The War Wife

Ingrid was getting thirsty.

It had been an hour since the Strong family—or rather, the other half of the Strong family—had defeated her and her son Albrecht. She had been stripped of the fetishistic Nazi apparel that she wore both to showcase her beautiful supremacy and taunt Tom Strong with the sexuality he had once succumbed to. Without the earrings, the choker, the corset emblazoned with swastikas on its wonderfully crafted buckles, she was naked but for her elbow-length gloves and thigh-high boots, both of black leather.

They had tied her up. She was uncomfortable—the chains were too strong for her to break, so it would come as a shock if they didn’t cut off her circulation, but her fingers and toes felt alright so far. She could still wiggle them.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a voice that was unusually contrite for her. “Can I have a glass of water?”

She knew someone had to be listening to her, monitoring her. She’d been taken to the Stronghold and set in a room, but it wasn’t a prison cell. There was a bed, furnishings, comforts—only she was tied up on one end of a couch.

The door opened suddenly. Dhalua Strong—tall, obsidian black, with lush hair falling down to her back—stood there. Tom Strong was there as well. Neither of them wore any semblance of modern clothes, but the tribal clothing of Attabar Teru. Tom had on only a loincloth of tanned leather, showing off almost all of his robust, virile physique, while Dhalua wore two scraps of animal fur strung over her pubis and backside, a feathered necklace doing only a little to conceal her voluptuous breasts. A headdress of animal bones held her mane of long hair in one long tail.

“Quiet,” Dhalua said immediately, and Ingrid felt anything she might say shrivel and die, even as a thought. Dhalua had beaten her savagely before she was captured, and though Ingrid’s superhuman body had healed in the interval, she hadn’t forgotten the pain and humiliation of being on the receiving end of Dhalua’s fury.

“Husband,” Dhalua said, “her water.”

With all Tom’s exceeding height and burgeoning muscles, Ingrid had missed that he was holding a slim glass of ice water. He brought it to her, holding it so she could drink. When Ingrid finished, she looked into his eyes. She was searching for some emotional foible to play on, some seduction or ploy to work, but there was no help for her in the cold, blank darkness of Tom’s eyes.

“Understand this,” Dhalua said, her voice as cold as the water. “Ingrid Weiss, you have violated my husband, taking something only I have a right to. You’ve borne a child by him, my child, and raised that infant to be hateful scum, as you are. My husband holds out hope that mercy and forbearance can work at you—that there is a single accounting of morality by which you may deserve life. But my anger, my people, my tradition insist that you die for the wrongs you have committed against so many, including your own stolen son. The only way I can make peace with both what you have done and my honored husband’s wishes for you is to revive an old custom of my tribe. In defeat, the women and children of a destroyed people can ask for sanctuary among the victors. They are given work as slaves and taken as wives by the warriors who undid them. As my husband defeated you, I will accept that you asked for this mercy, and that in accordance with Ozu tradition, Tom took you in. As his property, the two of you mated. Since then, you have been an exceptionally willful, disobedient slave. You will be punished for that. Then, you will serve us, as you should have for all those years when you instead defied your masters and betters.”

“This is our only concession to you,” Tom said, his ringing voice somehow muted. It was clear that there was no appeal, no distance between husband and wife on this matter. He backed Dhalua’s play one hundred percent. “If you don’t accept it, you can die.”

“The Ozu have traditional means of doing that as well,” Dhalua said, a hint of threat creeping into her already ominous voice. Whatever her fate would be, Ingrid could well believe Dhalua would relish it. “We don’t discriminate between the male and the female when it comes to rape. We have a punishment that is equally effective on both.”

Ingrid gulped. “I’ll submit,” she said. “I’ll be your slave.”

“Good,” Dhalua said. “Then it’s long past time you learn your place.”

Dhalua sat down on the floor, facing her husband. She crossed her legs, the limitations of her loincloth revealing all of her lush thighs, well-toned, with richly dark flesh. She moved the front of Tom’s loincloth to one side, exposing the long cock that Ingrid remembered well, but had long since become unfamiliar with. Dhalua was perfectly familiar both with the prodigious shaft and the bloated balls underneath, and she played with them, making Ingrid’s cunt clench in envy. 

She didn’t like how warm her pussy was becoming, but there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t possibly look away as Dhalua stroked and fondled and caressed Tom’s growing erection. She tugged downward on it and Tom sat. Then Ingrid watched Dhalua spread her legs wide, over Tom’s thighs. Ingrid could see Dhalua’s pussy, its pinkness seeming to glow, a jewel set in her dark flesh.

