Short n Sweet

 

 

SHORT N SWEET

 

 

Part Two: August

 

or ‘Cruel to be Kind’

 

 

 

Well, whaddaya know ?

Rip’s back !

I was gonna quit this lark because you all chose some jack-shit story about a male sub and his missus over my ‘magnum opus’.

I mean, come on guys !

You really prefer reading all that fucking and cucking baloney in “Five Nerds” when you can join me sucking the marrow out of life ?

I thought not.

Anyway some nice porn surfer dude tipped the scales with his kind review and pushed my average score up to 9.5 so I figured that I’d dig out at least Chapter Two of my biography and we’ll see what happens next.

 

“I’ve got to go up north for a few days.” Di said.

I stopped what I was doing and looked at her.

“Trouble ?”

“Not serious.”

Di’s father is a widower and not in the best of health. He lives in a remote village on the English border with Scotland and, about twice a year, Di goes up there to sort him out; tidy up, stock the fridge, take him to the dentist and doctor, all the usual stuff an old guy on his own needs help with.

“No problem.” I replied, encouragingly. She usually feels guilty leaving me on my own but, of course, this time things were different !

I looked down at Short’s butt. He was bent over clutching his ankles and peering up at me through his legs. His ass cheeks were red with mottled welts and some modest yellowish and lavender bruising.

“Where were we, shorty ?”

“Sixteen, S … sir.”

“That’s seven left, huh.”

He owed me 23 strokes to cover the day’s interest bill.

I proferred the whippy cane to Di. “Fancy a short work out ?”

She smiled. “No. I’ve got to pack.”

I nodded, raising my right arm.

Some guys do all the work.

 

I keep a calendar on my desk. And a notebook that I use as a diary. Just a few lines a day to prompt the old memory bank.

That’s how I know that the afternoon that Di left to visit her dad was the 33^rd day of Short and Sweet’s … er, domestic employment. It was also one of the hottest days in British history. A sultry 99 degrees Fahrenheit at Heathrow airport and around 95 where we live, cooled as we are by the coastal breezes. I remember the perspiration dripping off me as I fucked Sweet on the sun lounger while Short mowed the lawn.

And I had an idea.

 

But before I get to my idea, I need to fill you in on a couple of things that had happened in the preceding weeks. First off were a couple of long heart-to-hearts with Short about his chastity. As I said, I am into experiments and I was particularly keen to explore the effects of sexual frustration on an average guy. Most days I would jot down in my book his response to my enquiry about how it was going. Just a word or two he said, like “difficult day”, or “really hard”, “balls feeling blue”. Gradually, I noticed a change, however. One day he described a “tantric energy” feeling that had got him through a gruelling day of fieldwork for Di. When I probed he explained that of course he was desperate to cum but he felt that it would spoil the amazing feeling if he did. Then three days later he even said he was “over the worst”. We had a long talk and I realised that he was like a guy on a tough diet whose stomach has shrunk, or a smoker who’s over the cold turkey of giving up the cigs. I wasn’t sure I felt too good about that. On the other hand, the main thing was one simple fact.

After 33 days with us he still hadn’t had any relief.

 

The other thing was Sweet. As I told you in July, they had signed over “ownership papers” to us, for 24/7, without limits slavery. And at the time they signed, I’m sure they genuinely meant ‘without limits’.

The four of us had a discussion in a pub the first time we met, and both Di and I stated up front we weren’t remotely into extreme sadism, mutilation, that kind of snuff. But we agreed that if they wanted anything else in the bondage, punishment, sex and humiliation spheres to be off-limits, they had better say so up front.

Which was Sweetie Pie’s big mistake.

She kept schtum.

No she wasn’t the first, and I doubt will be the last subbie to over-estimate her tolerance, but she certainly has found it difficult living with the consequences. Don’t get me wrong. This truthful account is ‘consensual’. She doesn’t want to leave. But she has endured several things I know she wishes that she’d blacklisted when she had the opportunity.

