Woman Seeks Wife Part Three – Domestic Bliss By Madame le Docteur
Story codes: F/f, F^f, BD, anal, fist, spank, sm, medical fetish, mind control, lac, preg, body modification
Nifty category: Lesbian/authoritarian
The author grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to display the work.
All other rights reserved.
Feedback adored: Madame.le.Docteur@gmail.com
I came home from work to find my wife in the kitchen, industriously engaged in making the homemade baby food I insist that we feed my heir. The baby was playing quietly on her mat, making cheerful cooing noises and patting at a felt cut out of a cow.
"Did she eat well?" I inquired quietly, tossing my purse on the shelf in the hall, taking a quick look at the mail waiting for me. The postman comes early in this neighbourhood, and my wife generally has it waiting for me when I come home from work at lunch.
She smiled over at the tiny form lifting her head from the play mat with easy strength. "She drank three and half ounces!" my wife reported proudly. We were feeding my heir breast milk from a bottle, with supplemental feedings directly from my wife's breasts to satisfy the baby's desire to suck, and to provide for the all important skin to skin contact.
There is no question in either of our minds that it is entirely inappropriate to engage in sexual activity that in any way directly or even indirectly involves my heir. There is also no question that breast milk is undoubtedly the best nutritional option for newborns, and that time spent nursing at a human breast provides as much emotional support as it does food. Skin to skin bonding and suckling is critical for an infant's ability to thrive.
The fact remains that I have trained my wife to respond erotically to nipple play. She has spent endless hours receiving vacuum suction therapy, both her nipples and clitoris treated several times daily, generally in conjunction with hypnotic induction and guided meditations. It was a key to her conditioning, and she would inevitably grow sexually aroused if her nipples were stimulated.
The solution was to express her milk, and provide it to my heir using bottles. During her first month, my wife nursed her directly as lactation experts have documented that it helps the little one develop good suckling technique. My wife was, however, immediately introduced to expressing in order to maximize her milk production.
My wife had swiftly recovered from the challenges of gestation, labour and delivery. The intensive conditioning she had been prepared with meant that she sailed through labour like the sexual warrior she is. Dilation training meant that she had no tearing, no episiotomy, no stitches. Her excellent pelvic floor strength and endurance meant that as soon as she was fully dilated, she was able to push like a stevedore, huffing and puffing and red faced, her body straining as she held the vibrator to her distended clitoris, finally giving birth to my heir with a triumphant scream.
While the birth itself wasn't an orgasm, it was an enormous release. I did, however, force her to orgasm as she delivered the afterbirth; the baby lying on her naked chest, wet with birth fluids, the umbilical cord still pumping as my wife orgasmed helplessly
As soon as she was home again, I started her back into training. During that first month, my heir nursed from one of my wife's naked breasts, while the breast pump worked on the other. If she was still hungry, the baby was put to the other breast, catching the last of the high calorie hind milk.
My wife rocked her while nursing, blissfully riding the Peristal massager in her ass, dutifully performing her pelvic floor exercises while the vaginal probe recorded her efforts. Although she was profoundly aroused, my wife knew she would not be permitted to orgasm for one lunar month, until the baby had developed a strong suckling technique and could be introduced to bottles. The oxytocins flooding her system left her mellow instead of desperate, ensuring that the baby drank from a serene mother.
Frequent expressing improves both the quantity and quality of breast milk. My wife was immediately put on a strictly enforced two hour schedule, as well as attending to the demands of my newborn heir as needed. The baby's needs were the priority, and my wife soon learned to doze as a small mouth nursed at her breast, drifting in a warm haze of sleep deprivation, arousal, and the lazy pleasure of the Peristal massager slowing moving inside her, responding to the peristaltic action of her body.
After one month, the baby was entirely bottle fed her mother's breast milk, except for carefully structured bonding time. My wife would once again rock my heir against her breast, riding the Peristal massager while performing pelvic floor exercises. But although she held her and cuddled her, my wife bottle fed the baby the rest of the time, as did I. Much of the time she rode in one of those baby slings.
The milking frame was designed to support my wife even as she slept. The security of complete medical bondage ensured that she was safe even from herself. The frame would safely support even her unconscious body in the correct position for maximum milk production. Instead of the usual small pump packaged with breast milk pumping kits, my wife's milk was expressed using the goat milker I had used to train her nipples and her clitoris.
Of course, direct suction on the nipple does nothing to express the milk. It is the ducts behind the nipple and areola that release the milk, the source of an infant's instinctive rooting motion, jostling his mother's breast while sucking strongly. To harvest her milk for my heir, I used a breast cup, rather than the nipple tubes my wife had been accustomed to wearing for so much of her conditioning. The powerful vibrator jostled my wife's breasts, the breast tissue rippling and jiggling from the vibrator as the goat milker began to suck at a relentless sixty pulses per minute, or one pulse of vacuum suction every second.
