Wife-in-a-Box

[This story is an entry in the Literotica Nude Day Story Contest 2025. If you like it, please vote!]

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WIFE IN A BOX

I met Paul online. It had been a hell of a year. He told me he worked with his hands and that he always got what he wanted. I didn't believe him. I do now.

I'm walking through the house, checking the doors are closed and everything's neat as I tap out an email on my phone. I close Rebekah's door because it's just easier to give up on my ten-year-old daughter's mess: out of sight, out of mind, at least for the week. She's on a daddy-daughter trip, so that's one less spinning plate to manage. I close my fist around my wedding ring. Well, two less plates.

"Give me the phone."

I look up from the little screen, startled.

"Now."

Paul's standing there in the hallway, as if he's just appeared out of thin air. The front door is open and I can see the all-wheel-drive has been backed right up to it. I hadn't even heard the engine.

"I just need to send...."

"Three," he says, and I'm suddenly panicking. I type faster.

"Two." Paul's standing with his hands on his hips, shirt cuffs rolled up to his elbows.

He has a tattoo of a snake winding down his brawny, tanned arm almost down to his wrist. His top buttons are undone and I can see his chest. I hit send, and stare up into unrelenting blue eyes like crushed ice.

"One."

My arm snaps out, offering my phone to him. He plucks it from my fingers, swiping through the screen and then turning it off. He knows my phone's unlock code because he told me to give it to him. The phone's his now.

He knows my body's unlock code as well. Like the phone, I'm his too.

"Day's wasting," he grunts.

His face is lean, battle-hardened by a life on construction sites. He's never seen the inside of a corporate office. He told me once that the soft desk chairs would make his backside itch.

But that's the thing about Paul. He doesn't do meetings. My last, desperate email to April to make sure she had the quarterly figures for the senior leadership meeting had been viewed and dismissed with a flick of his fingers. Standing in front of him, seeing that he's all packed and ready to go, the email feels petty and irrelevant. April can run the department for a week. I didn't need to send that last message. I didn't need to cling on until the last second.

Paul tucks the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. "I'll monitor and let you know if an emergency comes up. Anyway, this is supposed to be your mandatory week off," he tells me.

I know he's mocking me. He's pointed out a dozen times that I work for a bank in the treasury department, which is about as far away from life-and-death as you can get. He doesn't understand the crushing pressure of the numbers, but he doesn't have to.

We're forced to take at least a week off without phones or contact. It's bank protocol, the idea being that any skeletons would have time to come out of the closet in that time, shady deals or embezzlements. The team know they can't contact me. It's also a test to make sure that business can tick along if I was hit by a car. I get all the reasons, but as soon as Paul switched my phone off, I feel bereft.

He looks me up and down. "Strip."

I take one last look around the house. Everything's neat. There is a silence. Wordlessly, I pull the light summer dress up over my head and suddenly I'm bare, standing in ballet flats in my own hallway.

"Gimme."

I roll up the dress and he takes it from me. Like the phone, it's up to him now whether I get it back. He makes a circling gesture with his forefinger, and I take off my necklace and slide out my earrings. The holes aren't going to close over in just a week. I put them in the key bowl on the side table and tug at my wedding ring.

"No, leave that on," he tells me. "I like you wearing it."

Reluctantly, I drop my arms to my side. I can feel my wedding ring on my finger, and the weight of what it represents. In the olden days, it was a sign of possession, of ownership, telling the world that the woman was taken. It has always also been a symbol of love and of trust between two people. He grabs my arm and I'm taken. I brace for what's next.

"I had to count to three," he tells me. "Come on."

Silently, I bend over, conscious of my naked body on display in front of him. I'm a little sturdier these days, but I know that he's looking at the curve of my rear as I grasp my ankles. He made me take up yoga and running because it's how he's chosen to shape me. The post-child body that I thought was for keeps is gradually giving way to a more toned shape.

I spread my legs slightly, for balance, feeling the flush in my cheeks as I present my neatly-trimmed crotch to Paul. He slaps me once across my backside and my body locks with the surprise and the pain. He's precise, and it stings, becoming a throb as my skin reddens. He presses his fingers over the area, and I know he's admiring the perfect red handprint he's left on my pale flesh, like an artist. I said he's good with his hands.

A fist coils in my long, auburn hair, and I'm pulled upright. I stare into an impassive face, trying to compose myself too, but I know he can see straight through it. He turns, and I'm marched unceremoniously to the front door.

We cross the threshold without slowing down, and I have to wait, nude in the morning sunlight, as he locks the door. The key joins my phone, out of bounds in a pocket. I'm naked and spanked, outside, and there's no way to get back into my house. I have nowhere to shelter, no way of getting clothes, no means of contacting anyone, no money or ID. I'm already helpless, and I haven't gotten more than a few feet from my front door. He's that quick.

