SCENE 1: THE ROAD
He laughed into the wind, sucking in mouth after mouthful of joyous, salty air as the rocky cliff flanking the road suddenly parted and dropped, revealing an astonishing expanse of blue that stretched away from the cliff sides and into oblivion. Allen blinked through wind-tears, wiping at his blue-gray eyes—Thames gray, to be exact, the gray of fog and smog and all those soggy English women he had dated over the years and the dreary vacations he’d taken with them to the sad crags of the English shore which now, in comparison, seemed like ghost-cliffs and shadow-waters. This was real ocean, ocean as it was intended: a sparkling sapphire carpet that caught the light of the afternoon with a thousand tiny, dancing facets and made you think, just for a moment, that maybe you could fly.
Was this his life? The beauty of the Baja Sebastien Vizcainzo Bay was only the latest in a string of perfections that filled his heart with a fireworks display of satisfaction. He had just sold his second screenplay in Hollywood and was, according to his agent, “hot” right now. Very hot. With that paycheck he had promptly bought a black convertible Mercedes, in which he now sat. Next to him was the gorgeous, brilliant, essentially perfect woman he married a mere 18 hours ago. The wedding had been a Herculean task to organize but was an enormous success. The ceremony in England to please his parents, the reception in LA to please hers, and three dozen of their closest friends who had used the word “perfect” themselves more times than Allen could count. She—his wife—had looked better in her dress than he had ever imagined, gliding over to him at the ceremony with a power and grace that prompted him, unexpectedly, to drop to his knees when he gave his vows. She was nestled behind the wheel of his convertible now, the wind tossing her long, dark hair around her shoulders and neck, occasionally nipping at her cleavage that was shamelessly on display in a tight white tank top…no bra. He smiled to himself knowing that those breasts would soon be in his mouth. His wife’s breasts, and his wife’s thighs, gently spreading for him as he laid her back onto the hotel bed for the first time as his own, his woman, his fingers drifting up to the warm crease between her—
“Allen—look!” She pointed at the sky in front of them. An eagle was hovering in the air about 200 feet above the cliffs, perfectly still as it balanced on the gentle Gulf breeze.
“Ah, he’s just showing off for you,” Allen yelled above the wind and shifted against the swelling in his crotch.
Why had he waited so long to come to this glorious land? Darcy, his beloved wife, had been telling him for years that he needed to see Mexico, that no country was so relaxed and pleasant and sensual all at the same time. She had summered here as a child and knew the Southern tip of Baja intimately, and so when it came time to plan their honeymoon she naturally insisted on making arrangements on her favorite strip of Mexican coastline. Allen hadn’t lifted a finger to plan any of it except to lift his credit card from his wallet from time to time. He liked it that way: it was sexy and easy and all of their holidays together seemed to fall into the same natural rhythm: Darcy would give him a choice of three destinations, usually in three different countries, and he would select his favorite. Then she would set about masterminding the ideal itinerary, carefully plotting every detail, every meal and every outfit, barking threats down the phone to the travel agents and concierges when things didn’t go her way. Allen was usually seated at his desk, typing away while she worked the phones, his credit card primed nearby, ready for the moment she needed it. Some part of him did like that feeling, the idea that he was being used for his money to satisfy her decadence. The phrase “wallet rape” always popped into his head whenever Darcy called out to him in that gentle, cooing tone she used when she wanted something expensive. Still, a good rape is a good rape, and even wallet rape was sexy when it was Darcy.
His other unofficial holiday job that they had never officially discussed was a bit less glamorous, though he bore it well. Darcy refused to carry her own luggage, instead forcing “bag boy” to “take care of it.” She always said the words so sweetly and with such a genuine smile that Allen actually didn’t mind the task—although to be clear, Darcy did not pack light…ever. She had been known to bring as many as three suitcases with her for a simple weekend away, and for their honeymoon she had splurged on a new Vuitton luggage set in order to accommodate her 16 dresses and 3 bathing suits specially selected for the Mexican seaside. The suitcases were now snug in the back seat of the convertible where Allen had left them, seemingly enjoying the sunshine as the car sped past cliff after cliff after cliff.
SCENE 2: THE HOTEL
Darcy had suddenly turned cold when they arrived at the resort, waving the valet away and asking Allen with a sharp nod if “bag boy” could handle the shiny new luggage instead. He swallowed his ego and wrestled the suitcases from the backseat, fumbling with the handles as he hurried to catch up with her.
The lobby was magnificent, the ideal background for his lush bride. As Darcy clicked down the marble floor towards the check-in desk, heads turned—men and women and terriers alike. Embarrassing as it was bumbling with six suitcases, Allen was proud to even be in her presence right now, no matter that he looked more like her servant than her husband. When he staggered to her side at last at the check-in desk she was laughing quietly with the young man behind the counter. Allen stiffened at the sight but was used to her outright flirtation. Darcy was an expert at manipulating men in her favor. He had seen her giggle her way into business class and bend down just low enough to avoid a parking ticket. Now she leaned into the concierge to whisper something in his ear—just softly enough that Allen couldn’t make it out. His stomach buckled as the concierge reached his bronze hand forward to caress her shoulder lightly, nodding in understanding with a wide, white smile. “Don’t worry, I gonna take care of you.” The young man nodded again at both Allen and Darcy with a half-grin/half-snarl, or so Allen thought.
“What was that all about?” Allen rushed to push the elevator button for her.
“Nothing,” Darcy let loose a radiant smile, “just dinner in the room tonight, on the house.”
The elevator ding-ed shut.
SCENE 3: THE BIG NIGHT
Allen had been horny all day. They’d had no time for fondling on the drive down, and Darcy had seemed preoccupied the day before as she packed, so by now Allen’s cock was twitching in his pants at the mere sight of the hotel bed. It was huge—enough to accommodate five people if need be—and Allen was looking forward to fucking Darcy on every square inch of it.
