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The Perfect Wife [MultiFormat]
eBook by M. J. Rennie

eBook Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
eBook Description: Is The Perfect Wife The Perfect Slave? M. J. Rennie's The Perfect Wife is an imaginative novel of bondage and submission exploring the mind set and emotional inner life of Susan, a young wife-slave. At first, all is not well with Susan's marriage to Mark. But when Susan's desire to become Mark's wife-slave suddenly spills out, he takes her to one of the special training seminars offered at OCEANIA, a modern resort devoted to Domination and Submission. The staff at OCEANIA, led by the revered Mistress Sabina, put the final touches on Susan's submission, thoroughly instructing her in the fine points of psychological and sexual abasement. Artfully programmed, Susan molds herself into the ideal submissive. From that day forward, the happy couple shares the delicious secret knowledge that Susan is the perfect wife and slave, destined to serve her adored Master Mark in every possible way. But wait! Life might not be as simple and appealing as you might think, even for a slave. Prepare yourself for The Perfect Wife's sudden, shocking resolution! M. J. Rennie is the author of many erotic novels, including Plus Size Signe and Permission: A Novel of Female Domination (both available from Renaissance E Books).

eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler
Fictionwise Release Date: February 2005

35 Reader Ratings:
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A Different Woman

After three frustrating years, I knew my marriage to Mark was in serious trouble. In many ways--some subtle and others much more obvious--things weren't working out at all. Our relationship was nothing like the kind of relationship I wanted it to be.

It wasn't all Mark's fault. To tell the truth, I had never found the courage to tell him what I wanted, needed, and, most of all--desired from him. To say that I literally worshipped Mark is no exaggeration. I loved him as much as ever and yet I sensed in some important way he was holding back.

The funny thing about it is I had enough insight into myself to know exactly what it was I always wanted from Mark.

In my heart of hearts, I wanted him to dominate me in every way, to enslave me. Believe me, nothing would have made me happier than for Mark to order me to strip naked, grovel at his feet, and obey his every whim and command.

Despite my many hints, Mark continued to hold back, acting only on his weakest, most passive traits. Rarely did he display the qualities of a strong, dominant male. Much to my disappointment, his behavior bordered on the subservient.

I blamed it all on his first wife, Darlene, who had him schooled so well in his duties that he cooked, cleaned, vacuumed, did all the dishes, and performed constant oral sex on her. In short, Mark served Darlene exactly as she had required, submitting to her every desire.

Mark waited on that woman hand and foot--massaging her, dressing her, even giving her a pedicure whenever she needed one. He spent many long hours painting her toenails a bright, candy-apple red.

During intercourse, Mark was allowed to ejaculate only when she gave him permission. In many respects, Darlene was a fine woman, but in Mark's case, she really overdid it.

Besides, I'm not Darlene. My name is Susan, and I am an entirely different woman.

Before she died tragically at a young age, Darlene dominated Mark completely, to the extent that his true personality virtually disappeared.

No one knows why in love affairs one partner must dominate and the other submit. Perhaps, as some suggest, a tendency towards either role is simply a component of our individual personalities, or the fact that chemicals released within the brain during sex seem to influence human behavior profoundly.

Don't ask me. In some ways my private behavior is as much a mystery to me as it is to others, but my response is that I live my life mostly by instinct, doing the things I feel I must do.

There is no other explanation.

My peculiar love for Mark was rooted in a powerful craving to be dominated by him. I was sure he had a secret, masterful side to his personality just waiting to emerge. But after three restless years of waiting, I was about ready to give up.

Probably the best moment in our marriage came right after our second anniversary. Pulling into the garage, I had carelessly dented the right fender of Mark's beloved Porsche with my car.

Mark was so angry he took me over his knee and spanked me until my bottom turned red. Later that night, he forced me down on my knees to suck his cock, ejaculating so much of his rich semen into my mouth I thought I would be swallowing forever.

Later that night, he indulged himself in my vagina and my rectum, seeming not to care if I was getting any pleasure. No doubt he knew I was, on account of how wet my quim got and how loudly I squealed.