He tugs my hair, and I have no choice but to go along with him. The back of his vehicle is open and I can see luggage inside, bags of food, a cooler box. But, next to it is a large wooden crate on little castor wheels. It's strapped in place firmly.

"Wife in a box," he smirks, thrusting me towards it.

I hesitate, but he's stronger than I am, pushing my head forward. The rest of me follows, clambering up and being propelled inside. He releases my hair and shoves me in the backside, until I'm completely inside the crate. There is a sudden, stinging slap on my other buttock, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself crying out and alerting the neighbours.

"Still worrying about work?" he mocks.

He strokes my rear, examining the redness, and I can't help but shiver. Fingers trace across my rosy skin, then down the cleft, further down, passing between my thighs. I hold myself in position, on my hands and knees in his wooden crate, and wait for him to touch me intimately.

A finger teases up my slit, and I colour furiously because he'll be able to feel the puffiness of my outer lips, the heat within. My body will betray me to Paul, and let him know how horny his degradation is making me.

I am totally humiliated. Five minutes ago, I was a mother, looking at my daughter's room and despairing of the mess, firing off emails to my team, every inch the late-thirties corporate executive. I'd come in from work yesterday in my sensible high heels, with my careful make-up and my auburn hair gathered up neatly in a clip. I'd finished the work I needed to do on the quarterly report after Rebekah went to bed, sipping a glass of white wine because it was a Friday. Then I'd closed the laptop and slipped into bed next to my loving husband.

But I hadn't been able to get to sleep straight away. Work was going though my head. My daughter's exams were looming, and on top of this, listening to my husband's breathing next to me, I knew that next morning I'd be put naked into a crate for transport.

The finger slips between my labia, and I can feel his thumb now, too. He finds my clit and begins to tease it with his fingertip until I harden under his expert touch. He takes my nub between his finger and thumb and I grit my teeth as he starts to apply pressure.

I know it's a test, and at first, I don't move. I remain stock-still in the wooden crate, on my hands and knees. But Paul doesn't relent, squeezing harder. It does something to me deep inside, triggering memories, reminding my body of previous sessions.

The first time I'd met Paul, it had been catching up for a quick coffee between meetings. He'd offered to meet in the café at the bottom of my office building, but I had refused, suggesting somewhere a little further away with less chance of people I knew walking past. I didn't want anyone knowing.

Paul had respected that, he said, and it felt clandestine as we tucked ourselves into a seats at the back of a little hole-in-the-wall place five minutes away from work. He was charming; there was something good-natured about his smile, the crinkling of his ice-blue eyes when he laughed. I wanted to run my hand through his untidy hair. I don't know why, I just did.

It took us a month of secretive assignations before I finally let him bed me, but only after I'd been able to make sure that nobody knew about us. My feelings towards him changed that night. He promised me a new world.

I stifle a little cry, struggling not to close my thighs in an effort to defend my poor, tormented clit. It wouldn't do any good, anyway, because it would just trap his hand between my legs and he'd keep squeezing. Worse, he'd probably laugh at my attempts to evade him.

I close my eyes, concentrating on the pain, like he's taught me, waiting patiently for it to change. He's squeezing hard now, and my breath is coming in staccato gasps, my pulse hammering in my throat. My body is rigid as I struggle against the animal reflex to pull away from the pain stimulus. Then, it kicks in.

The pain transforms, burning in my core, just like the very first time he disciplined me. I feel myself moistening, my nipples hardening. I bite my lip, trying to remain absolutely silent. I can feel the tremors in my inner thighs. Somewhere between that first time in his apartment, and now, in a storage crate, he's been able to rewire me. He's unlocked something in me, turning pain into pleasure.

All at once, the pressure is released. Blood flows back into my tormented clit and I nearly buckle. Paul's fast, delivering a slap directly to my pussy, and I crumple. I nearly came, just like that. He's got that level of control over me. Like I said, he's good with his hands.

Paul laughs, wiping his palm down the back of my thigh because I will have wet it with my juices. There is a sound and then it goes dark. I don't move. Even when I hear doors slamming and the engine turning on, I don't move. We rumble down the driveway of my neat suburban home and turn onto the street, and I finally collapse onto my side, balling up.

I can imagine the houses passing by. I know all the neighbours, their kids, their stories. We live in a nice neighbourhood: it's good for families, everyone helps out. What would they think of Elaine Hutton in the back of a dusty all-wheel-drive in a storage crate, naked and sopping and so very desperate to bury her fingers into her pussy and play with herself until she came? It's about as far away from the respectable, professional wife and mother as they could possibly imagine.

