My wife's trip abroad

"Miss, please take out all your metal items,"
the security guard said politely.
His wife was dressed in an expensive dress, exuding the air of a business elite, but her dress only had two pockets, which were empty.
Bobby, at the other end of the security checkpoint, said to his wife, "Let them check your clothes."
At the security checkpoint, many passengers were queuing, some standing just a few feet behind his wife. They all stared wide-eyed as this stylish office lady slowly unbuttoned her dress, pulling the straight skirt down to her ankles. Apart from the two jackets she had removed, she was completely naked underneath.
The young security guard, seeing his naked wife, blushed even more than she did. He noticed the alarm going off because of the metal name tag pinned to his wife's nipple, which read: Li Meihui, SM Club, Apprentice Bitch.
"Bitch…cough cough…" The security guard seemed to choke on his own saliva in his excitement, coughing incessantly. He raised his security baton and hit his wife on the nipple, telling her to get out.
My wife grabbed her clothes and jogged through security, the sounds of the crowd behind us filling the air… After a late-night snack, Bobby and John drove us to the legendary SM club. It was
a small building resembling a hotel, decorated quite elegantly.
Bobby gave us a brief introduction: the first floor was the performance hall, the second floor had two rows of rooms on either side, all training rooms, floors three through five were guest rooms for us foreign tourists, and floors six and seven were a secret—they'd only take us there after my wife became a real bitch.
Checking into a room required registration. I showed my wife and my passports to the registration staff for verification, then signed my name in the guest section. My wife also needed to sign, but John stopped her as she picked up the pen. John gestured towards a spot on the paper that required a stamp, then looked at her.
My wife blushed, seemingly understanding John's meaning. She pulled up her skirt, spread her legs, and squatted on the registration table. The registrar smiled, picked up a rectangular piece of ink from the table, and used it to stain my wife's vulva. He then inserted the ink into her wet opening, carefully smearing the ink on the tender flesh inside, as if afraid of missing a corner. Only after my wife's entire vulva was smeared bright red did he let her stamp the registration form with her complete vulva imprint.
After taking the room key, Bobby and John said goodbye, telling us to rest early, as the training of my wife would officially begin the next day.
After showering, my wife and I embraced and lay on the large bed in the guest room, the moonlight outside the window hazy.
"Honey, I love you,"
my wife said happily, kissing my cheek.
I hugged her tightly and said, "I love you too. From now on, consider this a vacation."
"Yes, I will enjoy it."
The next day, John knocked on our door on time. Bobby didn't come; he was alone today.
John: "Are you ready?" "Okay."
"Let's go then."
He led us to the second floor, into a small cubicle, and took out a booklet with the words "Discipline Manual" printed on the cover. He asked if we could read English, and my wife and I nodded, indicating that it was no problem. This booklet was mainly for my wife; it detailed the rights she possessed, the rights that would be taken away, some obligations that had to be fulfilled, and so on. "If you've read it carefully, have the lady put this on."
John took out a dog collar and placed it in front of us. My wife put down the booklet and said, "No need to read it."
She picked up the collar from the table and put it on her neck.
John looked at me, glanced at my wife, and smiled, "What an impatient woman."
I spread my hands, indicating helplessness.
John pointed to a row of numbers on the collar and said, "From now on, your code name is 207. You are the 207th person in our club to be disciplined."
After John finished speaking, he ordered my wife to put all her clothes on and kneel on the ground.
He continued, "From now on, any woman wearing this collar must crawl, because you've given up your right to be human and chosen to be a bitch. So wherever you are, you must act like a bitch, understand?" His wife nodded.
John said, "Very good. For the next month, you'll need to complete physical training to get rid of your excess fat, maintain your perfect figure, and get used to being a bitch. This includes eating, sleeping, and traveling."
He then said to me, "If you'd like to stay and watch your wife's classes, come with us. If you're bored, drive my car and go for a drive. I'll find two girls to keep you company."
I thought for a moment and decided to stay and observe.
John led his wife out of the room and into the next room, which was decorated like a torture chamber, filled with various SM props and dog supplies: a dog bowl, cage, bathtub, and litter box. John told his wife that this would be where she would live from now on; she would no longer sleep upstairs with me because she didn't deserve it.
John took a leather whip and began teaching his wife various dog postures, including walking, running, squatting, sitting, and lying down. John demanded that his wife memorize each of these movements. If she made a mistake or did not follow the standard, John's whip would mercilessly fall on her snow-white skin, leaving red marks.
His wife learned quickly. John said she was smart and diligent, but a little impatient. She couldn't wait to learn the next movement before she had fully mastered it, so she was whipped many times, but his wife always remained happy.