 

My goal was to explore her limits and it really didn’t take me that long to find one. Nine days actually. And in the end the simple recipe was just a plant, a freezer, a little oil, and some imagination.

Now, some of you may not know a cucumber is a plant, but it is. From the magnoliophyta division. It is a creeping vine and its ‘fruit’ is the cylindrical vegetable we eat, either as a slicer or a pickler. The longest of all is the English cucumber that grows to 24 inches. But my favourite is the Marketmore Ridge, which is a little shorter, but thicker, ridged and a fair bit spicier, in more ways than one !

So you take one cucumber, freeze it solid, apply a generous coating of lubrication – in this case it was Johnson’s baby oil – and sit back to watch the ‘gourmet’ tucking into her lunch, so to speak.

Sweet shivered, sat cross-legged in front of me and Di, and slowly eased the thing into her bald, pouting young pussy. Di doesn’t like me raving about how tight Sweet’s cunt is, so I won’t, and it isn’t that tight any more, but at that time it felt like a moist velvet glove crushing your dick.

This cucumber was 3.15 inches (8 cms) thick at the widest part. Of course, the ends are tapered so it was a little easier at first, aside from the sub-zero temperature gnawing at her hot snatch.

Bravely, like some Antarctic explorer she pushed on. Onwards and upwards, with Di and I sipping our after-lunch coffees. I was fascinated the way that her puffy lips seemed to part wider to accommodate the green invader. But at about 7 inches, not even half way, she gasped “no more”.

Now that, of course, doesn’t count as her failing a test of her limits.

On the contrary.

The test only began at this point, when she thought she could take no more. There had already been other tests, other “no mores”, and she had passed them all so far. At that stage, we had no reason to doubt that Sweet wouldn’t manage to get at least another, say, 5 inches inside her, and thus achieve what we’d register as a ‘modest pass – must try harder next time.’

But she stopped, eyes a bit moist, gasping, and looked at us.

“Go on.” Di said calmly. Not at all impatiently or unreasonably, in my view. In fact, it was my wife at her most magnanimous.

Sweet made some half-hearted attempt to push, then pulled. Hard.

She yanked the thing completely out, making a sound like when those last few drops of bathwater whirl down the plughole.

I was amazed. Rebellion !

I moved fast, assisted by Di. We got Sweet strung up helpless. Then we punished her. I had to gag her with a couple of pairs of Di’s soiled panties from the dirty laundry basket to shut her up. It took nigh on 24 hours of being tied, helpless and silent, suffering various types of penalty before Sweet saw reason. But she’d shown she had limits after all.

Secretly, I was thrilled.

 

Anyway, back to ‘my idea’.

I am as slovenly as the next guy. I’ve been civilised by my wife but left to my own devices I wear the same underpants for days, grow a beard and drop the daily shower. I return to my Neanderthal roots.

Of course, Di doesn’t have to keep on at me when she’s around. I’ve learned to take pride in my wardrobe, looks and cleanliness. I like walking into a room and sensing that at least a few of the women might take a second glance, even though I’m mid-forties now.

But my idea was that, having a few days alone with Sweet and Short, I could take the opportunity to behave as if I was on my own.

So the morning after Di left, I pulled on the same clothes.

I brushed my teeth but didn’t shower, shave or wash.

I left off the deodorant and after-shave.

I took a walk in the sunshine and enjoyed the damp patch under my armpits. I ate breakfast on the terrace and built up a good sweat.

I took an after breakfast dump.

I sat back and enjoyed a blowjob from Sweet in the great outdoors.

 

A quick aside here; you have to remember when reading this, that life with slaves is not all about sex. Or even bdsm. You just can’t do it. No, life is above all about chores and drudgery and the zillions of little tasks that fill a slave’s working day. Things like trimming blades of glass to an exact length with nail scissors, scrubbing bathrooms with toothbrushes, polishing every stick of furniture with beeswax and a fingernail sized piece of cloth.