She was standing at the plate glass window when he came up behind her; he slid his hands to her waist and gently pulled her firm ass into his groin.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she murmured to him, sighing at the fabulous ocean view.
“I’ve always thought your ass was gorgeous, “he rocked into suggestively. Darcy gave him the tip of her elbow and squirmed out of reach.
“All right, all right…horny aren’t we? I’m going for a swim.” She slipped off her shoes and yanked a towel off the bedstand in one graceful swoop and was at the door before he could argue. “See you later,” she threw a smile over her shoulder to him as the door swung shut behind her.
Had he done something wrong? She hadn’t looked mad when she left, but surely she was thinking the same thing he was? Darcy had an intimidating sexual appetite—in fact he had never known her to turn down sex, EVER. Strange that she would push him away like that on their honeymoon of all nights. But he shrugged it off and laid down on the suede sofa in front of the glass wall, opening his pants and fingering his erection as he admired the sunset’s tangerine spread above him. He would wait for his wife’s return, happily desperate for her, and would descend on her when she came in with his arsenal fully loaded and straining in his hand.
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Allen had fallen asleep stroking his erection, and when he opened his eyes again it seemed that a very long time had passed. The sky was black now with only a few stars visible through the cloud cover. The resort was remote enough that no lights invaded the horizon save a few garden lights setting the path to the ocean aglow down on the ground below.
Allen heard music through the darkness. Turning towards the room he realized it was not fully dark actually but lit with a small candle on the nightstand. It cast an orange shimmer onto the ipod dock which was crooning the elegant jazz Allen had wondered about. And then he noticed his wife; she was kneeling upright on the bed, naked, her arms stretched above her head, fingers knotted around the back of her neck, her heavy, full breasts catching the candlelight with infinite, soft allure. Allen shivered with awe but…what was she doing? The couch was low enough that he couldn’t actually see above the bed, he could only make out her breasts and face—eyes shut in seeming ecstasy.
“Sweetie? Are you okay?” Allen lifted himself up off the couch and gasped, nearly falling back down again. In front of Darcy on the bed was sprawled a naked, toned Latino man, his feet facing towards Allen and his thick shoulders propping him up in front of Darcy’s thighs. He caressed her hips with large, confident hands and—most horrifying—was leaning his head back delicately and lapping at Darcy’s cunt which glistened faintly in the candlelight. Allen’s heart was pounding so loud now he couldn’t hear the music anymore. He felt dizzy and sweat was starting to collect on his hands and neck. And then he saw it…the second man: a massive black figure, probably 6’5”, gently nodding his face back and forth between Darcy’s ass cheeks. Even from this distance Allen could see the man’s cock was tremendous, probably twice the size of his own. At the sight of these two massive animals tonguing his wife’s genitals with such precision and confidence Allen’s own cock began to thrum rhythmically, pulsing in time to his wife’s swaying torso, jerking upwards with swollen longing every time she whimpered. He collapsed to his knees faintly squeaking, “Stop, please Darcy…”
“Take off your clothes.” Darcy’s voice cut through the darkness with perfect aim, and Allen peeled his trousers off.
“Stand.” He complied, his bare skin tingling as he realized both men could see him at any time, his pathetic half-dick standing nearly straight up to the ceiling. In agony he watched as she bent forward onto her hands, then lifted her head and stared straight through him.
“Outside. Now.”
“But I—” Allen instinctively dropped his hands in front of his groin in embarrassment.
“NOW.” She was terrifying and serious.
He slowly turned to the plate glass wall and fumbled for the handle…there was a door somewhere…surely she wouldn’t keep him out there long? He pulled the sliding door back and the ocean slice at his skin, sending his balls up to hug his throbbing erection.
“Close the door,” she smiled as she tossed the word at him, “bitch.” His own wife was ordering him out into the cold. His wife. His perfect, pure woman. He slowly dragged the door shut and felt tears seep into the corners of his eyes. Naked on the pitch black balcony, he pressed his face to the glass as the Latino man positioned himself atop her, cock poised near her ass, and the black man started to work the length of his enormous weapon inside her pussy. Both began pumping her at the same time, and Darcy moaned in pleasure as she stared straight through the glass, her eyes and mouth half-open in rapture.
“I love you,” Allen whispered into the glass.
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After five years of serving as my toilet Richard had finally moved into an apartment on Perry Street. It was far enough away from me that I had a low chance of running into him on the street, but close enough that when I texted him on the Shit Phone (a cute little pay-as-you-go mobile he had bought to receive my toilet calls) he could be at my door in 15 minutes.
“Had 2 much coffee this morn plz hurry.” I could barely type out my message to him, my eyes were watering and my stomach was visibly bulging with the desperate need to relieve myself. I had been pretty stressed lately and hadn’t been able to go for about two days, so I knew it would be an absolutely epic movement when I finally relaxed enough for it to happen. Plus Richard had a way of calming me down, no matter what mood I was in, and now that I was ready to blow I knew his serene face and coaxing, grateful words would only make for a bigger and softer event.
“Yes Mistress, leaving the house now.” Richard’s texts always used full grammar and were impeccably polite, just one example of his perfect service to me. He only had one job as a slave, after all, so he could focus entirely on doing it justice: eating my shit. He loved doing it and I loved him for loving it.
When he rang my bell I was pacing, trying desperately not to think about insides. When I let him in he saw my anxious expression and stated simply, “I’m here for you, Mistress,” and quickly laid his shoes and clothes in a neat pile by the door. I said nothing as I pranced into the bathroom, but even seeing him gave me a sense of impending relief. As I settled onto the glass toilet box Richard had given me for our one-year anniversary he quietly crawled through the bathroom door; even with his head bowed I could see the traces of a shy smile peeking out across the corners of his face. He took his place under the chair, his face turned upwards to my ass with his hands caressing my feet gently. I closed my eyes and let myself go into his open mouth.
