She isn’t my wife anymore. That had stopped years ago. She is just property; a pet, a slave, a servant, a cook, a gardener, a masochist, an object of my loving scorn. But not a spouse. She asked for it, begged me to make her so. She authored her own demise, not really knowing where it would all lead to. Thats what she wanted the most, she said, the not knowing. After we married she surprised me with the request. She convinced me to dominate her completely. It moved fast from there, far from the simple spankings and handcuffs. She awoke a sadist in me that will not sleep.
She was standing in the corner like a poorly-behaved child, arms clasped behind her neck, toes and face to the wall, a small bell on a wide ribbon trapped by her nose there, forcing her to keep her face tight against the plaster. She sniffled. Until a few minutes ago she was crying, bawling really, but I think the Icy Hot on her cunt has worn off by now, giving her a rest from the burning of the nasty cream.
I love watching her cry this way, or really any way. It gets my dick hard and my blood up. It makes me want her to suffer even more for me. The more pointless and demeaning the better. Better for me, and also for her and her submissive soul.
I call her Crybaby, but she he has a real name. We use it when the world demands. But at home she is Crybaby. There is a beautiful tattoo of the name across her inner thigh nestled amid some artfully inked tears. She cried before she got it, and she cried as the artist inked her new name on the sensitive flesh. She would sob quietly for weeks after when her gaze ran across it. She also cried real heartfelt tears when I paddled her inner thighs so severely that the tattoo almost disappeared in a sea of red and then purple and brown flesh. This, I recall, made my dick very hard.
I heard her gasp and the sound of the bell rang out from the floor near her dirty naked feet. She started softly sobbing again. I looked up from my tablet, smiled and waited, staring at her. Today, as usual, she wore little-boy briefs; ribbed white cotton BVD’s over her slim boyish ass and hips. She had a tight boy’s logo t-shirt on top with an action hero featured there. Over that she had on a leather harness bought at a gay men’s shop in the city. The harness fit firmly around her shoulders and across her upper torso and chest.
Her small ribcage heaved a bit with emotional effort and I could just see from across the room under the snug shirt her small bit of tit-flesh. In this department she was quite flat with only the slightest amount of womanly curve; enough though to embarrass her when she went bra-less in public, confusing the passer-bys, was this a boy or a girl? She would turn red and lower her eyes, imagining their thoughts and stares, humiliated to the core because her butch, tomboy presentation was cruelly imposed and certainly not her choice. She identifies as a straight female but now is mostly referred to and dressed as a male. But here’s the thing that really gets her. She is usually dressed as a male fitting her own physical stature: one of puberty. She looks like a man-child with visible muscles but no facial hair. This way she is denied her own female identity and forced to endure a lasting humiliating masquerade.
We both knew that there would be a punishment now. The room filled with more sobbing as Crybaby was now feeling very sorry for herself. I could barely hear her repeating ‘I’m so sorry Master, I’m so sorry Master’ quietly, between the gasps, to no one but herself.
I stood, and she stiffened at the sound, obviously trying to be a proper slave now. Her apologia diminished into silence. “Did I hear a bell, Crybaby? Did you drop the bell?” My tone was hard. “Yes Master” She answered through her sobs. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Master, please forgive me, please, please, please…..’ Again more sobbing. I let her go on a bit before I let the hammer fall. “You full well understand what that means. Get over here NOW and get ready” My tone was ice and menace and disappointment. “And stop your sniveling you worthless creature. Save it for when the cane comes down.”
She left the wall and hurried over to me, eyes down as she got on all fours in the center of the room. She lowered herself onto her forearms and lifted her ass up into a plank position. I went to the closet and chose my favorite cane. “Once again you have disappointed me with your clumsiness, Crybaby.” I pulled up a low stool next to her. “The usual twenty strokes for that.” She whimpered. I struck her sharply across her upper things and a thin red line instantly appeared on her flesh. She cried out in surprise. There was no warm up, just the instant, searing pain. I continued. I took my time.
For the last three I had her raise her left foot in the air and caned her calves. Her whole body was trembling as the last one cut her. She was crying agin. I watched her for a long minute as she tried so hard to maintain the difficult pose, her pleading coming in waves between her heavy breathing; ‘I’m sorry master, I’m sorry, please, please, please…”, her arms and legs now vibrating with tension and effort. I calmly stroked my rock hard cock through my pants, my hips grinding a bit on the stool. I moaned in pleasure as my finger traced along its underside. Her suffering was getting me aroused again. She trembled violently.
I grabbed the harness between her shoulder blades as she collapsed and dragged her ninety-five pounds off the floor to a standing position. Sweat glistened on her flushed skin. Her face was swollen from sobbing and crying and her minimal eye-makeup was streaking artfully down her cheeks. This was a look I absolutely adored on her; the androgynous victim, the pushed-around boi-toy, the gender-bent house slave.
I slapped her sharply three times to get her attention and grabbed a handful of her short hair, turning her head up to mine. She gasped, eyes fearfully searching for some sign of mercy, some sign my menace would abate. The opposite was true. I spat in her face and pulled her to the sliding door leading to the back yard. She bent at the waist and stumbled trying to keep up, no time yet to wonder which of the many unpleasant pastimes awaited her outside.
