Date: Sat, 27 Mar 2010 01:31:23 +1100
From: Madame le Docteur <madame.le.docteur@gmail.com>
Subject: Woman Seeks Wife, Part Three: Domestic Bliss

Woman Seeks Wife
Part Three – Domestic Bliss
By Madame le Docteur

Story codes:  F/f, F^f, BD, anal, fist, spank, sm, medical fetish, mind
control, lac, preg, body modification

Nifty category: Lesbian/authoritarian

The author grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide,
royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to display the work.

All other rights reserved.

Feedback adored: Madame.le.Docteur@gmail.com



I came home from work to find my wife in the kitchen, industriously
engaged in making the homemade baby food I insist that we feed my
heir.  The baby was playing quietly on her mat, making cheerful cooing
noises and patting at a felt cut out of a cow.

"Did she eat well?" I inquired quietly, tossing my purse on the shelf
in the hall, taking a quick look at the mail waiting for me.  The
postman comes early in this neighbourhood, and my wife generally has
it waiting for me when I come home from work at lunch.

She smiled over at the tiny form lifting her head from the play mat
with easy strength.  "She drank three and half ounces!" my wife
reported proudly.  We were feeding my heir breast milk from a bottle,
with supplemental feedings directly from my wife's breasts to satisfy
the baby's desire to suck, and to provide for the all important skin
to skin contact.

There is no question in either of our minds that it is entirely
inappropriate to engage in sexual activity that in any way directly or
even indirectly involves my heir.  There is also no question that
breast milk is undoubtedly the best nutritional option for newborns,
and that time spent nursing at a human breast provides as much
emotional support as it does food.  Skin to skin bonding and suckling
is critical for an infant's ability to thrive.

The fact remains that I have trained my wife to respond erotically to
nipple play.  She has spent endless hours receiving vacuum suction
therapy, both her nipples and clitoris treated several times daily,
generally in conjunction with hypnotic induction and guided
meditations.  It was a key to her conditioning, and she would
inevitably grow sexually aroused if her nipples were stimulated.

The solution was to express her milk, and provide it to my heir using
bottles.  During her first month, my wife nursed her directly as
lactation experts have documented that it helps the little one develop
good suckling technique.  My wife was, however, immediately introduced
to expressing in order to maximize her milk production.

My wife had swiftly recovered from the challenges of gestation, labour
and delivery.  The intensive conditioning she had been prepared with
meant that she sailed through labour like the sexual warrior she is.
Dilation training meant that she had no tearing, no episiotomy, no
stitches.  Her excellent pelvic floor strength and endurance meant
that as soon as she was fully dilated, she was able to push like a
stevedore, huffing and puffing and red faced, her body straining as
she held the vibrator to her distended clitoris, finally giving birth
to my heir with a triumphant scream.

While the birth itself wasn't an orgasm, it was an enormous release.
I did, however, force her to orgasm as she delivered the afterbirth;
the baby lying on her naked chest, wet with birth fluids, the
umbilical cord still pumping as my wife orgasmed helplessly

As soon as she was home again, I started her back into training.
During that first month, my heir nursed from one of my wife's naked
breasts, while the breast pump worked on the other.  If she was still
hungry, the baby was put to the other breast, catching the last of the
high calorie hind milk.

My wife rocked her while nursing, blissfully riding the Peristal
massager in her ass, dutifully performing her pelvic floor exercises
while the vaginal probe recorded her efforts.   Although she was
profoundly aroused, my wife knew she would not be permitted to orgasm
for one lunar month, until the baby had developed a strong suckling
technique and could be introduced to bottles.  The oxytocins flooding
her system left her mellow instead of desperate, ensuring that the
baby drank from a serene mother.

Frequent expressing improves both the quantity and quality of breast
milk.  My wife was immediately put on a strictly enforced two hour
schedule, as well as attending to the demands of my newborn heir as
needed.  The baby's needs were the priority, and my wife soon learned
to doze as a small mouth nursed at her breast, drifting in a warm haze
of sleep deprivation, arousal, and the lazy pleasure of the Peristal
massager slowing moving inside her, responding to the peristaltic
action of her body.