After a while, I get up and turn around. There are holes in the back wall of the box at floor level that I can fit my hands through. I know what they're for. There's a smaller hole higher up on the front of the box too, just big enough to fit a few fingers through. I know what it's for as well. I peer out through that hole, looking out through the back window, watching my house receding into the distance. I'm already a long way from home.

The crate is lined with foam. Paul did it for my comfort. It means that I can curl up and drift off, letting the motion of the vehicle rock me to sleep.

I have such vivid dreams.

---

I wake up, startled, disorientated. I try to stretch out, but the box constricts me and for a moment I don't know where I am. There is light coming in through the single hole, and suddenly it gets brighter. Noise floods in, the sound of kids arguing. I cringe.

Paul's pulled into a rest stop. We're parked in a row of cars, alongside other families going places. He's opened up the back to check on me. I can hear a mother telling a child to get back in the car, and it's so familiar, the kind of thing I would have said to Rebekah only yesterday. There's a man's voice, telling them to hurry up.

We're parked next to a family, the wife trying to get children into the car. I can imagine her: the expression on her face, the casual clothing, probably holding fast food bags to feed her kids with. She would be oblivious to the fact that parked next to her is a naked woman probably the same age, locked in a wooden box. I feel depraved, separated from her normality in my own bubble.

A finger pokes through the hole, wiggling. Obediently, I sit up in my box and suck on it. It tells Paul I'm okay. He closes the back, and the sounds are cut off. My lips are still pressed against the hole though, like I'm frozen in place, like I'm waiting for it to be something other than just his finger. I wait.

I don't know why I'm waiting. I can't rationally explain why I'm in the box at all, only that Paul came into my life and bit by bit he made me want to get into the box. When I first met him, those first few exchanges, he'd been polite and charming. He'd made me feel seen, special. It often comes back to me: if I'd have know where he was going to lead me, right back there at the beginning of it all, would I have let him do this to me? How did I go from an equal partner in a loving relationship, a mother and a busy, professional career woman to wife-in-a-box?

The back opens up again, letting in sounds and more light. I haven't moved. French fries appear in the hole. I eat them without question. There's a chicken nugget and I eat that too, allowing myself to be fed fast food through the hole in my enclosure. Paul will be standing at the back of the car, checking around, fully clothed, poking food into a hole. Nobody is going to bat an eye because he'll be subtle. No-one's going to suspect he's trapped a naked woman in a box because it's utterly outrageous that a person would allow that to happen to them. Who would even think it?

I eat steadily, swallowing and then pressing my lips through the hole each time. He keeps poking food into my mouth, but there have been times when I've received something else of his. I can imagine how my lips look to Paul, pressed through the wood. I lick them suggestively. This is not my first rodeo.

Instead, I'm given a water bottle to suck. I take a mouthful of water eagerly, but then my heart sinks. I'm familiar with this water bottle. It's the big one. It tells me everything I need to know about his intentions for me. He's going to make sure I'm thoroughly humiliated before the day is through and I won't be able to stop him. But, I'd already passed the point of no return as soon as I set eyes on Paul in my hallway. He's in control now, stepping me through the process that turns me from the highly-intelligent, independent woman he first met, into his naked toy.

I drink and I drink, until the water bottle is empty. Paul removes it and I press my lips through the hole, pathetically eager for a touch, but he closes the back and I hear him get in and turn the engine on. We move off, and I'm swaying slightly in the box as we turn back onto the road. I have been fed and watered, like a pet, and like a pet, I know I don't speak again until he turns me back into a woman.

I'm exclusively his for a week, on my way up to the house in the mountains. I'm not going to be allowed to be a woman for a week. Paul has done this to me before, for no better reason than because he wants to, although he tells me it's to help me switch off and reset from my hectic life. He's helping me switch off, cut off from my friends and my family, from my phone and the world of interruptions it provides. From wearing clothing, and the hundred other things that a grown woman would be able to do and decide for herself.

He explained the box to me, and the first time I remember I told him to get stuffed, that I was never going to let him shut me up in it. But an hour later, I'd found myself inside. I'd looked out at him as he secured the front in place and imprisoned me. He'd slipped his erection through the hole and waited, and I'd given him a blowjob. Even to this day, I don't know why I did that, why I acquiesced, but at the moment my lips closed around his shaft, something clicked inside my head.

It was something he'd put there, carefully, building up the layers conscientiously until it was only a small leap to allow myself to be stripped and imprisoned in the box and made to satisfy him orally, when it had started out as an uncrossable chasm. It was that point that I finally understood the box. Now, crouched in the gloom with the hum of the engine for company, I can feel it doing its work on me.