Most effective, of course, was hand expressing. It is a well documented fact that hand expressing encourages the best milk production. It is also a well documented fact that simultaneously expressing milk from both breasts was the best way to encourage the total quantity of milk, including an improvement in the total production of the all important hind milk.
The addition of powerful vibrations to the suction of the goat milker meant that machine milking could come close to the efficacy of hand milking. My wife was only hand milked first thing in the morning, during her morning spanking. It was always a special treat and never failed to make her come hard and often.
Another well documented fact is that breast milk content is influenced by the mother's emotional state. Subtle neurotransmitters crossed into the milk, and the baby thrived on milk from a relaxed, contented mother. Milk production dropped in stressed mothers, and their babies fussed, stress hormones leaking into the milk, influencing the baby's behaviour and general health.
Since milk production was no longer intimately acquainted with its eventual beneficiary, I could sexualize the entire process as much as I liked. It was also a rather fascinating study, as I could so easily quantify production, the equipment having been designed for precisely that purpose. The familiar sensory deprivation helmet slipped easily over her boyishly short hair cut. It was practical for avoiding increasingly grabby little fingers as well as for the ease and comfort of wearing the sensory deprivation helmet.
The earphones played the sound of the ocean, interspersed with a gentle hypnotic induction. The third suction line on the milker is fitted to her pussy, the vaginal probe buried deep inside her to monitor my wife's pelvic floor and vaginal sphincter activity. There will be other opportunities to provide my wife with the extreme clitoral stimulation that is so much a part of her life. The dildo is silky smooth as it slides slowly and easily in and out of her ass. The entire dildo is shaped with ripples so large they are like a chain of large anal beads, each one sensuously stretching her sphincter before easing down snug in tight again as it narrowed down the other side of the rounded ripples. The fucking machine glided with inhuman precision, slowed to a generous glide that seduced with its gluttonous stamina.
If a content mother means a thriving child, how much better is the milk from a mother who is joyfully aroused and climaxing? How rich is the hind milk produced by a woman who is utterly sated and content? By separating the milk production from the infant, everyone enjoyed the benefits.
My heir had vast quantities of fresh breast milk to drink. The baby was growing well, in the top percentiles for height and weight for her age, a happy, content child who ate and slept well, and enjoyed her Baby Einstein sessions. My wife was glowing, despite the usual sleep deprivation of a young mother, routinely producing enough milk that we had enough to freeze, the vaginal probe recording multiple powerful orgasms each time she was milked.
Six months in, my heir was a happy, content baby, growing well and developing well ahead of the curve. I had carefully chosen her sperm donor for his combination of athletic ability, intellect and creativity. She was drinking from a bottle or a sippy cup, only spending quiet time with my wife right before going to sleep, nursing from her naked breasts at night and naptimes.
Although my heir was discovering the delights of homemade gourmet organic baby food, breast milk is still the optimal food for growing babies. My heir would drink breast milk from her bottle or sippy cup until at least age two, and breast milk was served with all cereals and porridges. Milk collection was carefully scheduled to coordinate with the baby's usual naptimes.
As the baby spent more and more time awake, I could begin her education as my wife relaxed and expressed her breast milk with the aid of the milking frame. The baby and I watched Baby Einstein, or played games with her toes, exploring fuzzy blocks and patting things on her play mat. We listened to Mozart, long proven to improve the development of young minds, and the soaring music of children's choirs.
It was not uncommon in those early months to find my wife sound asleep in the milking frame, catching what rest she could in between milkings and feedings. The long months of training prior to conception meant that her conditioning was confirmed with each milking session, deeply buried hypnotic commands ripening as she was forced to orgasm again and again.
My wife's diet will continue to be modified as long as she is lactating. After all, the quality of her diet is immediately reflected in my heir's health and well-being. She still has both Pilates and Yoga sessions, as well as time on the elliptical trainer to ensure her peak condition.
I smiled at my happy heir playing on her mat, and tossed the mail back on the hall table. My wife was wearing one of her little sun dresses, relatively modest little cotton numbers that bared her pretty thighs and could easily be untied to expose her milk swollen breasts for nursing. I admired her slender neck and shoulders as she mashed baked pumpkin and parsnips, spooning some into sterile glass jars, and the rest into a pretty little bowl to serve to the munchkin later.
