“So.” Cora clapped her hands excitedly, clearly arriving at the subject she most wanted to talk about. The motion made her tits bounce invitingly. “Who’s doing your hair? Raquel? She’s lovely.”
“Raquel?”
Cora smiled and then giggled. “I mean, you did get your appointment, didn’t you?”
“I was just going to wear my hair like this, more or less. My appointment where?”
In the past, Jasmine had talked with beautiful women like Cora who had scoffed or rolled their eyes when Jasmine said she wasn’t going to do much to get ready for a party. Instead, though, Cora looked at Jasmine with true pity in her eyes. Somehow, that was even worse.
“The Happy Hair Salon, of course. You really didn’t schedule an appointment?”
“Well.” Jasmine felt defensive now. “No, of course I didn’t. I only just got here...” she stopped to consider. The time, for some reason, was a little fuzzy.”...like a week ago. Was there some packet I was supposed to get, telling me where to go?”
“Yes, dear. You didn’t...oh my.” Cora put a hand to her mouth. Her lips were permanently glossy and wet. “You didn’t get it. This is embarrassing.” Rather than embarrassed, though, she just looked turned on and beautiful. It seemed to be her natural state. “I’ll let Evelyn know right away. She'll take care of you.”
Cora placed her hands around Jasmine's. The feeling was warm, but not unwelcome. With the touch brought the sight of Cora's expansive cleavage, the golden locks of her hair framing her breast flesh just so. Smiling nervously, Jasmine withdrew.
“So what’s this salon? Just a place to get your hair done? Is it really that necessary?”
“Oh yes, my dear. You simply must go. Here.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a card. “They owe me a favor. Call them and tell them Cora's cashing in, won't you? And they'll see you today.”
* * * * *
After Jasmine left the house, it was still early in the afternoon, and so Cora turned up the radio and began fluttering about the house, dusting and wiping. In only a few minutes, Hank would be home from work—as an electrician, his shift began early in the morning and ended in the early afternoon—and he liked having the house look perfect for him. She already had a roast cooking in the oven, and in the freezer was a special ice cream dessert from Evelyn’s Delicatessen.
Evelyn was really something. So independent and strong, and so incredibly capable as a chef and baker. And so beautiful, too. A real classic beauty, with long blond hair—much like Cora's—and a brilliantly busty body. Her tits were perhaps the biggest, most rapturously perfect set in the entire town of Passion Heights. Cora herself possessed quite a hefty pair, but they were dwarfed in comparison to the mammoth mammaries that Evelyn sported.
What was a bit strange was that she was, as far as Cora could tell, the only single woman in the entirety of Passion Heights even with all that sumptuous tit flesh (and an otherwise knock-out body to boot). That didn't seem to stop her fervor for serving men, though. Every time Cora visited the Delicatessen with Hank, she took Hank aside for some private tastings of her latest recipes. Hank would walk out, milk dripping down his face, a blank happy look on his face.
What a lovely woman.
Evelyn promised earlier that day, when Cora had been shopping, that she gave the spirited young blonde her very best dessert. She had even let Cora sample a cup of the ice cream—it tasted like strawberries and cream—and didn’t mind in the slightest when, moments after finishing off the delicious treat, Cora had to run to the bathroom and finger herself to a loud, whimpering orgasmic frenzy. The ice cream may have been cold, but all it inspired in Cora was pure, primal heat. Evelyn waited just outside the door until Cora exited, licking up a spoon from a bowl of her special cream.
“Was it good, honey? You’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you? It’s so important for a woman to tell another woman if she’s not pleasing correctly.”
Every thought dim, every sensation doubled, Cora could do nothing but agree. It was so nice for a woman to agree. Of course she would have told Evelyn if something was wrong with the ice cream. Nothing was. She bought four quarts, and asked for sixteen more as soon as she could get them, using her husband’s hard-earned cash.
