Cuckolding story

A Couple Brought Together Act 02

by Amanda

08/07/2016 00:36 in submissive-husband


ACT II: CATALYST

DAY TWO


In the basement under my home, there are two underground rooms; originally wine cellars with concrete floors, brick alcoves and slate shelving for bottles. The atmosphere is dark, dank and ideal for storing wine.

And for storing people.

A year ago, I converted an end of the basement into a pair of adjacent prison cells. They're small with three brick walls. The front is made of vertical steel bars, like the old fashioned Sheriff's cells you see in a cowboy movie.

The only furniture I put in the cell was a thin camping mattress with a horsehair blanket, and a bucket in the corner. I wired an HDTV screen to a side wall and drilled bolts for leather straps into the rear wall.

The five bolts were arranged into the brickwork in a W shape, measured so that a person could have his wrists, ankles and neck spread-eagled against the back wall.

This cell was to be Chris's home.

I fixed the straps specifically so that they fit his 5' 10" frame with his arms outstretched and ankles spread nice and wide. It was his fantasy. But it was a desire of his that I was genuinely happy to cater to. He wanted to be my incarcerated prisoner while, only a few feet above him, his wife was trained to be my slave.

During our negotiations, Chris told me he seriously doubted that he could just obey me from the outset. He would have too much innate male pride, regardless of his deep submissive streak. He first needed to be 'broken', 'forced', 'trained'. He wanted to suffer the futility of being a prisoner in solitary for as long as it took me to break him. Imprisonment would be the catalyst that turned him from a typical guy into a trained submissive.

His fantasy actually suited my plan. I could initially focus on Jane without the distraction of her husband. I wasn't sure how long he'd spend down here. I'd play that by ear. But I was sure it would be many long hours. I'd keep him locked away until he regretted it. Until he begged me.

We locked him up that first night in the leather straps, his body naked and his cock still flapping semi-erect. The taste of his wife's cunt and odour of my feet were still pungent on his lips. He hadn't had an orgasm and he certainly wasn't going to now. I made Jane buckle his neck, wrists and ankles into the straps one-by-one so that his own wife was part of the process of locking him up. Then I told her to give his cock a few gentle parting strokes until pre-cum oozed again from the tip.

"Kiss him goodbye."

She leaned up and pecked her husband on his cheek.

There were two camera lenses and high quality microphones outside the cell. They beamed visual and sound CCTV up to various monitors upstairs. I could check up on him any time I liked. I could rewind and playback any parts I particularly enjoyed.

As an afterthought, I slid the bucket across the concrete to the spot between Chris's legs.

*** *** ***

I woke the next morning with Jane beside me. Sunlight sliced through a gap in the curtains and particles danced in the rays. I turned and looked at her. A yellow shaft lit her sleeping face. The clock said 06:52.

I let rip a loud, morning fart.

Her eyes opened wide and she looked at me. For a moment, her brown eyes looked alarmed, as if she'd forgotten where she was.

"Morning."

"Good morning ... Sir."

We'd agreed she would call me 'Sir'. I don't personally like the epithet Master. It sounds too contrived, whereas Sir is simply polite and deferential.

"Follow me."

I got up and padded to the bathroom. My bedroom suite is large, with a 4-poster bed at one end, a separate sitting area with sofa, armchairs and a wall-mounted TV at the other. The doorways to my en suite bathroom and a walk-in clothes closet are midway along the wall.

Large windows look out over my garden and fields. Erotic oil paintings and charcoal nudes hang on the walls. I collect art with a SM element to it in particular; drawings of scenes with riding crops and face-sitting, bondage and orgies.

The bathroom contains a marble Jacuzzi bath, a walk-in power shower, two basins and a pedestal toilet. The stone tiled floor is warmed by under-floor heating.

I stood naked at the toilet.

"Hold my dick for me while I piss."

Jane blinked, still sleepy, and rubbed her eye. Day Two was sure going to be a different experience compared with her easy opening night.