After one month, the baby was entirely bottle fed her mother's breast
milk, except for carefully structured bonding time.  My wife would
once again rock my heir against her breast, riding the Peristal
massager while performing pelvic floor exercises.  But although she
held her and cuddled her, my wife bottle fed the baby the rest of the
time, as did I.  Much of the time she rode in one of those baby
slings.

The milking frame was designed to support my wife even as she slept.
The security of complete medical bondage ensured that she was safe
even from herself.  The frame would safely support even her
unconscious body in the correct position for maximum milk production.
Instead of the usual small pump packaged with breast milk pumping
kits, my wife's milk was expressed using the goat milker I had used to
train her nipples and her clitoris.

Of course, direct suction on the nipple does nothing to express the
milk.  It is the ducts *behind* the nipple and areola that release the
milk, the source of an infant's instinctive rooting motion, jostling
his mother's breast while sucking strongly.  To harvest her milk for
my heir, I used a breast cup, rather than the nipple tubes my wife had
been accustomed to wearing for so much of her conditioning.  The
powerful vibrator jostled my wife's breasts, the breast tissue
rippling and jiggling from the vibrator as the goat milker began to
suck at a relentless sixty pulses per minute, or one pulse of vacuum
suction every second.

Most effective, of course, was hand expressing.  It is a well
documented fact that hand expressing encourages the best milk
production.  It is also a well documented fact that simultaneously
expressing milk from both breasts was the best way to encourage the
total quantity of milk, including   an improvement in the total
production of the all important hind milk.

The addition of powerful vibrations to the suction of the goat milker
meant that machine milking could come close to the efficacy of hand
milking.  My wife was only hand milked first thing in the morning,
during her morning spanking.  It was always a special treat and never
failed to make her come hard and often.

Another well documented fact is that breast milk content is influenced
by the mother's emotional state.  Subtle neurotransmitters crossed
into the milk, and the baby thrived on milk from a relaxed, contented
mother.  Milk production dropped in stressed mothers, and their babies
fussed, stress hormones leaking into the milk, influencing the baby's
behaviour and general health.

Since milk production was no longer intimately acquainted with its
eventual beneficiary, I could sexualize the entire process as much as
I liked.  It was also a rather fascinating study, as I could so easily
quantify production, the equipment having been designed for precisely
that purpose.  The familiar sensory deprivation helmet slipped easily
over her boyishly short hair cut.  It was practical for avoiding
increasingly grabby little fingers as well as for the ease and comfort
of wearing the sensory deprivation helmet.

The earphones played the sound of the ocean, interspersed with a
gentle hypnotic induction.  The third suction line on the milker is
fitted to her pussy, the vaginal probe buried deep inside her to
monitor my wife's pelvic floor and vaginal sphincter activity.   There
will be other opportunities to provide my wife with the extreme
clitoral stimulation that is so much a part of her life.   The dildo
is silky smooth as it slides slowly and easily in and out of her ass.
The entire dildo is shaped with ripples so large they are like a chain
of large anal beads, each one sensuously stretching her sphincter
before easing down snug in tight again as it narrowed down the other
side of the rounded ripples.  The fucking machine glided with inhuman
precision, slowed to a generous glide that seduced with its gluttonous
stamina.

If a content mother means a thriving child, how much better is the
milk from a mother who is joyfully aroused and climaxing?  How rich is
the hind milk produced by a woman who is utterly sated and content?
By separating the milk production from the infant, everyone enjoyed
the benefits.

My heir had vast quantities of fresh breast milk to drink.  The baby
was growing well, in the top percentiles for height and weight for her
age, a happy, content child who ate and slept well, and enjoyed her
Baby Einstein sessions.   My wife was glowing, despite the usual sleep
deprivation of a young mother, routinely producing enough milk that we
had enough to freeze, the vaginal probe recording multiple powerful
orgasms each time she was milked.

Six months in, my heir was a happy, content baby, growing well and
developing well ahead of the curve.  I had carefully chosen her sperm
donor for his combination of athletic ability, intellect and
creativity.  She was drinking from a bottle or a sippy cup, only
spending quiet time with my wife right before going to sleep, nursing
from her naked breasts at night and naptimes.

