I Woke Up as My Own Wife’s Submissive

I woke up without yet knowing that everything had changed. The first thing I felt was Renata’s weight on top of me, her body moving with a strength I had never known in her, and my own moans coming out high-pitched, almost broken, mixed with a pain that ran through every part of my body.

She, on the other hand, made nothing but sounds of pleasure. Deep, dominant, confident breathing. There was no trace of the delicate woman I had gone to bed with the night before.

Other times, I was the one who set the pace. That morning, still without opening my eyes, I knew that I wasn’t the one carrying the desire—she was. In a savage, brutal, completely unrestrained way.

I felt something thick, hard, and hot opening me from the inside, sliding in and out with an obscene squelch, striking something deep inside me that I had never felt before. Every thrust tore a sharp cry from my throat, and my legs parted on their own, trembling, wrapping around broad hips that drove into me with the rhythm of a male in heat. There was wetness between my buttocks, warm, thick wetness trickling toward the sheet, and a burning that hurt and gave pleasure at the same time.

“That’s it, my sweet little slut,” she said, her mouth pressed to my ear. “You know that’s how I want you. All mine, surrendered, wanting me to make you come a thousand times. Open that little ass wide, come on, show me how well you’ve learned to take your mistress’s cock.”

They were my words. Things I had whispered to her once, when the bed had been my territory. Now they came from her mouth as she pounded me without mercy, without caring whether I enjoyed it or not. One of her hands gripped my neck—not to choke me, but to mark me, to hold me against the mattress—while her other arm lifted one of my buttocks and spread me even wider. The cock—because that was what it was, a huge, veiny cock I couldn’t explain—filled me completely, making me moan with a high, unfamiliar voice that came from my own throat.

“Say it,” she panted, thrusting deeper. “Tell me who this little ass belongs to.”

“Yours… yours, my love,” I whimpered, and didn’t recognize my own voice.

“Yours what, little slut?”

“Yours… yours, my mistress. All yours.”

She thrust faster when she heard me, and something between my legs—something small, warm, ridiculously sensitive—began dripping against my own belly without me touching it. Every thrust made it jump and slap against my lower abdomen, and I moaned higher and more brokenly, like a woman.

I was in pain. Not just my sex, but my entire body, as though something deeper had been rearranged during the night. Everything seemed unreal, a dream within another dream. Until I heard her cry out in pleasure, felt her orgasm explode over me—inside me, a hot, thick stream filling my insides, load after load emptying into my ass—and I opened my eyes.

It was real. Far too real.

Renata was on top of me, naked, with a physique that wasn’t hers. Broad shoulders, strong arms, muscles that hadn’t existed the night before. Between her legs, still hard, shining with semen and my juices, was a thick cock twitching on its own after the orgasm. And I, beneath her, thinner in every sense, wearing lingerie and a silk nightgown pulled up to my waist that I recognized immediately: it was identical to the ones she used to wear. Between my spread thighs, instead of my own cock, hung a little pink, wet thing, dripping warm semen, barely larger than a thumb.

“I told you not to come without permission,” she warned me, still out of breath, pulling her cock out of me with a wet pop that made me shudder. “Or have you already forgotten what happened last time?”

I felt her cum begin to slide out of me, hot and thick, staining the silk of my nightgown and the sheets. She ran her fingers over the tip, still glistening, and slipped them into my mouth without warning.

“Suck. Clean me.”

“Yes, my love, yes,” I answered with her fingers in my mouth, and obediently began to lick them, swallowing her thick, salty semen, my own saliva mixing with what she had left inside me.

I wanted to say something else, wanted to ask what was happening, but all that came out was that sweet, syrupy voice that didn’t belong to me. And before I could organize a single thought, she took my head in both hands, guided me to her still-dirty cock, and shoved the whole thing into my mouth. I sucked her without thinking, choking, my eyes full of tears, while she moved on her own against my face and exploded with pleasure again without waiting for me, without needing me, emptying herself a second time down my throat.

***

When she was finished, she sprang away from me. She stood beside the bed with an energy I had never seen in her, full of vigor, as if the morning belonged to her. Her cock, still half-hard, hung heavily between her thighs, gleaming with my saliva.