One evening, after his wife finished a day of training, I went to her doghouse. It smelled bad, and the air was filled with a stench. There were puddles of water on the floor, as if his wife had spilled holy water after losing control of her bladder. She was cleaning, but she didn't use her hands. Her hands were tied behind her back with a leather strap. His wife was arching her back, spreading her legs, and using a mop held between her vagina to wipe away the urine on the floor.
She scrubbed meticulously, like a devout servant, the wooden handle of the mop poking into her vagina, moving in and out with each stroke.
The wife stared at the floor, moving forward, seemingly oblivious to the wall in front of her. The mop suddenly slammed against the white wall, the rebound force pushing the handle deep inside her. She shuddered, her legs clenching tightly, and a large gush of fluid dripped from her vagina, running down the handle, soaking the floor that had just been clean. Her brows furrowed, her expression a mixture of annoyance and bitterness.
She stared blankly for a moment, then, as if remembering something, pulled the mop handle out, inserted it again, clenched her sphincter, and continued mopping.
"Oh, husband, you're here,"
she said, completely absorbed in mopping, only then noticing me.
"Come see you, how was your practice today?" "Pretty good, just some moves I'm not quite used to yet."
"Come on, show your husband."
"Okay, but can I finish mopping the floor first?" "Let me do it for you."
"No need, I'll be done in a bit, honey, there's a bottle of air freshener over there, spray it in the room."
After I helped my wife tidy up the doghouse, she loosened the leash behind her back. It turned out her hands weren't tied up; the leash was just for show.
Me: "Honey, why don't you mop the floor with your hands?" Wife: "This is also part of the training. John said he wants me to gradually get used to using my pussy to replace my hands, feet... and other body parts, and even to learn to think with my pussy later."
I didn't quite understand what this meant, so I asked, "Does he want you to use it for walking in the future?" "It's not impossible, honey, come and see."
My wife pushed a small cart towards me. The cart was similar in shape to a unicycle used in acrobatic performances, but unlike that, its bottom wheel was very wide, so it wasn't unstable when you sat on it. The seat of the cart was also very wide, almost enough to accommodate two people at the same time. There was a metal rod in the middle of the seat, like a rocker arm. My wife tried to sit on the cart, put her feet into the locks on both sides of the cart to secure her legs, then lifted them up, spread her fingers apart, and inserted the rocker arm into her wet hole.
My wife twisted her slender waist back and forth, as if preparing for exercise. She pressed the start button on the side of the car and explained to me, "Honey, look, if I bend backward, the lever in my vagina will move the car backward. Conversely, if I move forward, the car will move forward. If you want to turn, you have to squeeze tight, like this." As
she spoke, she demonstrated a waist-twisting motion, and the car turned to one side.
My wife blushed and laughed, "How was it? Was it fun?" "It was kind of interesting."
My wife then took out many interesting props and introduced them to me one by one. Before we knew it, we played until late at night. When we were about to leave, I realized that I hadn't checked on my wife's training results for the day. Unfortunately, it was too late, so I thought I'd do it tomorrow.
A few weeks later, John didn't train my wife as usual. He took us shopping in the city to relax. When my wife was getting dressed, she seemed a little awkward. She had been naked since entering the doghouse, occasionally wearing only a pair of clothes. Now that she was wearing a full set of clothes, she seemed a little uncomfortable.
Having lived in this city for so long, this was the first time my wife and I had ever gone shopping. The streets were clean, the buildings were uniquely styled, the trees were shady, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers. Passersby stood, walked, or sat
, their demeanor relaxed. John chose an open-air café and treated us to coffee. The waiter brought over a tray, enthusiastically offering us coffee and some snacks. John picked up a French fry from his bowl and waved it at my wife. She reflexively stuck out her tongue, her eyes fixed on the fry in John's hand. John tossed the fry into the air, and my wife, surprisingly, stretched her neck and bit into it. John patted her head with satisfaction and moved her coffee to the ground.
The surrounding customers watched in astonishment as my wife moved her seat, bent down, and, like a puppy, stuck out her tongue, licked the coffee from her cup.
John took a collar from his bag and put it on his wife. Then he took out a fluffy dog tail. His wife obediently lifted her skirt and took it off. To the astonishment of the crowd, she raised her fleshy buttocks high, parted her legs, and let the dog tail, attached to it, penetrate her rectum.
A woman at the next table couldn't help but tremble, spilling her coffee all over herself. She stood up angrily, slammed her coffee cup on the table, glared at his wife with disdain, picked up her bag, and left.
