My Wife Dressed Me Up as a Doll for Her Friends

Saturday dawned without the rush of her office, but with the same discipline as always: I had to be ready to attend to her the moment she opened her eyes. It was what was expected of me, and, though it pains me to admit it, also what gave me a strange sense of purpose.

Renata was still asleep. On her back, naked as she liked, one arm stretched along the bed and the serene expression of someone who knew herself to be the owner of everything in that house. Including me.

I occupied barely an edge of the mattress. I slipped out with almost acrobatic care, until my knees touched the floor. The pink silk nightgown brushed my legs as I crawled forward, my low-heeled slippers held between my teeth so I wouldn't make a sound. Halfway there, I changed my mind and went downstairs to use the bathroom. She hated being woken early on her days off, and I would pay for that morning fury for hours afterward.

The ceramic floor was freezing. I finally put my slippers on and began preparing breakfast before she came downstairs.

Renata loved waking to the aroma of freshly ground coffee and finding the table set. The toast made just right, the butter on the antique porcelain saucer she had inherited from her family, her cup gleaming beside the silver spoon. And, at the other end, my pink tea cup with ears, whiskers, and a handle shaped like a cat's tail. My place at that table had always been ridiculous. I had understood that long ago.

I arranged everything with obsessive precision. The folded napkin, the newspaper in its place, the knife parallel to the plate. Only when everything was perfect did my chest calm. I had learned these things when I was young, at the school of domestic arts for men, where they taught us to maintain a home with devotion. I was grateful for it without thinking too much about why.

I checked myself in the refrigerator's reflection. My hair was mussed, the neckline of my nightgown crooked. I adjusted it just as I heard her footsteps on the stairs and her voice, already charged, leaving someone a voice message in a distinctly unfriendly tone.

It's going to be a difficult day.

I lowered my head and laced my fingers in front of me. Monosyllables. Silence. Give her no reason.

—Darling, get up already. It bothers me to feel you watching me while I read —she said without looking up from the newspaper—. Pick this up and start cleaning; the house reeks. This isn't some dive bar.

—Yes, my love, I'm sorry —I murmured—. I didn't mean to make noise while you were sleeping.

—Did you actually see me sleeping? —she said sarcastically—. Stop making excuses. I work all week while you loaf around. Move that cute little ass of yours; watching you clean entertains me.

I looked at her with a mixture of anger and vanity. I hated the contempt, but something inside me ignited whenever she reminded me that my body belonged to her.

I went back and forth from the sink carrying the dishes. She never missed a chance to touch me as she passed, shamelessly, like someone caressing an object she owned. When I finished, she rose unhurriedly.

—I want everything spotless before noon. I'm going back to bed. Don't make lunch; we'll eat out. Make the shopping list, and don't forget that tonight is poker night. The girls are coming with their dolls of the moment. You know them.

I inclined my head.

—Yes, love —barely audible.

I was left alone in the kitchen, holding back my tears. How was I supposed to clean everything without making noise? And on top of that, another night of partying with that particular group, the one I detested most.

***

Renata was the only married woman in the group. Good job, house, routine. Her friends lived for the night, for showing off the trophy man of the moment. They arrived with their perfumed dolls, caricatures of virility who looked down on me while I, with my wife's tacit permission, became their servant. She reveled in the scene, as if her power grew every time someone humiliated me.

I knew what awaited me at dawn on Sunday: broken glasses, overflowing ashtrays, the disorder of their decadence waiting for me. But it was already ten-thirty. I had no choice.

I finished the living room dizzy from the smell of whiskey and cold tobacco. I went upstairs to change, and as I passed the bedroom, I saw that Renata was awake. She beckoned me with her hand.

I approached in silence. She indicated that I should crawl onto the bed, the way she liked, and held me against her body while she spoke into my ear, showing me the phone screen without any real interest in whether I looked at anything.

—I'm going to buy myself a huge strap-on, darling, and use it on you whenever I feel like it —she whispered, amused, before turning my face aside with two fingers—. But I'm tired now. Maybe tonight you'll get a reward in front of my friends. Or maybe I'll offer you to the poker winner. You know how much I like watching you please people.

She laughed at my expression. She opened the nightstand drawer, took out her favorite toy, made me kiss it as a taunt, and put it away again.

—Go take a shower. That's why you came, isn't it? I want to leave soon. We'll have lunch at the club and then go shopping.

