My Wife's Hospitality, Part One, by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

My wife Margot is the assistant general manager of an ultra-luxury hotel chain in the Orlando area. Due to the nature of her job, she usually works the weekend shift. I'm a police officer, so I take the weekend shift as well, which gives us Monday and Tuesday off.

One of my wife's favorite places to eat is Seasons 52, so we often have lunch there on Tuesdays. The meals are "light" (my svelte wife is always on a diet) but I don't mind as across the parking lot is a Slave Smart, a big box store that offers slaves, slave training, merchandise, and pretty much anything that associated with slavery.

Margot does Slave Yoga to keep in tip-top shape, claiming there's no better conditioning. I think there's more to it than keeping fit, as she seemed fascinated and aroused by the fantasy of being a slave. She always wants to go see the "new stock" at Slave Mart whenever we eat lunch together on Tuesdays. Again, I don't mind, as browsing through a collection of naked women isn't the worst way to spend an afternoon, especially since it leads to deliciously hot sex at home, with Margot shedding her persona as an uptight, in control manager to play the part of a hot, submissive slave girl. She even had a fake collar that she loves to have me put around her neck when we play!

In truth, I enjoy her sexual submission. As someone “in charge” all day, she sometimes treated me, as a uniformed officer, like I was one of her security guards. Slave girl nights really restored balance to our relationship, as we both satisfy deep felt needs.

Slave Smart has a cement shower area on the side of the store where the slaves can take advantage of the sunny Orlando weather to “freshen up.” It also serves as a draw for Slave Smart and the entire mall area, proving that Mickey Mouse and Harry Potter aren’t the only ones who know how to attract a crowd. Every hour Slave Smart takes about 20-30 of the more well trained slave girls outside for a 15-minute shower.

If you don't think of showering as a spectator sport, you've never been to Slave Smart, which offers wood bench, bleacher seating for about 100 “guests”. Margot certainly enjoys the show, and has gotten into the habit of buying herself a little bowl of slave kibble or some bitter, black slave candy in the store, and then plunking herself down in a front row seat to watch the girls scrub down. (Margot admits the slave “treats” don’t taste good, but claims it's extremely nutritious and low calorie). As for the girls, she claims to admire them “mostly on aesthetic level, and for their fitness, although if you bought us a slave, it wouldn’t be my first girlfriend.”

Wowzer. The things a fella learns when he takes his wife to the slave market.

The showers themselves are nothing special, similar in design to the sort of gang shower one might find in a mid 20th century high school. They are a row of industrial water pipes jutting out from the building, 10 feet high, and extending out about 12 feet, with holes punched in the bottom for the water to fall through. There a several free-standing soap dispensers. While the girls can't control the flow or temperature of the water falling on them, they can control how much soap they use. The soap contains a strong delousing agent, which we can smell from the bleachers. Margot always jokes that after watching a shower she doesn't have to "worry about Florida mosquitos for 3 days."

For the slave girls, shower time is fun time, with the girls laughing and splashing and chatting with one another. There is a noticeable contrast between the girl in the back, who shower, and the “performers” toward the point, who make a point of showing themselves to the crowd.

There is also the occasional butt grab and lesbian kiss, and a lot of pussy rubbing, although the time limit and the watching slave mongers make sure nothing gets too hot-and-heavy. The mongers actually have long cattle prods, which can shock any wet girl who is also close to whomever is being punished. They also have the options of delivering a sudden shock to all the girls at once through their slave collars, although again, the showers are usually slave girl giggle fests.

Tuesday afternoons after lunch are slow, and they often have more girls showering than spectators. From time to time, we'll run into someone we know, like the handyman who does odd jobs for us, or a neighbor. Ajay, the Indian guy who works the night shift at our convenience store, is a regular, and he often sits with us and chats up Margot.

AJ has a crush on Margot. Most guys do. 5’6, with shoulder length blonde hair, and the hint of an Australian accent, my wife is as irresistible as she is charming. At least that’s true if you’re a guest. If you an employee, or her spouse, be prepared to deal with a demanding and unforgiving taskmaster.

