Hi Everyone!
Highlighting a favorite of mine today–Trophy Wife Initiative! This is a fully-completed series of three independent-but-interconnected stories (30,000 words total), each installment displaying a different kind of feminine submission to total masculine power. The short sell is–every virile man in the country is assigned his own personal trophy wife, who lives for his pleasure and aches to be bred.
Blurb:
“Just one wife? For a man like you? But you deserve so many…”
When the new Party took power, as promised, it assigned each home a new Trophy Wife, canceling old marriages to encourage breeding.
These Trophy Wives are gorgeous. They’re obedient. They’re seductive, sensuous, and sensational. They love the Party, and they want their man to love it too. To foster this love, they’re totally obsessed with giving their new husbands all the pleasure they deserve. Bad, frigid wives are put in their place, heiresses learn to respect the man of the house, and homewreckers learn the consequence of their actions in these hot tales.
WARNING: These hot tales feature gorgeous women celebrating their role as caretakers of the home by lavishing their husbands with erotic attention, including demeaning his old, inferior wife and gathering up new beautiful women for him to mate with, never once using any protection!
The First 1000-ish Words:
I love my wife.
Honestly, I do. That’s part of what makes today so fucking difficult.
We’re standing at the door, together, hand in hand. Our house is small, but in the years since we’ve bought it, we’ve done our best to make it our own. We added a garden with a lovely stone walkway, and installed a new kitchen with marble tiles, and in this entryway that we stand in now we’ve put in beautiful wide-panel wood flooring that we spent months picking out. The sunlight that comes in from the window over the door shines brighter now, reflecting off the glossy varnish of the floor, and even with the lights off, in early morning, our house is sunny and welcoming.
Paying for the upgrades was difficult at first, after the Protection Act made it illegal for women to hold jobs outside of low-salary, gendered positions like secretaries, nurses, and teachers; but then there was the Equality Act that raised male pay across the board by fifty percent, so things evened out a bit. That a lot of that extra money is built off the backs of women forced into indentured servitude positions at government buildings is something I try not to think too much about.
Joan, my wife, wanted to close all the windows. Lock the doors. Take off; maybe leave the country.
I said, Honey, they’ll lock us up.
They’re going to turn me into a slave!
You know I won’t let that happen. Let’s just take this…thing for a day or two and then try to start sending her back. Tell them it’s not working out.
Everyone we know has one and it’s “working out.” The new wives are pregnant inside a week! You’re not even supposed to know you’re pregnant for like a month, and somehow—
Then she was too upset and had to sit and gather her thoughts. She doesn’t do well with being upset; her heart beats too fast and her vocal chords close up. Her adrenaline shuts down her brain; a lot of panic reactions to very basic things. It’s something we’ve had to account for, especially now when so much of society panics her.
Joan is a lovely woman. Brunette, blue-eyed, and with an easy wonderful smile when she bothers to show it. She’s put on a few pounds over the years, but who hasn’t? We’re nearing middle-age together and we eat plenty healthy and do some vigorous erotic cardio a couple of times a month.
She’s also never been able to give us a child, despite us trying. That means we’re at the forefront of the Party’s efforts to boost the population.
I tried to dress up a little for this event, a button-up shirt and tie and suit trousers; Joan dressed down: sweats and sneakers. She refuses to see how important it is to just play along, to not be noticed by these sexist maniacs in charge of things.
We hear the car drive up, and then the engine stopping. There’s a shuffling of car doors and equipment being unpacked. Joan’s hand on mine is a death grip, otherwise I’d peek out the window. Maybe greet the new girl outside.
Why be a snob, why be an asshole? She’s probably just as unhappy about this as we are. Why would anyone want to dissolve our marriage?
Finally, the knock. It’s delicate, yet firm. A patient ringing of the doorbell one time. So far, it’s playing out just like the video they sent us to prepare us—Joan says “to indoctrinate us”—for the arrival; I can imagine the perfectly manicured nail pressing just so on our ringer.
I move to answer the door, and Joan tugs me back.
“Don’t,” says Joan. “Please.”
She’s been crying a lot and it shows. Her hair is a mess. Puffy face. No make-up.
“We have to,” I say. “You know we have to.”
She’s holding back tears, again, but she nods.
Outside, Ingrid waits patiently and attentively. She’s wearing the standard Trophy Wife Initiative outfit; the one they show you in all the billboards and political ads. A bright white dress with tall, tall red heels. The dress is strapless, held together with frilly sheer shoulder-sleeves, and hugs tightly to her substantial breasts.
Her cleavage on full display; her clavicles shining and prominent, like arrows pointing down to the mind-boggling, gravity-defying globes of her tits nearly popping out of her tiny dress. Legs that go on until the next election, polished and shiny and inviting like the rest of her. Her hair is golden and blonde, framing her face just so and draping down to the halfway point of her back. Every minute movement she makes encourages her hair to shimmer, like visual wind chimes.
Bright, happy, obedient, vibrant blue eyes stare possessively at me. She holds a small custom-made purse at her waist, drawing her shoulders together and of course making her posture all the more invitational.
She is clearly young—the profile they sent ahead of time let me know she was eighteen. And her youth—her gorgeous, mature, knowing youth fucks me up straightaway. So much of her life ahead of her and all of it devoted to me. One cannot help but compare her youthful vibrant beauty and the dour, sour, pissy, doughy appearance of Joan.
Fuck.
She’s like every crush of every celebrity or supermodel I’ve ever wanted, all rolled into one amazing, bright-eyed package, staring at me with all the adoration of a long-lost love. Like she’s written me one hundred and forty-four sonnets a day for eighteen years and now she’s finally face-to-face with me. Confidence oozes from her, but also wanton lust. Arrogance, but also whimpering submissiveness.
Fuck.
I nearly say it out loud. I want to. Right away, Ingrid makes me want to do things. But Joan is right there, and I love my wife—even if she’s not technically my wife anymore and the only way I could get them to let her stay in my home was by filling out a fifty-page application for her to become my domestic servant—and I can’t embarrass her like that.
“Oh, darling,” says Ingrid. “I’m so happy to see you. May I please come in?”
Her voice is so svelte and smooth and sweet…
Like what you see? Find the rest here!