After he finished using me, he fell fast asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. I was in heaven. Placing a kerchief between my legs to collect his juice as it slowly drained out. Meanwhile, I masturbated in the dark, thinking this was it.

You can just imagine how disappointed I was the next day when Mark meekly apologized for spanking me, swearing it would never happen again. Soon our lives returned to their normal, frustrating pattern.

When? I asked myself. When would Mark become the dominating male I secretly desired? I began to be concerned that my dream would never come true. Lines from a haunting verse by the poet Sylvia Plath kept running through my head, teasing and tormenting me:

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you...

What was the answer? I had no idea. One thing was sure:

Mark had to be the one to take the upper hand. He had to be the ruler. The chemistry was all wrong for me to dominate him as Darlene had. I wanted Mark on top.

So I waited and yearned.

Things finally came to a head during a lovely garden party hosted by Mark's employer. The site of the event was the secluded lakefront home of the company owner, John Marshall, and John's beautiful blond wife, Marsha.

The communications equipment company John began on a shoestring years earlier had recently posted record profits and John was pulling out all the stops in celebration.

He could not have picked a better night. It was one of those soft evenings when late-blooming flowers give their all to the warm summer air. Everywhere, Painted Lady butterflies dipped among the dahlias and alighted on the lavender, in a final frenzy of activity before darkness.

Out on the green lawn, smartly dressed people ate, drank, and talked in low murmuring voices. From a battery of outdoor speakers, soft New Age music issued serenely.

Set under a canopy by the glittering pool, a buffet table was spread with a wide assortment of delicious seasonal goodies. We sampled five different salads along with a huge variety of fruits, vegetables, tasty spiced meats, fish, cheeses, breads, and crisp, cold beverages.

It was a feast fit for royalty. Waiters dressed in starched whites served an elaborate dessert tray to the elegantly attired guests. Waitresses in French maid outfits carried trays loaded with tall crystal glasses of golden champagne, which flowed abundantly.

Before and during the meal, Mark was so sweet and attentive I wanted to bop him. I flirted with several men, but he made no effort to scold me or put me in my place. I was dressed to kill in a stunning black mini-dress, but all my efforts seemed wasted. He never tried to bend me over in the bathroom, nor did it apparently cross his mind to drag me out to the car and make me suck his cock.

My desperate longings went entirely unheeded. As we got ready to say good-bye to our hosts, I asked Mark to please get my jacket. When he returned with the wrong one, I really blew my stack.

"That's not my jacket!" I snapped. "You don't even notice what I wear! Why can't you do anything right?"

"I'm sorry," Mark mumbled, his face turning red. "I'll get it right away." He hurried off.

John Marshall was the only witness to the scene, but that was bad enough, since he was Mark's employer.

John is about five years older than Mark. He's a tall, distinguished-looking man with dark hair and a full beard. A sidelong look came at me from John's slate gray eyes.

"You don't really like Mark to wait on you like that, do you?" John said. "It's beneath a man like him."

"No, I don't," I answered, forgetting myself. "I wish he'd boss me around instead of always being so meek."

I must have blushed, because I suddenly realized I had blurted out the truth about my desires to John.

"I'm not sure what made me say that," I confessed. "It's not like me. It's not like me at all. I mean--"

"Tut-tut," John interrupted. "Say no more. I understand what you mean perfectly. No explanation is necessary."

Suddenly, John's wife appeared at his side. Marsha was a tall, blond, willowy woman, dressed in a white sequined gown. She held one of the tall glasses of champagne. John accepted the drink from her hand and sipped from it.

"Susan's nature is much like your own, my dear," John said, nodding at me. "But I'm afraid Mark isn't fulfilling her deepest needs."

Marsha was concerned at once.

"That's awful," she said. "Susan, I suggest you speak honestly to Mark. Be open. Tell him you wish to submit to him in every way possible. It can save your marriage."

I was impressed by the warm, happy tone in Marsha's voice. The bonds connecting her to John were so strong they seemed almost visible.

But it made me nervous that they had understood our problem so quickly and had a ready solution.