Dhalua pulled her husband’s prick into her lap and rubbed it against her pussy. Ingrid felt her own sex warming with desire as she watched the knob of Tom’s swollen manhood moving over the lips of Dhalua’s sex, dwarfing it handily. Excitement gripped Ingrid, and she breathed in hisses, her naked breasts jiggling with each harsh breath.

“Oh, I love the way your cock feels against me, husband!” Dhalua breathed softly. “Can you not feel how warm my womanhood is?”

“It’s warm,” Tom confirmed with characteristic understatement, watching as Dhalua basked in the feel of his dripping cock heatedly pressing against her sex. “But it always feels this warm.”

“For you, it always is,” Dhalua gurgled, and Ingrid could only look on in envy. She had known intellectually that this wasn’t the first time husband and wife had made love, but now she could see firsthand their chemistry, their naturalism with one another. It somehow made her more excited than ever.

With the unrelenting violence that was her birthright, Dhalua thrust Tom onto his back, his cock shooting straight up into the air, throbbing with need. Then she crouched over him, holding her loincloth away from her sugary cunt and the cock she meant to meet it. As she held the animal skins about her small waist, Ingrid stared at Dhalua’s ass. It swelled out beautifully, the cheeks rounded and firm, very smooth and with an obvious weight which they bore well. Her powerful thighs had a similar heft, with no blemish either, and her legs were quite long. 

As Dhalua lowered herself to her husband’s prick, Ingrid could see the cheeks of her thick ass spread, and see the sweet pucker of Dhalua’s anus. She wondered if Tom had availed himself of that hole as well. She looked at Tom’s scrotum hanging between his legs, thickly haired and decidedly engorged. She wanted to touch them, fondle them, but she would never let the Strongs know of her interest. She might serve them, but she would never take enjoyment in it, and never let them see her enjoy it if she did.

But as Ingrid stared at Dhalua’s sweet ass and Tom’s thickening cock, she wondered how it would be possible for her not to take pleasure in either of them… much less both…

“We won’t let her see how you make me come,” Ingrid heard Dhalua saying. “Let her figure out on her own how to take your fat cock. But I’ll jack you off and make you come all over my pussy. She should see how much she has to learn about handling a big prick like yours.”

Ingrid wanted to retort that she knew all about big cocks, that she’d had hundreds of Aryan men with good, strong pricks, but it was true—never anyone as big as Tom. And in her heart of hearts, she doubted she could handle him with anywhere near the skill Dhalua was so casually bringing to bear.

Dhalua was still squatting above Tom’s throbbing cock, which strained for her as a compass needle pointed north. It was unbearable for Tom and Ingrid both, having him so close to nestling inside Dhalua’s womanhood, where he belonged, and yet not to take the final step. Dhalua reached down between them and began jerking Tom off, his cockhead set against her clit as her hand ripped along his length. 

Ingrid could see delighted shivers going through Dhalua’s thighs and naked ass, showcasing how much she loved the feel of her husband’s prick. Ingrid, in turn, writhed about in her seat, trying to squeeze her thighs around the thrumming engorgement of her aroused clit. She bit her lip as she watched, her eyes burning as they drank in the obvious lust between the couple.

Ingrid could no longer even feel disgusted by this miscegenation. No, she was excited by it now. She had never seen dark hands caress white flesh this way. The sheer incongruousness of its perversity matched with its naturalism made Ingrid tremble with desire, with need. 

Dhalua hummed with enjoyment as Tom’s cock tapped against her clitoris, animated by her swiftly jerked fist flying over his shaft. His balls bounced with her energetic stroking and Ingrid was aroused just watching it. Fresh trickles of excitement left her cunt and burned like branding irons on her inner thighs. Her pussy was clenching hotly, the folds tightening, her clitoris almost painfully erect as she stared at Dhalua’s juicy ass swaying to the tempo of her hand traveling up and down Tom’s length. 

Tom’s knob was held firmly against the top of Dhalua’s cunt now, pinning her hard little clit against her lower belly, but Dhalua wouldn’t let him slip inside her, no matter how fast she jacked him off. Tom grunted, twisting his ass about as Dhalua jerked his manhood.

“I will come, Tom!” Dhalua squealed, her dignified voice sounding most jubilant now. “I’ll do it! Do it with me! I want you to come for me as I come for you! Nn! Yes!”