Although my heir was discovering the delights of homemade gourmet
organic baby food, breast milk is still the optimal food for growing
babies.  My heir would drink breast milk from her bottle or sippy cup
until at least age two, and breast milk was served with all cereals
and porridges.  Milk collection was carefully scheduled to coordinate
with the baby's usual naptimes.

As the baby spent more and more time awake, I could begin her
education as my wife relaxed and expressed her breast milk with the
aid of the milking frame.  The baby and I watched Baby Einstein, or
played games with her toes, exploring fuzzy blocks and patting things
on her play mat.  We listened to Mozart, long proven to improve the
development of young minds, and the soaring music of children's
choirs.

It was not uncommon in those early months to find my wife sound asleep
in the milking frame, catching what rest she could in between milkings
and feedings.  The long months of training prior to conception meant
that her conditioning was confirmed with each milking session, deeply
buried hypnotic commands ripening as she was forced to orgasm again
and again.

My wife's diet will continue to be modified as long as she is
lactating.  After all, the quality of her diet is immediately
reflected in my heir's health and well-being.  She still has both
Pilates and Yoga sessions, as well as time on the elliptical trainer
to ensure her peak condition.

I smiled at my happy heir playing on her mat, and tossed the mail back
on the hall table.  My wife was wearing one of her little sun dresses,
relatively modest little cotton numbers that bared her pretty thighs
and could easily be untied to expose her milk swollen breasts for
nursing.  I admired her slender neck and shoulders as she mashed baked
pumpkin and parsnips, spooning some into sterile glass jars, and the
rest into a pretty little bowl to serve to the munchkin later.

She smiled at me as I lifted the hem of her sundress to expose her
naked ass and legs.  I pull a nitrile examination glove from a box on
the counter, one of many such boxes that adorn just about every flat
surface in my house.  I can see her thighs shining, glistening with
the gelatinous strands that ooze from her swollen cunt.    Utterly
drenched and almost obscured by the viscous fluids dribbling from my
wife's eager cunt was the tail of a weighted vaginal probe.

My wife was once again engaged in an extreme pelvic floor training
routine.  It enhanced the foundations laid during her time in the
milking frame.  Every milking session was accompanied by sensory
deprivation, hypnotic induction and forced orgasms from anal
stimulation.  She would be milked every two hours throughout the day
and every four hours at night.

Each session provided both breast milk and a recurring opportunity for
conditioning.  Layer upon layer, her conditioning enhanced her
personality and orgasmic performance.  She was confident,
participatory and utterly and cheerfully obedient.  By the time my
heir was old enough to attend play group, my wife's conditioning
should be honed to perfection, preparing her for a renewed level of
intensity.

I took six month parental leave from work when my wife gave birth, and
worked part time for an additional six months.  That gave us both the
time needed to ensure that both my wife and my baby had all the care
they needed through this all important time.

The vaginal weights were assisting my wife in recovering her
pre-pregnancy strength and endurance.  She routinely wore them while
performing mundane household chores, sexualizing the perpetually
boring realities of housework and improving her overall orgasmic
performance.  I dabbled my gloved fingers in the slick on her slender
thighs and then slicked her swollen clitoris, making my wife shudder
and gasp.

"Lift up with your pelvic floor," I reminded her, and ran two fingers
along either side of her clitoral shaft, slicking it with her own
vaginal fluids.  Her conditioning ensures that she's anticipating the
next level of her training as much as I am.  With a brisk swat to one
narrow buttock, I turn her about until she braces herself against the
kitchen island, hips tilted to offer up her ass.

I can still see a few fading pink stripes from her spanking this
morning before I left for work.  While my wife can wriggle herself
into position in the milking frame without any assistance, she can't
spank herself.  I'm glad that I've decided to semi-retire.  Everybody
cautioned my wife about the age difference, let alone the fact that we
are both women!

But I come from one of the more enlightened Western civilizations,
where my wife is accorded all the legal rights and obligations of a
spouse regardless of the fact that we share a gender.  When I die, my
wife will be entitled to a widow's pension, and will be a beneficiary
of my estate.  I'm old enough to semi-retire, and still save at an
accelerated rate while working half-time.  I can be involved both in
my heir's education, but also in the continued conditioning of my
wife.