“Start making breakfast while I shower,” she ordered, almost contemptuously.

I watched her walk away. Her muscular, firm body stood out against the light coming through the window, her rounded curves—the hard buttocks, the broad back—gleaming in silhouette. Without stopping, she added:

“Oh, and don’t forget to lay my work clothes out on the bed, as usual. Did you iron my shirts?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She entered the bathroom and left the door open, as I used to do, without the slightest modesty. I heard the shower running, then her voice singing some random song, a voice lower than I remembered.

I felt embarrassed and angry. It bothered me that she left the door open, it bothered me to hear her, it bothered me that the water was running for no reason. And at the same time, beneath that irritation, there was something new: a sort of exhausted pride at having pleased her, a strange warmth that continued throbbing through my body, and between my buttocks a damp tingling that reminded me, with every movement, that she had been inside me.

What’s happening to me? I wondered, squeezing my thighs together to hold her semen inside me a little longer.

Those were the very same complaints she used to make when I left the door open, and I had laughed at her. Now I was the one silently reproaching her for being careless, for wasting water. As if we had exchanged our entire roles, even our grievances.

***

I got out of bed like an automaton, without thinking, and went to get her clothes. When I sat up, I felt a warm trickle running down the inside of my thigh, and wiped it away with my hand without thinking, as if I had already done it a thousand times. I expected to find her dresses. Instead, the wardrobe was full of men’s clothing, arranged exactly where mine had been before. That side of the closet had always been mine.

Then the mirror reflected an image I couldn’t understand. A different face. Long, blond hair, disheveled from sex. A slender figure, thin, depilated legs, and a pink silk nightgown with my initials embroidered over the chest, now stained with semen across the belly. Beneath the silk, two small, firm breasts showed through, their nipples erect and sensitive against the fabric. Between my thighs, the lingerie—a white lace thong—was soaked and twisted, revealing sparse blond pubic hair and that little pink thing, still wet, hanging limp between two tiny balls.

I stood motionless for several seconds. Inside the bathroom, she continued singing in that hoarse, unfamiliar voice.

As if compelled by a routine I didn’t remember learning, I took one of her perfectly ironed white shirts, initials on the cuffs. I pulled out a blue suit, a matching tie, the cuff links. I opened the underwear drawer expecting to find the fine lingerie she wore, but there were only simple, masculine cotton boxers. In the sock drawer, instead of her silk stockings, there were dark men’s pairs, some with initials as well. And where I had once kept high heels, there were now loafers and flat shoes.

I lowered my gaze to my own feet. I was wearing bedroom slippers with five-centimeter heels, finished with a feather detail. My toenails were painted red, exactly the color she liked.

Yesterday I was…

I couldn’t finish the thought. A stab pierced my head, so sharp that I had to brace myself against the edge of the bed to keep from falling. It was as if an invisible hand forbade me to remember who I had been the night before.

***

Fear drove me toward the kitchen. Almost panic. She had asked me for breakfast, and something inside me knew, with absolute certainty, that I couldn’t fail her.

I laid her clothes on the bed, arranged to the millimeter, without needing to think about how she liked them. My hands already knew. I hurried out, my heels striking the wooden floor with every step, my heart pounding in my chest, and with each stride I felt my open, slippery ass, still leaking thick drops that dampened the insides of my thighs.

I can’t fail her. If I fail, she’ll punish me.

The thought appeared on its own, in a voice that wasn’t entirely mine. And alongside the fear came that warm sensation again, a mixture of devotion and desire I had never felt for anyone before. My little pussy tightened—because I was already beginning to call it that in my head, even though I still had that little thing between my legs—with a wet spasm, and a drop of her semen fell onto the wooden floor. I stopped for a moment, my cheeks burning, and wiped it up with the tip of my slipper before continuing.

As I passed the large mirror in the hallway, I discovered a smile drawn across my face. A smile I hadn’t decided to put there. My features looked softer, my eyebrows shaped, my lips painted and full, still shining from the blowjob. There was a whitish trace at the corner of my mouth, which I wiped away with the back of my hand and, without thinking, licked from my hand afterward, swallowing it.

