Atta Girl


If you love the idea of a difficult wife coming around to her husband’s way of thinking, this story might be for you.

“What was I doing, again?”

I’d just come out of our home office. I’d gone in there to do . . . something? But what?

Mike, my husband, was on our couch, reading. “Huh?”

“Why did I go into our office? I can’t remember.”

He sat up. “Oh. Right. Yeah, to tell me whether the program on my laptop was done installing.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I went back into our office. I was irked. Today was supposed to be about us. We’d been fighting so much lately. Lori, he would say. You’re spending too much time working at the Crisis Center, and in the community gardens, and with your friend Janice. Ignoring me while you’re trying to fix the world.

Well, buster, this is supposed to be our time to connect. Instead you have me checking your laptop. Bad start.

The laptop was open. Plugged-in headphones lay on the desk at the side. The screen displayed one message: Installation Complete. Okay, then.

I turned to leave, but realized that the office was really musty. And humid, as if someone had been in there a long time. I opened a window and left.

“Installed,” I said, settling onto the couch next to him. “What was it?”

“New operating system. What’d I hear in there?”

“Opening a window. Air was kind of stale in there.”

“Heh. Yeah, I guess it would be.”


“Never mind. Thank you for doing that. Atta girl.”

Atta girl? That was a weird thing to say. All I did was check the laptop and open the window.

But I guess it was nice of him to say it. It was nice to be thanked. And praised. I nestled closer to him.

“Hey—so, Lori, how do you feel?”

“I feel great,” I said. It was true. I felt really good. Definitely no longer irked. Although for some reason my lower back was a little stiff and my throat was dry. But why bother telling him that? “I’m happy we’re spending time together.”

“Me too, babe.” And he began kissing my neck.

I don’t like having my neck kissed. I don’t like it when he makes a move on me without talking about it first. That’s one of the things we fight about: he says I’m not spontaneous. That I make him ask too much.

But this time I didn’t care. It felt great. Better than great. I caressed his head with my hands.

He brought his lips to my ear. “You like?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“Atta girl,” he said.

Those words again. Atta girl. Somehow those words made me feel even better. Like, fantastic better. I didn’t get it. He knows I hate those words. They’re condescending, what you’d say to a dog. But for whatever reason, those words were okay tonight. No, they were great tonight. Atta girl, I said to myself.

He moved his hand between my legs and began massaging my mound through my jeans. Again, I’d normally hate that he was moving so fast. I should have been angry. Instead, I bit my lower lip, groaned, spread my legs, and pushed up into his hand.

“Good?” he asked. I sighed happily, nodding. “Atta girl,” he said.

Wow, did I feel even better. Like, so much better. I wanted more. Give me more. I shucked off my jeans and panties. I was in down to my shirt and my glasses and my wedding ring. I was cold. I had almost no body fat, thanks to the near-vegan diet I’d adopted about a year ago, so I was always cold. It’s why I didn’t like to be naked, even under blankets. But right now I didn’t care. I was so horny that I could’ve been buck naked in a snow bank.

I spread my legs and moved to remove my glasses, but Mike stopped me. “Leave ’em on. I like the contrast.” He dipped a finger along and then into my crevice. “Whoa,” he said. “Someone’s ready.”

I shuddered and gave him an enormous smile. I felt wonderful. Open. Happy. And very, very lewd. I pulled his head toward mine. As we kissed, he trailed a lovely but firm finger along and up my slit. “Fuck,” I gasped.

“You want to fuck?” he said. I nodded, biting my lower lip.

“Atta girl,” he said. Oh, happiness. Pulses of happiness. Praise me. Fuck me. Months of resentment and hurt feelings melted away. I tore off my shirt—naked now but glasses and ring. Mike pulled off his shirt. Too slow. I tussled off his jeans and yanked at his underwear. Out popped his cock.

Oh. Wow. His cock. So wonderful. Tall, and thick, and veiny, with a purple head. And that scent, the meaty, clingy, slippery scent, and the soft, big, luscious balls full of my reward for a job well done—


“Uh?” I couldn’t look away from his cock.