So if I don’t mention what they were doing most of the time, you can fill in the scene. They were working hard, 16 hours a day, doing stuff.

 

By day three, I was nicely ripe.

Again, I brushed my teeth but I left my stubble and stink intact.

Any scents ? Nonsense.

I sat naked on the lavatory and savoured the pungent, matured odour that my body now exuded. My feet were like two slices of brie and my groin reminded me of one of those boursin cheeses covered in pepper. It mingled interestingly with the aroma from the can.

By the time I’d spent an hour on the sun bed, instead of attracting the August flies, I was driving the insects away !

I called Sweet over and interrupted her long list of daily chores to lie down with me. I could tell she didn’t fancy it but I gave her a nice sweaty fuck, ending by planting a good load deep in her cunt. Then I dispatched her to work outdoors so that she could get nice and humming too.

That night, Di rang and said she’d be away a few more days. I was duly muted and told her to take whatever time was necessary with her dad. Then I had Sweet cook me up a hot curry, a dish that Di doesn’t like.

That night was so humid and I was so smelly I barely wanted to sleep with myself ! Every time I rolled over I got attacked by my armpits. I don’t think I could have lasted another 24 hours without a shower.

 

Day Four.

D-Day.

I noticed that Sweet was more ‘sour’ than sweet that morning. I let her brush her teeth and scrub her face but passed on her usual morning cold shower. I studied her doing her private ablutions and cut short her customary wipings. It was yet another hot day and I sent her off jogging a couple of miles in our fields.

By now, I could have been cast in a movie as a street bum of the worst kind. I had a coffee and after I’d dumped out the previous night’s excess curry, I admired the dry dingleberries hanging from my anal hairs.

Dingleberry-Day.

I was ready.

 

I waited until brunch time, when the sun had warmed up. I tucked into coffee, eggs, sausage and beans while I watched Short’s wiry frame digging six metal stakes into the lawn. Then I called Sweet over and told her to lie down between them.

I checked as he tied Sweet’s wrists, knees and ankles to the stakes so she was spread eagled in the sun. Her knees were stretched wider than her ankles so she could raise her butt slightly off the grass. Then I handed him an ‘o’ ring spider gag I’d used a couple of times on her previously for oral sex. He fixed the rubber and steel contraption into Sweet’s mouth and tightened it into position, lifting her head gently off the ground to lock the strap in place. Her turquoise eyes looked up at us both uncertainly.

She looked good, in spite of the gag stretching her features. Her blonde bob was a bit unkempt and her creamy skin was a tad grubby, but I still found Sweet’s angelic face incredibly attractive. It would take a lot longer than a month before I’d tire of her looks. Her tits were that rare blend of size and firmness. They stood up like cones of vanilla ice cream as she lay there, rather than spreading out like most big ones do.

Next, I casually took a couple of sets of steel police cuffs from my belt. Short turned round and I locked his wrists together. He knelt down and I locked his ankles too. Wife and husband were at my mercy. I had him lie face down with his head on Sweet’s sweaty, fishy mound. He kind of wiggled helplessly, unable to use his arms or legs for leverage.

“Shorty.” I said, crouching down. “You love a good cream pie. Well, this is a fish pie. With extra salt. Let’s see you tuck in.”

I gave him a couple of smacks across his bare, bruised butt as he slobbered his mouth, lips and tongue into position between his wife’s glistening thighs. As I’ll maybe get onto in Chapter Three, the cream pie has an important symbolic role to play in a sub couple arrangement, but not just the mundane creamy sort of pie.

I knelt down by Sweet’s head. She opened her eyes and squinted.

“That nice, doll ?”

I stroked a bead of dusty sweat from her brow. She has this beauty spot on the left side of her chin that makes her resemble a 1920s gangster’s moll. Her sensuous lips looked a bit uncomfortable round the ‘o’ ring.

She nodded uncertainly in gagged response to my question. Her husband’s tongue is one of the three ways I sometimes give her permission to cum. Maybe she hoped that’s what was going to happen now ?

