Stranger Than Fiction

STRANGER THAN FICTION

by Velvetglove

“I can believe anything, provided it is incredible.”

(Oscar Wilde)

Please don’t read this expecting anything extra to Parts 1-4. It’s just I find that when the ‘whole story’ option in a separate window is selected on Bdsm Library, my formatting and font often appear skewed, making the complete story hard to read. Hence this repost of the Whole Story (29,000 words) with minor improvements and typographical corrections.

Copyright & Codes

This story is © Velvetglove and no commercial use whatsoever is authorised without prior permission.

Please note codes: M/mf, BDSM, real, consensual, slow, humiliation, reluctant, serious, slavery, toys, chastity belt, mild cbt, water sports, enema, mild scatology.

PART ONE

PURE AND SIMPLE

“The truth is rarely pure, and never simple”

(Oscar Wilde)

This is a true story. Truth can sometimes be, as they say, ‘stranger than fiction’. During 2009, I received many emails and messages enquiring whether I have given up writing stories and why I stopped posting. I apologise now to all those to whom I never replied. What follows will hopefully make the reason obvious – in short, I have had better things to do than write !

Do not read this story expecting heavy scenes of flogging and gang rape. It is a genuine account of real people and actual events, albeit I’ve taken a bit of license recreating some dialogue. Please note that what follows is not intended to be a full day-to-day diary. That would be boring and it would take me too long to write anyway. It is mostly a random collection of my memories and thoughts, starting back in early December 2008.

December 2008

Our first meeting will stay with me forever.

I can picture them both now, many months later, smell her musky perfume again and measure his firm handshake. To this day, I miss them.

Of course, I had seen them numerous times over the web-cam but in the flesh everything is different; vivid, real, multidimensional.

We are sitting in the discreet cocktail bar of one of London’s West End hotels. It is hushed, dark, low-lit by candle-lamps on the tables, and pin-spots from the ceiling.

Candace and I drink champagne. Jed orders a beer.

“Gee, I can’t believe we’re finally here.” They say in turn, verbally and via their body language.

Their accents are typically Midwestern to my ear: ‘rhotic’ – as in they pronounce the ‘r’ in words like beer and water, whereas most of us Brits tends to swallow the ‘r’ sound, unless we’re from the West Country.

But like us they rhyme ‘on’ with Don, not a Southern American drawl rhyming with ‘Dawn’.

Candace is from Illinois and Jed’s from Pennsylvania.

Everybody is a little nervous, embarrassed. Even me. It is many years since I went on a date.

It has taken us 8 weeks to reach this moment. From their initial email to this first meeting. Many evenings spent corresponding, chatting, phoning, negotiating, planning.

Candace looks as good close up as I hoped, better even, without the distortion and delays via optic fibre. I still cannot quite believe it, even though I’ve known for a long time that she was indeed real, and not some male fantasist pretending to be a woman, or a fraudster seeking my credit card details.

It would be nice to describe her as ‘actress-model beautiful’. I’m sure readers would prefer it if they could picture some truly gorgeous babe. But in truth that would be a slight exaggeration.

Nevertheless, I give her a 7 or 7.5 out of 10. I told her to her face that her lower half lets her down a bit. We’ll be working on her tone and shape. Overall, I guess the fairest epithet is ‘girl-next-door pretty’.

Curvy.

Innocent.

Lovely Face.

CILF.

A Cunt I’d Like to Fuck.

She’s 5’6” tall and 26 years old.

Her eyes are an unusual peanut butter shade of light brown. They glint in the candlelight as she glances at me over her champagne flute, fluttering her thick lashes, dropping her eyes when I hold her gaze. The gesture is more shy than flirtatious.

Her hair is shoulder length, ash-blonde, curled into her throat in a style I always think of as typical Americana. She has an elegant neck and a heart shaped face with a cute dimple in her chin.

She arrived wearing a winter coat and scarf but now sits in just her black woollen dress, formal but sexy, clinging to her curves. I have already seen her naked online, but I have to fight an urge to lean over and test her plump tits as they strain against the fabric.

As I said, her lower half is less good. She is pear-shaped; a little heavy on the hips, stout calves and ankles, although flattered by the black stockings and shiny high heels she wears tonight.

