The house was quiet, that suffocating suburban silence that usually drove me crazy. It was 4:30 PM on a Tuesday. The dishwasher was humming its monotonous tune, the bills were stacked neatly on the granite counter, and the PTA newsletter was sitting unread by the fridge. I hated it. I hated the boredom of being Donna, the perfect housewife.

But I knew that in thirty minutes, Donna would disappear.

I went upstairs to the master bedroom to prepare. This was my ritual. I stood before the full-length mirror, critical as always. I was 42 years old. At 5’4” and 128 lbs, I fought for every inch of my figure. I did spin class three days a week and yoga on the others, mostly to keep my ass high and tight. It was real, hard work and sweat. My tits, however, were a gift from Carl for our 20th anniversary. A perfect, paid-for 36DD that defied gravity.

I stripped off my sensible Lululemon leggings and the oversized t-shirt I wore for chores. I stared at myself naked. I looked good. I looked ready to be used.

I looked down between my legs. Unlike most of the women at the club who went completely bare, looking like prepubescent girls, I kept a bush. It was a dark, neatly trimmed triangle of thick hair that sat right over my pubic bone. It contrasted sharply with my smoothly shaved thighs and lips. Carl liked the texture. More importantly, Carl liked the leverage.

I checked the time. 4:45 PM.

I reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out the vibrator. I didn’t turn it on. I just shoved the slick silicone inside my pussy to get the juices flowing. I needed to be wet when he walked in. It was a rule. If I was dry, I was punished. If I was wet, I was punished, but the punishment was much more fun.

I heard the garage door rumble open downstairs.

My heart raced, that conditioned Pavlovian response I had developed over twenty years of marriage. The nice, responsible mother was gone. The slut was awake.

I quickly put on the outfit he’d laid out this morning before he left: a white lace teddy that cut high on my hips, leaving my ass completely bare, and white thigh-high stockings. No panties. He hated panties.

I made it to the kitchen island just as the door from the garage opened. I assumed the position: elbows on the cold granite, back arched, ass stuck out towards the door. I waited.

I heard his heavy footsteps on the tile. The sound of his briefcase hitting the floor. The heavy exhale of a man who spent his day commanding a sales floor and was ready to command something else.

“Good afternoon, Donna,” Carl said. His voice was low, authoritative.

“Hello, Sir,” I whispered, staring at the fruit bowl.

I didn’t move. You don’t move until the Alpha tells you to move.

He walked up behind me. I could smell him, expensive cologne, stale office coffee, and the underlying musk of a man. He didn’t say anything at first. He just ran his large, rough hand down the curve of my spine, resting it on my lower back.

Then, without warning, his hand snapped down. CRACK.

I gasped as his palm connected hard with my right cheek. “Fuck,” I hissed, the sting radiating instantly.

“Language,” he scolded, but I could hear the smile in his voice. “Are you wet for me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Show me.”

I stayed bent over, but I reached back and spread my cheeks. He leaned in, inspecting me like he was checking the oil in his car.

“Good girl,” he muttered.

Then came the feeling I lived for. His hand moved from my ass cheeks down to my crotch. He didn’t go for the clit. He grabbed a fistful of my pubic hair.

He yanked. Hard.

“Ah!” I cried out, my toes curling on the hardwood floor.

The pain was sharp, electric. It shot straight from the roots of my hair to my clit. It was a handle, a leash, and he knew exactly how to pull it to make my knees weak. He twisted his fist, gathering more hair, and pulled my pelvis back against his groin. I could feel him through his suit pants. He was hard. Thick.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled in my ear.

“Yes,” I breathed. “I love it.”

“You love being my bitch.”

“I’m your bitch, Carl. I’m yours.”

He let go of my hair, giving me a moment of relief, only to replace the sensation with the sound of his belt unbuckling. The heavy leather slid through the loops with a snake-like hiss.

“Count them,” he ordered.

I braced myself on the counter. The first strike of the folded leather belt landed across the meat of my ass.

“One!” I shouted, the number escaping me with a gasp.

CRACK.

“Two!”

He wasn’t holding back today. He was venting his frustration, taking the stress of the quarterly reports and the incompetent junior sales reps and burying it into my skin. And I took it. I took it because it meant I didn’t have to be the mom who worried about college applications or the wife who worried about the mortgage. I was just flesh.

