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She started it all, this extreme side of me. Before, I'd always been rough with the girls, but after getting her, rough was left far behind and it was torture, no mistake. Once you get a taste of extreme, you just keep wanting more and more. It is addiction, and I'm a happy, satisfied addict. She wants it, and takes it, and it's so satisfying having a bitch beg for her own destruction, and hating herself all the while for it.

So much better than taking an unwilling cunt who's too stupid to know her place, because I am not a rapist, no sir. And better than pain-sluts, because all they want is pain, the sick pigs. Give them a box of nails and a hammer and that's them sorted. No fun at all. I don't want them unwilling but I don't want them happy and well-adjusted about it either. What I want is what I got my willing, happy and self-hating wife.

I never even thought of snuffing her until she brought it up. She'd rather I killed her than throw her out on the street, she was nothing without me. That's what she'd said. Now, every cunt in my life faces that possibility and I can't imagine a life lived any other way.

I love my life.

Nothing: Early days

After we were married, my husband moved into my apartment and it was then that I found out he was a cop. He looked so good in the uniform, made me so wet. Shiny silver cuffs, menacing black baton, those dark mirrored sunglasses. The gun. I just knelt at his feet and drooled – nothing new, he made me drool all the time, and I'm not talking about the gags which were more often inside my mouth than not now. But still, it was a new fetish and he grinned when he saw the effect on me.

I licked his shiny black shoes, shivering as he trailed the baton over my spine. My holes were twitching, happily anticipating having it inside. He gave a good hard whack to each cheek, making me grunt and whine, surprised at how much it hurt. Then it was rubbing over my head, and I shivered for a whole different reason. I was still quite upset over my baldness and the graffiti, had seen myself in the mirror and cried. I looked terrible, and so very stupid, but my cunt had been happy and I had masturbated in front of the mirror and come so many times.

Still, it's one thing to get off on humiliation and another for the humiliation to be so blatant and long lasting. My hair would grow back, but not if he kept shaving it off. He'd done that twice now, and I was beginning to worry he was going to keep me bald. As for the graffiti, he was talking tattoos too and I didn't think he'd do that to my face but there was gleam in his eye when he said it…

Then the baton was in my mouth, and I was sucking and choking. He was smirking down at me, shoving the baton back and forth forcefully, hitting the back of my throat, holding the back of my head to make me take it. I could see my reflection on his lenses, two of me, distorted.

"Keep it in your mouth."

He went behind me, and I felt the coldness of the cuffs as they closed around my wrists. I moaned, so very hot, the drool just trickling down my chin and my cunt juice slicking my thighs.

"Crawl over to the coffee table, rest your tits on the top."

It was awkward, trying to get my weighty udders nicely placed on the tabletop without the use of my hands and with a long baton sticking out of my mouth, but I finally managed it. I was a bit worried I had taken too long, he had a tendency to punish harshly for any minor wrong, but he didn't say anything and I relaxed. Then he took the baton out of my mouth and started bashing my tits flat.

I cried out and pulled back, and I knew I shouldn't have but it was uncontrollable. He'd used full force and my tits felt crushed.

"Get back in place before I get angry."

I'd gone into this relationship with open eyes, jumped in with both feet, gleefully, but it was very hard at times. I arranged my tits on the table again, crying already, knowing how horrible it was going to be. And it was. He had to stuff a tea towel in my mouth to keep the noise down. I'm afraid that 3 hits to each tit was all I could take, and I pulled away again and curled up on the floor. Back then, I'm afraid my pain tolerance level wasn't very high.

"Now you've done it." He kicked me over onto my back and kept me there with one foot on my tit. He pressed down hard, almost standing with his full weight on me and it hurt but I was distracted by how manly and powerful he looked. He was like a hunter standing over his kill, but instead of a gun he had his baton. And then the baton was falling and my free tit was getting slammed back against my ribs. I was screaming uncontrollably into my gag, thrashing around under his foot.

"Spread your legs, piggy."