In the kitchen, my body moved on its own, with an ease that surprised me. I made the coffee. Burned the toast to exactly the right point. Served the juice, arranged the jam and butter the way she liked them. Set the table without leaving anything out of place, thinking only of pleasing her.

Every time I tried to stop and ask myself how any of this was possible, a new stab pierced the inside of my head and spread throughout my body until it made me moan. The pain only eased when I focused again on the table, on breakfast, on her.

Without even remembering where it had come from, I found the newspaper and placed it a handspan from her cup, in front of the head of the table, where she now sat.

***

I stood beside the counter, waiting for her. A feeling of well-being and pride enveloped me, alien and complete. My breathing gradually calmed, and I noticed that my chest, beneath the silk of the nightgown, was no longer rising and falling as it had minutes before. There was something different even there, a shape outlined by the fabric that I didn’t dare touch. When I finally lowered my gaze, I saw two small breasts clearly defined, their nipples erect, pressed against the stained silk. Without meaning to, I brushed one with the edge of my arm and a soft moan escaped me. My entire body was burning, sensitive, ready for her.

Then I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs, approaching along the hall. And my whole body tensed without my deciding to.

Instinctively, I lowered my head. I let my hair cover half my face. My hands met on their own in front of the skirt of my nightgown, fingers interlaced, in a waiting posture I had never learned and yet my body knew by heart.

I wanted her to arrive. I wanted her to see the table laid to her liking. I wanted—and this was what frightened me most—for her to be proud of me. For her to slip her hand beneath my nightgown, grab my ass full of her dried cum, and tell me I was her good little slut.

“Good morning, my little slut,” she said from the doorway, adjusting the tie I had laid out for her. “Let’s see if you did your job properly today.”

“Yes, my love,” I murmured without raising my eyes. “Everything’s just the way you like it.”

Renata walked slowly around the table, inspecting every detail. The coffee, the toast, the newspaper in its exact place. I kept my head bowed, holding my breath, feeling cold sweat run down my back beneath the silk.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

I raised my eyes. They were the same eyes as always, but the way they looked at me was new: the way one looks at something one owns, something one possesses.

“Good,” she said at last, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand. “When you learn your place, everything is easier. Don’t you think?”

I nodded. Not out of fear this time, but because a part of me—a part growing with every minute—was beginning to believe her.

Without taking her eyes off me, she slid her hand down my neck, lowered it along my cleavage, and squeezed one breast through the silk. A sharp moan escaped me, and she smiled.

“More sensitive every day, my little slut.” She pinched my nipple slowly, twisting it just enough to make me tremble. “You’re going to make a good little wife.”

Her other hand moved down my back, slipped beneath the nightgown, and spread one buttock. I felt her fingers sink between my sticky cheeks, find the hot, still-loose rim of my ass, and thrust two fingers inside in one motion. Her semen squelched inside me. I moaned against her shirt, biting my lip, clinging to her waist so I wouldn’t fall.

“Yes… yes, my mistress,” I panted helplessly.

“Good girl,” she whispered, pulling out her fingers and wiping them on the silk of my nightgown. “After work, we’ll continue.”

She sat at the head of the table, opened the newspaper, and picked up her cup without thanking me. I remained standing beside her, my hands interlaced again in front of my skirt, alert to anything she might need, my thighs pressed together and my ass throbbing, waiting for night.

I wanted to remember one last time. I wanted to recall the sound of my own deep voice, the weight of my former body, the sensation of being the one who gave orders in this house, the one who penetrated her. But as soon as I tried, the stab returned, gentler now, almost like a loving warning.

And I understood that it was better not to insist.

The sun streamed through the kitchen window and illuminated the table I had prepared. Renata sipped her coffee in silence. I watched her, feeling fear slowly dissolve into something resembling surrender, and wondered, with a shiver I didn’t know whether it came from panic or desire, how much of the person I had been before that morning would remain.

I suspected the answer. And, to my own surprise, that suspicion no longer hurt as much.