It was beautiful. A large, perfectly formed log dropped out immediately…at least 4 inches long, thick and heavy. I couldn’t help but moan, it felt SO good to let it out after the stress I had been under from work. “Oh, God,” I let my shoulders fall back and felt my neck release. Richard’s hands stroked my ankles in gratitude, and I knew he would be contented for days if I stopped even after that first movement. But I had more. With a slight squeeze of his fingers on my feet I felt comfortable enough to push a little, and within 30 seconds an amazing 6-inch brick was descending slowly onto his face. It was even thicker than the last, but much softer. I felt it make contact with his mouth as he wrapped his lips around it, and with one more glorious thrust of my asshole the last of it glided onto his cheeks.
I could hear him eating, slowly savoring as much as he could and occasionally whimpering with delight. Richard had never once gagged on my shit. I had been his first Full Toilet Mistress and would be his last, and though I myself had fed toilets before, the bond between Richard and I was indescribable. I sat there for a moment reveling in his worship while he chewed. He had always been a female supremacist and shit enthusiast, but when he met me he had decided to take his fantasies out of his mind and into reality. He wanted to submit fully to me, to help me with one of the most intimate acts a human being has, and to satisfy his curiosity about shit once and for all. Five years later I saw him every chance I had….I only shit in a porcelain toilet when I was traveling, and on those occasions I felt slightly saddened as though I were throwing away a precious gift that was meant for Richard. As I glanced down between my legs I saw his cock was as straight as an iron rod, twitching slightly in the excitement of his meal. I loved that I could do this to him, that the highest part of him was receiving the lowest part of me, and that he adored me for it.
I stood and wiped my ass while he finished, then tossed the toilet paper onto his body for him to dispose of. Bathroom cleanup was a part of the ritual for him, and he usually needed about 30 minutes to get everything spotless again and give himself a quick, hot shower. I started humming and busied myself, knowing he would thank me later. With my daily shit over with I could finally concentrate on my day’s plans, and I briefly wondered what I would do without Richard. I had great fondness for him and actually had come to cherish the time we spent together, his face looking up adoringly at my ass cheeks waiting for my heavenly offering. I would never tell him that I thought that I needed him….but the truth was I did. Having Richard serve as my toilet was now one of the high points of my day, and had turned a simple physiological act into a deeply erotic—and strangely intimate—moment for both of us.
When he emerged from the bathroom I was at my computer with my back to him. He crawled quietly over to me, head bowed as ever, and said, “Mistress, that was one of the sweetest meals you’ve ever fed me. It was truly amazing.”
“I know,” I replied sweetly, “I had a giant fruit salad last night for dinner. I was hoping you’d enjoy it.”
With a little giggle he mumbled shyly, “I licked it all clean, every bite….wish I could have saved some for dinner.”
“Good boy,” I smiled, patting his damp hair. “Now go get dressed. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I didn’t let him see my grin, but I was looking forward to the next shit as much as he was.
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My Mistress turns and surprises me by putting her hands on the side of my face and kissing me passionately. My lips part and her tongue slithers into my mouth. This is an affection and an intimacy that was completely unexpected. She whispers for me to remain still as she places a ball gag in my mouth and secures it behind my head. She then places my hands together behind my back and places cuffs on my wrists. She braces me so that I do not fall as I kneel on the hard, cool concrete floor.. She finishes immobilizing me by skillfully tying the cuffs to my ankles. Finally, with one hand on my shoulder, she draws the curtain.
As if on cue, an unfamiliar electronica drumbeat begins to play. A retro black light defines the space in which I kneel. The new music is all I hear. It is harsh, distorted; the drums are rapid and overpowering. I am shocked at what I see in this room. My mouth drops, and I look back to my Mistress in disbelief. She whispers again, “It begins now.” I want to scream, but the ball gag mocks my attempt. I see my wife on a heavy padded table in the middle of the room. She is kneeling, facing me, her arms stretched out in front of her. She cannot see me as she wears a leather blindfold. A heavy leather collar encircles her neck. A stainless steel, chain-link leash extends from the collar. The collar and the blindfold are all she wears. Mounting her naked body from behind, holding the leash taut in his hand, is the most perfectly formed man I have ever seen. His muscles give him the appearance that he was cut from stone. His chest, his biceps, his massive quadriceps all move with an athletic grace as his hips thrust against my wife’s ass, his cock burying itself inside her pussy. Her mouth is a circle of ecstasy; the music is not quite loud enough to mute her moans.
My Mistress helps me forward to afford me a better view. The muscular man stares at me and smiles. My Mistress asks him to turn my wife onto her back. “I want her to pleasure me as you pleasure her.” My wife is flipped unceremoniously; her blonde hair falls off the end of the table facing me. My Mistress steps out of her skirt, straddles my wife and faces me. She positions her pussy inches above my wife’s mouth, and I watch as my wife lunges up hungrily to taste her. “Oh,” purrs my Mistress, “my little slut loves her Mistress’ pussy. doesn’t she?” My wife’s response is muffled as Mistress lowers herself, and my wife no longer has to strain to accommodate her. The fucking of my wife has begun again in earnest. Mistress leans back against her lover and turns her head to receive his kiss, but all the while his violent thrusts into my bride continue. This goes on and on… the steadiness of the rhythm never stopping. Then there is a pause, I see his teeth clench, and he steps back off the table. This is immediately followed by cries of pleasure from Mistress as she achieves her own orgasm. She also dismounts, instructing my wife to remain on the table.
The man who has made me a cuckold approaches me. My ballgag remains in place, otherwise I suspect he would have forced me to have tasted my first cock; massive and still semi-rigid, it is still at least eight inches long. Instead he wipes his cock on my face. I can smell my wife’s arousal all over him. In the process, I notice a small tattoo just below and left of his naval. It is a circle with the symbol for pi inside of it. It is inconspicuous, but unmistakable.