But, hey, I can’t complain. She’s cute, married and half my age.

The three of us make small talk; about their flight over, the extortionate cost of taxis from the airport, their hotel, the cold weather, English beer.

“No regrets yet ?”

“None so far.” They both reply, grinning bashfully.

Later - but only fifteen minutes later - we have moved to the hotel’s disabled person’s toilet.

The small room is cramped but large enough for Candace and me, while Jed stands sentry outside the locked door.

It smells of that heady cocktail of air spray, disinfectant and floor polish, typical of hotel facilities. I sit on the plastic toilet seat.

“Show me.”

She blushes and hesitantly turns.

“Please, could you …”

I drag the zipper at the back of her dress down.

She turns round, raises her arms, and pulls the dress over her head. Her skin is pale, almost white, but flawless. At my age, you forget what young skin is really like close up. Taut not tired. Her tits tightly pack her lacy, 34D bra.

She blushes and hangs her dress on the hinged bracket-arm provided for wheelchair users.

“Lose the bra.”

She bites her lower lip, reaches behind her back and unclips, then pulls the spaghetti hoops down her arms. The cups fall away.

I stare. Her nipples are erect, raspberry-pink against her milk-white boobs. Under the bright toilet light, I notice tiny hairs that I never spotted on camera.

Ever so slowly, I reach up, cup them, weigh them, thumb her nips.

“Kneel.”

She glances down at the cold tiled floor and lowers herself onto her knees.

“You know what to do.”

I take my weight on the toilet seat so she can undo my belt, tug down my pants. I’m a year older than her dad. I train, am still reasonably fit but, hey, you can’t completely defy time or gravity. I’ve got a thickening waist and a couple of hairy ripples from my navel to my groin.

“Look at me.”

Her nut-brown eyes blink upwards. My erection bobs in her face. A network of blue veins fans out through the shaft up to my uncircumsized crown. My foreskin is stretched half back and my piss-slit is lined up with her nose.

Candace has had three boys in her life so far; two boyfriends and her husband. I have already interrogated her with many impertinent questions online.

I gesture via a tilt of my chin.

She opens her mouth. Her tongue flicks out like a snake’s and she slowly takes my hardness between her soft lips. Our eyes remain locked.

I settle back against the toilet cistern, push my knees open wide. My pants are puddled at my feet. Her hands gently rest on my thighs.

“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”

I’ve known all kinds of blowjob artists in my life; the good, the bad and the plain useless. As a rule, I think that chicks try harder in their teens and twenties, and then kind of lose interest as they get older.

Certainly my own wife did.

“You can finger my balls. But no touching my dick. Mouth only.”

Candace had initially claimed to like giving oral but, when I delved deeper, I established she’ll need a lot of work. I’m not sure her standards and mine are on the same wavelength.

Like too many girls, she regards oral primarily as foreplay, a reciprocal activity. In a written questionnaire I gave him, Jed admitted he was grateful for a bit of sucking before fucking, or even a 69. Candace apparently only tried swallowing once and that was eight years ago with her first boyfriend.

Weirdly, Jed has never got her to blow him to completion, even when they tried roleplaying D/s together. Tellingly, she has never had a ‘one-night-BJ-stand’ in her life, even when she was a teenager.

Needless to say, her presence in London means she accepts that will change.

Her lips are sliding up and down on me manically now, much too fast and hard, a slurping sound oozing out the sides of her mouth. Trying hard to impress, too hard, no finesse, barely a fucking clue.

“Lick my balls.”

She frowns uncertainly as she eases her mouth away, disappointed by my tone. I take my dick in my own hands. I don’t smile encouragement. I want her to feel inadequate, taste my disappointment. We met in the flesh barely an hour ago but I see no reason to soothe her feelings. After all, that’s not what she has travelled 4,000 miles for.

“Your face.”

My fingers smack rhythmically against her forehead. I enjoy imagining her blurred view of my pumping fist and my bare stomach. I force my eyes to stay open as I unload. A thick rope uncoils into her coiffed hair. At my age you have to prepare right and I’ve suffered 72 hours without cumming, regularly teased my balls into production mode.

It’s not a porno-movie gusher but it’s a nice, impressive load.