“Sun in your eyes ?”

She peeked up at me and nodded that it was. A fly settled on her chin and buzzed her gaping mouth. I flicked it away and smiled at her.

“Here, let me help.”

She didn’t say anything. I don’t think she realised ! I carefully moved round, facing her feet, with my knees planted either side of her ribs and my ankles touching her ears. At the last moment I glanced between my legs and caught a horrified look in her eyes.

Mmmmmffffffffff

She exhaled in a whoosh that tickled my butt. I sat down heavily, all 200 pounds of me, my rim circling her nose and my balls laid over her chin.

The stakes held firm in the dry ground as her arms and legs tightened. Her limbs jerked and Short tried to raise his head. I slapped him down.

“Get on with your job, kid.”

After a few more seconds, I raised my hips slightly, and felt Sweet gasping in a breath of fetid air. There was a sound like a tennis player’s grunt.

I plonked myself back down, sealing off her face from the sun.

Let’s have you licking where the sun don’t shine.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmfffffffffffffggghhhh !

She objected even more strongly. Again, her bindings easily held firm.

“Okay, doll.” I said, leaning down to my right, nearer her ear. “Let’s feel that tongue of yours get to work, huh. My little human bidet.”

I felt a disappointing and cursory wet lick, no more, and then she seemed to start fighting again, trying to shake her head.

I pushed down. Hard. Cutting off any chance of oxygen.

Again, Short looked up, unsure what was happening. I pulled his hair.

“You’ll only make things worse, sunshine.”

Suddenly, Sweet stopped moving. I felt her go limp.

Then her tongue started burrowing its way as far into my rectum as the ring gag allowed her.

“Thatsagirl.” I murmured in encouragement, lifting up and letting her wheeze in another breath. I peered down one side and she looked a bit like a landed fish, it’s mouth gaping on deck, eyes bulging.

After that, we gradually found a nice, easy rhythm. I’d sit down for 25 seconds or so and she’d hold her breath while slavishly performing a truly conscientious rim job, then I’d lift up for 5 seconds and she’d suck fresh air into her lungs, before we’d repeat the cycle.

Now, when I say, er … fresh. That’s a relative term of course.

We’re talking serious body odour here. And my ass was a battlezone.

Then reinforcements arrived in the form of the gas produced by my hearty brunch. I smiled to myself as I felt it bubble up and out; a nice flatulent trumpet aimed directly between her stretched lips. This produced another whimper of indignation from Sweet but she soon enough behaved after I reached down between my thighs and tugged her soft nipples with my fingernails.

I unselfishly relieved her of some of my weight so she could kiss and breathe at the same time.

For those of you who maybe haven’t had the pleasure of a proper facesit, I’ll try and describe the sensations. First, there’s the simple sexual buzz. Like most guys, my prostate and asshole enjoy a good tongue tickle every bit as much as the business end of my equipment. Second, there’s the power thrill. There’s not much that demonstrates who’s boss better than using somebody’s face as a stool. Third, there’s the sadistic bit. That’s the part that made me go four days without bathing to add to her distress. I’d never done it anything like that before. Her sweet button nose and cute pink tongue were sniffing and licking in spite of her total disgust. Nice, huh ?

I eased myself up onto one buttock and ripped out a second fart into her nostrils. It was a better one. One of those wet, cheek-slappers, but this time she kept obediently silent and simply inhaled.

Of course, you have to remember that, deep down amongst the dingleberries, you’re actually doing the sub a favour. A masochist gets no thrill from always sticking inside her or his comfort zone. Hence the subtitle of this chapter being ‘Cruel to be Kind’. The total disgust and pushing of limits is what everybody needs in the end. Dom and sub alike.