What kind of people were they?

The idea that near strangers knew about my craving for sexual submission made me uneasy. The fact they approved of it both thrilled and worried me.

Intense excitement pulsed through my body. Between my legs, the hot center of my desires throbbed maddeningly.

"I'm not feeling well," I said. "Mark and I must be getting home soon."

"Why so soon?" John asked. "Perhaps you'd like to stay after the party and visit with us for a while."

Marsha nodded. "We could talk--woman to woman," she said, leaning in close to me. "It'll be fun."

I shook my head, backing away. "Maybe some other time," I answered, feeling more aroused than ever.

Mark showed up a moment later, this time with the correct jacket. We left abruptly.

In the car, I apologized to Mark for being so bitchy and embarrassing him in front of John. It didn't seem to do any good. He answered me in monosyllables and stared straight ahead as he drove. He hardly said a word on the way home.

* * * *

Two weeks later, we accepted another invitation from John and Marsha. I still felt terrible about my outburst in front of John and wondered if it had been forgotten. In the car on the way there, I stared nervously at Mark.

He was his usual placid self, shifting the gears and taking the turns on the winding country road with quiet precision.

It made my heart melt to look at him sometimes. A soft breeze blew through the Porsche's open sunroof, and wisps of his longish blond hair danced over his broad, tanned forehead.

Mark's penetrating blue eyes were the perfect complement to his hard, muscular body. He was everything I ever wanted in a man except for one thing: he simply would not make me his sex slave.

"We're really deep in the woods here," Mark said as he took a sharp turn. "Isn't the forest magnificent?"

"Yes," I answered, noticing how the alder trees along the roadside gave way to evergreens as we climbed uphill.

I wrestled a brush out of my purse and ran it through my long brown hair. It sounds vain to admit it, but I know I'm easy to look at. My legs are long, my breasts are full, and my bottom is very shapely.

We passed through a dense stand of Douglas fir, the dappled light shining through the needled columns like the inside of an Old World cathedral.

"It's beautiful here," I agreed. "Like a golden country."

Mark nodded. Following a zigzag of curves, the high-performance Porsche propelled us effortlessly through the verdant terrain.

"John must have something on his mind tonight," Mark said, downshifting to take a sharp turn. "I've known him for years, but this is the first time we've been out to their place as their exclusive guests."

"I wonder why they've asked us." I felt so nervous I squirmed in the supple leather seat, unable to sit still as my anxiety mounted.

"I don't know," Mark answered. "But John told me yesterday afternoon it had to do with you and me."

What he said made me more anxious than ever.

Soon the Porsche found John and Marsha's private road. A metal gate swung open and Mark squeezed our car through. We pulled into the driveway and got out. John emerged from the covered patio and greeted us warmly.

"It's so good to see both of you," John said, shaking Mark's hand.

John's black beard had been trimmed in an extremely attractive Vandyke. His clipped whiskers tickled my face as he kissed my cheek gallantly.

"Susan, it's especially wonderful to see you. You are stunning in that outfit."

John was speaking the truth. I did look good in my new red toreador pants and matching short-sleeved blouse. My ordinary flats were replaced by red pumps with four-inch heels, and my left ankle sported a large ruby on a thin gold chain.

Up top, the bow on my red choker pointed downward, to help direct attention to my gorgeously tanned cleavage.

I knew the outfit was sexy because earlier that day, after Mark had seen me in it, he had shyly asked me to suck his cock. I had done so gratefully, getting down on my knees in my high heels to do it.

"Did you bring swimsuits?" John asked. He was dressed in snug blue trunks that clearly outlined his sizable manhood.

"Yes, we did," Mark said.

"Excellent. I thought we'd have a light supper then take a dip in the pool," John replied.

Fragrant grill smoke floated lazily out to the driveway from a barbecue in the back yard.

John turned to me. "Marsha's in the house, Susan, helping to prepare our meal. She'll be bringing drinks out to us by the poolside soon. Why don't you go join her in the kitchen?"

"I'll be happy to," I answered. There was something assured and commanding about the way John spoke to me.

