All These Roadworks note: The following text is an excerpt from the first part of Trophy Wife Initiative by Nadia Nightside. If you enjoy this guest post and want to find out what happens next, make sure to grab the full book in the All These Roadworks store for only $7.99 USD! (Click here to view in store.)
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Trophy Wife Initiative – New Model
I love my wife.
Honestly, I do. That’s part of what makes today so fucking difficult.
We’re standing at the door, together, hand in hand. Our house is small, but in the years since we’ve bought it, we’ve done our best to make it our own. We added a garden with a lovely stone walkway, and installed a new kitchen with marble tiles, and in this entryway that we stand in now we’ve put in beautiful wide-panel wood flooring that we spent months picking out. The sunlight that comes in from the window over the door shines brighter now, reflecting off the glossy varnish of the floor, and even with the lights off, in early morning, our house is sunny and welcoming.
Paying for the upgrades was difficult at first, after the Protection Act made it illegal for women to hold jobs outside of low-salary, gendered positions like secretaries, nurses, and teachers; but then there was the Equality Act that raised male pay across the board by fifty percent, so things evened out a bit. That a lot of that extra money is built off the backs of women forced into indentured servitude positions at government buildings is something I try not to think too much about.
Joan, my wife, wanted to close all the windows. Lock the doors. Take off; maybe leave the country.
I said, Honey, they’ll lock us up.
They’re going to turn me into a slave!
You know I won’t let that happen. Let’s just take this…thing for a day or two and then try to start sending her back. Tell them it’s not working out.
Everyone we know has one and it’s “working out.” The new wives are pregnant inside a week! You’re not even supposed to know you’re pregnant for like a month, and somehow—
Then she was too upset and had to sit and gather her thoughts. She doesn’t do well with being upset; her heart beats too fast and her vocal chords close up. Her adrenaline shuts down her brain; a lot of panic reactions to very basic things. It’s something we’ve had to account for, especially now when so much of society panics her.
Joan is a lovely woman. Brunette, blue-eyed, and with an easy wonderful smile when she bothers to show it. She’s put on a few pounds over the years, but who hasn’t? We’re nearing middle-age together and we eat plenty healthy and do some vigorous erotic cardio a couple of times a month.
She’s also never been able to give us a child, despite us trying. That means we’re at the forefront of the Party’s efforts to boost the population.
I tried to dress up a little for this event, a button-up shirt and tie and suit trousers; Joan dressed down: sweats and sneakers. She refuses to see how important it is to just play along, to not be noticed by these sexist maniacs in charge of things.
We hear the car drive up, and then the engine stopping. There’s a shuffling of car doors and equipment being unpacked. Joan’s hand on mine is a death grip, otherwise I’d peek out the window. Maybe greet the new girl outside.
Why be a snob, why be an asshole? She’s probably just as unhappy about this as we are. Why would anyone want to dissolve our marriage?
Finally, the knock. It’s delicate, yet firm. A patient ringing of the doorbell one time. So far, it’s playing out just like the video they sent us to prepare us—Joan says “to indoctrinate us”—for the arrival; I can imagine the perfectly manicured nail pressing just so on our ringer.
I move to answer the door, and Joan tugs me back.
“Don’t,” says Joan. “Please.”
She’s been crying a lot and it shows. Her hair is a mess. Puffy face. No make-up.
“We have to,” I say. “You know we have to.”
She’s holding back tears, again, but she nods.
Outside, Ingrid waits patiently and attentively. She’s wearing the standard Trophy Wife Initiative outfit; the one they show you in all the billboards and political ads. A bright white dress with tall, tall red heels. The dress is strapless, held together with frilly sheer shoulder-sleeves, and hugs tightly to her substantial breasts.
Her cleavage on full display; her clavicles shining and prominent, like arrows pointing down to the mind-boggling, gravity-defying globes of her tits nearly popping out of her tiny dress. Legs that go on until the next election, polished and shiny and inviting like the rest of her. Her hair is golden and blonde, framing her face just so and draping down to the halfway point of her back. Every minute movement she makes encourages her hair to shimmer, like visual wind chimes.
Bright, happy, obedient, vibrant blue eyes stare possessively at me. She holds a small custom-made purse at her waist, drawing her shoulders together and of course making her posture all the more invitational.