Dhalua roared with intense enjoyment, her body shaking as if unable to hold in the pleasure inside. Ingrid could even see the pucker of her asshole flex, as if ready to be invaded, a level of lovemaking Ingrid had never glimpsed. Dhalua’s well-toned ass tightened and then Ingrid saw the blizzard-pure whiteness of Tom’s cum spurt out of him, gushing all over his wife’s cunt, drenching it, some of it falling down to his bloated balls.

Ingrid licked her lips as she strained against her bonds. She was leaning forward, her desire pulling her to them like iron filings to a magnet. Desperate desire wailed in her naked body. She wanted to come as they did, to bathe in their juices, to feel their warmth. Even watching them was sending erotic spasms through her untouched cunt, glazing her blue eyes with secondhand satisfaction.

She leaned back against her chair, not having come, but aware she would get no closer to coming. And like a cat, she abhorred the indignity of being seen wanting.

Dhalua lifted herself off of Tom, holding her loincloth away from the cum smearing her groin and inner thighs. Chuckling to herself, she cupped her cunt almost protectively and left the room.

Tom remained saturnine as ever, setting his hands behind his head and relaxing in the afterglow. His cock rested also, half-hard and dripping with cum. Ingrid could smell it; her nostrils flared. 

“Did that warm you up?” Tom turned his piercing eyes and lantern jaw to face her. “Did you want some of what Dhalua had?”

Ingrid stayed silent. She tried to glare at him with the full force of her will, but all she could do was eye his manhood. She wasn’t about to admit how excited she had been, how excited she still was. The sight of his bare, erect member was reminding her of her one precious night with Tom, but all those memories felt half-complete, half-finished. She needed to make love to him again. She needed to relive how he had bred her.

Dhalua came back, now totally naked. She smiled innocently as Ingrid stared at her wide-eyed. The woman was flawless—her jubilant breasts, her broad hips, her taut muscles—all a symphony of womanly perfection.

“Unlike your superior race,” Dhalua began, her usually warm voice now chillingly precise as she addressed Ingrid once more, “my people have no compunction to being naked. In fact, I quite like. I like being seen as well. And as you have seen, I like to jack my husband off and make him come all over me. But I think it will be a long time before you earn that privilege. In fact, I doubt you’ll be allowed to masturbate any time soon.”

Ingrid’s ears burned at the sound of that filthy word and the even filthier implication. She turned to face Tom to see that he was sprawled on the floor, now idly caressing his balls and growing erection. “Masturbation is no substitute for sex—it’s a worthwhile erotic pursuit of its own,” he said, his voice quieting into a scholarly tone. “Though with Dhalua so ready and willing to be prevailed upon in that respect, it can be hard to remember that I should practice self-love now and then. Just to be selfish.”

Unable to believe her ears or her eyes, Ingrid looked back to Dhalua to see that she was slumped down on the other end of the couch, her well-rounded ass almost hanging off of the cushion as she spread her legs wide and played with her sex.

Ingrid could hardly believe this was happening: Tom jerking off as his wife fingered herself. As if their mutual enjoyment hadn’t been bad enough, now they pleasured themselves together, and all while looking at her with steady eyes, enjoying the exposure of her breasts and cunt and long, slender legs. Ingrid tried to squeeze her thighs together to hide her sex, but all it accomplished was to summon up the pleasure she had tried to conjure as she watched Dhalua jack Tom off before. It was like magic, how they had turned her own body against her. Under their lustful gaze, her cunt was far more receptive to the tiny masturbation she could manage. 

“I believe Ingrid has become aroused,” Tom said in his stentorian voice. Coolly, professionally, one hand was stroking his shaft while the other gently squeezed his balls. Growing passion quickened his touch. “She’s enjoying getting to watch us.”

“Are you, Ingrid?” Dhalua asked, unabashedly playing with her cunt, thrusting her hips up to grind against the fingers she had working in and out of her pussy. “Is your cunt getting hot? Mine is. I play with it frequently when Tom isn’t here, but when he is, we play with each other. Would you like to see him play with my cunt, Ingrid?”

“I think she does, but she also doesn’t,” Tom said, a huskiness entered his voice as he grew more aroused, more erect. “She would come off watching us play, but that would embarrass her—the best sex she’d had in decades being the two of us letting her watch.”

