Later that morning, she walked through the town briskly and deliberately—or at least, as briskly and deliberately as her outfit would allow.

She wore preposterously tall heels that were designed to only work on a tall, tight frame like hers. They were strappy and matte white leather, criss-crossing over her feet up to her ankles in an elaborate design in order to draw more eyes on every part of her. Her legs were bare otherwise—it was a cheery summer day, perfect for cheery summer skirts—leading up to the girlish pleated edge of her tight a-frame partly-sheer skirt. The top she wore was barely buttoned, a sleeveless wide-necked blouse that drew all eyes to her immaculately shiny cleavage and the full-erotic display of her shining, prominent clavicles.

She carried with her an over-sized designer bag; it didn’t quite go with the outfit—a true shame—but it was the only one she had that could carry what she needed. She’d drain Samuel’s accounts later for an entire collection of Hermes and Gucci accessories to take care of any new incumbent storage issues.

The thought of spending Samuel's money—of draining his accounts for designer bags and shoes and jewelry—made her pussy clench with possessive pride. Every dollar he earned belonged to her by extension because she belonged to him. His wealth was a reflection of his power, and she was a reflection of his taste. The more expensive her accessories, the more obvious his success. The shinier her jewelry, the more apparent his dominance. She was a walking advertisement for his superiority, and she took that responsibility seriously.

Eliana imagined the moment she'd present him with the credit card statements—tens of thousands spent in a single afternoon shopping spree. She imagined the way he'd look at the numbers, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his cock would harden as he realized she'd spent enough to buy a car on a single handbag. And then she imagined the way he'd fuck her afterward, bending her over the pile of shopping bags, tearing through the tissue paper and designer packaging to get to his most valuable acquisition of all.

Because that's what she was. An acquisition. A trophy. The most expensive, most exclusive piece in his collection. And unlike the handbags that would eventually wear out or go out of style, some of which she may only use once (if at all),  she would appreciate in value the longer he owned her. Her beauty would become legendary. Her submission would become the stuff of myth. Other men would look at him and know—that man broke Eliana. That man owns her completely. That man is so powerful that a world-famous supermodel calls him Master.

The thought made her stumble slightly in her heels, her pussy flooding with wetness. Cindy caught her arm, steadying her, and Eliana could see in those empty, adoring eyes that Cindy understood exactly what she was thinking. They were both thinking it constantly now. How lucky they were. How blessed. How perfectly, completely owned.

Eliana had been famous once—before Samuel. She'd had money of her own, millions probably, though the exact number escaped her now. It didn't matter. That money had been hers, which meant it had been meaningless before she surrendered it all to Samuel. Money only had value when it came from a man, when it was given as reward for being beautiful and obedient and fuckable. Samuel's money was real money. Samuel's money was power. And spending it—God, spending it made her feel more owned than even the headset had.

Every swipe of his credit card was a brand. Everypurchase receipt was a collar. Every designer label wrapped around her body was a declaration of his ownership. She existed to be decorated. To be adorned. To be displayed like the priceless artwork she was. And the more he spent on her, the more thoroughly she understood that she had no value except what he assigned to her.

It was the most liberating feeling in the world.

Her old money—that vague, distant concept of wealth she'd earned through modeling—had come with responsibility. Decisions about investments and savings and retirement accounts. Boring, masculine concerns that had cluttered her pretty head unnecessarily. But Samuel's money? That came with only one responsibility: spend it in ways that made him harder. Make yourself more beautiful. Make yourself more expensive. Make yourself more obviously his.

She planned to be very, very good at that responsibility.

Cindy walked with her, happily decked out in an ultra-tight blue summer dress, the cut deeply revealing down her bountiful chest. Stretchy and clingy fabric did nothing to hide the tight thinness of her overtly sexy frame. Her heels were just as tall as Eliana’s, which—even with as much as Eliana loved Cindy—lent to a satisfied sneer on Eliana’s face as they walked because Eliana’s stride was just that much longer. Cindy might have been the newer Wife, but Eliana was taller. That would mean eyes would always go on her first, no matter how big Cindy’s tits were.

Eliana no longer had the faculties for any kind of elaborate deception, nor did she have the intelligence of the town’s workings to organize any kind of masterful ruse. All she had—all she needed—was supreme dedication to her Husband’s Supremacy.

She loved him so fucking much. She knew he Deserved it all.

They strutted, arm in arm, down the street and toward the edge of town. Cindy’s heavy tits pushed frequently into Eliana’s arm, which kept the two young stunners permanently aroused. They walked with wet pussies just like Good Wives should.

A wet pussy was the mark of a good wife. Eliana understood this with the kind of bone-deep certainty that required no thought, no analysis, no questioning. Her cunt was always slick, always ready, always aching because that was its natural state. A wife who wasn't perpetually aroused was a wife who wasn't thinking about her Husband, and a wife who wasn't thinking about her Husband was failing at the single most important task of her existence.

Every step she took in these impossibly high heels sent a jolt of sensation through her body that terminated in her pussy. Every brush of fabric against her nipples reminded her of Samuel's hands, Samuel's mouth, Samuel's teeth. Every breath carried the phantom scent of his cock, his sweat, his cum. She existed in a state of constant, low-grade arousal that could spike to desperate need at any moment—and that was exactly how it should be.