I walked up to the house, a large and comfortable Spanish-style stucco with a wide veranda and meticulously maintained grounds.

Beyond the pool, the bright green lawn sloped down to their creek-fed private lake. The clear water was home to a native trout that John was determined to preserve from the incursions of developers.

I opened the front door and let myself in.

"Marsha?" I called out. "It's me, Susan."

"I'm in here, Susan," came the reply. I followed her voice down the hallway to the brightly lit, spacious kitchen. My footsteps echoed loudly on the tiled floor.

What I saw in the middle of their kitchen shocked me right down to the roots of my hair and left me gasping.

I could not believe my eyes!

Marsha stood at the sink in the kitchen, wearing high heels and a white apron, but otherwise completely nude. As she turned around, I saw that she held a boiled potato in one hand and a peeler in the other.

"Please sit down," Marsha said, putting the peeler down on the counter. She went back to the sink, picked up a knife and quickly diced the potato into thick chunks. She scraped the chunks into a mixing bowl.

I sat down in a daze and watched her work. In a flash, Marsha had a lovely potato salad prepared.

"Would you care for a drink?" Marsha asked, taking off her apron. "We have everything."

I could only gape at the tall, trim, and evenly tanned woman who stood before me. Marsha did not seem the least bit embarrassed by her nudity. Nor did she seem to be in any special hurry to explain her appearance.

"Uh..." I said. Frankly, I was still so stunned by Marsha's nudity I found it difficult to talk.

The gorgeous tan Marsha wore enhanced her smooth body to the absolute maximum. Another thing that caught my eye was the neatly trimmed blond triangle at her center. Her pubic hair was the color of spun gold.

I also couldn't help but notice how her long, shapely legs rose gracefully from her white, high-heeled pumps. Like stiletto points, the heels of her pumps jabbed the kitchen floor, their height accenting the lushness of Marsha's superbly toned body.

Her breasts were smaller than average but still quite nice, crowned by nipples like cherries. In addition, Marsha had a narrow waist, which gave her breasts singular definition.

Her breasts. Ornamenting the right one was a tiny gold nipple ring, glinting in the kitchen light. My eyes went from her nipple ring up to the blades of the Casablanca ceiling fan that slowly stirred the warm air.

"I'll take a brandy, if you have one," I said.

"Coming right up," Marsha said, turning her back to me. I sneaked another peek at her jiggly bottom, which had an endearing teardrop shape.

She filled a crystal snifter with ice and spilled two fingers of Black Monk brandy over the rocks. I drank it down quickly, and within minutes the brandy took the edge off my shock. Still, I was unable to hide my curiosity.

"I suppose you're wondering about my nudity," Marsha said.

I nodded.

Marsha took a small swallow of her soda, running her tongue over her full lower lip.

"John and I have practiced a private personal dynamic known as Dominance and submission, or D&S, for several years," Marsha explained. "It is a responsible and consensual way to explore the giving and receiving of power in a loving relationship. Accordingly, in our relationship, John is the Master and I am the slave. To help you understand how this works for us, John ordered me to greet you and your husband tonight in the nude."

My mouth fell open. "Because you're his slave, you willingly agreed to go nude in front of us?"

Marsha laughed. "That's exactly right."

I sat there silently. Marsha smiled at me, raising her glass. I remember thinking how ironic it all was. What I desperately wanted, Marsha already had--to be a slave to her Master. Feelings of envy such as I had never known suddenly washed over me.

Envious as I was, the idea that Marsha had what I wanted also thrilled and excited me. If John and Marsha had it, then such a life was at least possible!

"But why be John's slave?" I managed to say.

"Slavery is the centerpiece of the pact John and I have made to achieve proper living as man and wife."

"Proper living?" I said. "What do you mean by that?"

Marsha winked and took the empty brandy snifter from my hand. "You'll see soon enough. Let me get you another brandy," she added, with a toss of her head. "I have the feeling you're in for some surprises tonight, Susan."

I drank off the second brandy, which only served to increase my feelings of envy and excitement. Never in my life had I been so incredibly turned on.

