Sinopsis
DESCRIPTION:
When the dutiful Amberlynne returns home from work, her sole job is to cater to the whims of her master of a husband. One night, as she does this, he stumbles upon an old video of hers where she is being a whore for other men. Amberlynne revisits the path that led her down the road to submission and the obedient wife her husband has come to thoroughly enjoy.
EXCERPT:
By the time I show up with dinner I’m not the least bit surprise to walk into a dark house. My Husband works from home and has everything he needs in his upstairs office. His TV to watch Bloomberg and his many computer screens for day trading. And, when The Markets close for the day, he goes for a change of scenery by skipping the main level to retire to his beloved “man cave” down in the basement.
I can hear the slight muffles of his farts whiff up the stairs as I transfer the piping hot food I bought from its container and put it neatly on a plate. I walk down the stairs with it stopping at the wooden bar to make him his drink. It is Thursday. That means it is a Steel Helmet night, a drink that consists of equal parts vodka and coffee liqueur, cream, and Galliano liqueur on top to go with his meal.
The media concave where I find My Husband is dark yet illuminated well by the projector that fills the humungous wall. He is watching his much-beloved porn fully clothed. It is always porn, if not mostly. I think nothing of it anymore sitting his plate on the table next to his chair. He gets his most divine inspirations from his cyber collection. I smile at the many wonderful ideas that springs forth, notions he has in store for me later. That smile swiftly dissipates when I recognize the dark arm arching over the bent white rear branding off its shaven pussy with a large loop marked and centered over the delectable butthole.
It is my rear up there. My dicktoy for the night makes an H and an E with his marker around the circle. He begins to write other nasty and degrading things across my milky white flesh before I am spread eagle with a vibrating wand attacking my clit, leaving me to watch this film completely horrified.
More than that, My Husband isn’t just sitting in some of the other leather chairs scattered about the theater-like setting. He is in the sleek leather recliner that cuffs his thick legs and nurses his hot dog-rolled neck with heavy padding and speakers next to his ears so he can hear the slightest pin drop in the background of the vivid display. I know better than anyone that My Husband hears me laughing and begging for my pussy to get wrecked and then-master–behind the camera–vowing he and his group of thugs will do just that.
I never hid my past from My Husband. But that–this scene plastered on the wall in our house was never meant for his eyes.
Looking at the amateurish camera angles, I want to scream.