Cora had no money of her own anymore. She was just a wife, after all. It wasn’t proper for a wife to have her own money.
A thought struck her. Perhaps she should take some of the ice cream over to Betty? A nice little welcoming gift. They would love it, she knew already. God, it must have been so difficult, moving like that across the country like they had.
A pang of empathy struck Cora. Hadn’t she moved from across the country to get here? Hadn't she had some...some job? She stopped for a moment, leaning against the doorway into the kitchen, her forehead pressing into her perfectly manicured fingertips. That she had moved to Passion Heights from somewhere was a certainty. But from where...it was lost.
The garage was almost as clean as the rest of the house. That bit of “almost” nagged at Cora. She wanted to fix it as soon as possible. Hank might start to think she didn’t love him if she left a part of the house unkempt. And so, as she tidied, she worked her way into the practically spotless garage. The concrete was polished, clean enough to eat off of. Every tool was neatly arranged and polished to shine. Nearly every box—all of them located in one corner—was absolutely sorted.
There was one box in particular that she hadn’t yet sorted. Something kept her away from touching it. Hadn’t Hank told her he would straighten it out for her? But that didn’t make sense. Hank was a man. It wasn’t his job to straighten anything in the house.
The click of her heels echoed as she approached the box. She took a few moments to look inside, carefully pulling open the tape and peering within.
Right on top was a framed picture. It depicted Cora in a gown of some kind. A very unwomanly gown, in fact. It was blue, and she wore a strange little square blue cap with a tassel to one side. She had some sort of document in her hand.
She looked...different. Her hair was short and dark. Her lips not the glossy, hot pink that she favored, but seemingly untouched by any lipstick at all. No make up. And she was holding some manner of law degree in her hands. Did she have a law degree? When had that happened?
Why would she need to know anything about law? The only degrees she was really interested in were the ones on her oven.
She struggled to think back, but her earliest memory was of her pretty, perfect, pouty pink lips wrapped around her husband’s cock in his car. He was calling her a good girl, and that was how she had learned that she could cum just from the taste of a good man’s cock and the right words.
Outside, she heard Hank’s car as he rolled up the drive. Her thoughts felt fuzzy and blank. She closed her eyes, trying to think, trying to remember...
Deep inside the house, the radio blared static as loud as it ever had, the sounds drifting hard into the garage.
Opening her eyes, she found that somehow, she was in the entry way. The picture was still in her hands. She hadn’t remembered coming here. Why was she...?
The door opened—Hank strolled in, smiling amiably.
Of course. Because she was a good wife, and she was supposed to greet her Man at the door.
“Hey babe.”
He handed her his suitcase and jacket, and she dutifully put them away in the hallway closet, carefully keeping the picture in her hands.
“What’s that?” he pointed.
“I was just...I found this. In the garage.” She struggled, feeling like she had disobeyed him wildly. Her heart thumped with panic. “I...I think it’s me?”
“Let me see it.”
Something told her to stop. No—no! Don’t give it to him! Don’t give it away!
But he was a man. He was her Man. She had to submit. That was what was right. That was simply what a Wife did for her Husband.
Hank looked at the picture and frowned intently.
“I told you I'd tak
e care of that box,” he said, tone full of reproach.
Her heart sank. She had displeased him. Displeased her man. In a few moments, he had tossed the picture into the trash, where she knew she couldn’t touch it ever again, and then dragged her into the kitchen in front of the oven where his dinner waited.
“I-I-I’m sorry, Husband, I really am, I—”
“Shush.”
Immediately, Cora quieted. He took out his cock. Right away, Cora dropped to her knees. Instinct. This was where a woman belonged when her Man had his cock out. Saliva coated her tongue and then her lips, a soft dollop of drool coming to rest on her chin.
“Why don’t you just suck me off, dear?”
“Oh. It’s just...I would, but, I feel...rather confused right now? May I...”
His cock rubbed against one smooth, lovely cheek. Cora’s body melted. There were pieces of resistance she didn’t even know she had, aware of them now only because they melted away.