“Babe? Look at me. My face. Up here.”

Reluctantly, I met his eyes. He must have liked what he was seeing because he was smiling. “You all right?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. I sounded dopey. A million miles away to myself.

“Atta girl,” he said. “And you look great. Like, really great.” A decision flickered through his eyes. “Can I take a picture?”

Normally I’d’ve freaked. No pics, ever. I’m not pornography; I’m not a thing; I’m a woman, and I’m your wife. That would have killed the evening and the whole rest of the week. But tonight, all I felt was a thrill of pride.

I shrugged and said, “Sure.” And then—why not?—I lurched forward and planted a fat tongue against his shaft. If I’m porn, I might as well be all-in. “’ike ’is?”

I’d never seen his eyes so wide. “Yeah babe,” he breathed. “Just like that.” Up came the phone. One digital click and hey-presto: I’m porn.

I held the base of his cock, feeling his pulse in my hand. With my tongue I pleasured him. Up the shaft; swirl around the head; flick at his hole; smoosh the head against my nose and breathe in deeply (oh so good that scent take that scent deep inside me my lungs); and make the head disappear in my mouth. All the while staring at him. I know he liked it when I stared at him while I blew him. Normally I didn’t like it. I usually felt embarrassed and powerless. Now all I wanted was for him to look at me and be happy with me.

“Babe,” he said. “Where’s your other hand?”

I smiled around his cock. “At ’y ’unt.”

“At your cunt?” he said, astonished. “Seriously?”

I nodded. He was astonished because I hate the word “cunt.” Such a thudding, sick, hateful word. But he liked the word. He wanted to talk dirty with it. Tonight was a night to talk dirty. I felt proud I’d used the word. I was so happy I’d surprised him. “’y ’unt,” I said around a mouthful of meat. “’unt, ’unt, ’unt, ’unt, ’unt.”

He smirked. “So, what’s your hand doing at your cunt?”

“’aying wif ’y ’elf.”

He laughed. “It sounded like you said ’elf.’ Does it feel good?”

I nodded, groaned. Of course it felt good. I felt fantastic. I opened up my throat to take in as much cock as I could.

“Atta girl. Hey, I’m going to take more pics.” Please, yes. Please. Click, click, click. He showed me the screen. “What do you think?”

I saw a dazed-looking woman in artsy glasses, the lower half of her face wrapped around a cock. It looked more like a dog’s snout than a woman’s face. Practically deformed. But she looked happy. I looked happy. I was happy.

My husband stroked and petted my head like I was an animal. Which I guess I was right now—all biology and need. He leaned back into the couch. “Keep it up,” he said.

After a while I stopped looking at him, just enjoying the sensations; cock in my head and down my throat, hand at my cunt. I blew him for I don’t know how long, kneeling before him, frigging myself with my free hand. Best date ever. So wonderful. We’d never fight again. Ever.

Then his palm pressed against my forehead. With a shluup he pushed me off his cock. I whimpered a little. I wanted his dong—I giggled, dong, so goofy, I hadn’t called it that in years—back inside my head. His dong. Making me dingy. Ding—dong, ding-dong.

I felt stoned. For a moment I wondered: What is happening to me? But it wasn’t a thought I could hold on to.

“Babe,” he said. “You up for something different?”

I must’ve nodded, because he said, “Great. Turn around. On all fours. Yeah, like that. Okay. Turn your head, look at me—yeah, big smile, just like that . . . and, there. Atta girl.”

More digital camera sounds. Great. Now I was sleazy 70s porn. Who cared. I felt fantastic. He was happy, so I was happy.

I brought my head to the floor, resting on my cheek so I could still look back at my beloved husband, and fingered my clit. I giggled. “Am I glossy?” I asked. “All those girls look glossy when they do this. Their slits all shiny.”

He smiled. “Wet as a river.” I grinned and kept playing with myself.

After a bit my breathing grew ragged. I was getting close.

He tapped his smart phone and read something.