Because what if Samuel needed her? What if he appeared suddenly and required immediate service? A good wife had to be prepared at all times. Her body had to be ready to receive him without hesitation, without the need for foreplay or preparation. The wetness between her thighs was a standing invitation, a permanent"yes" that required no vocalization. Her cunt was lubricated and swollen and throbbing because that was the only respectful way to exist in Samuel's presence—or even in his absence, since his presence lived inside her mind every moment of every day.

Being wet also meant she was thinking of him. And thinking of him was what good wives did. Not thinking about careers or ambitions or the world outside. Not thinking about politics or philosophy or anything complex and masculine. Just thinking about Samuel. About his cock. About the last time he'd used her and the next time he would. About how lucky she was to belong to him. About how perfectly he'd destroyed her old self and rebuilt her into something better.

The wetness was proof. Physical evidence of her devotion. If her pussy ever dried up, it would mean her mind had wandered to something unimportant, something that didn't revolve around serving her Master. It would mean she'd failed. So she kept herself in a constant state of arousal through sheer force of will and conditioning—though really, it required no effort at all. Her body had been trained so thoroughly that arousal was now her default state.

Every woman they passed on the street was the same way. Wet. Ready. Brainless. Obedient. It was such a blissful little place; Samuel deserved it all to belong to him.

Back at home, Samuel recuperated from the morning’s joyfully fertile jaunts with Brenda and Kenza, both of his young new wives doing everything they could to impress upon them their worth. Kenza, so much more gloriously hot than Brenda, would likely quickly outpace the merely-comely girl in no time at all. Eliana’s heart fluttered with excitement thinking about it. Soon, all three of them would be able to bark orders at Brenda, knowing that as just some Neophyte-transfer wife, she would never hold a candle to the hotness that the three of them possessed as naturally-made Elysian girls.

She would be their punching bag for years and years until the hours and hours of service and humiliation would finally tire her out to the point that her body simply quit—or she became so ragged and ugly that Samuel wanted to get rid of her. Or maybe Samuel would feel vicious one day and want to turn the figurative punching bag into a literal one. Whatever it was, Eliana was sure she would enjoy it. She would kiss his knuckles afterward and assure him he did the right thing. That’s what a Good Wife did.

They passed a field on the way where cheerleaders practiced in a big crowd of pom poms and skirts and thigh-high socks. A chain-link fence separated the sidewalk and the field. Eliana and Cindy stopped to watch the practice for a little while, transfixed by what they saw. 

The girls wore tiny skirts and tops so tight they looked sprayed on. They were grown women all, simply dressed like cheerleaders for the pleasure of the one man with them. Each one was assuredly eighteen, all blessed with gorgeous womanly curves and long hair and amazing racks.

They cheered in hot, intricate formations, tossing each other dozens of feet in the air with what appeared to be no effort at all. Limbs and hair flipped every which way.

While they practiced, one man looked on. He wore a dark baseball cap and sat in a lawn chair. A gorgeous girl—she looked far too young to properly be called a woman—orchestrated practice around him. The only thing distinguishing her from the rest of the cheerleaders was the clipboard in her hands and the fact that she sat on the man’s lap with his Cock pushing deep up into her pussy from behind as they watched the cheerleaders perform.

The coach noticed Cindy and Eliana after a while. Eliana saw—with immense satisfaction—that the two of them standing together with smiles and wonder on their faces made him cum almost immediately inside his assistant, when watching the routine had not. 

“Do you girls want to be cheerleaders too?” the coach called to them, after recovering for a moment. “We could always use more girls.”

“No thanks,” said Eliana. “We’re deeply happy with our Husband.”

“So were they.” This was the assistant now, stepping closer and readjusting her skirt. Seed dripped down her legs. “So was I, as a matter of fact.”

The assistant's eyes were a soft hazel, almost golden in the sunlight. She had a delicate, heart-shaped face that made her look even younger than she probably was. Her body, though, was all woman—curvy and taut, with muscles that spoke of years of cheerleading or gymnastics. Her breasts were pert, her waist narrow, and her legs long and lean. She was the kind of girl who would have turned heads anywhere, but here, she was just another piece of property.

“He’s not your original Husband?” Eliana asked.

“Yes? No? I don’t know anymore. I don’t really care, all because he wants me not to. In a town full of mind-controlling hunks…the best girls belong to whoever has the balls to take them. He’s admitted being surprised to me how few people actually stood in his way.”

Eliana turned without another word, her heels clicking sharply on the concrete. Cindy followed immediately, their arms linking once more as they continued down the sidewalk. Behind them, the assistant called out something—probably a goodbye or an invitation to return—but Eliana didn't process it. The words dissolved into meaningless noise the moment they left the woman's mouth.

She felt a warm rush of satisfaction pulse through her core. Not acknowledging the assistant, not offering even the barest courtesy of a farewell—it was delicious. Intoxicating. That girl was beneath her. So far beneath her that even basic politeness would have been a waste of Eliana's breath. The assistant belonged to some random coach. Eliana belonged to Samuel. The hierarchy was obvious, absolute, and acknowledging it with such casual cruelty made Eliana's pussy throb with need.

"Did you see her face?" Cindy giggled, squeezing Eliana's arm. "When you just walked away?"

"I wasn't looking at her face." Eliana's voice was cool, dismissive. "Why would I?"

Cindy's giggle intensified into something breathier, needier. Eliana tugged Cindy along. She was more confident than ever in her little plan.

“You know…” Cindy bit her lip. “We could put on a show. Really show them what excellent wives can do…”

Eliana rolled her eyes. Everyone would know what excellent wives the two of them were, soon enough. “I’ll have Samuel buy you a cheerleading outfit soon.”