She is clearly young—the profile they sent ahead of time let me know she was eighteen. And her youth—her gorgeous, mature, knowing youth fucks me up straightaway. So much of her life ahead of her and all of it devoted to me. One cannot help but compare her youthful vibrant beauty and the dour, sour, pissy, doughy appearance of Joan.
Fuck.
She’s like every crush of every celebrity or supermodel I’ve ever wanted, all rolled into one amazing, bright-eyed package, staring at me with all the adoration of a long-lost love. Like she’s written me one hundred and forty-four sonnets a day for eighteen years and now she’s finally face-to-face with me. Confidence oozes from her, but also wanton lust. Arrogance, but also whimpering submissiveness.
Fuck.
I nearly say it out loud. I want to. Right away, Ingrid makes me want to do things. But Joan is right there, and I love my wife—even if she’s not technically my wife anymore and the only way I could get them to let her stay in my home was by filling out a fifty-page application for her to become my domestic servant—and I can’t embarrass her like that.
“Oh, darling,” says Ingrid. “I’m so happy to see you. May I please come in?”
Her voice is so svelte and smooth and sweet, it’s hard to describe exactly. It’s like the form of the perfect female voice given shape.
“Yes,” I smile, holding out a hand. “Please. I’m Frederick.”
She slides my hand around the small of her back and hugs herself tight to my body. One long leg pushes up my thigh and hip and I can feel how automatically wet and warm she is from my presence.
“I’m so completely lost for you, my love.” Her plush, powdery lips brush against mine. “I’m so glad to meet you.”
Her voice is low enough that it seems like she might be trying to keep Joan from hearing, but it’s obvious Joan does. My wife—my real wife, Joan—groans in frustration at this display. I can feel Ingrid smiling against my cheek, sliding her lips down against my chin and jaw before drawing away. Her tits remain firmly pressed against my chest and she turns to Joan.
“You’re the servant girl, right?” She doesn’t wait for a response, pointing outside to the veritable mountain of luggage she brought along. “There’s my bags. Won’t you be a dear and help?”
She says it specifically, as if Joan herself is the help—which I suppose, technically, she is.
Joan stares daggers at me, and I try to withdraw from Ingrid. It’s like attempting to pull myself out of quicksand, though. Maybe quicksand that’s in love with me from being grown in a lab somewhere in North Dakota; or at least, that’s where the rumors say they grow these girls.
I’m about to say I’ll help too—but then Joan, shocking me, withdraws from my grip and nods.
“I…I’ll help.”
Even she seems surprised at having said it.
“Dear?” says Ingrid, snaking around me further and giving my ass a light, delighted squeeze. “What is it the help should say when given a request?”
She asks this to me—I’m the one who matters to her, but it’s directed at Joan and we all know it. Joan gulps. She watched the learning video, same as me, but there’s no way she actually says it, right?
“Remember, love?” Ingrid smiles gorgeously. She does everything gorgeously. “This is a Party Family now, and I’ll be making weekly reports.”
Joan looks down at the ground and lets out a long, pained sigh. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
Ingrid smiles brightly. “That’s so much better.”
Then I witness a small transformation. Ingrid is so close to me—and so impossible to look away from—that I can see her every expression. The bright, expectant smile she has on for Joan shifts into a superior, smug sneer watching Joan go and fetch the bags. Then she turns to me, and the sneer fades, smiling again—but this time genuinely, nothing fake like the one she delivered to Joan.
“Now,” she says brightly, tits heaving into my arm, her hands massaging one of mine. “I know I’m a bit late for brekky, but would it be all right with you if I made you brunch, Husband?”
* * * * *
By law, we have to sleep in the same bed. If we don’t, she’ll report us.
I try to play it cool. I usually sleep in the nude, an old habit from my single living that Joan encouraged. She said she liked the warmth of my skin on hers, even though she usually slept in t-shirts and pajama pants.
But instead, tonight, I’ve got on a full set of silk pajamas I bought specifically in advance of this. I’m waiting in the bed, on top of the covers, content to treat this like the imposition that it is.
All I have to do is resist Ingrid for a few days. After that, per the law, I have every right to dissolve the arranged marriage on grounds of irreconcilable differences.