“We’ve talked about you talking like that, haven’t we, dear?”
His cock floated against her cheek again. Thick, heavy precum slid down her neck and into her dress. It was so warm. The scent so incredibly compelling. His excretions were thick and dense, like syrup.
“Y-yes, Husband. I’m sorry. It’s just...”
“I think I’m hurt by that sentiment, Cora.” He shook his head. “I think you've done me a great disservice by speaking that way to me.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” She wrung her hands. “P-please, let me make it up to you?”
His cock spurted against her hair, weighing it down with a shot of his intense goo.
“I'm going to teach you how to obey me, Cora,” he said solemnly. The back of her head was against the cabinet.
She nodded urgently. She needed to be taught. She knew that she did. His voice was choked now, stifled with arousal. She had done that to him. Her big, proud titties. Her banging body. Her pouty, soft lips and angel face. Pride and sympathy rose up in her at the same time. Proud of her effects; sympathy for leaving her Man with such a big, big problem.
Finally, mercifully, he allowed her lips to slip over the head of his cock. She took him in with urgent need, loving the feel of his magnificent cock sliding down into her wet, warm throat. Right away, she came, like a good girl—letting her know that she was forgiven after all. She knew for a fact that no wife could ever come without her husband's expressed approval. So he must have forgiven her.
Her head bounced gently against the cabinet behind her as their roles shifted—she sucked less and he fucked her face more. She became docile and willing, allowing herself to operate as simply a moist, living hole for her darling husband to fuck at will.
He wasn't going to last very long. The poor dear almost never did after a long day at work. Other men took liberties with the many Castle Maids employed at the offices; Hank bragged that Cora was so smoking hot he only fucked one in the morning. Her heart swelled with pride.
Hank's cock swelled in her mouth. He was going to cum soon. She moaned with encouragement, aching to feel the hot spray fill her tummy. Grunting, balls slapping against her chin, Hank was only too happy to oblige her. He spasmed and thrust a final time, shoving Cora's head hard against the cabinet. She felt no pain. Only pleasure, the truest pleasure a woman could know—that of a job well done.
His cock slipped out from her mouth with a gentle pop. His heavy strands of cum dripped down her chin as she gasped and moaned, staring worshipfully up at her Man.
The oven dinged. She coughed, swallowing everything she could.
“D-dinner is ready, Sir. Whenever you are. May I make your plate?”
* * * * *
Right from the start, the party felt like Betty’s own personal fiasco. It was held at a lavish ballroom at the top of a hill; it was encased with a large multi-paneled glass dome. Elegant flowers framed every entrance, every table and wall. There was no real purpose to the party; Betty found this out only once she was already dressed. It was just a regular monthly affair.
This kind of expense and extravagance—the ballroom, the flowers, the several (several) bottles of champagne, the live band—all for a monthly affair. It was intimidating.
She and Lane arrived in their dependable-but-dumpy sedan. All the other couples arrived in expensive sports cars and luxury, hand-made town cars.
Betty had on a plain black dress she had bought on sale from a department store. She didn't even have on heels. She wasn't even sure she owned any heels. Very quickly, she met up with Gregory and Jasmine—Jasmine, who dressed rather like Betty in a plain white dress, contrasting neatly with the smooth darkness of her skin.
“Thank god,” said Jasmine. “You're dressed like a real person. Cora gave me this card for the Happy Hair Salon, but I couldn't call it. I was too embarrassed. And...oh.”
A tall, powerfully constructed man walked by in a suit, momentarily rendering Jasmine and Betty both speechless. This trend only continued—the men of the party were large, handsome, built, and looked both physically and financially powerful, dressed in tight, form-fitting thousand dollar suits, bought new for the occasion. Lane’s was the same one he’d worn at the rehearsal dinner before their wedding four years past. Gregory's looked old, as well.
And the women...