She smiled at me as I lifted the hem of her sundress to expose her naked ass and legs. I pull a nitrile examination glove from a box on the counter, one of many such boxes that adorn just about every flat surface in my house. I can see her thighs shining, glistening with the gelatinous strands that ooze from her swollen cunt. Utterly drenched and almost obscured by the viscous fluids dribbling from my wife's eager cunt was the tail of a weighted vaginal probe.
My wife was once again engaged in an extreme pelvic floor training routine. It enhanced the foundations laid during her time in the milking frame. Every milking session was accompanied by sensory deprivation, hypnotic induction and forced orgasms from anal stimulation. She would be milked every two hours throughout the day and every four hours at night.
Each session provided both breast milk and a recurring opportunity for conditioning. Layer upon layer, her conditioning enhanced her personality and orgasmic performance. She was confident, participatory and utterly and cheerfully obedient. By the time my heir was old enough to attend play group, my wife's conditioning should be honed to perfection, preparing her for a renewed level of intensity.
I took six month parental leave from work when my wife gave birth, and worked part time for an additional six months. That gave us both the time needed to ensure that both my wife and my baby had all the care they needed through this all important time.
The vaginal weights were assisting my wife in recovering her pre-pregnancy strength and endurance. She routinely wore them while performing mundane household chores, sexualizing the perpetually boring realities of housework and improving her overall orgasmic performance. I dabbled my gloved fingers in the slick on her slender thighs and then slicked her swollen clitoris, making my wife shudder and gasp.
"Lift up with your pelvic floor," I reminded her, and ran two fingers along either side of her clitoral shaft, slicking it with her own vaginal fluids. Her conditioning ensures that she's anticipating the next level of her training as much as I am. With a brisk swat to one narrow buttock, I turn her about until she braces herself against the kitchen island, hips tilted to offer up her ass.
I can still see a few fading pink stripes from her spanking this morning before I left for work. While my wife can wriggle herself into position in the milking frame without any assistance, she can't spank herself. I'm glad that I've decided to semi-retire. Everybody cautioned my wife about the age difference, let alone the fact that we are both women!
But I come from one of the more enlightened Western civilizations, where my wife is accorded all the legal rights and obligations of a spouse regardless of the fact that we share a gender. When I die, my wife will be entitled to a widow's pension, and will be a beneficiary of my estate. I'm old enough to semi-retire, and still save at an accelerated rate while working half-time. I can be involved both in my heir's education, but also in the continued conditioning of my wife.
I open a drawer and select a silicone slapper. There are similarly equipped drawers in every room of the house, as well as in both cars. The base of the buttplug in her ass is slick with lube and the juices from her lush cunt. As is my standing order, she has plugged herself with a rectal dilator. I keep her ass plugged more often than not, and the dilators are designed for long term wear as most buttplugs are not. In addition to a flared base, there was a small vent in the tip of each dilator. They ranged in size from one inch in diameter to three inches in diameter.
I chuckled when I saw the size of the dilator. My greedy wife had chosen a stout dilator with a girth of two and a half inches after her last session in the milking frame. The silicone slapper made crisp snapping sounds as it licked at my wife's ass and thighs, swiftly flushing the skin a pure deep rose. I had so much fun conditioning her to come from a whipping. Between the fat dilator in my wife's ass and the heated sting and burn from the silicone slapper, her conditioning made it possible for me to effortlessly hold my wife trembling on the edge of orgasm.
I freed her breasts as she stood there panting, still braced against the kitchen island. "Have you been thinking about it?" I prompted quietly, pinching and rolling a fat nipple between my fingers.
The trembling became a shudder and a gasp. "Yes, Ma'am," my wife will tell me. "In my country, I would only be allowed to have one. You know that's why I wanted to marry a foreigner. I want more babies."
"Just checking" I'll assure my way, still lazily tormenting her nipple, petting her hot, reddened bottom with my other hand, still holding the handle of the slapper. "You know I'll force you to orgasm as you deliver this time," I reminded her. "It will trigger all kinds of stuff buried in your conditioning."
"I"ll be a good wife!" my wife vowed. And she would – her genuine desire for a large family was only confirmed by her conditioning. The generous social benefits of my country meant that I could afford to support a large family, even at my age. I am well past menopause, but a young wife means that I can have the children I never could bear myself.
"We'll have help," I will promise my young wife. She was a frugal housekeeper, and I could afford to hire someone to do the heavy cleaning once a week, and a teenager to help with the children a few hours a day. There would be math tutors and ballet lessons and piano practice and time with the singing coach. My wife would be a busy woman for the next ten years or so, even with help. But at no time would my wife suffer from a lack of attention. By only working part time, I could dedicate time to my wife each day.