The box is a transportation device. A normal wife goes into it, and a toy comes out. It's a wife box, but at some point on the journey, it becomes a toy box, with Paul's obedient plaything inside. I can feel it happening now, dropping into that warm, submissive space that he first introduced me to all that time ago. He had bound me, tormented me until I was begging to cum, enflamed like no other time in my life, and then pushed me down into perfect, glorious submission. I'd let go at last and it was a revelation.

Now, in the box, I feel the same urge stirring. I'd pressed my lips to the hole, showing Paul that I was ready to take him into my mouth. I'm forbidden from speaking but the desire to form words had already evaporated in me as soon as I saw the box in the back of the vehicle. I'm becoming a silent, willing thing to be played with, and the last hurried email to Alice seems already like it happened in a previous life.

We rumble along for another hour. There's no sound other than the engine and the road; there's no music playing because Paul needs to hear if I call out. There are strict parameters to what he does to me; they aren't limits as such, because he's always stretching my limits until I look back and I'm astonished that I accepted something that would have been a hard stop only a few months ago. But there are safeguards: I trust Paul more than anyone in my entire life.

At last, we pull off the road and come to a halt. I hear him get out and a gate open. We drive through and park up, and the engine dies. There's a long silence. He's probably gone back to close the gate. The back opens and I press forward, shamed by how eager I am to receive his attention. Paul hauls the luggage out of the back instead, and I listen as he makes several trips to the house with the suitcases and the supplies.

The water is working its way through my system. I can feel the pressure building in my bladder. He's put the pressure there for a reason. I'm locked on his guard rails now: everything beyond this point is part of his plan for my body. I shiver with apprehension: I have a week of this.

It's longer than we've ever gone, but with Rebekah away with her father, it was easy enough to tell her that I was going on a retreat. She didn't question it because why would her mother tell her something that wasn't true? It is a retreat, of sorts. I'm going to be isolated up here in the mountains, cut off from everything.

But, it's a week this time. Paul brought me here for a weekend previously, locking me in the box. I thought it was a kinky adventure, letting him do whatever he wanted for forty-eight hours, but when I saw the box in the back today, it dawned on me that the weekend had merely been a trial run. I know what Paul had managed to make me submit to in two days. I can't conceive of what he's going to be able to do to me in a week.

My lips are pressed through the hole in the wood, waiting obediently. The toy is ready to come out of its box to be played with. But then I shudder as a thought goes through my head: in a week, he's going to put his toy back in the box and drive it back to its home and its family and friends and job. What happens if he opens the box up at the end, and Elaine isn't in there? What if all he finds is his toy? What if I'm not able to turn back?

I imagine it, and I ache so much inside that it takes me all of my strength not to bury my fingers in my pussy and cum like a hurricane.

There are sounds and the vehicle reverberates. I push my eye to the hole quickly.

Paul is there, setting planks against the back lip of the vehicle. He reaches inside and I can hear the straps being detached from the box. I brace myself and he tugs, rolling me down the planks and onto the concrete driveway.

I'm in motion, pushed up the ramp to the front door, through the house. All I can see is Paul's belt buckle through the hole. Doors open, and I realise I'm being wheeled out onto the back deck. My mind reels, trying to work out what he's going to do with me. All I know is that I need to pee. I want to call out to him to ask for a comfort stop, but the apprehension gets the better of me: he intended me to feel like this.

"Hands."

I hesitate.

"Hands. Or you can just stay like you are. Your choice."

It's not a choice. It's never been a choice. I lay down on my back with my knees tucked up under my chin. Reluctantly, I slide a hand through each of the holes in the base of the back wall. When I feel straps tighten around my wrists, I resign myself to my fate. I could have defied him, but I know he's more than capable of leaving me in the box until I wet myself. It's better to comply.

The front of the box slides up a little, admitting light and fresh mountain air.

"Legs."

Reluctantly, I slide my legs out of the box, feeling nothing. I'm perched at the edge of the deck and I know from memory that it's about a metre drop to the grass. A hand seizes my ankle and lifts my leg, holding it against the front of the box. A strap is looped over my foot and pulled tight.

I twist, shocked. My mind is racing, working out what he means to do to me. I thrust up with my hips, but the front of the box doesn't rise any higher. I kick out with my free leg, hoping to connect with him, but all I elicit is a laugh.

"Feisty. Struggle, please. You're just wearing yourself out."

My ankle is secured. My wrists are strapped. My hips are limited by the slot in the front of the box. I don't have a lot of options.