Under the water, I heard her come in. She sat on the edge of the tub with her phone in her hand, utterly unashamed, speaking to me as if I were part of the furniture. When she finished, she got in with me, ran her hands over my body, and used me as she pleased, quickly and efficiently. She took me by the waist, pressed me against the tile, spread my legs with a firmness that allowed no argument, and brushed my lips with hers before moving down to bite my neck. I felt her hand slide between my thighs, parting me decisively, exploring with expert precision, and then the dry thrust of her fingers first, followed by her whole body, taking me to the edge with obscene ease.

—That's it, stay still —she murmured in my ear—. Don't move. I want to feel you tremble.

My knees were trembling. Steam clouded my vision, but I saw her smile with that cruel satisfaction I knew so well. She knelt in front of me, gripped my hips, and made me bend until I placed my hands against the wall. Water ran between us, striking her back and my buttocks while she penetrated me with a determined, deep, relentless rhythm, marking every thrust with a wet slap that echoed throughout the bathroom. My moans escaped me on their own, shameful, and she used them as fuel, squeezing me harder every time I broke.

—That's right —she said, breathing deeply—. That's how I like you. Wide open, obedient, nice and hot for me.

She brought one hand to my chest and with the other held my throat just enough to make me look down, at the way our bodies joined beneath the stream. Her hand moved down again, smearing itself with me, and she masturbated me with two long, precise fingers while continuing to fuck me with the cruel persistence of someone who knew every one of the other's reactions. When I arched, almost crying, she let out a low laugh and pushed me back against the wall until she drew a broken gasp from me.

The climax came all at once, ferocious, like a discharge that emptied my legs. She continued for another moment, pressing herself against me, moving until she had wrung everything out of me, and then withdrew with a satisfied sigh, leaving me trembling beneath the shower, soaked, my breathing in tatters.

—Why do you treat me like this, my love? —I dared to ask—. What did I do to you?

She burst out laughing.

—Don't come to me with your romantic needs. I do it because I want to, because I can, and because I love always having you like this, burning for me. Or do you think you're a woman, with my rights over you? If you want to live like a king and concern yourself only with the house and your beauty, put up with my tastes. You lack for nothing as my little husband. And if you don't like it, there's the door.

—But, my love, I am—

—Shut up. Come on, I'm in a hurry.

—Yes, love. I'm sorry.

—That's how I like you to understand.

***

Thirty minutes later she was waiting beside the car, honking furiously. I hated those honks: all the neighbors learned about her mood and how she treated me. I hurried out despite the heels, coat over my arm, leather gloves on, and the tulle hat, an indispensable accessory if they were to let me into the club restaurant beside her.

—Coming, coming, my love, I'm here, sorry —I said, climbing into the passenger seat. Men weren't allowed to drive; the law forbade it, like so many other things.

She lectured me the whole way. My attitude wasn't right, I took too long to get ready. She slammed on the brakes at a corner.

—Get out and buy me cigarettes, and some of yours too, plus three good cigars. Take my card. If they say anything about you coming in alone, point out that I'm waiting here outside.

At the kiosk, the female customers looked at me with a mixture of surprise and desire. One whistled. Another loudly commented on what had just walked in. I tried to finish quickly, but they drew out the moment to make me uncomfortable. I returned to the car pursued by their laughter.

By the time we reached the club, Renata had calmed down. She got out first, opened my door, held out her hand to help me out, and we walked together toward the entrance with her best smile, like a perfect couple.

Inside, she led me to the husbands' lounge and handed me over to the attendant with just enough courtesy, explaining that she had a meeting and that they should look after me until she returned. The employee greeted me with a bow.

—Welcome, Mr. Solveig. How elegant you look today.

She offered me the day's activities. The women's club had a husbands' subcommittee that organized workshops to entertain us while our wives discussed business. I joined a group knitting blankets for a shelter for homeless men. We chatted, laughed, and for a while I forgot my household chores. I confess: I liked coming here.

Half an hour later, the attendant came back for me. Renata was waiting with an open smile and kissed me in front of everyone, with a boldness that made me blush. I silently thanked anyone who might be listening: her mood had improved.