By now my dick was hard as a rock, throbbing in the hot sunshine. I shut my eyes a few moments and basked in the rays while rocking back and forth slowly on the ridge of Sweet’s face. I reached down and grasped my erection, gently teasing the sensitive part of the shaft. Short was still lapping away in his wife’s clammy box and I realised there was no way I wanted to finish things off in there, so I pumped my dick and pretty soon I was hosing a geyser of cream over Sweet’s tummy. It looked like I had squeezed suntan lotion to rub on her and had crushed the tube too hard. One blob had flown and landed in Short’s hair.

I got my breath back and slowly climbed up off her face.

She winced with a mix of relief and the shock of the lights being turned on. I hunkered down by her head.

“Well done, sweetness. We must do that again.”

She peered at me with one eye open, clearly not too impressed by my idea. Her skin was slick with moisture, streaks of dust and dirt and hell knows what. Her gums and tongue were pink inside the ‘o’ gag. I wondered what bitter aftertaste was cloying her palate and throat.

I lay down on the grass next to her, like a post-coital lover.

“Lick my pit.”

I moved my hairy armpit to within an inch of her cheek. She turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were bright blue like the sky, glazed over with submission, and acceptance. We’d been up against a limit and sped through it in one exciting session. Her pink tongue snaked out.

“You.” I nudged Short’s head with my knee. “Clean up.”

For a while I simply observed as she lapped at my sweaty underarm and he slurped my puddles from his wife’s skin. Then I shut my eyes and lay back.

Damn I was ready for a shower.

 

I can thoroughly recommend our arrangement to the ‘green lobby’.

We do a lot of recycling. We keep a bucket by the kitchen sink into which go all the scraps; the skins and stuff from preparing meals and then the scrapings and sweepings from our pans and plates from cooking and eating them. Di and I have always enjoyed good food.

We use the contents of the bucket to feed Short and Sweet. We find it the most cost effective way to ensure they get a balanced diet. It’s surprising how much people waste nowadays. The bucket fills in no time. We then dump the contents in a motorised food processor and liquidise it to a pulp, before boiling the whole lot in a pan. Another thing; it’s funny how it pretty much always turns out a reddish-brown colour, like baby food, whatever ingredients Di and I have used the day before ! After the mush’s been boiled and cooled in a tray, we add gelatine and put it in the fridge. That way it sets into a chunky, glutinous jelly.

Finally, cut into portions and garnish to serve !

Believe it or not, it’s a healthy diet. We give them about 1500 calories a day. Both have lost a few pounds but they could afford to. It’s mainly vegetarian, given that Di and I generate a lot of peelings, but there’s also proteins and fats from cheese rinds, cuts of meat fat and gristle, bits of egg, and obviously whatever we may have rejected or wasted if we’re full.

Some people like to see slaves eat on the floor. But Di and I prefer watching them close up, as they tuck in. So I usually put their dishes out on a special ‘table’ Short made. It’s a plank of wood at chest height on block legs. That way we can lean in and admire the shiny swill as they suck it up using just their mouths, hands politely behind their backs.

Before starting each meal, they say thank you to us for what they are about to eat. They thank us for generously providing their food, for the care in its selection and preparation, for not indulging them in carbs, sweets and junk food, for helping the planet by recycling, and for teaching them not to be fussy.

It’s sweet how sincere they sound.

 

I was going to tell you more about their ‘housing’ arrangements but I’ve run out of time. This Chapter is 4,000 words already. Better than 5 measly words any time. But let me know if you’d like to hear all the details of housing, etc., in Chapter Three. Also, I have strong views about the role of the cream pie in a mixed doubles event like ours. Not just the mundane ‘cream pie’ but ‘cream turnovers’, ‘chocolate éclairs’, ‘lemon meringue pie’, ‘raspberry coulis’, ‘Len and Terrys whipped sorbet’ and, my own savoury favourite, ‘fish and bitter anchovy pie’. However, if you’re not interested in that stuff, feel free to say you’d rather I bypass it.

 

Until then, another final thought; ‘mingle with dwarfs; then you’ll appear like a giant’.

 

END OF PART TWO

To be continued – maybe – in Part Three (‘September’)