Suzi – my ass whore wife – ch 3 by AsDiane
Explore the tantalizing adventures in 'Suzi - My Ass Whore Wife - Ch 3 by AsDiane.' Dive into this steamy erotic sex story filled with passion, desire, and unexpected twists. Join Suzi as she explores her fantasies, leaving readers craving more. Perfect for fans of bold romance and adult fiction!<br/>
Tony explains why Suzi never speaks , Chapter 3
A couple of you guys who came up to Chicago to use my wife mentioned that she doesn’t talk much. You’re right. Completely correct. She doesn’t talk much because I don’t want her to. There are a couple of reasons and I want to tell you about them.
First off, she got nothing to talk about. What are us guys into? Beer, cars and guns, right? But, if I mention that I need my rotors turned or that some friend threw a rod, she immediately thinks it has something to do with sex. She doesn’t know a round from a bullet and she thinks that recoil is how you react if you’re afraid of guns. So there really isn’t a lot to talk about with her.
Second, she’s a fucking egghead. Well, she used to be anyway. Fucking brilliant, actually. She gave it up halfway through a full-scholarship Ph.D. in Anthropology. It’s actually a great story. As an undergrad, she switched from psych to sociology to anthropology because she got more and more interested in cross-cultural studies of gender patterns. I have no fucking idea what that means, John explained it to me once or twice before I gave up trying to understand. Anyhow, she spent two years in Asia living in small villages and watching how the men and women interacted and when she came home, she threw away all of her books, broke off with all of her friends and plunged herself into the nasty little underworld where I found her.
What she said she learned was that everything in Western society was bullshit. Women were put on earth to serve and service men. Period. John’s sure her upbringing had a lot to do with it, that she was primed to come to that conclusion from Day One. I don’t know. But I don’t really care. By the time I got her, she had forgotten just about everything she knew about independence and rebellion and had no goals at all other than to find a man and do everything she could to please him. I found her at just the right time.
When I told John all of this, he nearly jumped out of his seat. Now, John’s a pretty straightforward guy but he’s also a mother fucking MASTER at the mind fuck. He came up with a plan and I signed up for it immediately.
This was back in about February. It was devious, simple, and devastating. He explained that underneath all that quiet submission and sexual depravity there’s still a brilliant mind clicking away. And that someday she was going to see that our marriage was totally fucked up and that would be the end of that. He wanted to do something about that. To make her experience the conflict between her potential and the life she was living. To have to confront it every day. It would push her deeper down, she’d drown in her own shame, wallow in the degradation of becoming just a piece of fuck-meat while inside her head was all this high-grade intellect with nowhere to go. He said that would push some women into depression but that he knew enough about Suzi to guess that it would have the opposite effect – she’d turn her inventiveness and creativity into finding bigger and better ways to degrade herself. It was some kind of fucked up defense mechanism and he said she had it.
The way he started was that he mentioned to her that he’d found and read one of her papers and thought it was brilliant and would be perfect for a conference he was attending. She got excited and worked on it with him over the phone and email for two full weeks. She spent hours in the library, I let her miss shifts at work and even gave up a fuck-fest one Saturday when she said she was really “on”.
When the paper was finished, John drove up and the three of us went out for a very nice dinner. I took her shopping and let her pick out a new outfit, a set of matching underthings, and an expensive pair of shoes. She got her hair and nails done, I put on one of my nicer suits and the three of us spent three hours out in public, between dinner, dessert, and coffee.
When we got back to the house, John asked her to bring three glasses of wine into the living room while he prepared the forms to submit her paper for the conference. She was giddy and excited, ran into the kitchen and brought back glasses and one of our better reds.
Everything changed when she walked into the front room. John was standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a dirty, tattered undershirt. His legs were thin and pale, the blue veins visible under the thin skin. He still had his stockings on. She could see the thin hair on his belly and his limp dick hanging down, a shocking eight inches and thicker than she (or I!) would have ever guessed. But it was his balls that caught my eyes. Like two oversized plums hanging in a yellowish sack.
I walked to her and took the bottle and glasses out of her trembling hands. “Come over here, you stupid little cow,” John sneered. Suzi walked toward him, dazed and puzzled. “I really do love your work,” he said, reaching up to stroke her face. He held up a pocket knife, let it glisten in the light, then lowered it against my wife’s belly. “Much too good to have been written by an ass whore like you,” he said. With his left hand, he pulled at her skirt, then sliced into the fabric with the knife. She stood, trembling and sniffling as he sliced her clothes into thin ribbons, talking the whole time. “I’m going to give that paper to one of my grad students. He’s working in the same area. Did you really think I was going to let you go? Let you get on stage in front of all those normal people? Do you really think anyone would believe that an ass slut like you could produce a piece like that?” She was down to bra and panties now, the panties sliced in ribbons but the elastic still around her hips.
“And your draft? Your notes?” he said as he cut the straps and then sliced the cups out of her bra. “Shit. Worthless shit. Just like you.” He cut the elastic and the remaining pieces of my wife’s panties fell to the floor. She stood there, shoulders hunched, mascara streaking down her face, her titties hanging out of the holes he’d cut in the bra. They looked awkward and stupid and somehow made her look even more pathetic than I’d ever seen her before. John crouched down and ran the blade down the inside of each leg, peeling off her stockings like a banana skin. He finished by having her step out of the shoes, then stood back up. Without her heels on, he towered over her off and she slumped her back even further. He took her by the hand. “Come on,” he said.
John led her into the bathroom and handed her the finished paper. “Tear it up and throw it in the toilet,” he ordered. “Where it belongs.” She was sobbing now, tears streaming down her face, body shaking. She tore the pages crossways, then again and again until it was in little pieces, the paper fluttering down and floating on the water.
“Go on,” he said with an evil grin. “Squat down and do it.”
Suzi looked at him with terror in her eyes. “No, please, you don’t mean it…” I watched him standing there like a statue, not saying a word. She broke slowly but she broke. After a few minutes of dead silence, she lifted her right leg and straddled the toilet bowl, then squatted and put her hands over her face.