John removed all of his wife's clothes and put them in his bag. As if on display, he led his wife around, then ordered her to squat. His wife stuck out her tongue, pinched her swollen nipples with both hands, spread her legs wide, slightly raised her buttocks, and stood on her tiptoes at almost a 90-degree angle, supporting herself on her toes. His wife's perfect movements made the crowd's gaze even more like that of someone admiring a work of art.
After everyone had watched, John had his wife put her clothes back on, removed her gear, put her bag back, and we left the coffee shop amidst the teasing whistles of the others.
John: "Did you like it? Your wife's performance."
"Yeah, it was crazy,"
I said, glancing at my wife, who gave me a shy smile.
John: "Today's performance was actually part of a training exercise. I want your wife to be proud to be a bitch, to get used to being a bitch, to dare to openly express herself anytime, anywhere, and to tell others who she is now."
I joked, "I'm afraid one day she'll forget how to be human."
Wife: "Then will you still want me?" "I'll buy a dog crate and keep you at home."
My wife playfully stuck out her tongue at me and barked twice like a dog.
For the next few days, John took us shopping every day, teaching my wife how to behave like a female dog in public. Months flew by, and our vacation was fast approaching. John booked our plane tickets in advance, bought us many local specialties and interesting souvenirs, and told us when we would be back.
I asked John if we could go up to the sixth floor before leaving; I'd always been curious about that place. John shook his head, telling us it wasn't the right time yet.
That noon, my wife and I packed our bags and headed back home. John drove us to the airport.
After getting out of the car, my wife hugged John tightly, tears welling in her eyes, and said, "Thank you, John, for making every day so enjoyable."
John replied, "You did a great job."
My wife released John, then knelt down and, ignoring the surprised looks from others, licked John's shoes.
I shook hands with John and said goodbye, "See you next time, my friend."
"Definitely!" On the plane back home, my wife and I talked about our experiences over the past few months. I asked her what her biggest feeling was, and she said it was freedom.
The only downside was that my wife said she hadn't been with many men, except for me, and the time she was fucked on the plane to here, and the only other time was with the whip John had. I joked that she should find a man on the plane to relieve her pent-up desires. My wife smiled at me but didn't say anything.
We were still transferring in New York, and boarded a flight back to China. Finally, the plane wasn't all foreigners; there were many Chinese people with yellow skin.
A middle-aged man, around 40 years old, sat next to us, glancing at my wife from time to time. My wife was reading a book and didn't notice his gaze at all. She was only wearing a silk jacket, her breasts were full and protruding below the neckline, and the two nipples were vaguely visible. Her short skirt barely covered the edge of her buttocks, revealing two long, black-clad legs.
As the flight attendant walked past the wife, she asked for a glass of water. She placed her book on the table in front of her, took a sip, and continued reading, the small glass nestled between her breasts. The middle-aged man, watching his wife's expression, couldn't help but press his hand against his crotch.
"Hello,"
the man couldn't resist striking up a conversation with his wife.
She smiled at him and continued reading.
"What are you reading?" the man asked. "A magazine,"
she replied casually.
"Would you mind if I took a look?" she asked generously, offering a corner of the magazine. The man craned his neck to look, and instantly, his expression froze.
Tucked inside the magazine was a photograph of a woman completely naked, wearing a black leather hood, her limbs tightly bound with rope, hanging from a dog cage.
The man swallowed hard and said, "You like looking at this?" His wife pointed to the photo and said, "This woman needs a reminder, that's why she's tied up like this."
The man asked, puzzled, "What reminder?" "A reminder to always remember that she's a bitch."
"How do you know?" His wife flipped the photo over, revealing another side. In the photo, the woman was covered in sweat, her hood removed, and her expression was as if she had just recovered from a serious illness. His wife slowly said, "I was hung like this for a long time, so it was very uncomfortable. Look, the rope is tightly cut into my flesh, like a chasm, embedded between my vulva, my labia forced outwards. I was in pain and excited at the same time, my nipples involuntarily erected, and the tips of my nipples were tied with two golden nipple bells with red rope. Can you hear them jingling?" The man could hardly believe it, but the woman in the photo did indeed look exactly like the woman in front of him.
This is a photo John took of my wife the night before we left. He had her tied to a dog cage overnight, and the next morning, it was a keepsake.
The "reminder" my wife mentioned was John's instruction for her to never forget that she was a slutty bitch, and to look at the photo every day to remind herself that she was a bitch.
The man's eyes no longer seemed to respect his wife; his hands even rested improperly on her thighs.
Wife: "What do you want me to do for you?" "Lick my dick."
The man made his wife lie on her side between his legs, covering her head with a blanket. Her head bobbed up and down under the blanket. "Mmm..." the man panted, leaning back comfortably in his chair.

[The End]

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My wife's trip abroad

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