She has nice fingers. They're elegant and thin and, with carefully manicured nails. Her jewellery reflects their income; a simple gold wedding band and a nice but small engagement solitaire diamond on her left hand. She also wore a pretty aquamarine everyday ring on her right hand.

I have never had any desire to make a woman remove her marital jewellery. To me, there is nothing sexier than a married woman's rings covered in the cum of other men.

I waited until she was pointing my dick between the toilet seat.

"Mmm." I murmured, as my morning flow streamed into the pan. I reached down and pushed the top of her head firmly. She resisted briefly and then gave in. Her face was only inches from my stream. It was a morning brew; dark gold, heady.

"No limits, right?"

That was our deal. The usual rider about 'no kids or animals', but everything else was in bounds. I mean everything.

E. V. E. R. Y. T. H. I. N. G.

Jane had written her list of fetishes split into three groups for me: what she wanted me to do; the ones she was not so keen on but hoped she could learn to accept; and those she really didn't want to happen but recognised the final decision was mine.

Drinking my piss fell in the second category.

She tilted her head and her trusting chocolate eyes looked up at me. A cute 30 yr old woman eyeing a Dom 23 years her senior. At this early stage, all I had to do was strike the right balance between being strict enough, and frightening the shit out of her.

My flow slowly diminished without me forcing her to drink any. She didn't seem in any rush to try.

"You need to go too?"

She bit her lip. "Yes please, Sir."

I gave her no privacy. I'm a great believer that toilet control is an important psychological training tool. It takes an adult right back to childhood. Being watched helps strip away a person's unnecessary dignity.

"Don't touch my personal seat. Ever. Just squat over it."

I watched her spread her feet either side of the pedestal and awkwardly lower her hips as far as she could without her inner thighs making any contact with my wooden seat.

Her gash was open, coral-pink and still clammy from our sex the previous night. Without the protection of pubic hair, her orifices were totally exposed to me. A waft of fishy scent tickled my nostrils. I looked her directly in the eyes and smirked.

She has long dark eyelashes. Her eyes are brown and wide, almost innocent. I could read her mind. She was humiliated by the sudden reality of what she was about to do. There was no turning back. She closed her eyes in shame.

"Okay. Piss."

I watched her muscles moving and then a gush of urine came out. I was instantly reminded how women are such messy pissers compared with us neat guys.

I smirked, reaching out to fondle her boobs while she peed. I'd roughly sucked the pale meat under her left breast the previous night. There was now a yellow-brown hickey under her areola to mark the spot.

My hand slid over the slight swell of her stomach and downwards to her spray. I tinkled my fingers in her golden flow. She was looking at me, her neck and cheeks glowing scarlet with an embarrassed rash.

"Do you need to dump too?"

She paused then shook her head. "No, Sir."

I chuckled, lifting my wet fingers to her lips.

"Make no mistake, we start today, now. You must ask me for permission whenever you need to go. Got that?"

She blushed an even brighter shade of cherry-red. "Yes, Sir."

Her lips kissed my fingers and her tongue tasted each one clean in turn.

Eventually, her flow weakened to a trickle, and then stopped.

"You can wipe yourself."

Most guys don't wipe our dicks after a piss but women seem to want to.

I flushed the pan and pointed back to the bedroom. "Bed."

I lay with my head propped on the pillows, flicked a switch, and watched her give her first morning BJ ever. She knelt between my knees and lowered her face to my groin.

"You know how this is going to end?"

"Mmeh." Her mumble was distinguishable as a yes.

I actually enjoyed the fact Jane was so inexperienced in oral sex. Some guys prefer their submissives already trained in essential skills but I don't mind 'L' plates. I'm very specific about what I like, although it varies according to my mood. Personally, I like frequent eye contact. And the best BJs are performed hands-free. I like to see a woman working damn hard to get you off. To me, her fluttering eyelashes, flared nostrils and jaw ache are part of the fun.

