I sit.

I enjoy looking at myself in the mirror while I do it. Part of it is that I’m just… content with my body. A gentle curve begins to show beneath my dress as I cradle my growing belly. Once, I tried to hone my body to be strong. Now, I just want to make sure it’s appealing to Howard… and nurturing to the baby I’ll bear him.

Not every woman is so lucky as to feel at peace with the reflection in the mirror, but I do. My rise has been stopped, and I’m better off for it.

The road has been bumpy, but it’s finally come full circle: I am the meek, tamed girl I swore to myself I would never become. And judging by her tone on the phone, my mother couldn’t be happier to hear it: her prodigal daughter is back.

Is there a more universal human experience than having to listen to a gloating parent lovingly giving you the I told you so?

Well… I suppose my situation is a little different from the norm.

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that, honey!” my mother’s voice comes through the earpiece. The affection in her voice is like to melt my heart. I never had that approval, growing up as a headstrong feminist girl with big silly dreams. At least now I know it was my own fault.

"Thanks, Mum," I say. "I feel like I’m… glowing. Everything is so much simpler now. In its place. I don’t know if that makes sense."

"Of course it does!" She says. "You just had to see it for yourself before you believed it. And tell me, how is the little bun in the oven doing? Not giving you too much trouble, I hope?"

"No, not at all, Mom. I feel great!"

I can almost hear her smile over the phone. "That’s wonderful, sweetie. You know, pregnancy suits you. It really does sound like you have that… glow."

At her words, I look down at my belly. I am going to be a mother. I’m going to be Howards’, for all my days. I still can scarcely believe it, sometimes.

As if on cue, I feel Howard’s presence behind my chair, his strong hands landing on my shoulders to knead them gently. Gently, but firmly. His touch is possessive, as if my body belongs to him now. Which, of course, it does.

It’s a little disorienting how natural it all feels already – how quickly I’ve adjusted to the end of my independence…

"I'm so happy for you, Vivian," my mother gushes. "To think, after all your youthful rebellion, you've finally seen the light and embraced your true purpose as a Montgomery woman. I always knew this feminist nonsense was just a phase, but it fills my heart with such joy to finally see it happen!"

I suppose she’s entitled to a little gloating. She had to watch me prance around, pretending to be a corporate girlboss in the making, for years. I can tolerate one smug phone call.

"You were right, Mom," I admit softly. "I see that now. I'm back where I belong, and I have a purpose now. I couldn’t be happier."

As I speak, Howard's hands drift lower, cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasp softly, but make no move to stop him. This is his right, as my man. My body is his to grope and fondle as he pleases.

"You're lucky to have him, Vivian."

"I am," I agree, my breath hitching as Howard pinches my nipples, sending jolts of sensation through me. Howard chuckles behind me. I wonder what he’s enjoying more - my submissive words? My pliant flesh? Or is it just about flustering me during an innocent phone call?

His hand slides down to my belly, caressing the gentle swell. This is his child I carry. His ultimate claim to my autonomy.

"I never doubted you for a second, dear. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came around. I’m so glad aunt Adelaide left you the Ruby to help you along your way."

"I wish I could thank her in person," I say… then, I nearly drop the phone as Howard twists my nipples a bit too enthusiastically.

"Yes, we all miss her very much," my mother responds, oblivious to my tiny little gasps.

"Mmmm," is all I can manage in response.

"Well, I won't keep you," my mother says. "I'm sure you have a lot on your plate right now. Just remember to always listen to Howard, and you’re going to be fine!"

"I will, Mom. I promise," I say, standing up from the chair.

We say our goodbyes and I hang up, letting the phone clatter on the table as I lean into my man's touch. It feels so good, fits so well, like we’re two interlocking pieces of a puzzle. He’s my anchor, my rock, my man.

My master.

He kisses me gently on the lips. “Are you ready?” he asks.

I nod, jittering with anticipation. I’m ready as I’m likely to ever be. Today is the day I finally bid farewell to Vivian Montgomery, corporate go-getter, and fully embrace my true calling as a meek, submissive housewife.

Future housewife. We’re not married yet… but at the end of the day, it’s the role I’m already fulfilling, and that will be even truer, after what I’m about to do.