How hard could it be? my past-self thought. Joan and I spend several nights a week without having sex; I don’t even have to make it a full week.
Well, let me tell you, past-self, you fucking moron. You’ve been served and waited on hand-and-foot all fucking day long by a supernaturally, hyper-gorgeous woman genetically designed to turn you on. She insisted on spoon-feeding you the ice cream she made—by hand—and that was only after insisting on snuggling up against you for the entire evening while you watched the game.
Yes, Ingrid insists a lot. She doesn’t say she’s insisting, and she doesn’t sound like she’s insisting, but golly, she sure gets her way:
Please, Husband, won’t you let me slide the spoon in your mouth? I want to see how your tongue works. I’m sure it’s so talented. I’m just so in love with everything about your face. You won’t deny me this simple pleasure, will you? I’m sure I’ll be less clingy in a few days, though gosh, it’s so hard to imagine how when you’re so perfectly handsome. Won’t you please, please let me just try out sliding this delicious ice cream I made just for you into your mouth one time? If you don’t like it, we can stop, I promise.
Her voice, her insistence, feels like she’s confidently and knowingly stroking the cock of my brain. And all the time, no matter what she says, her cleavage is on full display, the incredible impact of her L-shaped jawline utterly shaming the best of any attempts Joan has ever had in looking sexy for me. And that’s just her jawline—let alone her tremendous thigh gap, her perfectly fit and thin and defined arms, her total lack of hair anywhere that isn’t her scalp, the shiny soft supple nature of her skin…
Fuck.
All day, Joan was kept in the adjoining room, most of the time. On call. Once or twice an hour, Ingrid would call her in to do something menial—refill our drinks, dust a piece of furniture, fetch a blanket. Joan would obey, crying and puffy-faced and furious, but meekly issuing out a Yes, Ma’am nonetheless.
And all the while, Ingrid crawled all over me, all day long, stroking my legs and whispering in my ears. Putting herself on display for me, and showcasing herself against Joan. To be honest, some of it is rather fuzzy. I think something may have been in the food—
“H-husband? Is it all right if I join you?”
She appears in the doorway connecting the bedroom to the bathroom. Her form—cartoonishly perfect with its long legs, narrow waist, fertile hips, and expansive bust—is clad in scorching hot white bridal lingerie. Her hair, somehow utterly perfect, soft, and smooth despite the long day of sliding her fit young body all over mine, drips down to one side.
I realize now it was quite a mistake to not order her to turn all the lights off. We should have been in the dark.
But then I wouldn’t have been able to see this. This gorgeous lingerie-clad teenager brimming with lustful love just for me.
“Fuck. Yes. Fuck.”
The words escape my mouth before I can bring them back.
She struts to the bed and slides in and before I can say anything, she’s snuggling against me. My cock is hard, straining, eager for her touch. It’s clearly tenting my pajamas.
“I’m so lucky to be the wife of a man like you,” she whispers, clinging tight to me. “I can’t believe it. You’re so obviously virile. We’re going to make such good babies for the party. We’ll be the absolute image of the Perfect Party Family. You’re so strong and handsome, how could we not?”
She strokes my cheek and then my chest, massaging my pecs. She’s whispering in my ear, but each time she speaks, her lips are wet. Like she’s kissing the words as they enter my brain.
“Now, Ingrid. Listen. See here…”
“Is it all right with you that I’m a virgin?”
I can’t help it. I groan. I had heard rumors, but for a girl like this, so fucking sexy, to be a virgin…
“Is it okay that I’m just barely eighteen?”
Fuck!
“I just want to make sure it’s okay.” Her hands slide across my crotch, fingers dancing against the thick shaft of my cock. “I need to know you think it’s perfectly acceptable that I’m as gorgeous as I am, and a virgin, and only just eighteen, and absolutely obsessed with being your loving, servile, obedient wifepet. Is that okay, my love?” She locks eyes with me. “I’m going to be beautiful for such a long time, you know.”
My hips clench and thrust involuntarily, and she definitely notices.