Paul strokes my bound leg, tracing down my calf to the back of my knee, then down the inside of my thigh. I shiver involuntarily, cursing myself for revealing myself to him. A finger presses against my labia, and it doesn't matter. He can feel how wet I am. When his fingers wrap around my other ankle, I let him secure me in position without a struggle.

"Good girl."

I'm panting from the exertion. I tug on my restraints, testing them again, but Paul's done a good job. He's thought it all through and designed the perfect trap. He's good with his hands, I think ruefully.

I imagine how I look. Paul will be standing on the grass, with a full view of the bottom half of my body. My legs are raised in a V-shape, splayed apart, which means my pussy and my bottom are completely open for his inspection. I can feel moisture in my cleft, which means he can see how slick he's made me. He can see my moisture running down between my legs. It's utterly degrading. I graduated top of my class. I got the pick of the internships. I'm a rising star in one of the most prestigious banks in the country. I can hold my own against anyone.

And I'm dripping with arousal all because a man who barely finished school has secured me inside a wooden box and is staring at my glistening pussy. When he touches my puckered rear entrance I convulse powerfully.

"So very jumpy. Wondering what's next? But, you already know. We already talked about this."

My mind races. Of all the thing we covered in the last few months, what does he mean? He's cunning, which tell me it's something he hasn't mentioned recently. That would be too obvious. I need to be smarter than this. What was it?

His fingertip strokes my puckered opening and the memory of a conversation comes back to me.

"Wait," I gasp.

The finger is removed and a fraction of a second later he delivers a slap to my pussy lips that makes me cry out. It wasn't a hard slap, but it's the surprise more than anything that makes me freeze.

"The only words from you are 'time out', remember? Do you want a time out?"

I bite my lip, scrambling. He's got me bouncing from pillar to post, just like that, and I'm struggling to process any of this. I'm tied securely, exposed, desperate to pee, my pussy tingling from the slap, and so horny I can't think straight. I've gone from silent isolation in my box to the middle of whatever Paul has planned, all in the space of sixty seconds. I open my mouth to ask for a time out, but the words stick in my throat. I blush with the humiliation of it, of self-sabotage. Somehow he's made me apply restraints to myself that are at least as stringent to the ones he's placed on my body. I'm not allowed to stop him. I stay silent.

"Okay."

I hear a little click, like a top opening, and then something cool and slick dribbling between my buttocks. I hold myself very still. When the finger reappears, it traces small, slick circles around my little clenched star. I wait for the inevitable, for the tip to brush over my opening. He touches me and presses a little, asking to be admitted.

I am allowed to stop him, and that's the hardest part of all this. Paul has always been very clear. He won't ask permission, ever, but he will stop immediately if I tell him. He made me kneel down in front of him in the shower while he held his cock in his hand. He told me he needed to pee, and to bring my face close and close my eyes. Even now, I can't say why I leaned forward, but I remember the overwhelming, almost orgasmic relief when he just patted me on the head instead of pissing all over me. Paul has no interest in golden showers, he just wanted to see whether I would let him. The fact that I was prepared to let him changed something fundamental inside my head.

Now, it's the same. All I have to do is clench and keep his fingertip out. If I relax, he's going to penetrate me, and then the rest of the conversation we'd had comes into effect. He will slide a finger into me, then he'll plug me. He'll progress carefully through different sizes until I adjust, and then one day, he'll lay me down on the edge of the bed and raise my legs in the air and penetrate me with his erection. It's where he says he wants to get me to. He wants me able to accept him in all my orifices. I know the plan, but I know something he doesn't.

If I relax now, he's going to take me anally at some point in the near future. What he doesn't know is that he's going to eventually have me broken into an anal slut, begging to be used in all my holes. It's a deep depravity, and something in my core yearns for it like oxygen. I have pictured myself late at night, curled up in bed, listening to my husband breathing. I have seen myself with my mascara running, with my stockings ripped from hard use, crying and still begging for more as I'm pounded from behind in my newest orifice.

I'm a respectable, smart woman. I'm raising a daughter to respect herself and have others respect her. My insides churn as I remind myself that my darkest desire is to be a free-use slut. I relax my sphincter and I know I've lost my battle, defeated by myself and the thoughts Paul has placed in my head, as much as by the questioning finger pressed against me.

The finger slips inside as I give in. He's delicate, stretching me gently, just a fingertip. I try to regulate my breathing as he pulls out and then pushes back in again, going deeper with each repetition. There's another dollop of lube and then I'm widened a little more as each knuckle slides in, until his entire finger is embedded inside me. He wiggles his finger and it feels so alien inside me that I clench around his intrusion, feeling a sharp pain in my rear.

"Careful," he scolds, then withdraws.