“What’s that?” I said. I didn’t want him to take his eyes off me. I wanted him to see me cum.

“Just some notes. Ideas I’ve been wanting to try out. Don’t worry, baby. It’s all about you.”

I closed my eyes and smiled. All about me. Tonight was going great. I kept working on myself. I was so close.

“Babe,” he said. “I need you to stop.”

I moaned my disappointment. So close. But I stopped.

“Atta girl,” he said. Okay, the praise, that was worth stopping for. I felt great again. I loved being praised. It was all I needed.

He went on. “I need you to do some things for me. Sit up. No, on your ass. Right, Indian-style. Okay, now, I want you to suck on your own big toe. Yeah. Right, exactly. Good girl. Pretend it’s a cock. Blow your own big toe. Look at me. Right. Wow.”

I’d taken my foot in two hands and brought it to my face and popped my big toe in my mouth. The pose exposed my pussy to the air, and I felt a cool, lovely tickle there.

I stared at Mike while sucking on my big toe. The outside of it was heavily calloused—too much working barefoot in the community gardens, I guessed. But now my toe was a cock, and I needed to blow it, and cocks need more than just simple sucking to feel good. So I pulled it out of my mouth and flicked a pointy tongue at the head of it, then lathered it fatly up and down and all around. Looking at my lovely husband all the while.

He took another picture. He was smiling. I was so happy. We weren’t fighting. Maybe we’d never fight again, if I could just keep doing this.

“Baby, keep doing that. I’m going to go upstairs for a minute. Be right back.”

I fellated my toe while listening to the noises upstairs. I wanted him back with me so badly, but I stayed planted and did what I was told. Make him proud. Atta girl.

Our fights. They were nothing, now. A week ago he’d been screaming at me, throwing shit, punching holes in our bedroom door. He’d called me a do-gooding cunt and nearly belted me and then stormed out. And I swore we were done. Eight years on, and my husband had changed. He’d become selfish and violent and crude, the kind of man I counseled women about at the Crisis Center, the kind of man that women needed to fear and escape. And I swore I’d never take him back.

But he came back. Contrite, humble. Wanting to work it out. Warily, pityingly, I took him back in. And now I was so, so, so glad that I did. Our marriage. Our marriage was saved. With a thumb I fiddled with my wedding ring. I’d get to keep it on. And I’d get to keep him. I was so grateful he’d agreed to come back to me.

My heart leapt—and I’ll confess, my pussy plumped a little—as Mike came back downstairs. In one hand he held a big bowl; in the other, a plastic grocery bag with a few heavy objects. He put the bowl in front of me. It was nearly full with something white, thick, and creamy.

“That’s about four cups of honey, that weird organic shit you like. You like it, right? Like, love the stuff?”

I nodded. I was so horny. It was hard listening to him while trying to get him to fuck me by fellating my own toe.

“Okay, you can stop doing that. No, don’t pout. Just get on all fours. Right, like a dog. Let’s pretend you’re a dog now, okay? And that’s your food bowl. And you’re starving. Absolutely famished. Uh-huh, that’s right. Get that face in there and gobble it all up, just as fast as you can. That’s my good girl.”

Mike petted my head as I wolfed down the honey. It was slow going. My organic honey was so much thicker and chewier than the stuff most people eat. A few times I choked and had to raise my head and burp and gulp so I didn’t throw up. But I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. I was a hungry, famished doggie. This was the only food I had, so I had to finish the whole bowl.

Mike reached under me and fondled one of my tits. Then fondled the other one. And then he pinched one of them, hard. I hollered into my bowl.

“Hurts?” he asked.

I bit my lip and nodded and made a strangled sound like “yynnnnggghhhhh.”

“Good thing you like it, then. All this stuff you’re doing, you really enjoy it. You’re having a great time.”

Well, of course I was having a great time. We were spending time together. We weren’t fighting. He was paying all of this attention to me. And I was getting everything I ever wanted. Silly man. Silly, thoughtful, wonderful man.

Mike pinched my nipples some more. “Tell me what these are. These things I’m playing with.”

