess from now on I'm slave number two. Is that it? You want to keep me around to cook and clean the house and do the laundry while you take her to bed?" I could hardly believe I was talking to Megan this way. I actually talked to her with a slight edge in my voice. Normally I'm not nearly brave enough to do this. Then it hit me. What if I was right? What would I do if this WAS the case? After all, Megan DID own me. I knew deep down that if Megan wanted the three of us to set up house with me as the low man on the totem pole that I would go along. I knew that I had neither the will nor the courage to say no to her. I knew that I would stay and serve Megan and her new lover, grateful for any scrap that she would throw my way, if Megan wished it so. Even as I realized it, I became disgusted with myself. As my mind raced with all these thoughts Megan said, "You don't understand." "What? Help me understand." "I can't make Laurie slave number one or slave number two." "Why not?" "Because she's MY master. She's the boss of our relationship." "Wha . . . How? How can this be?" I asked, my world no longer making any sense. "Because," Megan said. I could tell that she was having a very hard time getting these next words out of her mouth. "She's the boss, she's my master because . . . Because she's much stronger, way more powerful, than I am." When I heard this, I fainted. End of Part One. This is my first ever strong girl story. I have an ending for this story. I'll finish it if enough readers express an interest. Email your comments (pro or con) to sonofjackwell@gmail.com