Posted with permission.  All rights reserved by Leilani.


THE FIFTH WIFE - Part I
By Leilani


"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.




THE FIFTH WIFE - Part II    
by Leilani


Then Peter began to tease me, played a game with me every night. He told me
I had been a naughty girl, and he was going to have to spank my bare bottom.
He sat on  the side of the bed, pulled me over his lap, and lifted up my
nightgown. Running a calloused thumb under the elastic of my panties----he
pulled them down----the cold air suddenly chilling my exposed buttocks. Then
he informed me I was getting 10 spanks for every question I missed on my
algebra exam---5 mistakes totaling for 50 spanks! I shivered!

The first ten weren't too bad, he's teasing me I thought, but still remained
a little uncertain. Too scared, too close to that really hard spanking he
had just given me just the other night for burning our dinner, I was afraid
to move. I've never considered myself on equal grounds with Peter, deacon of
our church, established prominent business man in our community, all his
wives deferring all major decisions to his greater judgment, even his two
teenage sons stood in awe of their father. So I figured if he wanted to
spank me, I was just going to have to accept it, took a deep breathe, and
tried to resign myself to lie submissively across his knee. Then he massaged
my bottom, rubbing away any soreness and tenderness---before starting again.
His voice was lite and gay, his eyes were dancing, still I was a little
afraid of him.

Then something happened! Not sure exactly what. But he hit me just right
---across the fattest part of my buttocks, no pain......and a shiver went
down my spine. I don't think he was smacking me hard, or maybe at that point
I couldn't tell, but the jingling motion was causing electric currents to
run down my thighs....I moaned....lifted up my bottom to steer the blows to
my most sensitive spots above the thigh-line and inner crease. I found his
left hand in my mouth, sucked on his fingers, and gently chewed on his
thumb.

The blows were now deep---he used just the fleshly part of his palm, falling
rhythmically like the motion of sex.....perfect metronome.... and never
tiring. The burning pain went deep into my muscles, feeling sooooo good. I
felt ripe......my juices overflowing!!! It was a new feeling! How can I
describe it? I ached to have Peter within me. I was in a different
head-space now, my soul soaring miles above my effete adolescent body. That
night I became Peter's love slave----and he could do what he wished with my
body. Every touch sending waves of passion through me.

My relationship changed with Peter that night. It was an addictive high I
had experienced, and now I couldn't look at him without wanting to melt into
those strong arms. Something between us had clicked, unlike a school crush
when I wanted to smother a boy with maternal feelings. This was sooo
different! Can't really say he was a father figure, never made love to my
father.

Peter was very controlling. Made sure I came home straight from school---no
dilly dallying with friends. I wasn't allowed to attend school social
functions, movies, no talking on the phone with girlfriends. I had no
friends! Once I was 20 minutes late coming home, he cornered me as I entered
the doorway. "Where have you been? Jessica and the boys have been worried
sick over you?" Then he had me grab my ankles while he laid 50 swats with
the razor strap across my bare hiney---while Jessica and the boys looked on.
I was afraid of Peter, but I never thought of him as cruel. He was always
firm, but fair. If I didn't drop my pants immediately and jump into position
as he commanded-----he took it as an act of defiance, and had Alan fetch the
wooden paddle. When Peter spanks, he means business.

I was never defiant. All these sessions, the nightly hand spankings ended up
in tears. Tears and screams never deterred Peter, he loved to watch me
squirm! Frequently had Mike count the strokes, as my voice became incoherent
and hoarse with crying. I would have been more stubborn and defiant if he
were angry. His deliberate calmness unnerved me, his patient lecturing made
me feel as if I were in the wrong. It's hard to fight someone that you love,
the guilt is over-whelming. So I became resigned, just to submit and get
everything over with.

CRACK!!!!!A searing pain focused all my attention with a jolt!! Unaware of
an audience, immune now to humiliation and embarrassment. A hot burning
feeling tingled across both cheeks, and my face felt hot. "I'm sorry. I
won't let it happen again." Instinctively I knew I was going to have to
appease Peter, and not expect any help from Mike and Alan who were now
grinning ear to ear.