Something cold and hard is pressed against my opening and I suck in a deep breath. Here we go: the moment has arrived at last. I try and stay relaxed as the smooth shape stretches me. I battle the urge to clench around it, knowing that it'll hurt if I do. Paul works it into me, twisting it a little to spread the lube, widening me more than his finger did.

The progress is relentless, stretching me to the point that I can't bear it anymore, like it's huge. I nearly ask for a time out, the panic rising as he twists it deeper. Then, suddenly, my sphincter is narrowing around the invader, pulling it inside me, and I feel the cold disc of the base against my contracting opening. It's done.

Paul pats me on the thigh. "All done. How does it feel?"

He's asking me a question, so I have to answer. But, I can't. My sphincter pulses around the object he's inserted. It felt huge going in, but now it's in place I can feel that its maximum diameter wasn't much wider than his finger was. The neck is thin, almost comfortable. I clench my buttocks experimentally, feeling the weight within me.

"Is it metal?" I ask. I don't know why that's important.

"Stainless steel, size one."

That lets me envisage the plug, and how I look to him. There is a click and then he pushes his phone into the box, next to my leg, showing me the picture he's taken. I just stare at it. The wooden box has a woman's legs emerging from it. There are two glistening fuck holes on display, but the bottom one is sealed by a little silvery circle. My vaginal walls clench and I feel the plug shift inside me.

"Anything to say?" he asks.

I want to tell him how turned on the photo has made me, to be exhibited like that, with my legs splayed and my pussy gleaming. I want to tell him to pound into me until I scream. Instead, I make a simple request.

"Fuck me, please."

The hand is withdrawn and there's a stinging slap across my helpless buttocks. My body convulses in shock, the sudden pain amplified by the sharp pinch between my cheeks as I clench hard on the plug.

"That wasn't an answer to a question. You know the rules."

I do, and I've broken them. Worse still, I've squandered the window of permission Paul had granted me to speak. I don't know when I'll be permitted again. I hear him walking away through the grass, the creak of the stairs and then footfalls across the deck. Finally, a door closes.

Part of me is fuming that I'm going along with all this. Not allowed to even speak? It's how I earn my living: calling meetings, telling people what to do, giving the orders. How far I've come since meeting Paul.

When we went on our first date, he was the perfect gentleman. He made sure I got home and bid me good night. He didn't even go in for a kiss; that was second-date territory. I enjoyed having the advantage over him with my better education, my high-flying job, my larger bank balance. I picked somewhere expensive to be taken on the third date, and he made a joke that if he was going to settle the bill there ought to be something afterwards.

So, I let him take me home, but weeks later. I was stringing him along, he said, but I have a family to think about. We had to organise a clandestine rendezvous, with the cover story that I had to fly out and stay overnight. Instead, Paul took me back to his modest abode.

Then he did something to me. At first, it was thrilling, taking my clothes off, seeing the lust in his eyes engendered by my naked body. Rebekah's father had never looked at me like that, like he wanted to devour me. Paul laid me down on his bed and simply proceeded to break me, like a horse, until I was tamed and able to be ridden in whatever way he chose, and whenever he chose. The next day, I was aching. The next month, I had been owned.

Looking back, I know how he did it. Each step was obvious in hindsight, the training of my body to respond to him and then following that, my mind. He disciplined me, which would have had me calling the cops if he'd done that on the first night. But, by the time he asked me to bend over and he administered my first spanking, I was already looking forward to the challenge of accepting his hand on my body.

How does an intelligent woman allow that to happen to her? Why didn't I resist? Why do I let a guy bend me over his knee without a word, pull down my panties and slap my rear until I can feel the heat of my glowing flesh? Why do I accept it without a single protest?

Paul has introduced me to the pain and the pleasure, and the combination of both. He's explained it all patiently, in a way that I understand. He wants to inflict it because it takes me somewhere else, allowing the noise of life to drop away. We've talked about punishment beatings, and one day I expect I will submit to them in the same way as I've allowed myself to be strapped up in my box on the back deck and left while Paul gets on with other things.

He's probably unpacking. I really should have told him how desperate I am to pee. I clench against the fullness of my bladder, but I feel my tightness around the plug too. He would have known that. He's making me torment myself.

At last the door opens and I hear footsteps approaching.

"Need anything?"

"I need to pee," I confess.

Footsteps retreat, and I hear the creak of the steps, then the swishing of grass. What's he doing?

I hear a beep. "Go on then."

I shudder. My bladder is so full that I'm cramping, trying to keep it in. But Paul isn't releasing me. I'm splayed and bound and still trapped in my box on the edge of the deck, with my rear sticking out over the grass. He's videoing me.