“I would not come!” Ingrid snapped, sweat beading her forehead under the weight of the lie. She knew it was a lie. She knew she would, if they did—if they made her. “I wouldn’t!”

Tom got up, rock-hard, and went to her. Despite her strength being comparable to his, when he shot his hands between her thighs and pried them apart, Ingrid was weak as a kitten—unable to stop him. “You’re wet enough to have come already. Either that or you lost control of your bladder.”

“Your big cock scared her,” Dhalua teased, her fingers quickening at her quim as she watched a blush flood Ingrid’s cheeks. “She could only handle it with you knocked out. Having you use it on her while you’re wide awake is enough to make her piss herself.”

Tom laughed at the look of indignation that crossed Ingrid’s face; he could tell there was more than a little truth in Dhalua’s jest. Leaving Ingrid, he moved to where Dhalua was on the couch.

“You’ll come this time,” he said, giving Ingrid one last look before focusing on Dhalua, running his hand between her legs.

Ingrid couldn’t stop herself from watching. 

Dhalua took hold of Tom’s cock, beating it in her tight fist with a fury that seemed impossible for him to withstand. Tom grasped at her sex, fingering the pink folds and tickling her hardened clitoris, Dhalua squealing with pleasure at each touch. Two joined fingers thrust inside of her, fucking in and out of her pussy. Dhalua twisted and rolled her hips as the pleasure mounted, mewling softly, looking at Ingrid.

Ingrid couldn’t help herself. She was warming, heating, catching fire as she watched Dhalua being touched so very intimately by the man who should’ve been hers. She could see the shadowy labia clinging to Tom’s fingers, but only imagine how tight Dhalua was, even after all those years of marriage, all the countless times she had taken Tom’s behemoth cock. As Tom fingered his wife and Dhalua masturbated her husband, they talked about Ingrid as if she weren’t there, as if she weren’t worth consideration, as if she were nothing.

“You think Ingrid is about to come again?” Tom asked, his voice heavy, though his panting breath had nothing to do with Ingrid—it was all for his wife. “I think her cunt must be as hot as yours right now.”

“No one’s cunt could be as hot as you make mine,” Dhalua keened happily. “But she is getting warm. You can tell by how hard her nipples are.”

Ingrid had been trying to ignore that—how her nipples were painfully hard, almost stinging, yet still tingling enjoyably, and she longed to touch them and make her half-pain into only pleasure. But she was tied up. Her cunt was twitching wildly too, wanting to be touched as Dhalua’s was, fondled as Dhalua’s was, loved as Dhalua’s was. Even her palms itched, feeling oddly limp—wanting to be full of the granite hardness of Tom’s prick.

“Let’s fuck,” Tom said, perhaps the only thing that would make Ingrid jerk her eyes away from the fingers sliding in and out of Dhalua’s sex. She thought he was talking to her, but he had eyes only for Dhalua.

“Should we?” Dhalua teased. “While we have company over?”

“You’ve gotten me hot enough for it,” Tom retorted, taking his hand away from her grasping pussy. “And I’ve had enough masturbation for one day.”

He’s going to do it, Ingrid thought wildly. He’s really going to fuck her right in front of me!

She was wrong. Tom was going to fuck Dhalua right on top of her, as his wife sprawled across the couch, spreading her legs wide and resting her head on Ingrid’s lap. Laughing heartily, she looked up at Ingrid, seeing the blonde staring between her legs, watching the tendons of her thighs stretch, her receptive pussy trembling in anticipation.

Tom climbed on top of his wife, where he belonged in Dhalua’s view, the man over the woman, but not a black woman, no matter how beautiful she looked, how sexy her sweet cunt was—Ingrid’s mind was a riot of confusion, enthralled with Tom’s straining cock, his dripping precum. Her eyes blurred as she watched him push his glans between the lips of Dhalua’s sex.

“Hnnnn!” Dhalua mewled as he slipped inside her, filling her, completing her. “Oh Chukulteh, great Chukulteh, that’s good! Ooooh! I love your cock inside me!”

Ingrid’s breath burned out of her as she saw Tom thrust his way fully into Dhalua, his balls slapping against her sumptuous ass. Tom held himself up so Ingrid could see between her bodies, and Ingrid knew that was what both of them wanted. Her cunt throbbed out of her own control, soaking the hairs of her pussy, and she quavered between the heat of watching them and the chill of her pussy still being empty, wondering why she had been cursed with this temptation, yet not able to yield to it.

