The Fifth Wife – Don’t Do That Silly! – Quality Erotic and sex stories

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“How long has Peter Monroe kept you as his personal slave?” A stern,
meticulously neat, frigid, frightfully thin woman looked at me over
horn-rimmed glasses.

“Sexual slave?????”, stifled giggle. Can’t help that—-always giggle when
I’m nervous. My lawyer, Uncle Bill, says I need to look mature, calm, in
control—convince the court that I’m mature enough to make my own
decisions. But I’m uncomfortable, smothering under heavy make-up, hot with
support pantyhose, too big that lie wrinkled at my ankles, large padded bra,
constantly ridding up reminding me of it’s presence, my feet sliding back
and forth in my Mom’s high-heeled pumps, and I constantly purse my lips,
they feel so greasy and unaccustomed to lipstick. I look ridiculous! Six
months ago when the judge gave us our marriage license, there was no
problem. My parents signed the consent, I was 15. Now how could things
change so dramatically? Here he is, same judge, livid, and the rest of the
jury, dark angry, and very intent. Nothing I could say would appease them
now. Don’t know what’s wrong.

If what we did was so objectionable—–why didn’t they stop us six months
ago before our marriage was consummated? Or even better with my mothers’
marriage—-she was one of six wives.

I was so uncomfortable there, sweating under constant fire—-every
thoughtless word I uttered transformed into the headlines of local news, or
broadcasted across national CBS—-fueling riots of indignant feminist, and
finally when our own Mormon Church excommunicated us, well I knew I had to
get outside help. I needed to talk confidentially, and oddly the last people
I could trust were psychologist, councilors, and members of the Mormon
Church. So I went to the internet——not knowing where to start—–that
awful woman’s words still rung in my brain, “sexual slave”. So I punched it
under ‘search’ and now I’m here, and I have an audience. All I ask is that
you ignore the tabloids, and everything else that has hit the evening news
for the past few months, and hear my story out.

MY STORY by Marci Monroe

I think I had a very happy, normal childhood. Always had family around me.
Everywhere I went, movies, shopping, even to wash the car—–Mom would say,
take your half-sisters with you. There were so many of us (Dad had six
wives) plentitudes of children, we could make up a small town. When we went
to a church social, half the kids were my brothers and sisters. My mother
would clip human-interest stories out of the paper to drive home a point,
look at that woman, all alone, found murdered in her apartment, that could
never happen to us. You have too much family that needs to know your
where-abouts. You’ll never be out all alone—–in a city—-frightening
freedom—–no one knowing where you are—–caring what you do. There are
too many of us.

When my sister Terri eloped out of high school, she married a sailor, lazy,
drunk between ships, notorious philanderer. My oldest brother, John went
over and got her, had the marriage annulled. And that was it, she never left
home again! So we were a close-knit family, fun-loving, plenty of kids to
play with, and everything was just perfect. The Dad came over for my 15th
birthday (He always came to our house on Wednesdays) and said it was time
for me to get married!!!

I thought it was a joke, started giggling, and Mom told me to hush. Peter
Monroe was 45, he had four other wives, and children who were in my class!
Everything moved so fast, I barely remember….wedding…… reception. I
had to skip school. Peter seemed kind and gentle. Everyone kept telling me,
how lucky I was to have him. Peter’s four other wives kissed my graciously,
and said they always wanted me as their sister.

I was plenty scared. Mom helped me pack my trousseau for the honeymoon,
telling me over and over again, how she was married to Dad at age 15. But
she was sympathetic, her eyes were glassy, I saw tears at the corners. I was
angry, ready to have an out and out fight, but the only argument we had was
when I insisted on packing my Barbie dolls. I won. I wasn’t quite ready to
grow up—-and there were some things that I just couldn’t give up.

I lived with Jessica, Peter’s second wife. She thought I was as cute as a
button. Had two sons, Mike and Alan, age 19 and 17—-so she always wanted
to have a daughter. Actually what she really wanted was help with the
laundry, piles of dirty jeans, dishes, bedding, etc. Don’t know if there was
anything in that house, I didn’t wash at least twice a day. My whole life
changed—no longer went to school social events, movies, I labored in that
house, everyday after school…At 10 pm, when I put away the last dish…my
two stepsons(?) Alan and Mike helped me with my homework. The only social
activity we had time for was church, and we attended everything! Peter was
one of the elders, and would frequently lead prayers. He was so
authoritative, people would come to our house for advise, and ask him to
settle disputes.

There were so many rules—-and I thought that marriage meant freedom and
independence! First of all I wasn’t allowed to drive. And one day, when I
got a job and was making good money, Peter would allow me to buy a house.
Until then I was to live with, and listen to Jessica, who was now my foster
mother. Rather than a newly wed, I felt like I had just been adopted into
another family, and exchanged sisters who helped with the chores, for
brothers who made messes—then stood around to watch me clean up.

I wanted to shout at everybody, if you want to get indignant about female
slavery, print pictures of all the dishes I washed—floors I scrubbed. My
knuckles rubbed raw to the bone. Mountains of endless laundry, stacked so
high, when I sorted out clothes—I couldn’t even be seen.

No, the papers called me a ‘sexual slave’ indentured at early puberty. I was
Peter’s favorite. He virtually ignored all his other wives—–and spent
most of his time with me. So when the press referred to me as a ‘sexual
slave’ I felt that they were attacking the only part of the relationship
that I enjoyed. Truly after all the mountains of house work and school work
were completed, I had to admit the best part of married life was “sleeping
with the boss”.

Peter loved my body. Funny, I never thought of myself as beautiful before.
Boyishly thin, still waiting to blossom, translucent clear white skin,
pulled tightly over a delicate frame. My only claim to beauty; thick blond
hair to my waist, always pulled back in a ponytail, and clear grey eyes. I
could pass for twelve! How could anyone want to marry me! However, Peter
told me I was beautiful. Was watching me for a long time, since I was five.
Waiting for me to blossom out and reach marriageable age.

I was one of those brides, you hear about, who enter their marriage beds
—— totally ignorant. You would think with my mother, all five of my step
mothers, and Peter’s four maternal older wives——-someone would have
instructed me! But all I had was the bare minimum. General
directions—–this thing of a-ma-doodle……. goes into that thing of
a-ma-doodle. I was scared to death of Peter, his hands so large and
calloused. His body hairy…..so unlike the other adolescent boys in my
class. He was fully matured, and I trembled so the bed shook.

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