I see my Mistress wave her hand to silently get my attention. She is at the other end of the table, fingering my wife’s pussy as her legs remain whorishly apart. She pulls her hand away, and I see her middle finger dripping with this man’s cum. Meanwhile, the man steps back to the table, whispers in my wife’s ear and helps her down. In response to his whisper, my wife smiles and exclaims that she has never enjoyed anything as much as the fucking that she just received. This is almost impossible; my sweet innocent bride never talks that way. He puts his lips on hers, and her passionate response dissolves any remaining doubt that this was not consensual on her part. He leads her past me, still blindfold, by her leash, and they disappear up the stairs.
My wife never knew that I was there. Mistress approaches me; she unties my legs from my handcuffs and lifts me off my knees so that I am standing before her. With one hand, she removes the ball gag. Her other hand is still wet with the cum of my wife and her lover. “Was that a nice surprise?” she asks.
“I ummm….”
“Forget it, I don’t care what you think. You probably never believed that I could really take your wife, but it should now be obvious that I am more capable than you imagined. It happened exactly as I told you it would. My lover seduced her, first with silly romantic gestures, but it soon escalated to a level of sexuality that she did not know existed. So it turns out that you have both betrayed each other for us, only… it did seem that she struggled with it more than you did. She cried tears of guilt for her own surrender, but she still couldn’t help herself. She loves Master Brendon’s cock, and she loves my pussy, but most of all, she loves that she is finally who she always knew she was…a submissive slut.” My own eyes begin to tear. What is happening to me? “When I kissed you before, that was the last time that you will ever kiss anyone. I will channel your intimacy to suit my purposes from here on. Open your lips and taste your future.”
I obey, and her middle fingers slide into my mouth. While both my wife’s and Brendon’s fluids are on her finger, it is the Master’s cum that overwhelms the taste. It is bitter, and tastes nothing like what I expected. I suck hungrily. Then she puts something else into my mouth, a large pill.
“Swallow,” she commands, but I resist, only pretending to swallow. She walks over to a table where there is a pitcher of water and a glass. She fills the glass and returns to me. “Drink,” she tells me. “I am going to inspect your mouth in a minute, and if I find that you have not swallowed the pill, I am going to beat you until you are begging to swallow that pill.”
I am not a masochist, so I swallow this time. She inspects my mouth to confirm that I have complied. She unlocks my cuffs and removes them from my wrists. I now stand naked before her except for the steel cage still on my cock. I can feel the effect from whatever pill I just took. I am buzzing, not at all sleepy, and slightly euphoric. She goes to the wall and pulls back a wooden straight-backed chair and I am told to take a seat. She goes to a control board in the back of the room and turns off the music. Moments later bright spotlights shine from behind my Mistress and from all above my head. My eyes fail to adjust, and I cannot even see her. I hear her voice come from out of the light.
“Who am I?” she asks me.
“You are my Mistress. You are Mistress Darcy.”
“And how did we first meet?”
“I responded to your ad on the internet.”
“What kind of ad?” she asks.
“Your ad as a professional Dominatrix. I came to you, I paid you $300 for a one hour session with you.”
“And that was about three months ago,” she responds. “How many times have you come back since then?”
“Dozens,” I answer.
“And what did you do for me in those sessions? What sort of things were you doing with me in secret before I would send you home to your wife.”
“You would tie me up… you would piss in my mouth. You would fuck me with your strap-on.”
“And then I stopped taking your money, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you told me you would make me your personal slave. I would come over, and I would clean your house. I would prepare your dinners.”
“And then I would reward you, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes, you would let me worship your pussy.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You would usually lay on your bed, with a pillow underneath your stomach. You would read magazines or talk on the phone while I would get behind you and lick your pussy, worship your pussy.” “And then I would send you home… to kiss your wife.”
“Yes,” I said, bowing my head in shame.
“You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you would do anything for Master Brendon, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” And with that response, Brendon walked out of the shadows and stood in front of me. I had not even noticed that he had come back downstairs. He was now there, wearing nothing but black biker boots. He put his hands on either side of my head and pulled me forward to his waist. His cock hung loosely in front of me. I could sense what was expected of me, but I was still reluctant to cross that line. I first put my lip at the very base of his abdomen, just above his cock. I could feel his abdomen and just how hard his stomach muscles were. I looked up at him, and he was smiling down at me, savoring his conquest.
“I loved fucking your wife,” he told me. The effects of the pill were really kicking in now. It sounded as if his words were spoken to me underwater. “You wife is my whore, my slut, and so are you.” He pushed me down forcing my mouth against his manhood. He still smelled of my wife. I opened my lips and took his stiffening rod into my mouth. “You are my cocksucking whore. You seem to like it as much as she does.” He was right. I enthusiastically bobbed up and down on his cock. I wrapped my fingers around the base of his shaft and then started jerking him off as well. “You really want to taste my cum, don’t you, bitch.” I nodded my head, but it wasn’t to be. He pulled his cock out of my mouth right before he came, and he showered my face with his seed. Then in a moment, he disappeared behind the light and into the shadows. Mistress stepped out and took his place by my side. She scooped the cum off of my face with two fingers and put them both into my mouth. I sucked hungrily.
“Look into the light and thank Master Brendon,” she commanded. I responded dutifully. “For the first time, you will be leaving here with this cage still on your cock. There are no longer to be any secrets to keep from your wife.” She slapped at the steel cage locking my own manhood in place. “Brendon, can you please turn off the spotlights?”
In a moment, the shadows disappeared, and I could see that behind the blinding spotlights were not only a camera, as I had half expected, but an audience. My entire confession had been filmed, but also viewed first-hand by three strangers, all wearing masks. There were two women, both with beautiful bodies. They were dressed in street clothes, and they had hooded masks that covered their faces and hid their hair. There was also a man. He was about my age, in reasonably good shape, and while he also wore a hooded mask, he was stripped down and wearing nothing but the mask and a steel cock cage like my own.
