Just His Type | The New Standard

He knows exactly what he wants

It was hard waking up like this everyday.  

Each morning I hear him humming happily as he gets ready for work and I instinctively walk over to assist him.  The manly fragrance of his cologne creates a aching dampness between my legs as I adjust his tie - a sensation that would have been foreign to me in another life.  The hitch in my breathing betrays my desire to him and he unzips his pants. That need - the compulsion - demands I bend my knees and take him into my mouth. My mind glazes over as I satisfy him, savoring his taste until he erupts down my throat.  With an arrogant smirk across his lips, he leaves me there - the need sated but the humiliation of my wantonness already stirring my desires again. As he continues his morning ritual for work, he often gloats about his triumph.

“I should thank you,” He once told me.  “Had you not tainted her, I would have been content with her natural beauty.  I wouldn’t have realized that I didn’t have to settle. You gave me the pursuit of perfection.”  The lustful gaze in his eye would make me blush; the implication crystal clear.  I was HIS perfection, the upgrade. I only needed to look in the mirror to see this.  He has seen to it that I was his ideal. His old wife had been beautiful but I was a monument to his own desire. “You are a much more intriguing replacement - all of the positive with all the imperfections removed.  More rewarding considering how much effort went into you.”

Instinctively I blushed at this, feeling a sense of pride at his words.  It was a reflex now, one I knew was artificial. Yet his satisfaction with me still warmed some part of me.  He had crafted me in every way to be his. Hormones had given me the breasts he wanted - massive globes of tit flesh that rose and jostled with every movement I made.  The chemicals softened me, melted my masculinity away and made me more malleable to his whims. He took that feminine clay and had me sculpted into the shapes of his desires.  Hips and ass thick, voluptuous, enticing. Radiant skin that begged to be touched or kissed. . . slender limbs sapped of any strength to fight against my fate.

The surgeons softened my face with wide eyes and pillow-like lips.  My gold tresses were as artificial as the rest of my body, all designed to reflect his money and success.  Most of all, it was conceived to remind me of my status. I was to be eye candy for him both in the bedroom and on his arm in public - his surgically enhanced fuck-trophy.  

While the physical changes were hard, it was the mental compulsions that truly made me his complete toy.  I would look in the mirror and stick my chest out; feminine pride asserting itself within my psyche. The compulsion to dress myself in the most provocative way possible was a constant need.  Low-cut, tops, short skirts and form-fitting dresses clung to my curves each day. I could go no more than half an hour without checking my appearance, always ready to repair even the slightest imperfection.  Skills and thoughts that once came easy to me were locked away by some unseen power, a shroud over my mind. The only things that drove me was a narcissistic vanity to look my best and a need to please him.

He had collared me without using a leash or a whip.  My focus was on his needs, his desires. He was master and I his pet.  God help me I only craved his dominion over me. Every feminine action I took was an acknowledgement of my surrender to him, a signal of my submissive nature.  I wanted to hate him for all that he did to me but I only felt lust and adoration. I was the wife he always wanted - and I loved it.

As I said; it was hard waking up like this each day. . . but it was easier.  That both scared and thrilled me.