CRACK.

“Eight!” I was sweating now, my breathing ragged. My ass felt like it was on fire, a throbbing heat that made my pussy so wet I could feel it dripping down my inner thighs.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

I spun around, leaning back against the granite counter. My ass was stinging, but my nipples were hard as rocks against the white lace.

Carl had his cock out. It was a good cock. At 5’10”, Carl was an average-sized man, but he was thick where it counted. It was dark, angry-looking, and fully erect. He never needed foreplay. The sight of me in pain was his foreplay.

“On the counter,” he said.

I hopped up, spreading my legs wide. I put my heels on the edge of the granite, opening myself completely to him.

He stepped between my legs. He didn’t kiss me. He grabbed my ankles and yanked me to the edge until my ass was hanging off. Then, he leaned in and grabbed my bush again. He twisted the hair around his fingers, using it to tilt my pelvis up, angling my hole exactly how he wanted it.

“Look at that mess,” he sneered, looking at the juice glistening in the dark curls. “You’re soaking wet. Matted like a stray dog.”

“I can’t help it,” I whimpered. “You make me so wet.”

“You need a plug to keep you open,” he said matter-of-factly.

He reached into his pocket, he must have carried it home from work, the pervert, and pulled out the medium-sized steel plug. He didn’t lube it. He just rubbed the tip against my soaking wet pussy lips, coating it in my own fluids, and then lined it up with my asshole.

“Push,” he ordered.

I bore down. He shoved. The cold steel invaded my tight ring, stretching me instantly. I groaned, feeling that rush of fullness that borders on pain. He twisted it, seating it firmly.

“Now,” he said, gripping his cock. “Let’s see if you can take this.”

He didn’t wait. He lined himself up with my pussy and thrust forward.

“Oh god!” I screamed as he filled me.

The friction was incredible. Between the pain in my ass from the plug, the stinging on my cheeks from the belt, and the way his thick cock stretched my pussy walls, my brain simply shut off. I wasn’t Donna. I was a hole.

He grabbed my hair, the hair on my head this time, and pulled my neck back, exposing my throat. He clamped his other hand around my windpipe. Not enough to crush, just enough to let me know he could.

“Take it,” he snarled. “Take every inch.”

He fucked me with a brutal, rhythmic efficiency. Slap. Slap. Slap. His hips hitting my ass cheeks. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his lower back. I stared up at the pendant lights in the kitchen, my vision blurring.

“Is this my pussy?” he demanded, squeezing my throat.

“Yes! Yours!” I choked out.

“Who owns this hole?”

“You do! You do, Daddy!”

I felt the orgasm building deep in my belly. It wasn’t a sweet, romantic flutter. It was a tidal wave. It was primal.

“Carl, please, I’m gonna cum!” I begged.

“Not yet,” he said, pulling out almost all the way and slamming back in different angle. He reached down and grabbed my bush again, yanking hard right as he thrust.

That was it. The jolt of pain mixed with the penetration pushed me over the edge.

“FUCK!” I screamed.

My body convulsed. I clamped down on his cock, my inner muscles milking him. I bucked my hips, grinding my wet, matted hair against his groin. I squirted, hot liquid splashing over his balls and onto the expensive tile floor.

He grunted, his face contorted in a mask of dominance. He let go of my throat and slammed into me three more times, hard, fast, and deep. On the fourth thrust, he buried it to the hilt and groaned, his body stiffening as he pumped his seed deep inside me.

He held it there for a long time, twitching, making sure I took every drop.

Slowly, the fog began to lift. He pulled out, and I felt the familiar drip of his cum and my juices leaking out of me. I looked down. My pubic hair was plastered flat against my skin, coated in a thick, white glaze of our combined fluids. It looked messy. It looked dirty.

It looked perfect.

Carl zipped up his pants, adjusting his belt, the same one that had marked me moments ago. He looked composed again, the Alpha restored. I slid off the counter, my legs wobbling, the butt plug still providing a heavy sense of fullness inside me.

“Go clean up,” he said, smacking my ass one last time. “Then start dinner.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I waddled slightly toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel to hold between my legs so I wouldn’t drip on the rug. I felt floaty, high on endorphins. This was what I needed. Everything was right in the world.