“You will notice,” said Mistress, “that your cock cage is inscribed with the symbol ‘pi’.” This indicates that you are now property of the House of Pi, and that you will forever forsake your freedom and your life to our pleasure. Show this to your wife tonight and explain to her what you have been doing over the past few months. I suspect that this will devastate her, but she — like you — is now powerless to resist us. She is being marked with a small tattoo of the same symbol on the back of her neck. Ultimately, we will do the same to you. You know the significance of that symbol, don’t you, slave?”
“It means forever,” I answer.
“Now you understand,” replied Mistress Darcy. “There are many members of the House of Pi,” explained Mistress. “In time you will meet them all. For now, you will be accountable to the two of us. Your wife will be sent to serve another couple, but you will see her again soon enough.”
“Forever,” the word rings in my head.
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This was written for me by one of my favorite London toys…he meant it as just an adoring daydream, but in actuality I have every intention of one day making good on it. Good live-ins are rare, and I know he would be the perfect candidate.
Steven pulled up outside her house at about 6pm, as he did every working day. But unlike most of the people who came to her house, he didn’t walk up the marble steps to the large, bright red front door. Locking the car, he walked around the side of the house and let himself in through a small, windowless door. He walked down a short flight of steps and instinctively reached out to flip the light switch. This was where he lived.
He was in her dungeon. He breathed in the scent of leather and rubber, and basked for a moment in the calm silence. The light illuminated the black floor, the rows upon rows of crops, floggers and chains, the cross, and the cage. The room had been a large wine cellar once. Now it was her playground, and he was one of the toys. He undressed, hanging up his suit in the small wardrobe she’d set aside for him. As soon as he was nearly naked, he took his leather collar from its hook and buckled it around his neck. He wasn’t fully naked as there was always one item he couldn’t take off: his chastity device. Encasing his cock was a transparent plastic cage, held firmly on by a padlock. Even when he was out of the house, she controlled him. He checked the small table by the door to see if there were any instructions from her; sometimes she’d leave a note instructing him to clean a toy, or move an item of furniture. There were no instructions today. So he walked over to the cage in which he lived, crawled in, and closed the door behind him. On the door was an open padlock. He reached out of the cage, and closed the padlock. She had the key. She kept it on the same key ring as the key to his chastity device. He settled into the cage to wait. She usually brought him some food in a few hours. He wondered where she was, what she was doing, and when she would be home. In the silence of her dungeon, he could usually hear the front door opening, but not much more through the thick stone ceiling. With no clock, it was never easy to tell what time it was and how much time passed. But he was happy to wait. The house above the cellar was luxurious, but he was more than content here, in her cage, waiting at her pleasure.
Time passed. He meditated in the cage, losing his sense of time. Her cage gave him peace, silence. It was one of the many wonderful things she gave him, and he loved the silence here. He heard the front door open, faintly. She was home. He hoped she’d come down to see him. If anything, the sense of anticipation was the most delicious moment. A few minutes later, his heart leapt. The other door to the dungeon – the one leading from the house – opened, and from his cage he could see her black high heels. As always, he felt himself shiver.
‘Hello, slave’, she said. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Have you missed me?’
‘As always, mistress.’
‘Good. How was work?’
‘Very good, thank you mistress.’
‘Good. I need you to keep hitting those targets, if you’re going to keep me in the style I’m accustomed to.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Time for an inspection, then.’
She walked slowly to the cage – knowing every click of her heels made him shiver - and he saw her soft white hands as she opened the padlock. ‘Out. Stand up.’ He did as he was told, and was rewarded with seeing her full height. She was divine. Thick black curly hair, red lips, a white blouse, a tight black skirt, and as ever, the scent of that perfume. That scent was burned into his memory, and it erased all conscious thought. That scent has accompanied blissful pleasure, agonizing pain, deep humiliation, burning sexual frustration, and she knew its power over him. She smiled into his eyes, and then looked down. ‘Hmm. That looks a little swollen.’ She reached down with her soft hand and gently cupped the cage around his cock and balls. ‘How long has it been since it was out of there?’ She knew how long it had been. She was toying with him. They both knew it.
‘Three weeks, mistress.’
‘That’s the longest time yet, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘And when is it coming off?’
He swallowed hard. ‘When you say, mistress.’
This had been part of the deal when he moved into her dungeon. His salary straight into her account; him to come straight home at night and lock himself in the cage; she to be free to see anyone she likes and do anything she likes; him to wear in an unmovable chastity device that she holds the keys to, that comes off only when she wishes to. And is she decides never to unlock him, so be it. ‘That’s right. When I say.’ She smiled up at him again, gently toying with his cock, straining inside the cage. ‘On your knees.’ He dropped instantly. She stepped forward so that the material of her skirt brushed his face. She reached down and gently stroked his hair, pulling his face into her crotch. This was the closest he ever got to her intimate parts. It drove him insane. ‘I’m having some friends round tonight.’ His stomach flipped over.
The last time she had some friends over, two weeks ago, she had come down during the evening and led him upstairs on a lead. They were all young women, enjoying cocktails in the lounge. They gasped when she led him into the lounge, naked except for the collar and chastity cage. They laughed. ‘Oh my GOD! Look at that thing on his cock!’ ‘So, he can’t come, right, not even get hard?’ ‘Look how small his cock is!’ The memory of the delicious humiliation was still with him. She’d even let one of them lead him around by his collar. She’d shown them the key, let them pass it around, and one of them had laughed while she threatened to throw it out of the window into the garden. ‘You remember the last time I had some friends round, right?’ She was smiling. He could tell from her voice.
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Well, it’s a few different people tonight. And I might show you off. Or I might not.’ She smiled. Her free hand stroked his cheek. He felt dizzy, being this close to her. ‘Back in the cage.’