He grabbed hold of one ankle and started thrashing my cunt, then it was shoved in and the pain took my breath away. But it didn't stay in there long, just long enough for it to be slick enough for my ass – and that was another shock of pain. I looked up at my husband who held me down with one foot on my tit, held me up by one ankle and so high that my weight was on my shoulders, and who had just stuffed his baton into my ass – he was grinning, teeth white and gleaming in his dark face, and I could see a large lump at his crotch. He was happy, and that was all that mattered.

"Now piggy has a piggy tail," he laughed, shoving it in further with a push and a twist. "I'm so good to you. Now, try it out. Crawl around and wag your tail." He pressed down hard on my tit before letting go of my ankle.

All I wanted to do was curl up and hide, but I did as I was told. Everything hurt, and I couldn't stop crying. I crawled around the room on my shoulders and knees, my battered tits dragging against the carpet, occasionally wagging my new tail. My husband stroked himself as he watched. And even with the tears, he wasn't the only one turned on. Not only did I hurt badly, I knew how stupid I must look, and yet my cunt was still throbbing and aching and dripping.

"Bet you're wet, you sick slut," he said. He knew me so well. He stopped me by his chair, grabbing my ear. "Here, hump my leg."

It felt so good. I humped his leg like a dog, fast and desperate, looking at his grinning, sneering face all the while. The baton was starting to slip though, from all the shaking, and I had to slow down.

"Open your mouth."

I opened it without thinking, and he took out the tea towel and replaced it with his gun. I stopped humping in shock.

He slapped my head. "I didn't tell you to stop." But I couldn't move.

I'd never been near a gun before, and my first touch was with my mouth. I stared up at him, mouth dry, tasting the metallic barrel of the gun resting on my tongue.

He leaned close, his breath warm on my forehead. "You're being very bad today, and I don't like it." There was a click, the safety. I nearly pissed myself. "Stop squealing, my sick lil' pig. Now, suck my gun."

I sucked, and before too long the whole thing was turning me on and I was rubbing against his leg again. There was a gun getting a blowjob from me, a police baton getting an ass-fuck, and I was so hot I was humping my husband's leg like an animal… I really was a sick lil' pig.

"You know, I heard this story recently, true story," he said, watching my head bob on his gun, spit running down my chin. "In one of those Asian countries, where the men keep the cunts in their place, the men would take a cheating cunt out in front of everybody and gang-rape her." I humped faster. I'd got a taste for gangbangs from my wedding. "When they were done, they'd take her out to the rubbish tip, stuff her mouth and ass full of trash. Then they'd put a gun up her cunt, and shoot." He pulled the trigger. Click. I flinched, my eyes rolled up in my head I came.

Sick, sick pig.

When it was over, I sat there panting, gun still in my mouth. The baton fell out of my ass, and I missed it.

"They'd leave her there, dead or dying." He lifted the gun, lifted my head with it. "Birds, rats, maggots, they'd have fun with her. Then the next pile of trash would come along, bury one used up cunt, and life goes on. No burning pyre, no fuss, no one giving a shit."

The gun slid out of my mouth. He took his leg out from between my legs, placed his foot against my face and pushed me off. I lay on my back, on my cuffed hands, turned on all over again by his story.

"A fitting end, I think." He stuck the gun up my cunt. I held my breath. The gun made squishing noises as it thrust in and out, loud, and very telling of my state of mind, making me blush bright red and hot in embarrassment. "Don't you agree, Pig-cunt?"

"Yes, sir." It was more moaned than said, and I was telling the truth. At that moment, I couldn't see anything wrong with how the cunt had ended up. And even later on, even now, no matter how morally wrong or just plain sick it all is, I'm still ok with it, I'm still desperately turned on by it. And I think it started then, the consideration of a similar ending for myself, because I couldn't see how I could truly surrender completely to my husband without him taking control of my life and death.

The gun speeded up inside me, and I was thrusting back, fucking myself with it. I was moaning loudly, looking up at my husband in lust and adoration, my cunt spasming as he spat in my face. Everything he did turned me on, I was so lucky. Then there was the trigger, the click, and I was coming and screaming and thrashing around on the floor like a demented thing, like the demented thing I was.