When I came back downstairs, showered and dressed in my casual jeans and a t-shirt (though I left the plug in, a little secret just for me), the mood had shifted. The electricity of the scene had dissipated, replaced by a heavy, sullen cloud hanging over the living room.

Carl was sitting in his recliner, a scotch in his hand, scowling at the ceiling.

“Where’s Bobby?” I asked, my voice back to its normal, maternal pitch.

Carl scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. “In his room. Crying again.”

My stomach dropped. The high from the sex evaporated instantly. “What happened?”

“That girl. The cheerleader. Jessica,” Carl said, waving his hand dismissively. “She dumped him. Apparently, she found someone better. Someone on the football team. A ‘real man,’ as I heard him blubbering over the phone.”

“Oh no,” I whispered. My heart broke for him. Bobby was so sweet. He was sensitive. He wrote poetry. He was nothing like Carl.

“He’s soft, Donna,” Carl said, his voice hard. “I told him this would happen. You can’t just be ‘nice’ to women. Women don’t want nice. They want to be claimed. They want strength.”

He looked at me, his eyes dropping to my crotch, knowing exactly what state he had just left me in. “You know that better than anyone.”

I flushed, looking away. “He’s just respectful, Carl. That’s a good thing.”

“It’s a weak thing,” Carl snapped. “He let her walk all over him for six months, buying her gifts, listening to her problems, being her emotional shoulder. And now he’s surprised she left him for a guy who probably choked her out in the back of his Camaro last night?”

“Carl!” I scolded. “He’s our son! Not everyone can be like you.”

“He can if he tried,” he grunted. “The boy needs to man up. He needs to stop asking for permission and start taking what’s his. Otherwise, he’s going to spend his whole life crying in his bedroom while guys like me fuck the women he loves.”

He took another sip of scotch, turning on the TV, checking out of the conversation.

I stood there, looking at the stairs. I hated it when Carl was cruel, but deep down, in the part of me that was still throbbing around the steel plug in my ass, I knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. I knew what my body responded to. I knew what made me forget my name.

Bobby didn’t have that edge. He was gentle. He was safe.

I walked up the stairs, my heart heavy. I stopped outside his door. I could hear the muffled sounds of sobbing. It was a pathetic sound, really. A sound that made me want to hug him, but also made me want to shake him.

Carl wouldn’t help him. Carl would just shame him.

I put my hand on the doorknob. If Bobby was going to survive this world, if he was going to stop being the victim, someone had to teach him. Someone had to show him that being a man wasn’t about being mean, but it was about power.

I took a deep breath, fixing my “imperfect mother” face, and opened the door.

“Bobby?” I asked softly. “Honey, can I come in?”

The room smelled like stale corn chips and Axe body spray. It was the scent of a teenage boy who was trying too hard to mask the fact that he was still a boy.

I stepped inside and closed the door softly behind me. The butt plug Carl had shoved inside me earlier shifted slightly with the movement. It was a heavy, persistent reminder of who I really was. I wasn’t just Donna the mom. I was a woman who was currently stretched open, holding my husband’s claim inside my ass while I tried to comfort our son.

Bobby was lying face down on his bed. He was a lump of misery dressed in basketball shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt.

“Bobby,” I said again.

He rolled over. His face was puffy and red. It was a pathetic sight. He was sixteen years old. He was six foot two. He had broad shoulders that he got from my side of the family, not Carl’s. He should have been terrifying. He should have been breaking hearts. Instead he looked like a toddler who had dropped his ice cream cone.

“Go away, Mom,” he croaked.

“I am not going away,” I said firmly. I walked over to the bed. “Your father told me what happened.”

He let out a bitter laugh that turned into a sob. “Of course he did. Did he tell you I’m a pussy? That’s what he called me.”

I winced. “He didn’t use that word.” That was a lie. Carl used that word for everyone who wasn’t Carl. “He is just worried about you. We both are.”

I sat down on the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked. I was careful how I sat. The plug was pressing against my G-spot from the inside, and every movement sent a little ripple of pleasure through my belly. It felt wrong to feel good while my son was in pain. But it also felt inevitable. My body was wired for sensation.

“She left me for Chad Miller,” Bobby sniffled. He sat up, leaning his back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. He looked so small for someone so big.

“Who is Chad Miller?” I asked, though I could guess.