It’s time to resign. To torch the career that I’ve misguidedly obsessed so much over. To focus on my proper, reduced feminine duties of home-keeping and motherhood. To be tamed, dependent, and dedicated, and dominated. In other words…

It’s time for the rest of my life.

***

I take in the sound of my own steps, one after the other.

It’s late in the day, and outside, shadows lengthen. The office lobby is deserted, which makes the sound of my heels clicking against the polished marble floor even more surreal. It seems to echo the finality of this moment, the end of an era in my life.

It’s my last day as a working woman.

How many hours have I spent, toiling in this place, trying to climb the corporate ladder? Honing my skills, forging a career that I once believed would define me?

Being a selfish, entitled bitch to Howard?

Such a waste of time and energy. It should have all been immediately redirected to his comfort and his needs, to his authority and his pleasure, to his will.

But better late than never.

I run a hand through my hair, sighing as I linger near the exit. I want to savor the moment.

My resignation has drawn a mixture of surprise and curiosity from my colleagues. After all, I was the workaholic on the rise, the woman who never seemed to tire, who was always ready to take on an extra shift if it looked good with management.

When they ask me why I'm leaving, I resort to the feminine grace of a proper, polite response that always nips any further questions in the bud.

"I want to focus on motherhood," I've been telling them, my voice steady and sincere. It's the truth, after all. It’s just that the depth of my commitment to this new role, the extent of my submission to my husband’s authority, is a detail I’ve chosen to keep private.

It’s not for them to know.

Most of my coworkers have accepted this without further probing. Well – except Isabelle, and I guess that’s fair, given that she’s more of a mentor than a colleague. She’s a bit older than me, and as one of the few women in a managerial position here, she’s always been very protective of female employees. She’s as kind as she is committed to her feminist delusion, and I guess it makes sense she would have a harder time making peace with such a sweeping change in attitude.

I know that she’s only concerned for my well-being. It’s not her fault, really. It’s just that we now have very different ideas of what female well-being looks like.

Speak of the devil.

I thought I was alone here at this hour, but apparently not. The doors to the elevator slide open, and out comes Isabelle, lost in thought and rummaging through her purse. When she looks up and spots me, her eyes widen. She offers me a smile, though there’s a hint of concern in her expression.

"Vivian! I didn't expect to see you here so late."

I offer a smile. "Just letting it all sink in before I leave this place behind for good. I’m sentimental, like that."

She frowns at that. I have not, in fact, been especially known for my sentimentality, before my recent transformation. "Hey, listen," she says, her voice dropping lower. "Can we talk for a minute?"

I pause, cocking my head in acknowledgement. "Of course, Isabelle. What’s on your mind?"

She steps closer to me and takes her hands into mine. That surprises me. "I just… want to make sure that you’re certain this is what’s best for you. I mean, it’s your choice and I’ll support you, but… I don’t know, Viv. I’m worried for you."

I smile back at her, trying to disperse her doubts with my confidence.

"I appreciate your concern, dear," I reply gently, “I understand it. But… yes, I’m ready. This is exactly what I need.”

She looks at me for a moment, as if searching for any signs of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, she nods slowly. "Well, if you say so… I’m glad you’ve found your path, Viv. I know I really shouldn’t worry…" she bites her lip, looking away, before refocusing on me. "Maybe it’s because we’ve never really talked about your home life, and it’s none of my business if you didn’t want to share, but… um. If you like, you’re welcome to have dinner at my place, any time. Just to touch base."

My instinctive response is to tell her I’ll have to ask Howard’s permission, but I catch myself just in time. No need to alarm her further, right? I can already imagine Howard chuckling at this whole conversation!

"Sure, Isabelle. I… I think that would be nice," I say. "I'll let you know, okay?"

"That would be great, Vivian," Isabelle says, her smile returning. "Just let me know. And, well, take care of yourself, okay? I’m your friend, and I’ll always be there for you."

There’s a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me as my eyes search hers. Gratitude for her concern. Appreciation, because she’s a good person. And… something else.

The seed of an idea.

"Thank you," I say, feeling an odd sense of anticipation building up inside me. "I’ll… always be here for you too."

***

I’m bent over the washing machine.