I open a drawer and select a silicone slapper.   There are similarly
equipped drawers in every room of the house, as well as in both cars.
The base of the buttplug in her ass is slick with lube and the juices
from her lush cunt.  As is my standing order, she has plugged herself
with a rectal dilator.  I keep her ass plugged more often than not,
and the dilators are designed for long term wear as most buttplugs are
not.  In addition to a flared base, there was a small vent in the tip
of each dilator.  They ranged in size from one inch in diameter to
three inches in diameter.

I chuckled when I saw the size of the dilator.  My greedy wife had
chosen a stout dilator with a girth of two and a half inches after her
last session in the milking frame.  The silicone slapper made crisp
snapping sounds as it licked at my wife's ass and thighs, swiftly
flushing the skin a pure deep rose.   I had so much fun conditioning
her to come from a whipping.  Between the fat dilator in my wife's ass
and the heated sting and burn from the silicone slapper, her
conditioning made it possible for me to effortlessly hold my wife
trembling on the edge of orgasm.

I freed her breasts as she stood there panting, still braced against
the kitchen island.  "Have you been thinking about it?" I prompted
quietly, pinching and rolling a fat nipple between my fingers.

The trembling became a shudder and a gasp.  "Yes, Ma'am," my wife will
tell me.  "In my country, I would only be allowed to have one.  You
know that's why I wanted to marry a foreigner.  I want more babies."

"Just checking" I'll assure my way, still lazily tormenting her
nipple, petting her hot, reddened bottom with my other hand, still
holding the handle of the slapper.  "You know I'll force you to orgasm
as you deliver this time," I reminded her.  "It will trigger all kinds
of stuff buried in your conditioning."

"I"ll be a good wife!" my wife vowed.  And she would – her genuine
desire for a large family was only confirmed by her conditioning.  The
generous social benefits of my country meant that I could afford to
support a large family, even at my age.  I am well past menopause, but
a young wife means that I can have the children I never could bear
myself.

"We'll have help," I will promise my young wife.  She was a frugal
housekeeper, and I could afford to hire someone to do the heavy
cleaning once a week, and a teenager to help with the children a few
hours a day.  There would be math tutors and ballet lessons and piano
practice and time with the singing coach.  My wife would be a busy
woman for the next ten years or so, even with help.  But at no time
would my wife suffer from a lack of attention.  By only working part
time, I could dedicate time to my wife each day.

She spent two hours each morning attending to her bodily functions.
Two further sessions, each two hours in length, would be enough to
keep my wife's tuned to peak performance while the children were
small.  "We can sponsor my sister," my wife proposed, red bottomed and
squirming eagerly.  "The government made her abort a second child
before I left the country.  Bring her here with her first daughter and
let her have more babies."

That made me pause.  "Do you have any sexual interest in your sister?"
 I queried, stepping back so I could see her expression.

My wife looked back over her shoulder at me, entrancingly flushed.
"No, but she's my sister and I love her."  My wife slid a quick glance
over at the baby, making sure she was still playing happily.  It was
something we both did so frequently that it no longer even registered.
 "I want her to be happy.  I would *share* you with her," she said
carefully, her accent already vastly minimized by her work with her
very proper and very British vocal coach.

I paused, considering this.  "How old is the kid?"

"Four.  And my sister would respect you as Head of the Household.  I
will be senior wife.  She will be second wife.  She is young, strong
and healthy.  You can make her orgasm a lot.  She will be a good
obedient wife.  She will do hormones like me and grow pretty girl dick
for you after you give her smart babies.  We will need "English nanny
to help."

I chuckled.  "I can only have one partner in this country," I reminded
her, tugging playfully on a nipple.

"So the government doesn't call her your wife," my stubborn wife
pointed out with quiet reason.  "Other Chinese people will know what
she is.  You will have many children.  Any my family will be happy to
be rid of her.  She shames the family by producing a girl baby.  Her
husband divorced her after she was caught pregnant a second time.
Tests show baby is a girl, so government make her have abortion."