I lay there in a haze, not really awake. He left me there and occasionally I'd see his feet walking past me. There were the usual sounds I was used to now, that of him changing my apartment to his liking. His apartment now. I'd signed over everything to him, and even my name now in the outside world was simply Mrs. Michael Hyde, and if the first name was needed, it was P, short for Pig-cunt, but they wouldn't know that. Maiden name? Cee. C for cunt, of course. It had all been legally changed Samantha Burlington no longer existed.

My resignation letter had already been sent, my career was over. I'd spoken to them on the speakerphone too, looking at our reflection in the mirror. I was bent at the waist, my wrists tied behind me and my neck collared by my husband's belt. He was holding me by my wrists and collar as he fucked my ass. We looked so good together, I couldn't look away.

He had on a wife-beater, the white of it standing out starkly against the dark ebony of his skin and bringing more attention to his fantastic muscles. Black combats only opened at the fly covered his lower half. He looked so big and dangerous, the type I cross the street to avoid, the type that make my cunt drip like no other. I was naked and bald with graffiti and welts and bruises all over, one eye so swollen I could barely see out of it and my lips were split and bleeding. My tits were tied tightly with cooking string, big purple balls bouncing in time to the fucking.

I resented having to talk to anyone I just wanted to look at the picture we made, enjoy the fucking but my husband had told me to and that was that.

"It's a bit sudden, isn't it, Samantha? It's not like you."

You don't have a clue what I'm like, I wanted to say, looking at the happy abused cunt being ass-fucked by her powerful husband. But my husband had told me to always speak respectfully and politely to others. They were much better than the piece of shit that was me, after all.

"I know," I said. My voice was weak and out of breath, a result of being fucked and everything else, but those on the other side of the line thought it was from being ill. "But it's the real thing and we'll be moving soon back to his country. Wish me luck!"

"Of course, sweetie, lots of luck. We're just worried about you."

"Don't be. I'm deliriously happy." I watched my reflection lick her bleeding lips, her eyes wide and transfixed on her husband. The call ended at last, I mouthed numerous goodbyes, empty promises to keep in touch, to email.

"Deliriously happy, are you?" he asked, smiling wide and letting go of my wrists to slap my ass.

"Yes, sir," I gasped out. I was only being held up by the belt around my throat. And instead of taking back my wrists, both of his hands were on the belt and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. I was choking, my face getting redder and redder, my eyes bulging out and rolling wildly to look for mercy at my husband who was fucking my ass like a demon.

He looked like he was riding, reins in his hands, ass going up and down on his mount's back. His snarling mouth was moving, cursing and degrading me, but I could barely hear him anymore. My mouth was wide open, tongue sticking out and waggling, drool dripping copiously from my chin. My eyes followed the drool, strangely fascinated, before they got caught by the frantic shaking and flopping of my purple tit-balls – they were the last things I saw that day. My vision blurred, darkened, and I lost consciousness.

And passing out happens often with him. It's disorientating, not to mention frightening, but the orgasms are so much better for it. I'd heard that about asphyxia, but I'd never met anyone who'd do it to me until my husband. And he does it every way possible, I think. Hanging, strangling, plastic bags, water and other liquids, mummification and entombing, and of course, with his dick. He likes watching me struggle to breathe, and I love how much enjoyment he gets out of my suffering.

I'm sick. This can only end badly for me, but then again, a bad end would be the goal of an extreme submissive like myself. And I was beginning to realise that I was more submissive than even I had assumed myself to be, my slavish desire to please my husband seeming to have no limits. My life consists of endless pain and fear, but also of endless lust and love, and it is love no matter what others may think. He's giving me what I need and for that I love him desperately.

I remember a priest from my childhood. He'd said women were sin made flesh, only natural for the descendants of that great sinner Eve, and that it was up to men to keep such sinful creaturs in line. I'd grown up knowing he had been talking absolute crap, but now, things aren't so clear. There is no denying how sick and depraved I am, how much I have been longing for a man to take control of me, keep me 'in line'. There can be no denying how right it feels to have found such a man and to suffer for him, to please him. And there can be no denying that I am not the only woman to feel this way.