“My breasts.”

“No,” he said. “They’re not. Think about what you’re doing. You’re naked. You’re on all fours. You’re eating like a dog. That makes you an animal. Animals don’t have breasts, do they?”

I shook my head, no. No, of course animals don’t have breasts. He was so smart.

“What do animals have?”

Through a mouthful of honey I said, “Teatsh. Anmuls haff teatsh.”

“That’s right, baby. Animals have teats, and you’re an animal, so that’s what these are. These are your teats. Right? Right. Get back to eating that honey, doggie.”

I returned to eating. He took my teats in his hands—a little awkwardly, it’s difficult from one side, I think—and pretended to milk me for a while. It seemed a little weird for him to be milking a dog, so I brought up my head and swallowed and said, “Can we pretend I’m a cow instead?”

“A cow? How come you want to be a cow, baby?”

“Because you’re milking me. You’re milking my teats, but nobody milks a dog’s teats. It makes more sense that I’m a cow and you’re milking my cow teats. Also, cow teats are huge, and I like the idea of having huge cow teats for you to milk.”

“Hunh. Cow teats. You’re kind of scrawny to be a cow. Good thing we’re fattening you up with the honey. Can you moo for me?”

I let out a long, proud, and throaty moo. He rewarded me with a succession of horribly painful pulls on my big cow teats. Wanting more of that, I mooed again, my voice cracking in pain as he praised me further with pulling and pinching milking strokes.

“Best cow ever,” he said, and I beamed. “Finish that bowl.”

I planted my face and kept choking down the honey. My gut hurt, I was so full. Like a rock in my stomach. I kept eating, trying not to slow down.

He reached over into the bag and removed a couple of objects. I heard the top of a plastic bottle flick open. Other noises. Then his fingers came to my slit and pushed into my vagina. I moaned and pressed back into him. I didn’t care how much my gut hurt; I felt great. His fingers were super-slippery. He was adding lube—lots of lube—to my cunt. Why did my cunt need lube? I was in monsoon season down there.

Then I felt something very large and very cold press up against the entrance to my cunt. No, not cold—freezing. Glacial, and enormous. I squealed and cried out. The bowl was almost empty. I heard him say, “Here goes,” and then I felt an iceberg start sliding up into my cunt.

I screamed. My lower back cramped. From behind me I heard his shushing noises. “Just take it in, baby. Take it all in. That’s a good girl, right—do that.”

I had spread my legs and arched my back and pushed out my ass to take it all in. I gasped, “What is that?”

“Ice dildo,” he said. “I filled a condom full of water and froze it. It’s really, really fat, too. How does it feel?”

“’ucking ’orrible,” I said through gritted teeth. It was true. Icy, Antarctic agony. Didn’t the Nazis do this? The cramps got worse. I couldn’t stop making pain noises. He pushed it all the way in. I felt my pussy lips close up behind it, trapping it in. It was the biggest thing I’d ever had inside of me, easily, and it was killing me. Horrible.

“Atta girl,” he said to me. Pride burned inside of me. I could take this. I could take anything. I loved him.

He petted me, running his fingers down the nape of my neck, my spine, back up again. The honey was finished; my gut hung bloated and heavy; remnants of it tickled my forehead, eyebrows, nose. I licked as much of my face as my tongue could reach.

We stayed there a while. My pelvis cramped and my bones went cold, then white hot, and then completely numb. This was horrible, the worst thing I’d ever felt. I was in hell.

He massaged my ass. “Wow. Your butt’s cold.”

“Blood rushing to my cunt,” I said. “Trying to keep me warm. Feel my feet and hands. Those are freezing, too.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad I married such a smart woman. Well, I guess I’m married to a smart cow, now. Right? Are you a cow?”

I mooed, as much as a shivering cow in agony could moo. And then I mooed some more.

“Do you think this will hurt you? Long term? Frostbite, maybe?” I nodded vigorously. “And would that be okay with you? Some frostbite in your cunt if I wanted it?” I nodded again just as vigorously. If he wanted it, then a frostbitten twat was no problem with me.