"Look at me."

She peered up through her hair but carried on slurping.

Sometimes, I don't mind some hand action to jerk you off down her throat, but whatever, the essential ingredient every time for me, is that a BJ is a one-way street. Period.

A blowjob ends with a guy lightening his load. He dumps his spooge in her mouth, or maybe on her face or tits, wherever, and then she focuses solely on his aftercare. She swallows, cleans up, switches on the TV, fetches him a beer. Unlike a 69 or oral foreplay, a proper blowjob never ends with the woman having an orgasm as well. Her reward is purely cerebral.

I shifted my leg after a while so that my big toe was under her pussy and I pushed it inside her. I let her use her fingers to jerk me off, although I would soon need to train her in the no-hands technique that is my preference.

"Fuck my toe, but don't dare cum you horny slut."

I could tell that she was frustrated, working on my cock without being allowed to pleasure herself. But this was fuck-all compared to what I had planned for her over the coming weeks.

"Don't swallow. Catch it all on your tongue."

I pulled my foot away as I popped my cookies into her mouth.

Nowadays, I can't repeat like I used to when I was Chris's age. But I can still manufacture two good loads a day. I was always a heavy cummer. My semen is white, chewy, abundant and, I'm told, remarkably bitter. Probably too much black coffee!

I could see from Jane's bugging eyes and flared nostrils that she was shocked by the quantity, taste and slimy texture. It's actually easier for a woman to simply relax her throat and gulp it down. It's a lot harder to store it in her mouth so it invades her gums and palate.

Jane turned her cute features up to look at me. Her heart-shaped face was distorted by her puffed out cheeks. Her high, plucked eyebrows exaggerated the size of her eyes and gave her a quizzical look.

"Don't swallow I said. Keep it all in your mouth. Head up."

She puckered her lips, holding it in.

"Now trill it round your mouth. Gargle."

To watch a woman rinsing your jizz like spearmint mouthwash is a beautiful sight. Mostly they won't. If a woman will, she either really loves you or she really needs the cash. But Jane was different. This wasn't about love or cash.

Her head was tilted back, mouth open.

"Gggglllllhhhh." She gargled.

I watched her for ten, twenty, thirty seconds, until every last drop of flavour and bitterness had coated the roof of her palate.

"Okay. Now, swallow."

Her neck tilted right back and she gulped.

"Show me."

Her pink tongue and white teeth were clean.

"Good girl." I congratulated her, patting the pillow beside me. "Now come up here and give me a kiss."

I could smell my scent on her breath. I slid my tongue into her mouth.

"How was that?"

Her eyes stared at me eloquently. "As I expected, Sir."

"As bad as that?" I laughed.

She made a face. "Yes. But in a weirdly ... okay way."

I nodded. "Come on, lazybones, enough verbal banter. It's time to get to work."

*** *** ***

I let her put on an old shirt of mine and showed her round my house. I'd made it clear from the outset that her duties wouldn't be confined to sex. I wanted a housemaid and domestic-slave too and I was going to work Jane fucking hard.

My house is a large detached home on the leafy western edge of London. I have privacy, space and greenery. I used to have a lady in her fifties who came daily to dust and iron but she retired, and anyway the place is really too big for one person to look after to my standards. Only by working double-shifts would Jane be able to keep everything shipshape.

On the ground floor there are four main rooms; a 40-foot open-plan kitchen, leading through double doors to a large south-facing drawing room for entertaining, then a home cinema mostly for watching sport, and finally my private office-library.

Upstairs, there are my master suite and three other guest bedrooms with their own bathrooms. I showed Jane every nook and cranny, also pointing out the walk-in storeroom for sheets and towels, and a door to the upstairs water tanks and fire escape.

The house is Victorian but modernized to a contemporary style, with oak floors, oriental rugs, and loads of big glass windows looking out over my lawn and garden. I showed Jane the kitchen store with tins of polish, dusters, brushes, pans, brooms, mops and cleaning materials.