He dropped to his knees and crawled back in. She padlocked the cage, bending down to look in at him. Try as he might, he could not stop his eyes going to her cleavage as her blouse collar fell open. ‘See you later, slave.’ She turned smartly on her heels and walked out. He settled in to wait, full of delicious, dreadful anticipation. …………
Even through the thick ceiling of the dungeon, he could hear the music. It sounded like quite a party. If she was having a few drinks, she might come down later, feeling generous, and unlock the chastity device, and let him pleasure himself. Or she might come down in a savage mood. He wondered. A few hours later he snapped out of his reverie as he heard the door from the house open. She strode in. He could see she was wearing a red silk cocktail dress, fishnet stockings and black shiny heels. He recognized the heels as those she had ordered him to kiss a few days ago. ‘Out.’ She unlocked the cage. He crawled out, but did not stand; he had not been told to. ‘Onto the bench.’ He crawled over to the bondage bench and lifted himself on to it. The bench was designed so that the person lying on it was bent over, buttocks exposed. She buckled the straps around him; his arms, chest and legs, tightly strapped in. Finally, she slipped a blindfold over his head; the world went dark. It was almost too cruel to be deprived of the sight of her. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. See you in a while.’ He heard the click of heels receding, and the door shut. He breathed heavily, waiting, totally immobilized. ……
A few minutes later the door opened again. He heard the click of her heels, accompanied by another set of footsteps, much heavier.
‘Here he is!’
‘Oh my GOD!’ A male voice.
The humiliation burned into him. A man was almost worse.
‘So, he lives down here?’
The male voice was musical, taunting.
‘Yep, he’s my pet.’ He suddenly felt her soft hand on his back, stroking him. That calmed him somewhat. But he was still totally immobilized, blindfolded, painfully exposed. The male voice got closer.
‘What’s THAT?’
‘Chastity device. I’ve got the only key. He can’t even get hard without my say-so. I’ve had him locked up for three weeks in that!’
‘He hasn’t come in three weeks? Man, that’d be hard!’ His balls ached.
‘So, do you like him?’ This didn’t sound good.
‘Yeah. Nice, tight ass. So, may I?’
‘Knock yourself out!’ He heard a belt being unbuckled, a zip. Suddenly he felt her breath at his ear. She whispered to him ‘This is Gary. He’s an old friend of mine. He’s gay. I lost a little bet upstairs, and, well, I’m afraid you’re the forfeit, honey. But don’t worry, I’m going to stay right here and watch to make sure he isn’t too rough on your ass. Just try to relax…’
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It didn’t take much to play dead that bitter November day in 1916. Alexander was practically dead already, another limp body in a field of broken soldiers who tossed their lives away in the Battle of the Somme. In the distance the gunfire spattered on like a spastic drum roll, the dusk occasionally brightening as a shell found its target.
Alexander slowly opened his eyes and found he was breathing…strange since he had resigned himself to death weeks ago. Indeed when he took in the field around him he wondered if for a moment he had not landed in hell. Hundreds of corpses were laid out like latticework on the frozen ground–German, French, and English side by side. He gingerly fingered his ribs to make sure he was actually a live physical body and not simply a hovering spirit.
Shards of memory splintered his mind…a gun shot very close to his ear…twisting his leg…he heard French being spoken above him, past him. Yes, he had laid semi-conscious as the French officers made the rounds about the fallen checking for any unfortunate survivors. He knew they would probably be back soon, and even if they didn’t thieves, vultures or wolves would inevitably harvest the field. With shaking arms he struggled to rise, aware that each moment of the fading daylight was precious. He managed to stand on his sprained ankle, gripping his fist to his mouth to stifle a scream. To his right were hills and the rest of the battle; to his left a forest turning black in the dusk. He chose the forest and limped as best he could over the bloodied remains of his friends and enemies.
It was fully night in the woods. Alexander groped his way through the trees praying there were no Allies hiding there. At one time he hated them for what they represented, but over the past month he had entered into almost sublime detachment. He didn’t blame anyone for killing anyone anymore, it was simply an animal game at this point. There were no emotions at play, only the base sensations that registered in ones muscles and organs: terror, relief, hunger, cold. He did not hate the French, or even the war; he had forgotten what it felt like to hate and to love…all of those emotional luxuries had been thrust into the safety of the past along with luscious accoutrements like hot water and soft beds. His moment to moment was now survival, and how to escape the triple threat of his bad ankle, hypothermia, and a peculiar light-colored fog that had started to edge around his eyes. His foot caught on something and he tumbled, knocking his head into a stone as he hit the ground. Dazed and barely able to see now through his eye-fog, he fumbled desperately through the trees, certain that he would die soon if he did not find shelter.
Suddenly in the distance he could make out color–the lights of a fire perhaps. It could be Ally troops and for a moment he hesitated, but his options were grim: freeze alone or die fighting in hand-to-hand…and so he trudged on towards the light. When he was 20 feet away he realized it was not a fire but a small cottage with a candle in the window. Hope. His vision faltered and he fell again. With his last strength he began to crawl towards the house, praying his eyes would hold until he got there. But it was not his eyes that failed…as Alexander tried to stand one last time a mere five feet from the cottage his concussion drew him to the ground once more in a dizzy collapse. He closed his eyes.
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It was day when Alexander awoke. What day? Where? Soft. His back felt fabric, his head resting on…a pillow? His vision was still foggy and through barely open eyes he could just make out mid-morning light flooding the room. It was definitely a room, as there were none of the familiar birds or breezes or gunfire he had grown accustomed to in the trenches. It was very still, and very warm, perfectly and beautifully warm. He cleared his throat and heard a shuffle to his right. On impulse he jolted forward, adrenaline filling his arms and legs, but a soft hand on his chest steadied him. He could only make out a silhouette blocking the sunlight before his head began to throb and he collapsed back onto the bed.