He shifted down to my cunt. I felt a tugging, a pulling, a stretching. He’d snagged the tied-up end of the condom and was slowly pulling the ice dildo out of me. I could barely feel it moving, I’d gone so numb. But it was pulling, and I was stretching, and it was opening me up again on the way out, and then it slipped out entirely, and in place of icy agony I felt an achy emptiness. My cunt was empty, now. Empty and frozen.

My shaking arms buckled and I banged my head against the bowl. I was trembling so badly I felt like I was a shade away from hypothermia. Not possible, of course—an ice dildo up a cunt couldn’t do that. Right? But I felt awful, anyway. Gapingly empty ice-twat, rock of bee goop in my gut.

I giggled.

“What’s so funny?” asked Mike.

“You. Me. This. It’s so much fun.” I considered. “I blew my own toe. You took pictures. I’m porn. And now I’m a cow with aching teats and a fat gut and a frozen twat. We haven’t had fun like this in ages.”

“We’ve never had fun like this, babe. This is an all-new you, don’t you think? All new us?”

I nodded. It was true. We’d never done anything remotely like this before. So I guess I was an all-new me. I mean, I was still me. I still felt like me. This was me, right? And he was my husband. So, it wasn’t all new, but it did feel new. How could it be both the same and totally new? It confused me.

Then I realized that cows didn’t need to think that hard. “Mooooo,” I said.

“That’s such a great sound on you, babe. My proud cow.”

I grinned, then mooed, and mooed some more. I was a proud cow. His proud cow. I thought about what I’d say at the Crisis Center. Maybe if more women did this, the bad things wouldn’t keep happening to them. Maybe if more women made their men happy like this, their men wouldn’t keep having to hurt them. I’d tell them that. I’d let them know. They could all be cows, and they’d all be as happy as me.

“All right,” he said. “One last test. You’ve passed all my tests so far. There’s just one more. You ready? Here. You pass this last test, you get a reward.”

He reached into the plastic grocery bag and pulled something out. A collar. A neon pink nylon dog collar, clearly large enough for me.

“I hate pink,” I said. “You know I hate pink.”

“Yeah, but cows love pink. Right? What are you?”

“Well . . . I’m a cow . . . .”

“Right. And, cows like pink. So, what do you think of the collar?”

Suddenly I felt bubbly. Joyful. Grateful. “I love it.” I meant it.

“Atta girl. So, now, if you pass this last test, you get to wear the collar. Okay. Close your eyes. Sit up. On your knees, like that. Good. Hold out your hand—no, your other hand. Keep your eyes closed.”

He took my left hand. Carefully, gently, he worked my wedding ring off my finger. I heard him pull a couple more objects from the bag and set them on the floor in front of me. Then I heard him fiddling with his own fingers.

“Okay,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

He had placed our wedding rings on a panel of oak. Next to them was a hammer. All of this, right in front of me.

He must have seen something on my face, but I don’t know what it was. “Babe,” he said quickly. “Look at me. Atta girl. Look at his collar. Look how pretty it is. So pink. You want this more than anything else in the world. You want to be my cow, right? Atta girl. Nothing will make you happier than being my cow, right? Atta girl.”

Cow, yes. Make me your cow. Put that collar on my neck. Moo.

“But you can’t be my cow if you’re married. Cows don’t get married. Cows are animals, cows are owned. If you want to be my cow, you can’t be married, any more. You have to smash the rings.”

I stared at the rings, the hammer. I’d stopped shivering. The ache in my gut felt like it belonged to someone else.

“Be a good cow. Smash those rings.”

I seized the hammer and raised it up and brought it down as hard as I could onto the rings. Our rings were white gold, so they were soft and easily smashable. My engagement ring had a diamond on it. The diamond flew off under the couch somewhere. I wondered if we’d ever see it again. I struck again. Then again, and again. The rings bent, flattened as they drove into the oak panel. I hammered and hammered and hammered. Good cow.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said. “Christ, stop it. So fucking loud. I believe you. You did it.”