I grit my teeth, but the compression of my bladder is too strong. If I release, he's going to capture it on his phone, how he's taken Elaine and degraded her. My body is working against me, needing to expel the liquid, but also drooling freely from my puffy pink pussy lips at the thought of being forced to humiliate myself on camera.

My bladder spasms. I clench hard, but too late to stop a tiny dribble leaking out and then into the valley between my buttocks. I can feel the drops pooling at the base of my spine, dripping off me onto the grass. I can't hold on. I embrace my depravity and relax, letting my liquid stream out onto the lawn in full view of Paul's phone. I want to contract back inside the box and vanish, but I can't move. I seem to go on forever, but eventually my stream slackens and I feel the last of the hot liquid trickle into my cleft. The phone beeps again and I know he's caught it all on camera. My degradation is overwhelming.

Paul presses something cool against my body: a wipe. He cleans me meticulously, wiping over my butt plug, dabbing at my pussy until I'm clean. Then, I feel fingers parting my labia and I become very still. I remember the way he pinched my nub, and I brace for it again.

Instead, he kisses my clit delicately. After everything he's already put me though, I almost cry out with relief. I need this, the tenderness. I close my eyes, relishing Paul's loving ministrations. A little soft groan escapes my throat and I hear Paul laugh.

His lips pucker around my clit, suckling, and I realise that this isn't mercy from his torment, it's simply an interlude. When he breaks off, I gasp in protest.

"Next time I'll bring out a funnel. I can catch it in a glass. Then you'll have a choice, to drink it warm or let it cool."

I've never tasted piss. I've never felt the slightest urge to drink it. But Paul has said it now, telling me that I will. My choice isn't to drink or refuse to drink my own urine, but whether I accept the inevitable and drink it straight away, or struggle until it's gone cold. Either way, he'll make sure I drink every last drop.

There is a low hum and I react instinctively. This is how he broke me the first time. The vibrator's head is small, pressed against my clit, on low. He pats my behind and then I hear him walk away. I groan.

My problem is that I didn't see the front of the box. I've had to discover about the ankle straps, and now the holder that has fixed the vibrator against my pussy. I can shift my hips a little, to pull back, but I won't. Paul knows I won't. He's going to leave me like this, with my legs in the air, helpless, until I'm bearing down on the vibrator like a dripping slut.

Slut. That's a word I would never have dreamed of using before Paul. I have a daughter. I need to talk about respect and equality. But Paul showed me my inner slut and now the genie is not going back into the bottle. He made it integral to the games that we play, and this is stage two. He isolated me in the box, naked, giving me nothing but my thoughts to work with. Now, he's going to torment my body until I'm desperate. Then, he's going to push me over the edge and I'm going to stop being a wife and a mother and all those things that I've held onto so dearly, and become his toy. I'm already thinking about his cock inside me, and I realise that I'm pushing against the vibrator in anticipation.

The urge builds, and I feel perspiration prickling on my bare skin inside the box. I bear down on the buzzing tip, relishing the vibrations in my body. Paul has set it to low, but as I close my eyes and concentrate, I begin to grind myself against the fixed point, humping it with my rocking hips. I can feel my orgasm start to build, and I'm fantasising about being used, about being in torn stockings on my hands and knees as he... as...?

The fantasy shifts, diverging from the usual path. Instead of his rigid manhood burying itself in my pussy, I imagine his hands on my buttocks, easing them apart, and his tip pressed against my rear entrance. He's done something to me by inserting the plug; he's inserted an idea along with it, and it's taken root. I feel my climax rising and my body tenses for my peak.

A stunning hit across my buttocks makes me scream, and the orgasm I was so near to attaining is denied. My skin throbs. There is another hard slap, stinging my other buttock. My body goes rigid, my toes pointing, riding the unexpected pain. He kisses my big toe.

"That was close. What were you doing?"

"Nothing," I grunt. The vibrator is still buzzing against my clit, maddeningly just below the required threshold.

He slaps me again, forcing me to pull away but I can't because I'm strapped tight. My rear and pussy are completely exposed to his hands.

"Try again. What were you doing?" Paul asks.

"I was trying to cum," I confess.

This time, he strokes my skin. I'm being rewarded for the truth.

"How?" he continues.

"I was rubbing myself against the vibrator."

The hand pauses on my inner thigh. I desperately want it to go lower. I want his fingers inside me, and I know he knows that. He's waiting. He's a very patient man.

"I was grinding my clit against the vibrator like a slut," I confess at last.

"Because?"