Finally, I pointed to the heavy door leading to the basement.

"Never even think of going down there without my permission."

She swallowed, then nodded and mumbled "Sir."

I reached out and stroked her pale cheek reassuringly.

"Don't worry. You'll see each other again soon enough."

I led her through to the kitchen and demonstrated just how I like my coffee, my juice, my bran. I drank my coffee while I showed her the list of chores that would rule her life from now on; hourly, daily and weekly tasks, scheduled by time and day of the week. And I told her firmly that she couldn't ever eat anything, drink anything, touch herself, piss, shit, or do anything not on her list of chores without my permission. Understood?

"Yes, Sir." She replied, in an obedient tone that suggested she was one hundred percent clear.

I smiled kindly at her and rearranged my old white shirt on her body. It had only two buttons left. They fastened across her waist and navel. The shirt was skewed open at her cleavage and between her legs. I patted her hip.

"We have a visitor coming." I said. "So get to work."

*** *** ***

Every inch of Chris's body ached. He had no idea of the time. It was pitch dark with the lights off. He couldn't hear or see. He could only use his sense of smell. He had peed twice during the night and the stench of his own urine blended with the sour aroma of his armpits.

He guessed it must be the morning by now. He was thirsty. His mouth tasted like sawdust. For the umpteenth time, he wondered what was going on upstairs. Deep down, he knew that he hadn't been abandoned. He knew he was safe in the sense that he wouldn't come to any long term harm. But that one percent of doubt made his naked body shiver.

He grimaced at the discomfort in his limbs and his anger with himself. Why hadn't he been born with an easier kink? Like adult baby play, or even fucking animals? Why had he been sentenced to a terrible fetish like this instead? He cursed silently in the darkness and tugged his wrists futilely against the buckled straps.

The worst thing was, this kind of imprisonment was exactly what he'd wanted.

*** *** ***

The cellar reeked of urine.

I turned on the bright overhead lights. Chris had emptied his bladder into the bucket between his legs and onto the concrete floor.

He was still standing where I'd left him - naturally - with his ankles, wrists and neck buckled to the rear wall. He was naked. His jaw was fuzzy with gingery stubble and his eyes had sunk a little deeper in their sockets. He was blinking and squinting trying to accustom his eyes to the light.

I was carrying a plastic cup of water. I unlocked his steel-barred cell door with a clank and spoke in my cheeriest voice.

"Morning Chris. Sleep well?"

He looked at me. Not insolently, but with a spark in his eye. I don't think he knew how to reply. To lie? Or state the fucking obvious?

"Well?" I asked.

"Not really."

"Not really, Sir." I corrected.

"Not really, Sir."

I looked down. His shrunken cock had retreated into his carroty pubes. I grinned, reached down and pinched the tip between my thumb and index finger, stretching it. I'm not remotely gay or bi, but I don't have a problem touching a man's dick, especially if he's my sub.

"Come on, Chris. Get this little fella awake now. I want him stiff."

I reached under Chris's scrotum and tickled his balls.

"Get it hard." I snarled. "Picture me and Jane fucking. You've got one minute."

I opened my dressing gown and took my own dick out. I started pissing into his bucket on the floor and casually farted while I did it. He was staring over my shoulder, eyes hazy in contemplation, and his dick was stirring.

I walked outside the cell, found the remote, and turned on his TV screen. In seconds, a high definition colour image of my bedroom appeared, with Jane kneeling between my knees, facing the hidden camera lens. I had recorded her that morning, although she hadn't realized it. Her face was in my groin, bobbing up and down. Her hand was pumping my shaft.

"Fuck my toe, but don't cum you horny slut."

Chris and I both heard my voice clearly through the TV's speakers.

I grinned, looking at him. He appeared half-shocked and half-turned on. I glanced down at his twitching dick and caressed the underside vein with my thumb.