I was crying. Why was I crying? I shouldn’t be crying. I’d passed the test. I was so happy, so fucking happy.

He came up beside me. He put the collar on me. He sat on the couch and brought up his smart phone. “Smile, baby. It’s your owning day. Show off your collar.”

I flashed a huge grin, tears drying on my face. I turned my head to the side, stretched my neck a little to show off my brand-new collar. Happy cow.

“All right, I’m totally convinced. Everything we ever do from here on out is totally great with you, right? Everything you hear, everything we do, everything that happens with you and me, it’s all good. Everything we do makes you happy, right? Like a cow.”

I nodded. Everything we did made me happy. Moo.

“All right. Sit down. Spread your legs, wide. Right. Play with yourself some. Try to get a little feeling back.”

My labia lips were as cold and unfeeling as chewed gum. I kneaded myself, trying to warm them up.

Mike made a call. “Hey, man. Yeah—yeah, mine’s done. I finished the install about an hour ago, just been testing the trigger. I’m convinced. I mean, she could have play acted some things, but there’s no way she’s faking it. Yeah. No. I made her smash our wedding rings. With a hammer. Yeah. Yeah. No way she’d do it if she were faking. But things are different now.” He looked at me. “Ain’t that right, honey?”

I nodded and smiled. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I was sure it was great.

“Hey, baby,” said Mike. “Here. Smile for Tyrone.”

Tyrone? Janine’s husband? Mike was talking to Janine’s husband?

Mike held out the camera. “C’mon, spread ’em, and big smile. Yeah, that’s it. And . . . there.” I heard the whoosh of my photo flying off to Tyrone. I definitely was porn, now. I really hoped Tyrone would approve. I wondered whether he’d pass on the picture to anyone else.

Mike kept talking. “I like the glasses. For contrast, right? You think she’s stuck-up and frigid, but actually . . . No, a cow. I tried the dog thing, but she came up with the cow thing herself, and I liked it a lot better. She’s really scrawny for a cow, but she moos really pretty. I need to fatten her up. Get her off that vegan shit. Of course, I bought all this dog food in preparation for her being a dog . . . . I guess maybe a cow can eat dog food. Right, baby?”

You bet, baby. This cow will do anything you want. It’s all a great idea.

Mike asked, “So what’d you make Janine do? You know, to test?” A pause, and then: “What? Seriously? Send a pic.”

Waiting for the photo, Mike smiled at me. Blew me a kiss. I shivered, not from cold but from gratitude. I kept kneading myself. So happy. Some feeling was coming back to my cunt.

Mike looked at his phone, then laughed. “Holy shit, dude. That’s just wrong. Hey, Lori, check this out.”

Mike’s phone showed a fat white woman on all fours, heart-shaped rear up to the camera. Janine. Her ass had been raucously beaten—I could see several angry red handprints and welts from a belt—but what really shocked me was the thick bundle of blonde dreadlocks bound up with rubber bands and hanging out of her asshole. Janine’s dreadlocks, more than three feet long. She’d been so proud of them. And her husband had cut them off and stuffed them up her ass to give her a tail.

I was so jealous. I was a cow. Cows had tails. I wanted a tail, too. Maybe Mike would cut off my hair and do that to me. Or maybe I could get them to stuff Janine’s dreads up my ass. I was a clever cow, I could make it happen. We’d figure it out.

Mike talked to Tyrone. “She’s a big girl, Ty. Anyway, can you have her keep them in until we get there? Uh-huh. Yeah, I mean, about 10 minutes. Unless—you know, I could put mine in the trunk for the trip. Then she doesn’t have to get dressed, and we can get there in five.” He looked at me and laughed. “Trust me, she’ll think it’s a great idea.”

Without being told, and just for the fuck of it, I grabbed my foot and started fellating my big toe again. “’ake a ’icture,” I said. “’ohw ’yrone.”

“Fuck, you’re the best, baby.” He took the shot and sent it to Tyrone. I beamed around a mouthful of big toe. This was a great idea. From here on out, everything would be a really great idea.