Fifties Housewife

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I think every female submissive has had the delicious thought (especially since Mad Men came out) of that perfect housewife image-selfless, caring, perfectly coiffed, with the perfect dinner, and completely powerless against her dominant husband…and what he might do to her because he can…Enjoy!


“Honey? I’m home…” He unlocked the door and had walked in, happy to meet his perfect wife.

“In the kitchen, darling!”

He smelled something delicious in the air. Taking off his coat and his shoes, he followed the smell.

He’d married Anna just over a year ago. They’d met at a department store over the holidays. She’d been working as a temp sales associate, and he thought she was gorgeous. She was gorgeous. Cute, petite brunette, with a catching smile and a tight, tiny body. Her breasts were huge, wrapped up tightly like two presents. She was a people pleaser, she bent over backwards to make everyone happy in the busy season.

He’d asked her out. She’d accepted. Over the next three months, they’d dated and gotten to know each other. He was a lawyer who worked long hours and made good money. She was a sales-woman who hated her job. He was aggressive, she was mild-mannered and sweet. After two months, he’d asked her if she was in her dream job. She laughed and said no.

“So what’s your dream job?”

She had laughed and blushed. “You know,” she said vaguely.

“Tell me,” he’d insisted, and finally she had.

“I kind of don’t want to work. I don’t like it. I don’t feel natural. I don’t fit in.”

He’d proposed to her a few weeks later. They’d planned and married in three months.

Anna was perfect- she was young, beautiful, and incredibly submissive. She was eager to please in bed, working hard to make him have incredible orgasms. She gave herself fully into the lifestyle of the childless housewife-she cooked, she cleaned, she looked good all of the time. It was fantastic. She catered to his every whim.

He looked into the kitchen to find her there now, stirring some kind of sauce on the stove. She was wearing a low cut button down with no bra, her huge tits straining against the tight fabric, the buttons pulling. He could see her nipples against the fabric. A strand of pearls was around Betturkey her neck, and her hair was up in a lady-like updo. The ruffly skirt she was wearing was tiny, barely grazing her ass cheeks, and she had on five inch heels, making her petite frame nearly five six, and her legs miles long. He hardened a little as she stirred the sauce, her breasts moving under the shirt.

She flashed him a smile. “Hello darling! I’m running a couple of minutes late…yoga went long today!”

His face turned into an angry scowl. “You had all day to go.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She took the sauce off the stove.

“Were you wearing that? Jesus, you’re not even wearing a bra!”

She blushed. “No, it’s just for you.”

He ignored her. “If you’re going to dress like a slut, you might as well take it off.”

Her face fell.

He strode over, caught her shirt and and ripped it open, pulling it off her shoulders and dropping it on the floor. He knew that the lack of bra was for him. She was self-conscious of her large breasts, afraid that they would quickly sag. At twenty two, they were ripe and perfect. Her waist was barely twenty inches, and her breasts were a 30DDD. They looked monstrous, but he loved them. “Just be like that.”

She gulped, and then nodded. His erection was huge. It strained painfully against his pants. She turned and opened the oven to check the roasting chicken.

He had caught a profile that he’d never forget. She had opened the oven and was peering into it like a good housewife. Her breasts hung forward as she leaned over, and he strand of pearls around her neck \fell seductively into the breasts. Her ass was in the air and he could see just a hint of bright pink panties..

“How was work?” she asked, closing the oven.

He didn’t answer and instead pulled her up onto a counter, and kissed her hard, grinding himself into her. She let him squeeze her breasts, and as he began to breathe hard, she pushed him away. “The chicken will burn! Don’t you want to enjoy it?”

Her eyes were innocent. She hopped down from the counter and began to bustle around the kitchen, still topless. Because he had told her to stay that way. “Be a dear and set the table?”