"Don't worry." I whispered. "Jane won't know, but I'm going to film her lots over the coming weeks and I'll even share some of the movies with you. You'll get to watch the action from down here."

"Mmuh ..." he whimpered, as his cock reached half mast.

On the screen, the sights and sounds made it obvious I was cumming in his wife's mouth.

"Don't swallow it. Catch it on your tongue."

I looked deep into his pale blue eyes. He heard my command and watched the woman he'd been married to for seven years swallowing my morning porridge.

He blinked but held my gaze. We were like two gunslingers matching up, right hands poised over our holsters. But we both knew I could outdraw him any time I liked. I held all the aces.

I massaged his little pistol. It was hard now, full size, jutting upwards.

I let him observe Jane trilling my cum round her tongue, enjoying the mesmerised expression on his face, before I clicked the remote and the screen went dark again.

"She's going to make a good slut, isn't she?"

He shut his eyes and screwed up his face, like he was extinguishing an image.

"Isn't she?"

"Yes, Sir, she is yes."

I picked up the plastic cup of water I'd brought down. "Drink?"

He tilted his chin. "Please, Sir."

I held it to his lips. His head went back, mouth open, and I slowly tipped the liquid into his mouth. I wanted him to swallow it all.

"Good?"

"Yes, Sir." He mumbled gratefully.

I smiled and looked down at his erection. I let him see me slowly lower the plastic cup. I arranged it along the length of his shaft.

"Now, Chris, if you want to eat anything at all today, you'd better keep this cup hanging on your dick until I return. I want you hard all morning, thinking nice horny thoughts. Can you do that for me?"

His blue eyes blinked, studying mine. He'd immediately worked out that he'd have to keep his mind on his wife, on me, on his own sexual frustration, just to stay erect.

"I'll try, Sir."

I stroked his fuzzy cheek. I was sure he'd try.

"Good boy."

But he didn't know that the water he'd drunk was laced with a dose of liquid Lactulose, a powerful laxative that would soon give him something else to think about.
"See you later. I'll give Jane your love."

*** *** ***

My visitor arrived bang on eleven o'clock.

His name was Jacques, a Frenchman with the acronym 'Circus Ringmaster'. He'd flown over from Paris for the weekend to pierce Jane's labia for me. He was a dominant I'd come across on a social site and he specialised in female chastity.

He was accompanied by his slave Helene. She was pierced with six matching pairs of 8ga steel rings the length of her outer labia. They were locked together with a C-type Lustlock-brand padlock, a bit like a large safety pin. She was pierced from the very top of her labia majora sealing her clitoral hood and locked all the way down almost to her perineum.

It looked very neat and impenetrable. She was not only chaste, she couldn't even rub her clit or cunt with sufficient friction to stimulate herself. Certainly not to orgasm.

Helene had already been living like that for three whole years. Very occasionally, like maybe once a month, Jacques would unlock Helene and fuck her, if she was good, allowing her to cum against his cock. But the rest of the time, she had only her asshole, mouth and hands to pleasure him. And not just him, either.

Helene's was the life that Jane wanted to live as well. Well, she thought she did.

Jacques had told me to prepare white towels, antiseptic wipes, other essentials, while he'd brought the rest of the kit he required; a dermal punch like a hole-puncher and a large tin of shiny steel rings of various thicknesses.

We tied Jane's wrists and waist to the table. Jacques always works without anaesthetic. We strapped her ankles back to her own thighs so her knees were wide open in a v.

"You want to fuck her one last time?" he asked, in his excellent but French-accented English.

"No. Her cunt's still stinky with last night's load."

He fingered Jane open and peered inside. "I may?"

"Sure."

We'd agreed beforehand. It was part of our deal. He'd also shown me a recent STD test. Jacques wanted to ride Jane bareback.

"Help yourself to Helene, if you wish." He offered in return.

I watched him nonchalantly unzip his jeans and lower them to his ankles. He had a big paunch and thick grey hair covering his shoulders and chest. His body smelt of stale cigarettes.