She spent two hours each morning attending to her bodily functions. Two further sessions, each two hours in length, would be enough to keep my wife's tuned to peak performance while the children were small. "We can sponsor my sister," my wife proposed, red bottomed and squirming eagerly. "The government made her abort a second child before I left the country. Bring her here with her first daughter and let her have more babies."
That made me pause. "Do you have any sexual interest in your sister?"
I queried, stepping back so I could see her expression.
My wife looked back over her shoulder at me, entrancingly flushed. "No, but she's my sister and I love her." My wife slid a quick glance over at the baby, making sure she was still playing happily. It was something we both did so frequently that it no longer even registered.
"I want her to be happy. I would share you with her," she said carefully, her accent already vastly minimized by her work with her very proper and very British vocal coach.
I paused, considering this. "How old is the kid?"
"Four. And my sister would respect you as Head of the Household. I will be senior wife. She will be second wife. She is young, strong and healthy. You can make her orgasm a lot. She will be a good obedient wife. She will do hormones like me and grow pretty girl dick for you after you give her smart babies. We will need "English nanny to help."
I chuckled. "I can only have one partner in this country," I reminded her, tugging playfully on a nipple.
"So the government doesn't call her your wife," my stubborn wife pointed out with quiet reason. "Other Chinese people will know what she is. You will have many children. Any my family will be happy to be rid of her. She shames the family by producing a girl baby. Her husband divorced her after she was caught pregnant a second time. Tests show baby is a girl, so government make her have abortion."
I sighed. "I suppose I'm already a scandalous creature. It can't be much worse." Despite using the services of a traditional village matchmaker, I was rather a source of befuddlement to my inlaws. I was female, a lesbian head of household in a foreign country. No one was every quite sure if they should treat me with the reverence accorded to me because of my age, or with the courtesy one would expect for the male head of the household. And yet, I totally dominated my young wife and made sure she was pregnant as soon as I was ready to breed her. To Chinese eyes, I was very close to a very strict, traditional and very fertile husband.
The fact that I used sperm purchased from a sperm bank to sire my children was a matter of consummate indifference to most Chinese of my acquaintance. I imagined that in future years, as I rocked up to social events with my six or seven multiracial children by at least two different women, that I would be subject to no little envy at having produced my very only little dynasty in this era of government restrictions on family size.
"We will return to the sperm bank when my heir is twelve months old," I decided after a moment's thought. We will apply to sponsor your sister at the same time. She should arrive in time for the birth, and it will give us time to tutor her daughter in English before she starts school." It looked like I'd be getting that English nanny sooner rather than later.
I shot my wife a stern look. "I make no promises about more babies for your sister. But at the very least we can make a place for her in our Household."
"Thank you," my wife breathed, dark eyes glistening with fervent and deeply sincere gratitude. "In the old days, a husband who provided so well would have two or three junior wives and a concubine or two, all of whom would bear his children. As senior wife, it is my job to arrange such things. They will all be ladies of beauty and intelligence, worthy of carrying your heirs."
My wife sometimes surprised me with her traditional views. And frankly, it was no hardship to consider a houseful of beautiful women to spank and tease and torment, or to contemplate afternoon tea with a dozen or more giggling children.
"I certainly won't be conceiving any children with concubines," I advised my wife tartly. Yes, I was fiercely kinked in my marital demands upon her person, but she was also treated with all the respect due her rank as my wife.
"They will name no father," my wife pleaded with me. "You can adopt the children at birth."
I stroked her ass, considering the possibilities. "There will be strict rules. Everyone will be on a training schedule."
"As you wish," my wife said demurely, tilting her hips to make herself more available to me. "You can put the concubines you don't want children out of on hormones. They will grow pretty girl dicks for you. They won't make milk, but you can force them to come more and more and more."
My wife knew me well. Working part time would continue to give me plenty of time to see to the needs of my household, particularly if there were a handful of women sharing childminding responsibilities and housekeeping duties. "You will all have to study early childhood education," I told her, thinking aloud. "The children will all need home schooling, then private school and elite boarding schools. I want them all to have at least a Bachelor's Degree under their belts before they leave home."
"They will be good students," my wife vowed, eyes sliding over to check on the baby once more. I checked the clock. She would have only recently finished her cereal and bottle of expressed breast milk.
She would be quite content to play on her mat for at least thirty or forty minutes – and then nap on the spot.