These women made Betty feel like nothing.
It wasn’t just their extravagant gowns or their immaculately fashionable high heels or their jaw-dropping jewelry, the combination of which on just a single woman was probably worth as much as Betty had earned in gross pay the previous fiscal year.
More than that, it was that every woman at the party besides Betty and Jasmine was...well...gorgeous.
This wasn’t to say Betty thought Jasmine was unattractive. Or to say that Betty thought that about herself, for that matter. But these women at the party...
One walked by—no, strutted by—no, glided by—somehow, on her five inch heels. The bottoms had little narrow platforms to make walking even more difficult, and yet she handled it as if she walked on air. Her legs stretched straight down from lusciously wide, clearly child-bearing hips, which somehow snapped back up into a minuscule waist, making the width of her hips all the more flagrantly alluring. She sported breasts so immense and gravity-defying that they could hardly be imagined, let alone seen. Her chestnut hair was arranged in a delicate collection of braids and knots on her head, somehow looking both imperious and disastrously submissive at the same time. Not a single feature had a flaw. She would have made supermodels on runways across the world cry from the ease with which she walked through the party, smiled, shot “fuck-me” glances at her husband, and retrieved drinks for her peers without a single misstep.
And every woman, in some way or another, looked like this. They weren’t in another league, or even in another sport. Betty felt deeply self-conscious for the first time since...since...well, she couldn’t remember when she felt this self-conscious. These women were intergalactic travelers, spanning across light years and zooming out beyond the pull of suns and planets; Betty was a baby taking her first steps and trying and failing to stand upright.
And speaking of babies—even with probably three-fourths of the room being clearly pregnant, they still were in better shape, walking with greater grace, and glowing with more radiance than Betty ever thought she would. She and Lane had agreed to no children, ever. It had been a mutual arrangement, after she convinced Lane that her way of thinking was best. But the sight of all that fertility, all in the same place, was...disconcerting.
After barely two minutes inside the grand ballroom, clutching for dear life at Lane's arm, she felt bad about herself. She couldn’t even remember the last time the reason for her self-pity and the self-pity itself had been so clearly aligned in her mind. Usually it was all mashed together in some terrible mess—she used to become angry, for example, because someone had removed funding from her foundation (the foundation she didn't have anymore), but really that just made her scared, and her fear was born out of he
r own insecurities and her ability to fend for herself in a world run by men.
But there was no need for any such emotional tracking here. These women were goddesses, each one deserving epic poems dedicated to every last curve of their breasts and stretch of their limbs; Betty felt ugly, overweight, and strangely old. She was thirty-three.
Fuck them, she decided.
It was the only thing she could think and keep her sanity. Jasmine leaned over and squeezed her hand—from one look in her eyes, Betty could tell they clearly were feeling the same way.
She and Lane talked with many men and women, Betty putting on a brave face. Or, in actuality, Lane talked to many men, and the women—including Betty—stayed relatively silent. Everyone already seemed to know who Lane was—he chatted first with the few men who had interviewed him, and they introduced him to others, who right away were intimately glad of his presence on the “team.”
Lots of talk like that. “The team,” “the band,” “the group,” “soldier up,” “bro-ing around,” etc. Betty hid all her dislike behind a forced smile. No one so much as began to ask about her life, her interests. She was barely even there to them. Occasionally another man might make a reference to the bimbo trophy on his arm, but only in terms of her attractiveness or child-bearing ability. The trophy would then simper and coo out a thank you, but insisted it was all his doing.
Really? Betty wanted to scream. Bearing a child in your body—that was a man's doing? Really?
But she controlled herself. For Lane. Because she loved him.
Eventually, Lane and Gregory went off with the rest of the men, retreating to some manner of cigar room. Betty only caught a slight glimpse into the room—and thought, suspiciously, that she saw a scantily clad woman adorned only in high heels and one of those carrier trays that wrapped around the neck full of cigars and the like.
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