"Eyes open." I said to Jane, looking down at her expression. I wanted her to see the stranger she was fucking so that he'd pierce her labia for free. At 66, he was more than twice her age and was even fifteen years older than her dad!

Jacques casually eased his erection into her splayed cunt and rested his hands on Jane's tits. He slid balls-deep into her sogginess without any effort. I saw him wink down at her.

"Her cunt is rather sloppy, non?"

I shrugged. "You can see why I want it locked up."

Jane blushed scarlet. Her mouth opened in an 'o' as Jacques started accelerating his thrusts. I looked into her eyes, trying to read them, searching for the combination of deep humiliation and masochistic desire I hoped to see. Her nipples didn't lie. They were hard. Her eyeballs rolled into the back of her head.

I checked the camera lenses. The first was mounted on a tripod recording Jane's face throughout. The second was freestanding on a table, videoing a side view. I picked it up and filmed a close up of Jacques from the neck down. He was fucking her dispassionately, like he was simply jerking himself off using her cunt.

It was an erotic sight.

My first loan of Jane.

You see, when it comes down to it, a dick is a dick is a dick. There aren't really handsome dicks or ugly dicks, kind dicks or unkind dicks, intelligent dicks or charming dicks. They're all really, give-or-take, the same. Yeah, some are slightly larger or smaller, various shades of colour, but otherwise pretty much the same.

It's the bodies and minds they're connected to that make the difference. A normal woman can choose a partner based on his looks, his kindness, his wit, his charm, his wallet, her preferences. She gives herself to him because of who he is, never really because of his dick (well, almost never!).

A normal woman naturally has a strong say in when, where and how often she has sex. She can wait until she's married, or until they've been seeing each other a while, or she can fuck a guy on their first date, whatever she feels comfortable with. She can deny a dick her mouth or her asshole, choose whether to fuck doggy style or cowgirl, in private or in public places, five times a day, or once a week in the dark on a Saturday night.

In short, it's about her right to choose.

But a slave-slut forfeits that right.

I wanted Jane to experience the taboo. Instead of handsome, kind, amusing, generous, nice men of her age and background, I would favour dicks that belonged to the not-so-good, the bad and the downright ugly.

Jane would have zero say in who, when, where, how long, or how often. A vagina can easily be fucked for a couple of hours. Let's face it, if a single guy has the stamina to keep going for two hours, chicks are impressed.

But a woman's cunt itself doesn't actually know whether it's the same dick for two hours or 60 guys fucking it for a couple of minutes each!

Best of all, however, was that it wouldn't even be Jane's pussy taking the brunt of her promiscuity. It would be her asshole and mouth. This session in her cunt with Jacques was just a quick last hurrah before lockdown.

"Come here." I gestured to Helene.

In truth, Jacques' slave was a bit mature for my taste, but I didn't want to seem impolite to him. I was dressed in old corduroys and I pointed to my zipper.

Besides, I wanted Jane to witness another woman sucking me. There were two messages I wanted to give her. First, I offered no fidelity. I'd continue to fuck and suck whoever I liked, when I liked. And secondly, I'd trade her. I'd barter her nubile young body to get myself fresh pussy.

The sounds of fucking and sucking filled my drawing room; slapping flesh and wet orifices, male groans and female moans. There was that distinct fragrance of sweat and sex and stale tobacco around us.

I pointed the video camera down at Jane.

"Having fun?"

"Gnnhg ..." she grunted.

"Say hi to Chris. Blow him a kiss."

"H ... hi." She pouted her lips.

I could tell by Jacques's movements and noises he was about to cum.

"Yesssss!" I encouraged him, panning the camera up from his hairy belly and Jane's hairless mound, up to her flushed face, and down her body again. I pushed Helene's lips away from my cock.

"Beautiful." I added, as Jacques withdrew, and I moved round to film Jane's ravaged pussy and the creamy residue he'd deposited inside her as it dripped onto her thighs.