In a stupor of hunger, he slammed Betturkey Giriş down cutlery and plates, and she brought out a roast chicken and a bowl of mashed potatoes. She set them down next to the large pan of soft chocolate cake that was his favorite. It was frosted and cooled already. “Ready,” she beamed? “Does my darling husband need anything else?”

She stood in front of her perfectly cooked dinner. A gorgeous, perfectly made up brunette, with a sexy updo and pearls, completely topless, teetering on heels because she knew he loved them, in front of the meal she’d been preparing for hours. The table was set with china, roast chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy fresh from the stove, a beautiful salad with pomegranate seeds and home made dressing, and of course that perfect cake.

What the hell? He strode over to her and whirled her over so she was facing the table. Pressing up to her from behind, he took a tit in each hand and squeezed. Hard. She gave a gasp of protest. “Dan! The food will get cold!”

“I am the man of this house,” he said hotly into her ear. “I say when we eat.” He squeezed harder, until she whimpered, pressing himself into her from behind. He bit into her shoulder and she cried out in pleasure.

“Who’s the master of your house?”

“You are,” she whispered.

“And the master of your pussy?”

“You are!” she cried out, as he rolled her nipples in his fingers.

He pushed her down on the table, her tits falling into the chocolate cake. He pulled down her skirt, and her panties, stopping to take it in. She was bent over, her bare ass in the air, her panties and skirt around her ankles, balancing precariously on her heels. Her head was on the table, laid to one side. Her magnificent tits were pressed into the cake, smashing it with their weight.

She didn’t move, her body exposed for his pleasure. He unzipped himself, taking a second to stroke his hard cock before slowly sliding into her pussy. He never checked to make sure she was wet. She was always wet for him, as if she stayed in a constant state of arousal, in preparation for when he might want her.

She made a soft strangled sound, bracing her arms against the table, one on each side of the cake pan. He withdrew slowly and she closed Betturkey Güncel Giriş her eyes, biting her lip. He slammed into her this time and she cried out with pleasure. She felt her tits be pushed further into the cake with every thrust. She felt the still slightly warm cake give under each thrust, the mashed cake and frosting coating her tits, until her nipples hit against the cold hardness of the pan.

“Uh…ugh…unh…” she kept moaning with every thrust, absorbing the force of his hips, crying out louder every thrust.

“Yeah?” he asked her, growling with pleasure.

“Ugh…yes…yes…” she moaned.

“Yeah. I’m your fucking master. I say when we fuck, and we fuck whenever I want you.”

“Umnh, yes, yes, yes,” she answered. She could feel the cake permeating the space underneath her tits, the movement of their frenzied sex causing her tits to roll into it harder and harder. The frosting melted with her body heat, slipping down her cleavage. She had worked so hard on this cake. She had spent over two hours just on that cake.

He pounded into her, harder and harder. The table moved just an inch with every thrust, and soon, he picked up her hips to keep fucking her, moving with the table until he slammed in into the wall. Hands under her hips, he braced himself and thrust as hard and as fast as he could, until he felt her pussy contract with her orgasm.

She cried out as she came, and he felt the roar of ownership fill his ears as he dragged her off the table, spun her around and forced her down on her knees. Bracing his legs once again, he took his slippery cock in his hand and jerked violently until he came, aiming the first burst at her face, covering her with his cum. He came at her face until he had nothing left, and then held his cock out to her. She sucked it clean of both their juices, and then stayed kneeling for him.

He looked at her, smiling at the result of their fuck. His perfect little housewife, on her knees, skirt still around her ankles, huge tits covered with frosting and cake, face dribbling with his mark, the pearls filthy with all of it.

“Did you want more, honey?” she asked in a small voice. He smiled.

“Why don’t you get me some dinner on a plate?”

She smiled nervously. “Let me just clean up?”

“Nope. You look great.” he sat down, dick still hanging out of his pants, at the table.

She started cutting apart the chicken, serving him quickly and setting the plate in front of him. “Anything else, dear?”

“Yes, actually. Can you get the butter, please?”

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