My hands are gripping the edges of the cold metal as Howard pounds into me from behind. His cock stretches and fills my cunt with every thrust, and I can feel the wetness of my juices coating it from tip to base. The sound of our bodies slapping together is so hot. Flesh against flesh. Man over woman.

“Fuck,” Howard growls, his voice a low, guttural rumble. “You’re so much better like this, Vivian. Devoted, unassuming, eager to be fucked like the little housewife you are.”

I can’t help but moan in response. He’s right. I am eager. Eager to be taken, to be filled, to be reminded of my place. To be made into his little toy.

Fuck. Nothing makes me feel closer to the ideal archetype of womanhood than being summarily fucked without preamble by the man who’s reined me in and tamed me.

I love that word so much. Taming. It makes my clit throb in horny desperation.

“Yes,” I gasp, my voice trembling. “Yes, Howard, please… please, tame me…”

His fingers dig into my hips, and he pulls me back onto his cock with a force that makes me cry out. My pussy clenches around him, as if trying to keep him inside, to milk him for all he’s worth. I can feel the heat of him, the hardness. His power.

And in contrast, my weakness.

“God, you are a stereotype,” he says, his tone mocking. “Being fucked over the washing machine… It’s hot. Especially because it was your idea.”

“Yes,” I whisper, the word barely audible. “Yes, I like it… I love it! I’m biologically destined to be your trad wife! Pretty and available. Your personal breeder…”

He lets out a primal growl, his thrusts growing even more forceful. There’s a rhythmic, almost hypnotic quality to the way he fucks me. The way his cock slides in and out of my pussy, the way it stretches and fills me, the way it makes me dance to his tune, like I’m an extension of his body and his will, nothing more.

Like I’m just a puppet, and his cock is the puppeteer. That’s what I am. A decorative object, available for use and relief, with no real contribution to bring to any conversation except for my holes. I’m just an extension of his cock, easily mounted, keeping it warm, sheathing it, milking it with my cunt.

“Oh, God… Howard… I… it’s…” I whimper. Because it’s beyond words.

He plows into me over and over, like a battering ram, completely unopposed by now, and I can’t even pretend to resist. This is what I am, now. A wife-to-be. A mother-to-be. A breeder. It’s only right for me to be used this way.

I buck my hips back against him, meeting his thrusts with desperate, submissive eagerness. This is the least I can do for my man. My master. He deserves all my devotion, all my love, all my attention. I am nothing without his virile strength to guide me, to own me, to conquer me.

Which reminds me… I do need to ask his permission for something.

“Howard… I…” I begin, my breathless voice barely audible over the sound of the washing machine. It’s so hard to think with how fucking deeply he’s fucking me – but I mustn’t forget my purpose. “I… oh fuck, fuck… God, yes, yes… I met Isabelle today…”

"Hm?" His thrusts slow, just enough to let me gather my wits and continue. "Is Isabelle that friend of yours from work? The feminist bitch?"

The casual scorn in his voice makes me mewl like a kitten, makes my cunt try to suck his cock even deeper into my body.

“Oh, God… ah, ah, ah… yes, y-yes, she’s… so worried… about me… she invited me… to dinner… tonight… oh, fuck…”

"Hah," Howard scoffs, his grip tightening on my hips. "The little activist just can’t mind her own fucking business, huh? Probably planning some sort of intervention, or girl-talk, or whatever. Seriously, what a busybody."

There’s such a quintessentially masculine emotion in his voice – something halfway between disdain and amusement. He doesn’t acknowledge that Isabelle’s curiosity and disapproval might be a threat, just an annoyance, and how to blame him? How could he ever take a lesser creature seriously as a problem? Isabelle doesn’t know how easily he could master her. How easily any man could master her.

If she knew, she’d cower in fear at her husband’s feet. If she knew, she’d tender her resignations, too. She’d give up control of her bank account. She’d submit to being reined in and tamed, and find happiness in it, and oh, Howard’s speeding up again.

“Oh, God… oh, God… oh, God, Howard…” I whimper, biting my lip in desperation. “Please… please, sir… c-can I… can I go to Isabelle’s…?”

He doesn't reply immediately, instead maintaining his slow, torturous rhythm, as if pondering my request. His thrusts are deliberate and measured.