Tom’s muscular ass bounded up and down as he thrust into Dhalua’s cunt, Ingrid unable to look away. Dhalua bounced up to meet him, whimpering with the pleasure she felt, her hands digging into the muscle in back of Tom’s thighs. She tossed her hair about, her cheek smacking down on Ingrid’s legs like a slap, and Dhalua felt that wildness like it was being transmitted to her. She could imagine how it would feel, Tom’s prick driving deep into her own body, and she even knew how hard she would come if that were only real.

“Nnnhh! Yes!” Dhalua gurgled. “You’re so hard! So deep! By Chukulteh, fuck my cunt! Fuck me with your hard cock as this slave could only dream of!”

Ingrid gritted her teeth, certain that Dhalua’s words were meant to seduce her, and unable to deny their effect. She was burning, throbbing, she could hardly stand it. Her soaked pubic hair was tingling against her burgeoning clitoris, that light touch feeling so nearly solid that she could’ve gone out of her mind.

She heard the moist clap of Tom’s prick thrusting in and out of Dhalua’s tight, receptive sex, and found herself turning her head to try and hear better. The sounds made Ingrid shiver harder, the pressure in her groin growing, with nothing to release it despite how near the lovers and their passion were to her. 

Dhalua locked them around her legs and wrapped them around her husband’s back, her naked ass shooting up to him, her stomach churning with tensed muscles. Ingrid could see how her cunt eagerly gulped down Tom’s driving prick, his balls beating at her taut buttocks, while her own sex could only throb wishfully. 

She was going to come from this. How could she not? Her breasts were swollen almost painfully with no one to touch them, her nipples so hard they could’ve burst. And though Ingrid didn’t know it, she was whimpering and keening with desire, the expression on her face that of a starving man an inch from food.

Tom’s ass clenched as he thrust down into Dhalua’s eager cunt, bearing her down to the couch, his wife churning her hips violently up to his, bringing their bodies together in a frenzy of desire and satiation all at once.

“Rrrnh!” Dhalua gritted out, animalistic with lust, as if she were appreciating her fucking on a level no civilized human could. “I’m going to come! Come with me, husband! I want to feel your seed inside my cunt! I want to feel its heat scorch me from within! Come inside me! I want it! I want you! Always!

“You’ll always have me,” Tom promised, before throwing his head back, his eyes closed in an almost meditative state, every muscle in his godlike physique rigid, straining to its fullest effort.

Dhalua wailed loudly, ramming her cunt up to him, holding it desperately against his loins. She would take every single drop from him. And Tom gave it to her, going so stiff he was almost a statue, some Greek creation of purest marble, his cock deep in the slippery heat of her sex when he grunted as bestially as Dhalua and came. 

The sheer force of his orgasm drove his wife down his erection, pressing her flat on her back against the couch, his cockhead still inside her as her cunt overflowed with the abundance of his offering.

Ingrid had grunted too, though she didn’t realize it, her cunt spasming so harshly that it shook her body, jiggling her breasts, making her strain against the ropes that held her. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were glazed.

Tom pulled himself free of Dhalua’s tight cunt, though it hardly wanted to release him, and he sat down straight on the couch, picking up Dhalua and holding her against him as well, the two of them leaving Ingrid very alone on her side of the couch. There seemed to be miles between her and where Tom held Dhalua, her legs spread wide, her pink sex twitching, pints of precious seed seeping uselessly from her.

“Did you come, Ingrid?” Tom asked, as if he were only slightly, peevishly curious. “I’d wager that would make anyone come.”

Dhalua laughed and scooted her ass across the couch until her thigh almost touched Ingrid’s. She pressed her hand between her legs, as she had when she’d masturbated herself, but now it came away wet with cum. Despite what Tom had said, there could be no comparison. Ingrid didn’t see how self-pleasure could possibly compete with what Dhalua had had done to her.

“I am generous,” Dhalua said, sounding as contented as any woman would be after such a performance. She reached out to Ingrid and touched one of her large breasts, smearing some of her husband’s seed there. “You can have some of what Tom honors me with. Doesn’t it feel good, slave? Wouldn’t you do anything for more?”

Ingrid knew that she should refuse—refuse vigorously, telling Tom and his whore exactly how they’d dishonored themselves and how unworthy they were of her—but she couldn’t. She had enjoyed herself. And though she didn’t say anything, she could see that Dhalua saw that in her. 

The black woman hummed approvingly as she went back to her husband, holding him as Ingrid never could.