We moved to the heated terrace, where an imposing woman I didn't know was waiting for us, accompanied by her husband, an obedient blond who couldn't take his eyes off me. Renata introduced her as Mrs. Brunner, the president of some company or other, newly arrived after years abroad. The woman complimented my beauty while squeezing my hand hard enough to hurt, enjoying my discomfort in front of my wife.

—Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Brunner —I said, with the protocol expected of every man.

Her husband and I greeted each other with two kisses. We both knew what we were: anonymous husbands, pretty faces, trophies without proper names. While they talked about a construction project on another continent, he and I whispered together, discovering common interests, pretending that their indifference didn't hurt us.

Toward the end of lunch, Renata turned to me.

—Mrs. Brunner is inviting us to her yacht for a few days. You and her husband will see the city and go shopping while we work.

My throat tightened. I had never traveled. My eyes filled with tears of pure emotion.

—Your husband is so attentive —Mrs. Brunner said—. It speaks very well of you. But be careful traveling with him; it's another world over there. I've already lost two dolls because I didn't teach them the rules in time.

Her husband and I laughed at the joke, holding hands, grateful for the opportunity.

When the cigars arrived, Renata asked me to prepare Mrs. Brunner's the way only I knew how. I carefully removed the wrapping, offered it to her so she could approve the aroma, moistened one end, and cut it. Mrs. Brunner watched me admiringly.

—My goodness —she said to my wife—. What a gem of a husband you have.

***

Back home, after shopping, I put everything away, prepared the dishes for dinner, and went upstairs to rest for a moment beside Renata. She let me relax for only a few minutes before speaking.

—I want you to shine tonight. I'm going to make an announcement to my friends, so put this on.

She handed me a package with a red bow. I opened it, imagining a dress. I froze when I saw it: a black latex bodysuit with pink details and an opening in the belly.

—You don't like it, darling? You were expecting something more romantic, of course.

—It's divine, my love —I lied, swallowing my anger—, but I don't have a belly, and I'm not even pregnant yet.

—You will be —she said, with a calmness that chilled my blood—. On Monday I'm taking you to the ministry. You go fasting, with a bag, for the tests. They'll assess your health and the quality of your future daughters. You'd better score nine and a half or higher.

I stared at her without understanding. She sighed.

—For heaven's sake, man, don't make that innocent face. Did you think you'd be a loving father surrounded by happy daughters? No, my love. You're a business investment. I covered all your expenses and I expect a return: your pregnancies, or your sale. With a good score, you keep living like a king, with trips and beautiful clothes. With a low one, I trade you in for another and you end up in the service area. And if you fail completely, you go to a breeding farm. So enough tears and make an effort.

I fell to my knees, devastated, unable to rebel. I felt anger rising in my throat, but beneath it was the paralyzing fear of losing the only thing I knew.

—Dry yourself and make yourself pretty for me —she ordered, walking away—. Tonight you'll be the center of attention.

***

Alone in front of the mirror, my face still damp, something changed inside me. If they wanted a doll, they'd have a doll. If they wanted a docile, stupid blond, that was what I would be. Not out of submission, but calculation: it was my way of avoiding the farm, of preserving this absurd, gilded life that, after all, was mine.

I switched on the neon lights around the vanity, put on my favorite playlist, and began painting my nails bubblegum pink, adding little pearls to some fingers, dancing in my seat while the lamp dried the polish. I applied heavy makeup, with lots of shimmer, because I wanted to glow. Then I struggled into the latex bodysuit, tightening it firmly over every inch of skin.

I felt the delicious weight of the pink stiletto boots. The platform lifted me up, forcing me to walk with a feline slowness that made every muscle vibrate. In front of the full-length mirror, I finished styling my long blond hair in layers, letting the strands curve like wings over my neck and back. The warm air from the dryer, the scent of clean hair, the faint sweat of anticipation: every movement was a caress, every reflection a promise.

I chose, almost grudgingly, the accessories I detested most and that now defined my new attitude: enormous hoops, exaggerated rings, pink bracelets on both wrists. I lifted the bottle of the sweetest, tackiest perfume she had given me, the one that smelled like candy, and wrapped myself in a thick cloud until I was saturated with it.

The aroma mingled with my breathing and awakened something deep within me, on that uncertain boundary between vanity and desire. The perfect look for a living doll, alight beneath the pink glow of her own creation.

There were minutes left until eight. I took a deep breath, practiced the exact smile, and prepared for the performance. If this is the only game I can win, I'll play it better than anyone.