Then the pain builds up, blotting out all other senses. The boys get
excited, wanting to see how much I can take, and fear sends me over the
edge. Then I feel trapped and truly at their mercy. I can now feel tears
running down my cheeks. Peter seems to instinctively know just when I can't
take another stroke, then he slows down, sometimes rubs-----and then slowly
builds back up again. Leaving my head in a perpetual endorphin high. He took
me a little further and further each time. I was truly his puppet.

At the end I am always crying, and hyperventilating, too hysterical to talk.
Peter holds me until I stop. And that's what life was like in Peter's house,
laughing all of your laughter, and crying all of our tears. My body felt
refreshed to have spent all of its emotions. To leave Peter's house, and
enter the real world, we entered a temperate air-conditioned zone where
emotions are rigidly put on hold. Where you may laugh politely, but not bust
a gut with all lifes merrity; and you may shed a tear, but not open up your
heart and drown your tears into an endless abysmal lake of sorrow. I don't
know why that is----but how foolish I was in the past to deprive myself of
the exhilaration of experiencing life to the fullest.

Jessica would rub some night cream into my burning buttocks. "When I first
got married", she began dreamily, "Peter would sometimes spank me with the
hairbrush for discipline. I hated that. But later, I grew to enjoy it-----we
always had wonderful sex afterwards." I didn't understand what she was
saying at first, but the rubbing felt good.

I know what you are thinking. This isn't right. Why didn't you go to your
parents, school councilors, minister of your church? Peter was well-known, a
powerful member of the church. Always leading teenage boy activities,
because of his sons. Other parents came to him for advice. Mike and Alan
were model teenagers.

There was more to it than that. Peter loved me. He was a perfectionist, with
definite ideas on how his family was to be run, and no room for compromise.
And he spent an inordinate amount of time and energy molding me into his
perfect wife. Sometimes after a terriblly painful spanking---he would lick
the burning away with his tongue. He always held me until I stopped crying.
And like Jessica said---we had wonderful sex afterwards. So Marci Monroe as
an individual ceased to exist, and my personality melted like everyone else
in the family to conform under the iron grip of Peter Monroe's will. We as a
family would have followed him to the depths of hell. And what did that
social worker refer to our loyalty as: "sexual slavery". No, it was more
than that. It would have taken more than an Emancipation Proclamation to
free us from the invisible emotional chains Peter clamped to our souls.

Then something happened to my body. I'm not sure if it was just a hormonal
change of growing up. But I began to long for Peter, the nights he spent
with his other wives, wanting his body lying next to mine, so I could feel
his warmth. When he was with me, I wanted to please him so badly I ached. If
he had told me to put my hand in the fire, I wouldn't hesitate. Somehow,
putting up with his impossible demands, and bearing the unbearable pain he
inflicted on me became a means of testing my love. When Peter snapped the
dreaded razor strap across his palm, "Now, who needs a spanking?" It was if
he was asking, who loved him the most! And I could go on longer, and take
more-----than any of his other wives!! My endurance of these public
whippings became legendary among his children who always watched, and for me
were a mark of my fidelity and total devotion.

So when they asked me in court, "How long has Peter Monroe kept you as his
'sexual slave'?" I wanted to answer. "I'm not sure. Six months.......but it
feels like eternity.......and I wish it would go on forever!!!" I belong to
Peter completely. I'm his property with four other wives. By myself, Marci,
I'm nothing. Look at me!!....Skinny,.... 15 year old, freckles, no boobs,
knock-kneed, C in algebra......But when I'm part of Peter's family.....I'm
Marci Monroe.....Do you know what it feels like to have people worship your
body? Peter loves the control he has over me! He knows he can transform me,
a fifteen year old knock-kneed adolescent into a hot sensual being with his
touch. Yes, he spanks me daily. And the mere flick of his lash, will send my
body gyrating, and I will lie belly down on the floor steaming with passion
and grovel.......and all four of his wives will cum in their panties
watching us. I love it!!!!

I don't have any explanation for it. But there are some things in life, like
crying, hiccuping, laughing, that can't be explained-----you just have to
experience them. And the only form of communication is between people who
can say, "Ohhhh, you've experienced it too!!"....and an understanding is
passed. And though I'm only 15, and the court feels I'm too young to
understand all this to make a rational decision, when you use words
like "sexual slave", whom among us in this court, with all your professional
degrees and education, understands the full meaning of those words but me?