“I know you must have fucked so many girls, Husband.” The thought makes her bite a lip and close her eyes, like she’s just eaten a rich piece of delicious chocolate. “I know I’m just your latest conquest. How could you not have fucked so many? It’s obvious how virile you are. Did the serving girl bring them to you nightly, like she should have?”
She means Joan, of course. I try to bring myself back to this conversation. She’s steamrolling again, like she did all day.
“No. Nothing like that. You have to listen, see, we’re not—”
“That’s ridiculous.” There’s fire in her voice and eyes now. Anger. “Why did she think she deserved you? I’m clearly much more beautiful than her. Aren’t I, Husband?”
I groan. I don’t know how to answer that.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” She insists. “It’s hardly insulting to her if it’s just a statement of fact, isn’t that so? Would she really be insulted if you acknowledged a simple, biological fact—that I’m built better than her?”
Ugh. Joan is a realist. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad…
“No. That…that’s not so bad.”
“Then would you say it? I’m more beautiful than the help, aren’t I?”
Fuck. The poison in her voice when she mentions Joan, it makes me so lusty. Like any married couple, Joan and I have had troubles. There are old wounds. To be promised that those wounds don’t matter—that a gorgeous eighteen year-old virgin is desperate to suck them away from my life…
My head swims.
“Yes. Yes, obviously you are. But that’s not the point. You see…”
I trail off, looking deep into her eyes. Somehow, even in the dim light, they’re bright and shining blue. Something…something in them makes me lose all my train of thought.
“When it’s just us, just the two of us, Husband? May I please ask you a favor?”
“Yes.” Her thigh is thin and slender and pressing on my cock.
I don’t say the Anything, but I mean it.
“May I call you Master?”
I groan again. This is too much, too fast, too far. She’s so serious, so committed, so needing and perfect and beautiful.
“Did I say something wrong, Husband?”
I shove my head under my pillow. “No. Nothing wrong.”
“Would you like to consummate tonight?”
“No.” I try to think of what Joan says sometimes. “I have a headache. I’m sorry. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Yes, Husband.”
She slips away from me just so—though I can still feel her obvious nearness—and begins to moan softly. After a moment, I hear the gentle, unmistakable sounds of her long fingers pleasuring her pussy.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“I have to cum, Husband.” The schlicking sounds continue apace. “Didn’t you watch the video? If I don’t cum at least nightly, I’ll expire. And I can’t have that. I’m so understanding that you’re not ready yet to fuck me stupid and breed my young, fertile, teenage body full of your babies. But I do need to stay alive, don’t I?”
She continues to finger herself through the entire explanation, her voice becoming softer and breathier all the while. I groan and turn away again. Of course I remember the videos instructing me on this part—on her needing to orgasm. They put it in a more sterile way, of course. Something about “enjoying the wifely pleasure of knowing her total patriarchal submission at least once nightly.”
I don’t know if Joan has known the “wifely pleasure” even semi-annually; she gets really in her head about cumming. It’s hard not to take it personally.
“Oh, Husband…” Ingrid begins to moan. One of her hands reaches out wildly for me, taking a hold of my arm. “Oh Husband! Husband! You’re so strong!”
Her voice gets louder and louder. I think of Joan in the room next door; she’s sure to hear her.
“Husband! My Husband! My strong, strong Husband! Oh my King! My King! My Husband King! Oh my god, yes!” Her body bucks now, thrashing wildly in the bed. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, yes! Yes! Yes! Oh Husband, yes!”
She throws herself into me and I can’t help but hold her. Her cumming, thrashing body slides up and down on my cock.
“Yes, Master!” she moans. “Yes, my King!”
This perfect example of feminine beauty is rubbing herself all up and down my stiff cock. All that’s between her sparkling hot, bare wet cunt and my huge throbbing member are her lingerie and my pajamas. My cock pushes hard against the fabric against her cunt—she’s guided it there.
I can’t help it. She’s so fucking hot. Her tits are right in my face. She’s whispering everything I’ve ever wanted to hear. I’ve got to blow.
And she can tell.
“Oh, oh, oh Master,” she whimpers, her hips grinding in slow, deliberate circles against the rigid length of my cock. “I can’t—I can’t control myself around you. You’re too powerful. Too strong.”
Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to send sharp jolts of pleasure through my nervous system. The thin fabric of my pajamas is soaked now—whether from her or my own pre-cum leaking through, I can’t tell anymore. Don’t care.
“Please,” she gasps, her perfect face hovering inches from mine. “Please, I need to feel you cum. Even like this. Even through our clothes. I need to know what it feels like when a real man—when my man—loses control because of me…”
Her breasts press against my chest as she speeds up, the friction becoming unbearable. The white lace of her lingerie is transparent now, wet and clinging to every fold of her pussy as she grinds herself along my shaft.
“You’re so much stronger than me,” she moans, her voice breaking with genuine desperation. “I’m just a weak little girl. I can’t help cumming for you. I can’t ever be anything but a good wife to you. You’ll break me if I disobey at all…”
Her breath comes hot and humid against my neck now, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there as she moves. The grinding becomes smoother, more practiced, like her body knows exactly what angle to hit to make me lose my mind.
“I can feel how hard you are for me,” she whispers, her voice dropping to that dark, honeyed register that bypasses my brain entirely and speaks directly to my cock. “So thick. So ready. You could pin me down right now and I wouldn’t be able to stop you. Wouldn’t want to stop you.”
Her hips roll in a wave, pressing the length of my cock against her mound, then dragging back slowly, torturously. The wet heat of her seeps through the layers between us. My hands have found her waist without my permission, gripping the narrow span of it.
“That’s it, my King,” she breathes, noticing my surrender. “Hold me. Use me. Even just like this. I’m yours to use however you need.”
She shifts her weight, angling herself so that my cockhead catches against what must be her clit through the fabric. She gasps, a quiet, desperate sound that makes my balls tighten.
“You’re. So. Strong.”
Each word punctuated by another deliberate grind. Her thighs squeeze around my hip, trembling now. I can feel the tension building in her body, coiling tighter with each pass along my shaft.
“I’m going to cum again,” she whispers, her elegant composure fracturing at the edges. “Just from rubbing against you like this. Just from being this close to your strength. Does that please you, my King? Knowing how weak I am for you?”
My grip tightens on her waist. The pressure building in my cock is overwhelming now, impossible to ignore or suppress. Every nerve ending is firing, demanding release.
“Yes,” she breathes, sensing my approaching climax. “Yes, give it to me. Mark me. Even through these clothes, I want to feel your cum. I want to know I pleased you enough to make you lose control.”
Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling my face against the soft valley of her cleavage. The scent of her fills my lungs.
“You don’t have to fuck me,” she whispers. “But you need to cum. Please cum. Cum with me. Oh my god, please cum with me, Master. My Husband. Please?”
I can’t help myself. I had no idea it would be like this. Her submission. Her need. Her beauty. Moaning, gasping, in marvel at Ingrid’s beauty, I unload, spilling my seed all over the front of my pajamas. She cums at the same time, and I can feel her pussy pulsating on top of my exposed cock.
Her body convulses against mine, thighs clamping down on my hip as wave after wave of her orgasm rolls through her. The wet heat between her legs spreads across the soaked fabric, mixing with the cum now coating my pajamas. She buries her face in my neck, her breath coming in sharp, grateful gasps.
My cock pulses again, another rope of cum soaking through the silk. Ingrid’s hips keep moving, slower now, gentler, milking every last drop from me with patient, worshipful attention. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, reverent touches like she’s memorizing the feeling of my body beneath hers.
She lifts her head just enough to press her lips to my jaw, then my cheek, then my temple. Her blonde hair falls around us like a curtain, and in the dim light I can see her eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide with satisfaction.
The trembling in her thighs gradually subsides. She shifts her weight, pressing her pussy more firmly against the wet patch on my pajamas where my cum has soaked through. A soft sound escapes her throat, something between a sigh and a whimper.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispers in my ear. “Thank you so much. Thank you, Daddy.”
Purring, sighing, and raking her teeth across my shoulder, Ingrid curls in close to me and the two of us drift in what is lawfully described as marital bliss.
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That’s not the end of New Model – you can find out what happens next in Trophy Wife Initiative by Nadia Nightside! Plus, Trophy Wife Initiative contains two more full novella-length stories of the Trophy Wife world! (Click here to view Trophy Wife Initiative in the All These Roadworks store.)
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