My mind was caught in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. As a woman, I oppose discrimination against my gender and have no use for male chauvinism.

On the other hand, ever since I had met Mark, the desire to be completely dominated by him sexually had been at the forefront of my thoughts. Most of all, I wanted to be his little pet, his lover, his "always-wet-between-the-legs" sex slave!

I wanted Mark to master me, body and soul.

Also, there was something in Mark that told me that he, too, wanted to master me, to rule me, to dominate me in every way. Deep down, I believed Mark wanted to extract every bit of physical sensation from our sexual relationship that he possibly could. This sensual quality in Mark is what drew me to him.

At that moment, I felt more sexually excited than I had been since the night of the Porsche. All I could think about was Mark and his muscular male body, and about getting his big, hard cock into my mouth.

I wanted to get down my knees in front of him, my mouth open and pliant, an eager receptacle for his penis. I wanted to suck him and lick him and swallow his rich semen.

Above all else, Mark is an exceptionally sensual man. He is the kind of man who really can smell a rose, appreciate a sunset, or pet a cat for hours. Though he's very sensitive, Mark loves being a man, having a cock, and putting it in me.

So there was my dilemma. I was torn between love and devotion on one hand and a vague notion of political correctness on the other.

Fortunately, Marsha was a good guide in helping me sort out my feelings.

"You must learn to separate the personal from the political," Marsha told me. "Besides, it doesn't hurt to interrogate your principles every now and then. Why should a feminist, or any woman, for that matter, be constrained to only certain forms of sexual expression?"

"You're right," I said. "It's a private matter, isn't it?"

Beyond the wisdom of Marsha's words, I came away impressed by the warmth and happiness of her tone. It stirred me deep inside to see in person the emotional equilibrium I so desperately sought. If only Mark would dominate me!

A buzzer rang on the stove.

"The hors d'oeuvres are ready," Marsha said, getting up from the kitchen table. She carefully retied the knot at the back of her apron, adjusting it so the straps dangled along the pink divide of her fleshy bottom.

Lost in my own thoughts, I had nearly forgotten she was nude.

"I'm taking these out to serve your husband and my Master," Marsha announced, hefting the tray. "Please follow me."

We went out to the patio where three chairs were grouped beneath a white umbrella. From the expression on Mark's face, I could tell he had been briefed beforehand by John about what to expect.

Marsha served snacks from a tray and mixed drinks from a mobile cart by the pool. When she was finished, she prostrated herself on her hands and knees before John.

"That will be all for now, Marsha," John said. "Please bring your leash and collar and assume your usual position."

"Yes, Master," Marsha answered. She bent low to kiss each of John's feet on the instep before running off to fetch her leash.

The three of us--Mark, John, and me--sat on the redwood chairs under the umbrella while Marsha seated herself on a little pillow at John's feet. She gazed at the mirror-smooth water of the lake, speaking only when asked a direct question by her Master. A black leather collar circled Marsha's neck. John held the attached stainless steel chain leash in his left hand.

Mark seemed to enjoy the presence of a nude female slave, calling for extra snacks and drink refills. We nibbled on tasty hot hors d'oeuvres and listened to John speak frankly about the lifestyle they had chosen. I knew better than to open my mouth too much, fearing that I'd let my true feelings spill out again in an embarrassing fashion.

"This way of living suits us," John said. "In the early years of our marriage we were both unhappy, no doubt because of conflicting expectations we had about our roles. If we hadn't met a brilliant woman, Mistress Sabina, who showed us the ropes, so to speak, we might be divorced by now. Enslaving Marsha saved our marriage."

"Has it improved your sex life?" Mark asked.

"Indeed it has," John answered. "Remarkably so. Once Marsha accepted domination by me, the frequency and intensity of my ejaculations in her more than tripled. Before enslaving Marsha, she was fortunate to receive my semen once or twice a week. Now that she has become my obedient receptacle, I make it a point to anoint her often."

"Marsha certainly seems obedient," Mark said.

"She has every reason to obey," John replied.

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