"Because I'm a desperate, horny slut," I tell him, and then the words keep coming out, like I've finally breached the dam. "I'm a desperate slut who was fantasising about being taken by you on my hands and knees. I was imagining you using me as your cum dump while I begged for it because you made me beg for it, because I wanted to cum and feel you cum inside me."

There is a little part of me that is proud of not confessing imagining Paul entering me anally, too. I need to keep that secret. I can't risk demonstrating how easily he can put thoughts into my head. If he knew how eager I was to soak up his depraved suggestions, he'd have no reason to stop filling me with his fantasies until I was his willing, desperate, compliant fuck toy.

Instead, he fills me with his cock.

Fingers wrap around my ankles and he's pistoning hard into my splayed pussy. My orgasm wells up almost immediately, but he fends it off with expertly-timed slaps to my thighs and rear. The biting pain pulls me back from the brink each time, but the vibrator is incessant and the wonderful friction of his manhood sliding into me builds me up to the edge again.

Each time, a slap brings be back to earth, but something else is happening now. There's a deep connection: the vibrator on my clit, his cock inside me, and the sharp pain of each smack. They're combining together, the pain and the torment and the pleasure, and I can feel the tension in my core, the dark, abyssal pressure of an overwhelming orgasm.

I know what it is, as it surfaces from the deep. I know what it will do to me. Paul has used these against me before, each one rewriting me subtly until he's changed me from a respectable, family, professional careerwoman into a desperate, compliant fuck hole on legs. I know that I'm past the point of ever going back to that life. I'm way past the point of even wanting to. He slaps me hard and I convulse around his embedded manhood and this time it's only just enough to forestall my shattering climax.

"Not yet," he grunts, and he steps up his pace, slamming into me now.

There is still a functional part of me that detects he's close to his release and I'm overjoyed because that means he'll let me finish at last. I slip away, somewhere else, letting go. I'm letting him use me for his satisfaction, like I would never have let Rebekah's father use me, or my boyfriends before him. When the irresistible urge to cum surges through me, he doesn't shock me out of it this time. The fierce glow of my spanked buttocks melds with the torment of my clit and the remorseless pounding of his cock, and I tip over the edge at last into orgasm.

Paul pushes deep, holding himself there, pulsing as he spends himself inside me. I'm vaguely aware of it, of being clenched tightly around his intrusion, of the wire-taut tension in my thighs, of the held breath. The pleasure floods through me and another little bit of Elaine has been washed away.

Paul slides out of me and I'm aware of the vibrator being silenced. He fumbles with the straps around my ankles, letting my legs down at last. There is a crack of bright sunlight, and he pulls off the front of the box. I blink furiously, blinded, but then I see Paul standing there in front of me on the grass, grinning, and then the trees, and then the far-distant panorama of the mountains.

Paul reaches into the box, pulling one of my arms back, just enough to undo the strap, freeing my hands. I contract instinctively into a ball, feeling him leaking out of me, conscious of his plug still embedded within me, of the breeze over my slick, bare skin.

"Come on, let's get you out of there."

He offers me his hand and I take it, letting him extricate me from my confinement. I stand up on shaky legs and he wraps an arm quickly around my waist.

"Steady," he laughs. "Get the blood back into your head."

I lean against him, my nakedness against his clothing. He holds me until I stand straighter, taking my weight.

"Good girl."

Paul picks up a bottle of sunscreen from the deck and squeezes out a measure of the cream into his hand. Silently, he begins to lather it over my bare skin, over all my skin.

I'm standing in the midday sun, being covered head-to-toe by the man who just fucked me brutally. I know what it means. I know what's next.

Paul will keep me like this, nude for him, all week. He might have packed a sundress to cover me up with if he takes us into town for dinner, but it will be a single, token piece of clothing. He's going to keep me naked and horny and I'm going to let him. I watch his slick palm glide down my front, over my waxed mons, delicately applying sunscreen to my blushing pussy. All I have on is my wedding ring.

It matches the one on his finger. It's a statement of love, but has become more than that in the year since we walked down the aisle. It's a bond of trust, of ownership.

I glance back at the container that transported me here. Paul decided to put his wife in a box. Maybe she's still in there. Maybe he'll open it when we get home and Elaine will step back out, as if by magic, ready to go back to work.

But here, he hasn't brought Elaine out of the box. She's disappeared, and he's found something else instead, something that will allow itself to be teased and dressed and stripped and played with and fucked without resistance. There is a growing part of me that's anticipating him erasing my resistance.

Later this year, Rebekah's going away for a month with her father. Paul says he's going to bring me here to our place in the mountains to complete my training. I don't know what that means. I don't know what I'll become.

Maybe I'll be his toy, forever. I want to be different, I want to be changed inside. Why would I have ever wanted normal anyway?

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