I sighed.  "I suppose I'm already a scandalous creature.  It can't be
much worse."  Despite using the services of a traditional village
matchmaker, I was rather a source of befuddlement to my inlaws.  I was
female, a lesbian head of household in a foreign country.  No one was
every quite sure if they should treat me with the reverence accorded
to me because of my age, or with the courtesy one would expect for the
male head of the household.  And yet, I totally dominated my young
wife and made sure she was pregnant as soon as I was ready to breed
her.  To Chinese eyes, I was very close to a very strict, traditional
and very fertile husband.

The fact that I used sperm purchased from a sperm bank to sire my
children was a matter of consummate indifference to most Chinese of my
acquaintance.  I imagined that in future years, as I rocked up to
social events with my six or seven multiracial children by at least
two different women, that I would be subject to no little envy at
having produced my very only little dynasty in this era of government
restrictions on family size.

"We will return to the sperm bank when my heir is twelve months old,"
I decided after a moment's thought.  We will apply to sponsor your
sister at the same time.  She should arrive in time for the birth, and
it will give us time to tutor her daughter in English before she
starts school."  It looked like I'd be getting that English nanny
sooner rather than later.

I shot my wife a stern look.  "I make no promises about more babies
for your sister.  But at the very least we can make a place for her in
our Household."

"Thank you," my wife breathed, dark eyes glistening with fervent and
deeply sincere gratitude.  "In the old days, a husband who provided so
well would have two or three junior wives and a concubine or two, all
of whom would bear his children.  As senior wife, it is my job to
arrange such things.  They will all be ladies of beauty and
intelligence, worthy of carrying your heirs."

My wife sometimes surprised me with her traditional views.  And
frankly, it was no hardship to consider a houseful of beautiful women
to spank and tease and torment, or to contemplate afternoon tea with a
dozen or more giggling children.

"I certainly won't be conceiving any children with concubines," I
advised my wife tartly.  Yes, I was fiercely kinked in my marital
demands upon her person, but she was also treated with all the respect
due her rank as my wife.

"They will name no father," my wife pleaded with me.  "You can adopt
the children at birth."

I stroked her ass, considering the possibilities.  "There will be
strict rules.  Everyone will be on a training schedule."

"As you wish," my wife said demurely, tilting her hips to make herself
more available to me.  "You can put the concubines you don't want
children out of on hormones.  They will grow pretty girl dicks for
you.  They won't make milk, but you can force them to come more and
more and more."

My wife knew me well.  Working part time would continue to give me
plenty of time to see to the needs of my household, particularly if
there were a handful of women sharing childminding responsibilities
and housekeeping duties.  "You will all have to study early childhood
education," I told her, thinking aloud.  "The children will all need
home schooling, then private school and elite boarding schools.  I
want them all to have at least a Bachelor's Degree under their belts
before they leave home."

"They will be good students," my wife vowed, eyes sliding over to
check on the baby once more.  I checked the clock.  She would have
only recently finished her cereal and bottle of expressed breast milk.
 She would be quite content to play on her mat for at least thirty or
forty minutes – and then nap on the spot.

"You know that having more babies will delay my plans to make you grow
a pretty girl dick for me," I told her, deliberately using her
phrasing.  Her mangled English often amused me, although I was proud
of how hard she'd worked to improve her grasp of the language.
Besides, the desciption appealed to me.  The application of
testosterone compound directly to the clitoris would permanently
enlarge that all important organ, as well as inducing a vastly
increased sex drive.  Hormone therapy, as part of an extreme clitoral
stimulation program, would indeed grow pretty girl dicks.    "You'll
have to work hard to meet the performance targets without the hormone
therapy," I warned.  "You'll be back on the intensive training
schedule you maintained before."

"Yes, ma'am," my wife replied, looking quite delighted by the
prospect.  She adored extreme clitoral stimulation, even without the
testosterone treatment.  The monitors on the wall showed the level of
tension in her pelvic floor, picking up the readings broadcast by the
wireless vaginal probe.