At Slave Mart, Margot is in relaxed and friendly mode. If she spots someone she knows, she always waves and says hello, making it clear that "enjoying the show", as she puts it, is nothing to be embarrassed about. As she always tells people, we’re all there to have “good, clean, soapy fun.”

Margot shows little sympathy for the naked slave girls, who, in her view, “are doing their job.” Again, once you’re under her control, you can expect no mercy, and slave girls are no different than anyone else.

Margot is always amused when she sees a guest from her hotel, and will discretely point them out to me.

"That's Jacob Andrews. He's staying in through Friday, and asked me where he might rent a slave girl. I'm not surprised to see him here."

“Recognize him? He golfs here in the winter, and stays at our hotel whenever he’s in town. He keeps the glasses and baseball cap on so he doesn’t have to give autographs.”

“Those three are staying with me this week. They’re here for an OPEC meeting.”

Margot doesn’t identify herself to the guests. They never recognize her, as dressed casually, with her hair in a ponytail, and her glasses in her purse, she truly looks – and acts – like a different person.

In her work at the hotel, Margot has actually done quite a bit of work with Slave Mart, and her hotel is considered a valued customer. It’s not unusual for a visiting billionaire, royalty, or movie star to discretely request a very particular type of entertainment from the conciergerie, who routes all such requests through my wife or the senior manager on duty. Ever the stickler for detail, Margot goes through every slave registration to make sure that Slave Mart only sends her the very best.

Once or twice, Margot has mixed business with pleasure, and has “talent scouted” a girl for an upcoming engagement. However, she never identifies herself to management when she is there, and on her day off is never recognized by the Slave Mart staff as the dragon lady in the gray business suit who demands only the very best.

Over time, we’ve made friends in our Tuesday group. Sometimes we'll sit with one of "the regulars", sometimes not. Margot enjoys discussing the girl's attributes with me, or of the regulars.

“I like her pokies. I’m glad they keep the water cool.”

“Nice core. Her butt can use a little work.”

“I got a movie star coming in on Tuesday who’s going to love the skinny one washing the other girl’s back.”

Margot’s always particularly amused with girls who show off, and masturbate themselves or spread themselves open for the amusement of the mostly male onlookers.

“I really envy those girls, sometimes,” she said, out of nowhere.

“Why on earth would a successful professional on her way up the ladder envy a naked slave girl?”

“I spend 10 minutes staring in the mirror every morning, checking my hair, my nails, my makeup. Look at them, laughing under the water. Not a care in the world. No worries, no responsibilities…”

“No clothes…”

Margo disagreed. “Freedom. That’s what they represent to me. Absolute freedom.”

In her day job running a $750 a room hotel, Margot frets about everything from soft pillows and sheets to the scent in the hallways. I understood why playing at being a naked Pleasure Slut had such allure, as it allowed her to shed the fastidious uptightness her job demanded.

I was still pondering the Orwellian ramification of slavery as the ultimate form of freedom when Margot changed the subject back to more familiar terrain.

"Do you like the redhead on the end?" she'll ask.

"She's okay, but a little skinny."

"Not fuckable?" she teased.

"They're all fuckable, my dear."

"As fuckable as me?" she said.

"No, you're better than all of them," I said, knowing my wife's competitiveness.

"I mean it," she said, punching my arm. "Which ones are hotter than me?”

"I don't know," I said. "I'd have to see you together, side-by-side, to make a real comparison."

There was a pregnant pause, as Margot mulled this over.

"You mean...showering?" she said, surprised. "With everyone watching?"

"Yup. With everyone watching,” I said with a smirk.

Margot actually blushed, obviously imagining herself in the slave gaggle. I laughed, pleased to have knocked my uber professional, self-confident wife back on her heels with my outrageous suggestion. But it was her next comment that really threw me for a loop.

“Can you imagine that? Me, showering naked, in front of EVERYONE? Imagine.”

I watched her, lost in thought, a little smile on her face. I wondered what she was thinking.

A week later, I found out.