Nothing: Storage

He likes to box me. Not box as in punching, although he likes that too, but box as in containment. He likes his space, his privacy, and even though I'm silent or gagged, he sometimes finds my presence too much.

When we were in the apartment, he used to just pop me in the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was big enough to lie in a foetal position, or to scrunch down on my knees, or lie on my back with my knees to my chest – but whatever position it was, I had to stay put because it only took one sound to get him enraged. I'm a submissive, and so masochistic to some extent, but the punishment he deals out when he's truly enraged, as opposed to sexually motivated rage, is something I try hard to avoid. Broken bones are often one of the end results, and I'm not enough of a pain-slut to find them arousing.

I liked it, at first. It was like a safe haven, a place where if I stayed very quiet, I'd be left in peace. Our relationship is very intense, and very hard on my body, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that I need recovery time now and then.

However, the periods of time that he left me in there became longer and longer, and then he began putting me in some form of bondage. It wasn't enough to simply put me in and lock the trunk. Now, the bare minimum would be cuffed hands and tied feet, dildo gag and ear plugs, and the full treatment would be a strict hogtie, tits tightly bound, dildos in all my holes, earplugs and a full hood which blinded me and restricted my breathing.

There's not much to see in a dark trunk, but somehow being blindfolded made me uneasy. As did being deaf. I'd never realised how much sounds comforted me until I was without them. I started thinking about how if I had a health problem, or vomited, I'd probably die. He'd never know, might even take him a whole day before he opened the trunk and found me dead. I might have discovered a whole new desire to be snuffed, but I'd seen it as something years in the future, if ever. I didn't really want to die, especially not now when I'd just found him.

And what if something happened to him? Some of his friends knew he had me, so they might come looking, but if they didn't know anything was wrong with him either, then I was in trouble. Or what if he went out and there was a fire?

So before too long after he'd first started storing me away in the trunk, I developed claustrophobia. He knew I didn't like it, that I was afraid of being boxed, and that pleased him even more and he found more ways to store me. In the basement now, there's a selection that would make BDSM shops envious. There are boxes of varying shapes and sizes, made of wood, metal, plastic. There are transparent ones for when he wants to see me, which is always the case when the boxing is for something other than storage. Like breath-play.

There are coffins, an iron maiden, cages, dog carriers, body bags and suitcases.

There are holes in the floor, some deep pits, some shallow, some big enough only for one, others for more, with iron lids that can be solid or a grill depending on his mood. Their moods. His friends come over often, usually bringing their own cunts.

There are slots in the walls, just like in a morgue complete with the stainless steel doors and sliding trays, except the height is about halved. It's tighter than in a coffin, and colder, and talking of cold, there's a walk-in freezer too with meat hooks from which meat hangs, including live cunt.

But back when we lived in the apartment, there was no space for even a fraction of these things, so my husband made do with what was already there – suitcases, cupboards, closets. And on some, thankfully few, occasions, the refrigerator.

Now, upstairs in the house, there's a chest in the sun lounge. It's a nicely carved wooden coffee table on the outside, but a place for me inside. It's a tight fit. Many times when my husband entertains polite, vanilla company, I'm in there with none of them the wiser. The old trunk is also still around, at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom. And in his study, it's the window seat.

He usually plugs me, keep the mess to a minimum, except when he wants mess. It's disgusting, but it makes me hot – not surprising considering the extreme degradation of it and I am, after all, when stripped of everything else, a humiliation slut to the core, in the core. I lie in piss and shit and come, I drink his piss and come, eat his shit and come. He watches it all, fascinated, disgusted, hard – shaking his head sometimes, unable to understand how someone can sink so low.

Understandable then, that he has stopped thinking of me as a thinking human being. Talks to me less and less, not even to give me orders. I'm hooded most times, blind and deaf and mute, taken out of storage to be used, put back away when he's done. I don't think I'll last much longer. I've lost track of time, but I know it's been a satisfying few years. When I can see, my body is an emaciated mess, scarred and ugly. I have no regrets, only except for wishing to give him more. He's been so good to me, I can't repay him enough. He deserves more, everything.