Feeling a little mean, I started swinging the silicone slapper again,
swiftly turning her ass and thighs a deeper shade of red.  My wife
spread her legs obediently, knowing what was to come, trembling
slightly as she waited for the slapper to curl up and bite at her
swollen pussy.  Her time in the milking frame meant that her pussy had
been receiving regular vacuum suction therapy, as evidenced by her
lush camel toe.

But without testosterone therapy, my wife's clitoris was sadly
underdeveloped, even after more than two years of regular vacuum
therapy and hydrotherapy.  Fortunately, her hypnotic conditioning
compensated for her stunted clitoris, responding beautifully with
forced orgasms in response to anal stimulation.

Her swollen cunt began to make wet, sloppy slapping sounds as the
slapper stung my wife's sex.  She whimpered, trembling violently
although she never fell out of position.  It didn't take long to force
her to an explosive orgasm, whip kisses pushing her over the edge into
a thigh trembling, convulsively shuddering ejaculatory climax.  I
whipped her through the orgasm, making sure that the slapper bit her
clitoris each and every time.

I had to steady her as she wriggled back into position in the milking
frame.  As I was now home, my wife was able to don the sensory
deprivation helmet, maximizing the impact of her treatment.  (She was
always careful to keep her attention on my heir when they were home
alone.) I took the opportunity to change her rectal dilator over to a
short, more curvy butt plug to which I could fix a powerful vibrator.
The pussy cup would stimulate her whip swollen genitals, capturing any
ejaculate produced during her milking.

She was entirely capable of slipping into the frame without
assistance, but I didn't object to the show of care.  Her conditioning
was coming along nicely, and while her suggestions had startled me
considerably, I was not displeased by her show of initiative.   I
moved over to the play mat, settling down beside my heir with a
package of baby flash cards.  There would be another Baby Einstein DVD
to watch later, while my wife climaxed repeatedly in the milking
frame.

I played with my heir's little pink toes a few hours later, singing a
lullaby as I fed her from a bottle.   My wife had checked in with me
before returning to the milking frame once more.  If I had several
wives and concubines, it would require a highly regimented schedule.
I would not allow my girls to sexually satisfy one another.  Their
orgasms were restricted to their training and conditioning session,
where they could experience the maximum benefit.

All of them would, of course, experience the same enema training and
evacuation conditioning, developing an unshakable connection between
anal dilation and sexual arousal.  While I had no interest in scat, it
had amused me to train my wife to orgasm during defecation.  Sensory
deprivation and hypnotic induction simply took time, but if there were
a handful of women in residence, it would be relatively easy to
provide for group treatment sessions, while the other attended to
their respective duties in the household.

A few concubines would afford me the opportunity to begin the next
phase in the extreme clitoral stimulation program.  I couldn't treat
any woman I wanted to breed with hormone therapy, but the concubines
were strictly sexual playthings.  I could be even more extreme in
their conditioning.  We would need one of those bloody minivans to
haul everyone about, although there were even a few erotic
possibilities offered by such vehicles.

Not even two years into my marriage, and my wife was already a
valuable addition to the household.  Additional wives and concubines
would mean that I could focus my attention on my wife more readily,
having many extra hands to deal with the prosaic realities of daily
life with small children in the household.

I would have to build more milking frames.  If there were three or
four women lactating at one time, I would need enough frames to
achieve maximum milk production for each of them.  The toilet
facilities would have to be expanded, particularly the options for
total bondage during all procedures.  Each woman would need her own
anal hygiene station.

There would need to be additional bondage gynaecological examination
chairs, as well as a larger kitchen and dining room.  There would need
to be a nursery, and a playroom, and dormitory style rooms for the
women.  Adult spaces would need to offer more bondage options, and it
would certainly give me an excuse to upgrade the fucking machines.

Additional bathrooms, more machines for the laundry room, and a couple
of tumble dryers.  Children's laundry didn't wait for a sunny day.
Dedicated dishwashers for toys, plus an autoclave for my beloved
clinical instruments; additional electrical stimulation units and
additional probes... I pondered the equipment and facilities I would
need to take on such a project.

After the baby went down for her longer night time sleep, I would take
a look at the family budget.  And then I would come up with new and
exciting ways to torment my young wife.  And possibly several other
wives and a handful of concubines...

The situation had possibilities.