Again the soft fabric supporting him, but the daylight had given way to night. He slid open his eyes enough to see candles burning next to him. Again the soft hand on his chest. And for the first time a voice. French. Woman. Alexander turned his head to the voice but her face and body were still clouded in fog. When warmth touched his lips he realized she held a spoon to his mouth. He accepted the spoon gratefully, and they sat in silence while she fed him. The soup comforted him more than he expected, and he drifted back into sleep quickly.
Morning. He cleared his throat, desperate for water, but she was seated at his side with a glass ready. His energy had returned enough for him to sit up in the bed, and he propped himself up on one arm and drank greedily. Turning his head about he could take in more of the room than before, but the details were still blurred. It appeared to be the cottage that he had seen that night…he’d made it inside…but this girl, why had she taken him in and not killed him? As he settled his gaze on her he could make out dark hair and pale skin, characteristic of the territory. No older than 20. He felt her fingers caress his forehead and urge him back down to the pillow. He slept.
Dusk. Alexander stirred, stretched. He turned to his side where the girl was standing by the bed. The fog was lifting in his eyes and sitting this close to her in the candlelight he could make out her off-white middy and a gray cardigan draped about her shoulders. Her arms were delicately folded across her chest and above them he saw the swell of ripe breasts. She murmured something in French and sat down in the chair next to him, and he had a sense of her incredible beauty for the first time. Two luscious, red lips curled up like moist petals into a tender half-smile. Her cheeks and hair were shining, vibrant and somewhat childlike, but when he caught her eyes he saw a depth and cunning that drew his breath. Being at war does strange things to a man’s concept of beauty, but Alexander was certain that this girl’s face trumped each and every pinup and magazine pull-out he had seen in the trenches, maybe even ever.
With a gentle hand she brushed the hair from his eyes and trailed her fingers down his cheek. He realized at that moment not only was he naked, he had for the first time in weeks a stunning erection. He raised his knee to attempt to cover his excitement, but the girl smirked in acknowledgement and stepped away from the bed. Behind her he could just make out a large bathtub and plumes of white steam rising from within. She beckoned him with a finger, pointing at the bath. Carefully but without hesitation he lifted his legs from the bed, supporting himself on the side table as he stood for the first time in days. His tall frame was bruised but even now quite able, and as he straightened it became clear that he was still the perfect sexual animal. Broad shoulders, tight stomach, confident hands and an enormous organ that was now painfully hard.
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She kept her eyes on his body as he limped over to the bath, seemingly unfazed by his tremendous arousal. As she slipped out of her cardigan Alexander noted a natural grace in her movements, a sort of soft self-assurance that made him want to fuck her desperately. With one hand on his shoulder she knelt and took a washcloth to his chest, caressing him as she went. He leaned back and allowed her to wash him, gazing at her lush lips and trying to resist the overwhelming urge to kiss her. When she reached his stomach she paused a moment and dropped her head slightly as if addressing some inner commotion. Whispering an oath in French she turned her eyes up to him, her cheeks flushing with desire as let her fingers travel underwater to his cock. Her tiny hand explored it for a moment, impressed with its girth, and then gripped it tight as she leaned into him, murmuring velvet-soft words in her language and letting her warm tongue lap over his ear. Moaning under her mouth he felt his cock pulsing in her hand, begging to enter her. She took a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back, then brought her delicate lips an inch from his and licked the sides of her mouth. He closed his eyes in utter awe of her beauty, and when he opened them again he saw she was now standing with her back to him, facing the window. Looking out onto the darkened forest she gently raised her middy above her head to reveal a soft, bare back. Alexander was astonished by the reflection of her breasts in the window: soft and white and the largest he’d seen on a girl her size. She bent down slowly and with terrible accuracy slipped out of her skirt. Her white panties hugged her sides, tracing gentle, curved lines down her thighs and then falling down, down her legs as the girl pulled them to the floor. Her ass was glorious. Firm, tender, porcelain, and more inviting than Alexander could bear.
He started to rise, but in a moment she was beside him, grasping his throat with her slender fingers and stepping one foot and then the other into the bath. While he gazed up at her she ran her fingers luxuriously down her breasts and stomach, taking in every inch of herself with great enjoyment. Her hands found her thighs just as Alexander’s lips found her hands, and instantly his mouth was on every part of her: legs, wrists, hips, and finally the magnificent opening between her legs. She had already become moist, and he worked his tongue up and down every crevice in heated preparation for his cock, which was by now aching with anticipation. The cottage began to fill with her mewing, quiet at first, like an injured animal, and then louder and broader, surging in strength as her cries took on the unmistakable, trembling resonance of a woman approaching orgasm. She firmly lifted his face away from her glistening cunt and for a moment their eyes met with brutish agreement; then her knees folded and she brought herself down onto his massive erection, quivering as she attempted to take the enormity of it inside her. The girl’s hand went again to his throat, and Alexander struggled slightly under her grip as she worked herself up and down. As her fingers slid to his windpipe he choked out a moan of appreciation and could feel himself swelling inside of her. The harder she squeezed the harder he grew, and she manipulated both his throat and cock expertly—her cheeks flushed with power and sex. Alexander wondered if she would in fact take his life; with his arms quickly growing weak and his consciousness fading she could easily push him past the point of no return. The thought of dying in the girl’s grip with her riding atop him made him feel deeply helpless; pinned down by this Goddess as she used him for her pleasure he almost felt compelled to give his life for her.
The moment was too much. Alexander came furiously, and the force of it brought a wild scream of pleasure from the girl as she joined in with her own orgasm. Finally her hand fell to the side, and he felt the air flood into his searing lungs. They rocked together in rapture, her contractions drawing out his climax for a full minute. At last she collapsed on him, exhausted from the delicious ordeal. When she finally raised her eyes to him he was shocked to see amidst her satisfaction a flicker of hatred. She had been sincere in her stranglehold, and if not for her orgasm might have actually taken his life. But the anger was gone from her face the next moment, and she smiled ever so slightly as she gracefully dismounted him and tiptoed to the bed. She curled up naked on the quilts and like a cat was asleep instantaneously, leaving Alexander to marvel at her in the candlelight.
