Gimme More, Short Series, Part one of five
Wife Imprisonment #1: Crazy for You
I got so drunk and let some bugger chat me up. I could only see red before my eyes — crazy red…
Redemption Magazine is full of transgressive fiction. This story is no different, it is lewd and violent in places. You have been warned.
My husband, Digger Smith, has always said women go crazy at times because of their hormones, and I was no exception. I knew it was true. A week before the bleeding, my head was fit to burst with maddening thoughts swirling through my mind. Of course, during an episode, I felt quite rational. It wasn’t until a few days later that I could see I’d behaved badly; harbouring paranoid thoughts.
One day he came home from the tarmac company where he worked and I glanced at him from across the room. I felt unnecessarily suspicious. Was that red lipstick on the front of his T-shirt?
“Nah, Gill, it’s bloody ketchup. Eat sausage and chips down the Duck for lunch. So, don’t get a cob on and go into one.”
But I always did. On this particular occasion I jumped in the car, effing and blinding, and took myself off to the local. When I say local, I mean it was the closest pub to us. We lived in the sticks; a tiny cottage on the edge of a farming village. The nearest bar was a good three miles away.
I got so drunk and let some bugger chat me up. I could only see red before my eyes — crazy red. So, I didn’t object when he dragged me out to the back alleyway and bent me over someone’s garden wall. Then, yanking down my knickers, he rammed me for a couple of minutes. It was raw, hot and quick. When he pulled out, I realised he’d not put a jacket on.
Damn.
I took the pill — certainly didn’t want kids, but I also didn’t need an STD. I’d behaved irrationally and wasn’t proud.
Leaving the Volvo in the car park — couldn’t risk the police pulling me over — I began the hike home. I kept trying to put it all out of my mind; what I’d just done. But that was difficult to do with the bloke’s jizz dripping down my leg as I walked.
Back at the cottage, Digger smelled the semen on me. Smacked my face so hard I had a black eye for over a week. Good job I was drunk, as I didn’t resist the force of the whack and fell in a heap on the floor.
He’s a crazy bastard.
The next day I was in agony, but I suppose I deserved it for pushing him so far. I mean, he’d always slapped me around a little. A shove here and there, but never hard enough to leave a mark.
After that, he went quiet on me for nearly a month and spent a lot of time in the spare room. I could tell he was up to something. I hoped he was working on one of his projects.
He often acquired an obsession about something or someone. Last year, he set up a camera focused on the gate, convinced the postman was trampling on the flowerbeds.
I didn’t want us to split because of what I’d done. It meant nothing to me and besides, when the hormones were not giving us grief, we were good together. I’d always fancied him like mad. When we first met, I couldn’t resist his super cute grin.
After about a month of being quiet, he suggested we have a special night in together. Wine, good food — he would cook.
I put on a figure-hugging dress that complimented my voluptuous curves.
I noticed he seemed to be filling my glass more frequently than his, but I thought he was simply being generous; spoiling me to say sorry for dishing out the silent treatment. I’m not one to turn down another glass of anything really, so after dinner I promptly sat down on the sofa, drunk again, and fell into a deep sleep.
Vaguely, I remember Digger carrying me to bed. Well, I thought that’s where he put me. I was comfortable and didn’t even open my eyes.
The next morning, I couldn’t believe what I saw… Where I was… The spare room…
In a fucking cage!
I looked around; trying to compute what was going on and figure out my surrounds.
Square bars. Sized about ten foot by twelve. Small bed on one side. A Portaloo in the corner. Table with an office chair at the back. Not only that, I had a collar round my neck with a chain. The end was attached to a ring soldered onto one of the bars of the cage.
I tried the door, but the padlock was secured. Shutting my eyes, I shook my head in disbelief. I opened them to the same sight.
Yes... I was right the first time. I was imprisoned in a cage.
I nervously began to laugh. Surely this had to be a joke? When I shouted out to him, he immediately appeared.
“Woken up, have ya?”
“Yeah, come on, Digger. Let me out. What’s going on?”
“This is about you being a cheating, crazy slut. From now on, you stay in here. Can’t get into any trouble that way. You’re my bitch. I married you, and I’m going to start taking care of you properly. I should be the centre of your world — nobody else. So, think on that while I go to work.”
He walked out, slamming the door. I started shaking the bars like some looned babe from a movie.
But he was gone. No one would hear me.
I laid down; head throbbing from a hangover, and noticed he’d left some juice and a sandwich on the table. There wasn’t any workmates to miss me as I was between jobs. There was nothing for it.
I had a nap and then ate my lunch.
When Digger came back, he showered and opened the cage door. I started yelling at him hysterically, demanding he unlock the chain from my collar.
“You can’t do this to me! Bloody lunatic!” I screeched, lashing out at him. My nail caught his face and immediately he retaliated.
His fist met my lip, and feeling the warmth of trickling blood, I fell back on the bed. He came over, grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulled out his cock and shoved it down my throat, paying no mind to my split lip.
He was hard; excited from the sight of the red stuff and the fact I was his captive. It only took a few jerks before a warm jet of fluid filled my mouth. His cum mingled with my blood. He explained I’d get another black eye if I didn’t swallow the lot.
Nearly gagging on the sterile, bitter taste; tears staining my cheeks, I looked up to him smirking down at me.
“Now, that’s why a man has a wife. Sleep well, Mrs. Smith.”
With a clink of the key in the lock, he was gone.
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