The next week my wife, saying it was "too hot outside", suggested we go indoors, and watch the slave monger take the girls out of their cages for their showers. It was a peculiar request, but she insisted, and Margot always gets her way.

Arriving at the interior side entrance, she fanned herself. "Boy, it's so HOT today," my wife said. "I almost envy those girls their shower."

“It’s air conditioned in here,” I said, confused.

“I mean outside, silly. I feel so hot and sticky, from walking all the way from the restaurant. I’d love a shower right now.”

Sensing where this might be going, I took the bait. "A shower would feel good today," I allowed. "Why don't you join them?"

My wife smirked at me, letting the challenge hang in the air before she responded. "I would, if they'd let me."

I stared at her, daring her. She smiled back. “Time to give up control,” she said quietly.

She pointed out a slave monger, a pudgy, pimply faced guy in green coveralls and thick plastic glasses.

“I know that one,” she said, pointing him out.

“Yeah, I know him, too. You’re always busting his balls to bring you water when we’re outside.”

“No, dummy, from the hotel. He does deliveries and pickups sometimes. His name is Perkins, although I call him Porkins, for obvious reasons. I complained about him once, because the slave girls were arriving filled with his spunk.”

I wondered how my wife knew the girls were arriving pre-used, but decided not to ask, and focus on the matter at hand. Walking over to the pudgy wrangler, I checked his name tag. PERKINS it was.

"My wife's hot," I said. "Would you mind if she took a shower with the girls?", I asked, pointing at Margot with a tilt of my head.

The tubby slave monger did a double take, struggling to process what I was saying. He looked over at my wife, who was nervously chewing her lip as Perkins put her through a quick visual inspection.

Margot was wearing a short orange sun dress, leather sandals, and was carrying an over the shoulder “bucket bag”. I don’t think it was a coincidence that her sun dress was cut a bit like a slave toga, and she looked quite fetching in it.

As we are there every Tuesday, Captain Coveralls recognized my wife. She often asked him very detailed questions about the individual girls in the showers, and questions about the water temperature, and what delousing agent was used.

Why did it stink so much? Did it burn?

He never knew the answers, and she’d roll her eyes at him. Margot also asked him to fetch her a complimentary bottle of water or an umbrella while she sat in the bleachers, which I could tell annoyed him.

Perkins didn’t seem annoyed now, but licked his lips as he looked Margot up and down.

“She’ll have to strip EVERYTHING off”, he said, smiling broadly at the blushing woman standing no more than ten feet away. “No jewelry, no nothing. Birthday bare!”

He was leering at Margot, and talking loudly enough for her to hear. Margot looked quite embarrassed to be examined like a bug under microscope by this teenager, whom she had always treated like a bagboy. But without waiting to be told, she slipped off her necklace, wedding ring, and charm bracelet and dropped them in the large bucket bag.

Perkins let out a soft whistle as Margot pulled the sun dress over her head. Yes, Perkins saw gorgeous, naked women all day, but there’s a special pleasure in stripping down the girl next door. The thrill of seeing a blush girl get slave naked for the first time never gets old.

Looking nervously over her shoulder, she experienced the odd sensation of the slave girls watching HER. A few looked suspicious, others perplexed. A few smiled knowingly.

The tubby teenager enjoyed watching Margot hop on one foot as she took off one sandal then the other.

“The floor is cold,” she said.

“The cement’s warm outside,” he replied. “Cuz’ of the sun.” Talk about cold comfort.

Clearly relishing his authority over the bitchy customer, he clapped his hands together three times, loudly and impatiently. “Come on, hurry up. Titty holder and pussy pouch, in the bag. You’re putting me behind schedule.”

It was too delicious. The tables had been turned, and my punctual wife was now being ordered to stay on schedule by a teenager who looked like he was dressed for a job at a carwash.

She looked at me. I smiled and shrugged. After all, this had been HER idea.

Moving quickly, Margot shrugged off her bra and dropped her panties in the brown leather bucket bag. Now, with the unwanted impediment of clothes removed, she raised her hands, palms up, as if she were carrying a wide basket over her head, and hop-hop-hopped in a tiny, tight circle, showing Perkins and I everything she had.