"Maybe," he says, his voice nonchalant, as if discussing an everyday matter. "I’m not against it in principle. But if I let you go… there’s a condition."

My heart races, a mix of fear and anticipation flooding through me. "Wh-what… what condition, sir?"

His grip on my hips tightens, fingers digging into my flesh. "You can have permission to go… if you do your job," he says, his voice dripping with authority. "Milk my cock, little wife."

I gasp, my breath hitching in my throat.

My cunt clenches helplessly around his cock at his words, my body reacting on pure instinct to obey his command. To please my man, my master.

"Yes," I say. "Yes, sir."

More and more, I rock my hips back to meet his thrusts, reveling in the obscene wet squelching noises as he pounds into my sopping pussy. My entire being is centered on the point where we're joined, where the man ends, and the fuckpuppet begins.

With every ounce of strength I have, I squeeze my pussy around his cock. I can feel the muscles clenching and releasing, a rhythmic, pulsing motion that makes me feel even more submissive, even more at peace with the universe.

“Good girl,” he says again, his voice filled with approval. “Keep going, Viv. Keep milking me…”

I can feel his cock throbbing inside me, and I know he’s close. The knowledge sends a thrill of excitement through me, and I redouble my efforts. I want to make him cum. I need to make him cum.

"Viv," he growls, his voice strained with exertion and desire. "You’re… a natural at this… ngh… making me… making me want to… fuck…"

Yes, fuck yes. I want to feel him pulse inside me, to be flooded with his hot cum. Marked and claimed in the most primal way.

"Please, Sir… please fill me up," I beg shamelessly. "I need your cum… I need you to mark me, claim me…"

My words must tip him over the edge, because with a final roar, Howard buries himself inside me to the hilt. And then I feel it - that first hot, thick spurt roping out of his cock, marking me as his cocksocket, his female ward, his meek and proper wife-to-be.

The sensation is overwhelming, indescribable. Tears spring to my eyes as I come undone, my orgasm crashing over me in relentless waves. My pussy spasms and ripples around Howard's still-spurting cock, eagerly milking out every last drop.

"Oh god… oh fuck… thank you, thank you Sir…" I babble incoherently, shaking and trembling as the aftershocks roll through me.

He collapses against my back, panting harshly in my ear. For a long moment we just stay like that, locked together in the most primal way, as his cock softens inside my cunt.

"Fuck," he groans, his grip on my hips loosening slightly as he rides out the waves of his orgasm. "Fuck! You’re… ngh… you’ve earned it. You can go see Isabelle tonight."

"Thank you for the permission, Sir," I say, dreamily, and I think to myself that I’m so lucky to be beholden to such a generous, caring man.

He pulls out of me with a wet squelch. I whimper at the loss and remain bent over the washing machine, my breasts heaving as I catch my breath, his cum leaking out of me in a trickle.

As I slowly stand up, he tucks himself back into his pants and zips up, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"You know, Viv," he says, his tone casual but his eyes glinting with mischief, "I think it would be amusing if you went to see Isabelle wearing something that symbolizes your... new role. Something that marks you as my property, but that she won't recognize as such. Wouldn’t that be hysterical? Her, going off about feminism and equality and whether you’re really happy, and all the while, your brand is right under her nose?"

I stare at Howard, my mouth falling open slightly in awe at his brilliance. Of course! What delicious irony!

"I like that idea, Sir," I say, my voice still slightly breathy. "That's... that's perfect. You're absolutely right, it would be hilarious. And so... so fitting."

He grins at me, that cocky, self-assured smile that never fails to make my knees weak. "I know, right?"

"But what should I wear?" I ask him. "What would be subtle enough?"

He rubs his chin as he considers the problem. "It should be something elegant, classy. Something that looks like a normal accessory, but that holds a deeper meaning for us. For you."

I blink for a second, almost disbelieving that it took me this long to come up with the obvious answer, right in front of my nose. But then again, Howard didn’t think of it either, and he’s much smarter than I am, so I can cut my cum-drunk brain some slack.

"The necklace," I say, and my voice carries no trace of amusement anymore. Even Howard’s face goes serious, his eyes widening slightly.

There’s no need for either of us to specify which necklace we’re talking about.