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There was a day last week where Tom could have escaped. He knew how to jimmy the lock on the neck shackle that chained him to the in the basement. What’s more, Mistress Darcy had an interview with a very prominent author and was running late; in her haste to leave she neglected to turn on the security system in both the house and yard. The system—ironically—Tom had helped install.
He was an electrician and, he liked to believe, master of all things DIY, so when Darcy had first contacted him from an advertisement he’d placed in a newspaper offering his freelance electrician services, Tom thought he had won the lottery of clients. She wanted a completely new lighting system installed into her three-story manor in addition to a complex, electrified security grid that encircled the entire property—10 acres—and made the house practically intruder-proof. Darcy was also an absolute knockout with a soothing, cashmere voice and a body so firm and enticing that Tom had to avert his gaze or else risk embarrassing himself with a blazing erection. But as the days unfolded and Tom labored dutifully, he only found her more and more of a mystery.
Darcy didn’t appear to have a job of any sort, though she was extremely self-important and spent money relentlessly. With what at first seemed like no partner or male visitors (though this later turned out to be false), Tom assumed she was born into money. Most of the time she alternated between what in any other situation would have seemed like flirting and, the rest of the time, disdain…bordering on disgust. Tom was definitely not in her league in any way, and although he was on her payroll she seemed to enjoy treating him like more of a slave than an employee. She also insisted he work shirtless. This last point was somewhat humiliating as Tom wasn’t exactly in his prime, but he found it kind of a turn on and made the most of it. After all, she was paying him far more than anyone ever had.
The lighting system alone was one of the most expensive jobs he had ever done, but his next feat—the security system—was the greatest professional achievement of his life. Darcy claimed she had thought of it herself, but Tom didn’t see how a non-professional could have imagined such an intricate layout. The fence surrounding the estate was five-foot high steel mesh and carried a charge strong enough to discourage foxes, cougars, and definitely any human intruders. The shock wouldn’t kill, but it was impossible to climb. The house’s alarm system had been complimented by all-new metal doorknobs and window panes that carried a charge when the system was on. There was no easy way to get in without breaking down a door. And even if a burglar got in, he would have to find his way past the electrified fence to get back out again. Finally, there was a closed-circuit video system with a camera in each room and around the immediate perimeter of the house. Theses cameras linked to a state-of-the-art security software program that allowed Darcy to monitor the house from her iPhone wherever she went.
The day Tom completed the house’s security system he felt a slight knot in his stomach at having to leave the estate and get “back to reality,” away from the supervision of Mistress Darcy. As he was giving her a tour of the video control center she was audibly impressed at his work. “I have to say, you are one clever little bastard.” Tom had learned to take compliments where he could get them. Darcy was delighted with the video system, and made little squeaks and giggles as she played with the various controls. Listening to her joy, watching her petite hands playing with the dials, Tom wanted very much to do more work for her. She looked at him suddenly, bizarrely, and blurted out, “You know, I think you should do more work for me.” She was curling her lip in an expression he had never seen before. Had she read his mind, or was it just the chemistry between them? Could she sense the arousal growing in his pants as well? “I’d love that, Miss,” Tom stammered. Her snarl turned into a broad grin. “I bet you would. Why don’t we go down to the basement. There’s a whole new project down there waiting for you.”
With joy, anticipation, and a burgeoning erection he trotted along behind her, down the first and second floor stairs to the basement door. He had never been down there, but saw Darcy sneak in every once in a while carrying a large leather bag. She opened the door and coaxed him down the stairs. “Awfully dark in here, Miss,” he chirped. “It’s even darker with a bag over your head,” Darcy whispered as she swept his legs out from under him, pinned his arms behind him and threw a canvas sack over his head in one expert motion. He felt her small grip on his throat and struggled weakly as his consciousness left him.
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Days passed, weeks…Tom was not sure if he was actually still in reality. Every new day brought a new set of tasks for him to complete around the manor, but he had remained in shackles since the day Mistress Darcy first captured him in the basement. He swept, scrubbed, oiled, hammered, tweaked and toiled for 10 hours each day, and in fact the manor had never been in better shape. His only reward was a nightly ritual that he was horrified to admit he actually looked forward to: toilet training. It spanned 5 minutes every night after dinner when Darcy pulled his chain in the direction of the cool tile floor in the hallway, and Tom would lie on his back, open his mouth, and drink every last glistening drop that poured out of her. When she had first started training him he had been messy, spilling it all over his face and chest. Over time, however, Tom had learned not only to catch each droplet but to relish it, to crave it, to live for the despicable, delicious moments when he could be Darcy’s pisspot.
Her piss was glorious. It was not too strong ever, as Darcy hydrated often and thoroughly. He thought at times he tasted honey in her diet, rarely coffee, and never anything bitter or distasteful as she didn’t drink or eat red meat. It was always steaming hot and shot out in a strong, solid stream, the force of which was at times so great that Tom would have to move his head quickly to catch the changes in direction. He loved gazing up at her succulent, ivory ass cheeks peeking out from behind her perfect pussy. Most of all, though, he loved when they happened to meet eyes. Darcy would catch his gaze every so often and stare into him with a power and allure that made him feel faint. It was all he could do when she looked at him like that to keep his mouth open and continue swallowing.
So that day when Tom finally had his chance to flee—his neck shackle chafing at him and the sun shining outside on a gorgeous, cloudless sky—he had to think about whether or not he could bear to unlock himself. He was living as a slave: not a fantasy, a reality, with no sexual outlet and no community. Yet he sat there gazing out the window and realized he had never felt more purpose in his life. He was serving a real life Goddess and was discovering layers of eroticism he never knew existed. Furthermore after having lived in this altered plane of reality for even a month he didn’t know if he ever could—or would—go back.
TO BE CONTINUED……..
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New fantasy in the works…coming soon!
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