As Margot turned, I took full advantage of the opportunity to marvel at her perfect body. To my surprise, Margot had saved herself bare. Although this was an unexpected development, it made perfect sense. Margot isn’t a natural blonde, and at slave markets it’s usually only natural blondes or redheads who are allowed to keep even a landing strip. Shaved smooth, her bald beaver stuck out prominently, as sort of a permanent camel toe. She had always kept her bush, because she hated that look. But if she wanted to play slave girl, such decisions were no longer hers.

Hands still raised, she bit her lip and even blushed a little as I stared at her bald beaver. Delightful.
“Howzat?” she asked, nervously seeking my approval. It was a cricket term, an appeal to the judge to see if a player was out. Appropriate, as in her present state Margot was very appealing.

As she desired an official ruling, I approached question judiciously. Staring directly at her naked pussy, I moved in for a closer look. “It makes you look younger,” I observed. “Too bad you don’t have a natural rug to sell, as it’d fetch more coin, but I’d say, overall, I’d say the little snapper looks white, tight, and block ready.”

“What do mean, block ready?” she asked, her voice quivering.

Ignoring her, I gave Perkins my verdict. “We got a slave girl who’s putting us behind schedule,” I said, grinning.

His permission slip signed, the fat troll descended on her. Grabbing her by the ear, he turned her around and delivered two crisp SPANKS across her naked backside.

“Time to join your sisters for a little scrub-a-dub-dub. Come on, bitches, into the showers!”

The slave girls, not needing to be told twice, piled through the crash door and into the brilliant Florida sunshine of the parking lot. Margot’s, crowded in with the other girls, quickly disappeared as dozens of naked, giggling girls all squeezed through the door at once.

The door closed behind them. Margot was outside now. We hadn’t bothered to check who was in the bleachers today, not that it mattered. Margot was stark naked, and whomever was there, she’d be showering for. It might be our friends, our neighbors, or the guests at her hotel. It did not matter. Margot would be showering in front of anyone who cared to drop by for a free pussy show.

The door Margot had walked through was alarmed, and one of the other slave mongers had to call on his handheld to get security to flip the green light so the door could be opened without all hell breaking loose. The light was red now, which meant it was no longer available for anything short of the building burning down.

Picking up the bucket bag containing Margot’s clothing, shoes, and ID, I turned and began to walk the long way around, through the building and toward the main entrance.

It was nice outside, only about 85, so I enjoyed the long walk back to Seasons 52 and our car. I smiled as I locked the bag with all her clothes in the trunk, picturing my gorgeous wife, showering with dozens of other slave girls, naked for all the world to see. No doubt she’d be wondering where I was, and where her clothes were. Let her wonder.

I got in line at the Starbucks in the lobby of Slave Smart, amusing myself as I thought of my control freak wife’s mounting panic as she wondered where I was. I didn’t know who was watching her, but I did know two things: she was taking a shower, and no matter how cool the water was, Margot was sweating it out.

[jeepster]

My god! You did it again! Turn the bossy woman into a naked slave girl with her acceptance. Love it and can't wait for the next chapter!

[dtrelsky]

All of these new stories are great! I'm looking forward to what Margot's husband has planned for her after her "fifteen minutes" are up and she still has no clothes!

[Mr. Smith]

The shower scene in the story reminded me of some of the mailgirl stories that I have read. Wouldn't most large businesses have slave mailgirls? Just a thought. I could also see how some businesses would like to employ free women as mailgirls for the thrill of it. I mean any company can have slave mailgirls but we have free women choosing to run around our business as naked mailgirls. Maybe they have FINOs for work so they can be used sexually but it is treated like a 8:00 am to 5:00 pm job. At the end of the day they go home to their husbands, boyfriends, or families just like any other employee. Could being a "free" mailgirl actually be the start down the yellow brick road to a collar?

[lovethissite]

Joe: Just read the story again. This really was a great start to the series i forgot how it started. Margot really had her hubby whipped and after reading all the future chapters she deserves what she gets. Thanks Joe for another great series.