***

I like the Whitakers’ dining room.

It’s cozy and inviting. The table is set with care, the food is delicious and homemade, and everyone seems to be happy to be in each other’s company. I’m happy Howard allowed me to accept Isabelle’s invitation. Anyone could tell from a mile away that this is a household of love, first and foremost.

The five of us – Thomas, Isabelle, Emily, Liam, and I – are gathered around the table, enjoying the meal and engaging in affable conversation. Mmmhh… the food really is delectable. It’s a shame that it’s Thomas who cooked it. I mean, from their perspective, I can see the rationale - he works shorter hours than she does, and he’s clearly amazing at it.

But he’s… a man. Isabelle should know better, really. And more… servile.

But I try to stay open-minded. I’ve had my epiphany, but that doesn’t make it hers. I can just sit here, chill, and enjoy this time with them.

My gaze lingers on each member of the family in turn, studying them closely. Some of it is just everyday curiosity; after all, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Emily and Liam, and they’ve grown up so much. They’re adults now, which makes me feel old. I’m younger than Isabelle, but not by that much, Jesus.

But part of my analysis is driven by something else. Something… insidious.

It’s the same seed I felt earlier, in the lobby. Best to keep it buried.

"Vivian, I hope you know that you can always talk to me," Isabelle says softly, her tone delicate yet probing. "The changes you're going through... they're pretty radical. I just want to make sure you're okay, that this is truly what you want."

I have to stifle a laugh at the irony of it all. Here I am, the Ruby of Femininity proudly displayed on my chest, a symbol of my total surrender to my rightful place as a meek, submissive wife - and dear, sweet Isabelle is worried about my well-being.

She should be worried about hers. Aunt Adelaide’s Ruby, and Howard too, have given me clarity of purpose, coherence of will. They’ve given me simplicity, certainty, security. She’s the one who’s still lost at sea.

But she means well, so I keep the private joke to myself, and respond with a graceful smile.

"I appreciate your concern, Isabelle," I reply, my voice warm and sincere. "But I assure you, I've never been happier. So, Emily!" I say with a warm smile, turning towards Isabelle’s eldest daughter to divert the conversation away from my life choicec. "Your mother tells me you're quite the rising star in your university's athletic program. What sport are you focusing on these days?"

Emily grins, her eyes lighting up with passion. "I'm on the track team! It’s a lot of hard work."

That’s going to give her amazing legs for men to look at, I think to myself. Not that it matters. She’s quite openly a lesbian. What a waste.

I can't help but wonder... would she be happier if she embraced her true feminine nature? If she learned to submit to a strong man who could guide and protect her. Surely that’s the case for all women.

"And what about you, Liam?”

Liam smiles bashfully, a hint of color rising in his cheeks. "Engineering," he says, before shoving more roast chicken into his mouth.

Not as talkative as his sister, then. He takes after his father. To anyone who doesn’t know his kind and loving self, Thomas looks like the capable, strong, silent type. They both could use to be more assertive, frankly. And Isabelle really should support Thomas more.

He’s a bit like Howard. The kind of man who deserves a meek, obedient wife. A woman who would be content to stay at home, caring for the family, supporting her husband. A woman like… me.

By themselves, my hands go to the ruby. It’s just my imagination, but now that I know what it’s for… I sometimes think I can feel it radiating energy. Heat. Change.

Truth.

I watch Isabelle’s eyes. The motion of my fingers has caught her gaze, and now, she’s staring at the necklace as if she’s seeing it for the first time.

She knows, I think for a second, but that’s obviously not the case. It’s just a primitive shudder, an instinctual pulse from my lizard brain. The ruby seems to warm under my touch.

Is it… working on her? On everyone at the table?

I frown. I didn’t bring it here with the explicit intention to influence anybody. Howard and I agreed that there wasn’t really any real risk. The necklace was in our presence for quite some time before we started truly changing, and it took even longer for us to realise it was the source. A couple hours of exposure aren’t going to straighten up Isabelle.

But.