I pulled her through he door and into the expansive well-kept yard. We live in a newish suburban development on the edge of town where the houses are big, the yards spacious and wooded. Ours was fenced all around and had plenty of privacy. We had neighbors on two sides but behind the back fence was farmland. In the back is a garden and a child’s play park left over from the original owner and a new red pre-fab shed. It was here that I headed, towing Crybaby quickly behind me by her hair, whistling as I strode. I really love making her miserable. She sniffled a bit but kept her tongue as she worked to keep up with my pace. I opened the shed door and stepped inside, leaving Crybaby to stand in the sun. She immediately adopted the ‘waiting’ pose; hands behind her neck and legs and knees parted, eyes down.
The shed was a small barn-like structure but finished inside with a few windows, a wood floor and a medium-height ceiling. It’s here that I keep all the outside bondage gear; metal and rubber collars and cuffs, chains, and various pet and horse-type equipment, all arranged on the wall. The rest of the space was mostly empty save for a heavy metal slave cage and some gear hanging from the beams. I grabbed some chain and her thick rubber posture collar and cuffs.
Outside I threw the cuffs to the ground and without a word she dropped to her knees and started putting them on. When she stood again I clipped a short chain between each wrist and a ring on the harness near her armpits. This way she was allowed some movement, but would need to bend over to do anything with her hands. I call it the ’T-Rex’. Lastly I put twelve inches of chain between her ankle cuffs to hobble her.
Crybaby had a forlorn look on her face as she watched me go back to the barn and come out with a child’s beach pail and shovel. The shovel was bright red and the pail had a jaunty sailboat painted around the side. When she saw them she let out a whine and shuffled in her bondage as if she wanted to escape. But there would be no escape for her. Ever. She introduced me to this lifestyle and now had only herself to blame for her slavery. “How about you play in the sandbox, Crybaby. I know how you love to do that.” She whimpered and shook her head no. I put the shovel in one of her hands and the pail in the other. “You can’t fool me Crybaby, I know you just love playing in the sandbox like a little boy.”
I guided her over to the sandbox by the children’s play park with it’s swings, playhouse and other brightly-colored amusements. The sandbox was ten feet square and bordered by a wooden plank. I led her to the edge and she gingerly stepped in, her chain dragging across the beam. “There you are Crybaby, ready for fun!” She looked at me like a wet cat, uncomfortable in every way. “I want you to dig a nice hole over here, and put the sand in the little wagon over there on the far side of the box.” She knew the drill, and I really didn’t have to explain it other than the pleasure it gave me to endlessly humiliate and infantilize her. “And don’t dawdle, I want you to have a nice hole you can kneel in finished in thirty minutes. Understand?” She nodded her head yes. “Ask me, then.” Crybaby sighed and looked at her feet. After a long pause she began to speak, not in her own voice but in a high pitch caricature of a little boy’s; “Can I dig a hole pwease? Pwease Master? I want to pway in the sandbox.” Her enthusiasm was a bit lacking but I let that go for now.
I stooped and picked up a handful of sand and rubbed the gritty sand over her face and scalp. She blubbered and waved her clipped arms ineffectually but avoiding crying so the sand wouldn’t get in her mouth. She spluttered and shook her head. I picked up another handful and pulled open her boy’s briefs, dropping the wet sand down the front, filling her up. She stamped a little and whined and tried to shake the sand loose. Lastly I pulled down my jogging shorts, exposing my cock and balls. Crybaby guessed what this meant and pouted a bit, shaking her head and making small whining noises, almost imperceptibly.
I pulled on my cock and stroked it a bit, enjoying the beginning buzz of arousal and the beautiful tableau of my bound boi slave. ‘Time for a drink, little one’ I earnestly informed her. Crybaby shook her head slightly and looked to the ground, shifting nervously from foot to foot, stalling. ‘Well look at this stubborn little boy! It makes me hungry to beat you. I haven’t had the snake whip out in a while I think I’ll go get it…’ I turned slightly and she blurted out ‘Pwease Sir, pwease!’ Dropping to her knees, she opened up her mouth wide and squinted her eyes closed, hands reflexively balling up as she physically prepared for the humiliating event. Saying nothing I turned back and relaxed. Quickly I was aiming a nice steady stream of piss up her chest and quickly into her open mouth. Piss splashed across her cute little face, soaking her hair at the edges and drained down her body into the sand where she knelt. ’Drink now!’ I barked and she began to swallow large gulps, trying to keep up with the flow. Crybaby knew from experience that less than enthusiastic ‘flushing’ would be very harshly rewarded. I must admit to loving this activity, as it gives me such great pleasure to make her miserable! I love to turn Crybaby into a degraded human urinal and do it as much as I can.
I finished and pulled up my pants. Her hair was matted across her scalp and against her face. Her shirt was almost completely soaked and her briefs were saturated with liquid still trickling-out down her legs. Crybaby was breathing a bit fast and sputtered a bit. ’OK little boy, you can play in the sand. I’ll be back in while to see how you are doing. Remember, deep enough to kneel in.” She pouted and nodded her head. I watched patiently as she struggled to get the first couple shovels full. Because of the short chain she had to bend to use the tool but had to be careful not to topple over. After she had the little pail full enough she walked on her knees over to the wagon, crying a bit because the sand was hard on her knees. She dumped the little pail into the cute Flyer wagon and knee-walked back gingerly to the beginnings of her hole. We both knew it would be slow going as the pail was small and she would spill some as she wobbled about. She’d never be done in thirty minutes and I’ll have a fun time punishing her, I thought. I returned to the house, whistling again, leaving a piss-soaked Crybaby to her pointless toil.