Now it was time for him to begin the delicate operation.

*** *** ***

Being a bit squeamish, I decided to leave the Ringmaster to his skilled task. I took Helene downstairs to use her dexterous skills on my convict.

Chris was obviously shocked to see me accompanied by a semi-naked, vaginally-pierced stranger in her fifties. I was carrying a leather wash bag.

"Don't ask." I said to his enquiring eyebrow. "It's none of your business."

He was sweating profusely. His forehead was red and he was grimacing. But the plastic cup was still dangling on the end of his erection.

Helene laughed a little French-accented chuckle.

The bucket between his legs didn't have any shit in it yet. He'd done well not to succumb to the Lactulose.

"Good boy." I said. "This is Helene. She's your reward."

I plucked the cup off his horizontal dick.

"I'm going to leave Helene looking after you."

I pointed to the surveillance camera.

"But don't make him cum." I said to her. "Understood?"

She grinned wickedly. "Bien sur."

I lingered a moment to enjoy the sight of her practised fingers slowly fondling Chris's dick back up to maximum rigidity. She stroked him agonisingly slowly. She had long red nails, almost talons, and wrinkled still elegant fingers. She teased his nipples, stomach and balls, all the time staring longingly into his eyes.

I handed her the wash bag. "Now shave him."

There were barber's scissors, steel tweezers, soap, a lethal cut-throat razor and a bottle of baby oil.

She quickly chopped the length off his pubic hairs with the scissors; snip-snip, snip-snip, and tufts of red hairs floated down to the concrete floor, some landing in his bucket. In no time, his groin was sporting a raggedy crew cut.

His fear soon softened his erection and she had to give him some encouraging jerks back to full stiffness.

Next, instead of shaving him, she began plucking the remaining hairs out with the tweezers. She lifted his dick and yanked hairs from his scrotum, coiling them round the steel tips like an Italian twirling spaghetti round her fork.

"Ahh ... sss." Chris objected.

I left them to it and went up to check on Jacques' progress.

There was scarlet blood on the white towel below Jane's thighs. He had used a little numbing cream on her to dull the worst of the pain. He was taking his time, peering into her cunt, carefully punching perfect, neat holes in her labia and then inserting steel rings. Each pair was parallel, beautiful and shiny.

He was wearing little half-spectacles and a head torch.

"She is being a good, brave girl." He murmured, without looking at me.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Jane's eyes were full of tears. She was sobbing gently, hissing whenever she felt a sharp jolt of pain. He tapped her hip. It was obviously a sign he'd already taught her. Jane arched her back and spread her thighs to make her cunt even more accessible to him.

He glanced up at me and winked.

"She has good anatomy. Her clit will be totally inaccessible, I think."

"Excellent. I really hope so." I carefully dabbed a tear from Jane's eye with a tissue so she could see my face. "It's vital she can't pleasure herself. Isn't it slut?"

Her reply was half-whisper and half-hiss. "Yes, Sir."

Jacques had reassured us beforehand that if all went well, Jane would be unable to masturbate herself to any sort of vaginal or clitoral orgasm as long as she was padlocked. She should be able to use a narrow pipette to wash her own labia for daily hygiene purposes. Then every few days I'd unlock her for a supervised deep swab.

I looked down into her brimming eyes. She was biting her lower lip.

"Okay?"

She answered me with a tiny brave nod of her head.

I stroked her cheek comfortingly. "Well done."

I glanced over at my laptop. It was broadcasting the scene downstairs. Helene was now removing the final few pubic strands from Chris's groin with the razor. He was as bald and helpless as his wife.

I felt the old familiar stir in my own groin and looked down at Jane's mouth. I was looking forward to another blowjob, this time in the knowledge that her cunt was zipped.

Yes, preparations were coming along nicely.

COMING SOON

ACT THREE: CONFLICT


fashion accessories couple brought together act