There’s a reason the conversation turned so serious when I suggested bringing it. There’s a reason that I feel this seed of an alluring idea, at the back of my mind. At least part of me is… is…

Picturing Isabelle on her knees before Thomas, those pretty lips stretched around his cock as he fucks her face. I imagine her doing just what I’ve done today, resigning, accepting her confinement to an environment more suited to her feminine talents - this lovely home. No more long hours at the office, no more worries about mentoring young women starting their careers. Just…

Domesticity.

I shake my head, dispersing the intrusive thoughts. Focus, Vivian. I'm here to reassure Isabelle, not... not whatever my subconscious was just conjuring up.

"That ruby necklace is stunning, Vivian," Isabelle remarks, her gaze still lingering on the glinting stone at my throat. "Is it new? I don't think I've seen you wear it before."

I smile, my fingers absently toying with the pendant. "It's a family heirloom, actually. Passed down through generations of Montgomery women. My great-aunt Adelaide left it to me in her will."

Isabelle nods, a hint of understanding in her eyes. "That's lovely. It must be very special to you."

"It is," I agree softly. More than you know, I add silently.

The ruby seems to pulse with warmth against my skin, as if responding to my thoughts. I wonder, not for the first time, about the extent of its power.

I wonder how long it would take for the ruby to change Isabelle's family the way it has changed Howard and me.

I glance around the table again, taking in the Whitaker family. They're all so... content. Happy in their roles, their dynamics. And yet, a part of me can't help but think how much better it could be. How much more fulfilled they would be if they just embraced their true natures.

If Isabelle submitted to Thomas' authority, learned her proper place…

If Emily let go of her misguided lesbian delusions and accepted a strong man's guidance…

If Liam asserted himself more… he has a girlfriend, I seem to recall Isabelle telling me, a long-distance relationship. He should force her to come here crawling. He should make her quit university. Claim her as his breeder pet.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. It makes me a little uneasy, this train of thought, fascinating as it is. I could never betray Isabelle’s trust like that. She’s my friend. She’s invited me here because she’s worried for me.

To purposely manipulate her using the ruby's power would be a terrible betrayal.

What if…?

The question echoes in my mind like an ominous gong.

What if I just… experimented? Just a little bit? What’s the harm in that? It’s not like I’m going to do anything drastic. I just want a brief glimpse into what could be.

I need to find an excuse to spend more time around Isabelle, to be close to her. To… observe. Yes, that’s it. Just observation. I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s just… curiosity.

An idea forms in my mind, and I decide to go with it. Isabelle clearly sees herself as some kind of mother hen, a protector above all. That’s the lever I should pull.

Clearing my throat, I address her, trying to sound casual.

"Isabelle, I was thinking," I begin, my voice carefully neutral. "This, your lovely company, it’s really good for me. I think you’re right, I’ve just gone through a big change and I shouldn’t downplay it."

Isabelle sits a little straighter, paying rapt attention to my words.

"I hate to ask…" I say, artfully averting my eyes to feign embarrassment. "But I could really use a friend to lean on. Do you think it would be okay if we made this a semi-regular thing? I come over sometimes, so we can chat, maybe cook something together?"

I unleash my most innocent smile, echoing her words back at her.

"Just to touch base."

Isabelle's eyes soften, her expression warm with affection and concern. "Oh Vivian, of course! Of course, you're welcome anytime. It'll be so much fun having you around more often!"

I feel a thrill of excitement, a strange, sinister feeling bubbling up inside me. "Great," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It’ll be so cool!"

As the dinner conversation flows around me, my mind drifts. Because it would be so cool to see the ruby start to affect her, the way it did me. Gently introduce the concepts of wifely obedience, domestic bliss, proper feminine deference to the husband’s authority.

It would, indeed, be so cool to see her will slowly eroded, until she’s kneeling at Thomas’ feet, perhaps under this very table, safely tucked away out of sight… performing duties that don’t require any kind of social interaction, because all she needs to do is use her mouth for what it was made for…

Meekness would suit her so much.

God. Surreptitiously, I press my thighs together, seeking delicious friction.

Maybe this is not just a little experiment I have in mind, after all. Maybe I really do want to do this, friendship or not. And if that’s really what I want, well…

There’s only one logical thing left to do.

"Hey, Isabelle, by the way! You were asking me about this earlier," I say, unfastening the ruby from my throat. "What do you think of this necklace?"