"You know that having more babies will delay my plans to make you grow a pretty girl dick for me," I told her, deliberately using her phrasing. Her mangled English often amused me, although I was proud of how hard she'd worked to improve her grasp of the language. Besides, the desciption appealed to me. The application of testosterone compound directly to the clitoris would permanently enlarge that all important organ, as well as inducing a vastly increased sex drive. Hormone therapy, as part of an extreme clitoral stimulation program, would indeed grow pretty girl dicks. "You'll have to work hard to meet the performance targets without the hormone therapy," I warned. "You'll be back on the intensive training schedule you maintained before."
"Yes, ma'am," my wife replied, looking quite delighted by the prospect. She adored extreme clitoral stimulation, even without the testosterone treatment. The monitors on the wall showed the level of tension in her pelvic floor, picking up the readings broadcast by the wireless vaginal probe.
Feeling a little mean, I started swinging the silicone slapper again, swiftly turning her ass and thighs a deeper shade of red. My wife spread her legs obediently, knowing what was to come, trembling slightly as she waited for the slapper to curl up and bite at her swollen pussy. Her time in the milking frame meant that her pussy had been receiving regular vacuum suction therapy, as evidenced by her lush camel toe.
But without testosterone therapy, my wife's clitoris was sadly underdeveloped, even after more than two years of regular vacuum therapy and hydrotherapy. Fortunately, her hypnotic conditioning compensated for her stunted clitoris, responding beautifully with forced orgasms in response to anal stimulation.
Her swollen cunt began to make wet, sloppy slapping sounds as the slapper stung my wife's sex. She whimpered, trembling violently although she never fell out of position. It didn't take long to force her to an explosive orgasm, whip kisses pushing her over the edge into a thigh trembling, convulsively shuddering ejaculatory climax. I whipped her through the orgasm, making sure that the slapper bit her clitoris each and every time.
I had to steady her as she wriggled back into position in the milking frame. As I was now home, my wife was able to don the sensory deprivation helmet, maximizing the impact of her treatment. (She was always careful to keep her attention on my heir when they were home alone.) I took the opportunity to change her rectal dilator over to a short, more curvy butt plug to which I could fix a powerful vibrator. The pussy cup would stimulate her whip swollen genitals, capturing any ejaculate produced during her milking.
She was entirely capable of slipping into the frame without assistance, but I didn't object to the show of care. Her conditioning was coming along nicely, and while her suggestions had startled me considerably, I was not displeased by her show of initiative. I moved over to the play mat, settling down beside my heir with a package of baby flash cards. There would be another Baby Einstein DVD to watch later, while my wife climaxed repeatedly in the milking frame.
I played with my heir's little pink toes a few hours later, singing a lullaby as I fed her from a bottle. My wife had checked in with me before returning to the milking frame once more. If I had several wives and concubines, it would require a highly regimented schedule. I would not allow my girls to sexually satisfy one another. Their orgasms were restricted to their training and conditioning session, where they could experience the maximum benefit.
All of them would, of course, experience the same enema training and evacuation conditioning, developing an unshakable connection between anal dilation and sexual arousal. While I had no interest in scat, it had amused me to train my wife to orgasm during defecation. Sensory deprivation and hypnotic induction simply took time, but if there were a handful of women in residence, it would be relatively easy to provide for group treatment sessions, while the other attended to their respective duties in the household.
A few concubines would afford me the opportunity to begin the next phase in the extreme clitoral stimulation program. I couldn't treat any woman I wanted to breed with hormone therapy, but the concubines were strictly sexual playthings. I could be even more extreme in their conditioning. We would need one of those bloody minivans to haul everyone about, although there were even a few erotic possibilities offered by such vehicles.
Not even two years into my marriage, and my wife was already a valuable addition to the household. Additional wives and concubines would mean that I could focus my attention on my wife more readily, having many extra hands to deal with the prosaic realities of daily life with small children in the household.
I would have to build more milking frames. If there were three or four women lactating at one time, I would need enough frames to achieve maximum milk production for each of them. The toilet facilities would have to be expanded, particularly the options for total bondage during all procedures. Each woman would need her own anal hygiene station.
There would need to be additional bondage gynaecological examination chairs, as well as a larger kitchen and dining room. There would need to be a nursery, and a playroom, and dormitory style rooms for the women. Adult spaces would need to offer more bondage options, and it would certainly give me an excuse to upgrade the fucking machines.
Additional bathrooms, more machines for the laundry room, and a couple of tumble dryers. Children's laundry didn't wait for a sunny day. Dedicated dishwashers for toys, plus an autoclave for my beloved clinical instruments; additional electrical stimulation units and additional probes... I pondered the equipment and facilities I would need to take on such a project.
After the baby went down for her longer night time sleep, I would take a look at the family budget. And then I would come up with new and exciting ways to torment my young wife. And possibly several other wives and a handful of concubines...
The situation had possibilities.