Her eyes widen in shock then snap shut in self-protection as a white puddle forms in her eye socket.

Impressive jets garnish her forehead, cheeks, eye and one nostril.

At last, I’m done. I sag back in the seat and sigh with satisfaction.

Our deal is sealed.

The agreement was that this would be the point of no return.

She had known what was coming.

In more ways than one.

I leave her to dress. Jed looks apprehensively at me when I emerge. We both know. His 26 years old wife of 4 years. Candace. She is mine.

“Still no regrets ?”

“No.” he mumbles. “Sir.”

Theirs was clearly a mutual decision but the initial spark was his. A casualty of the commodity trading industry, his generous redundancy pay-off and unemployment created the opportunity. He first emailed me eight weeks ago about my story ‘Priceless’. It was the spark that set their imaginations alight.

I’m no expert judge but he seems a goodlooking kid. Clean cut, college educated, middle-American, like his girl. He’s an inch shorter than me but appears taller, as he holds himself ramrod straight. This is no pussy wimp. His submissiveness is purely mental and sexual. Not physical.

“She was okay.” I pronounce.

He nods, adding “thank you,” in a whisper, as an afterthought.

His trader’s eyes are gunmetal grey, not easy to read.

It is an awkward but epic moment. To have any young woman blow you in a public toilet any time is pleasurable. For that young woman to be another man’s lady is very special. Talking about it, planning it, is exciting.

However, the moment it actually happens for the first time is the icing on the cake, so to speak.

An unspoken treaty has been signed between us; ilia iacta est.

But it is privately special for another reason. It is the first time in more than two decades that I’ve been with a new woman in any way.

The door opens and Candace appears, looking first at me, then at Jed. He’s holding her coat and scarf ready for a quick getaway.

Her face and hair are still streaked. I said she could wipe her eyes but leave the remainder for him to do. Her mascara is smudged.

The corridor is clear. But the doors to the separate male and female washrooms could open at any time. I slowly pull a handkerchief out of my pocket.

“Here.” I say. “Mop her up.”

October 2008

October 2nd: We loved Priceless so much. My wife and I would relish a bit of the ‘Velvetglove treatment’, either online, or maybe even real-time. If you were ever interested, please contact us. J + C.

October 3rd: Thanks for your email. It’s always nice to know when people have enjoyed a story. Sure, I’d be interested in corresponding, but only if you can prove you’re a genuine couple and not some wannabe guy ! V

October 3rd: Please find photos of us both attached. J + C        

October 4th: Resend similar photos, this time with you holding up today’s Tribune and C standing topless in just a black thong. V

October 8th: It was great to speak with you at last. We accept the one-way webcam proposal. We don’t need to see you to make up our minds !! J + C

October 17th: I’ll be honest, I never expected things to get this far ! No regrets yet ?! Okay, a bit complicated but I’ll give serious consideration to you visiting me in UK. V. PS. – glad you enjoyed Damaged Goods.

October 28th: Here is my own list of likes, dislikes and limits, Sir. I haven’t shown it to Jed. BTW, I handed in my notice today. C.

October 28th: Here is my (brief) list as requested, Sir. I agree to all your proposed terms. I am looking into flights just after Thanksgiving. J.

November 5th: Congrats to Barack ! Still no regrets ? V.

November 15th: All booked. Families told. Everybody excited about our “European vacation”. J

December 2008

No limits.

Six months.

That’s the deal.

Except that it’s a sensible ‘no limits’, whereby they have put their trust in me. They want the excitement, the buzz, the slavery, the complete loss of control, but they don’t want to end up damaged, disfigured or dead.

Fortunately, damage, disfigurement and death do nothing for me either.

I am forced to confront reality. I already care about this pair I’ve barely met. I will have to relearn my behaviour from the 1980s. They must know I care but not see I care. I must invoke Candace’s lust without us falling in love. I must demolish Jed’s pride without destroying his spirit. We must all three walk a tightrope without any of us falling - a delicate balance.

They have six months tourist Visas to remain in UK. As far as their families and friends are concerned, they’re travelling in Europe. We will use occasional emails and phone calls home to keep everybody happy. Next year, we’ll even take a few trips abroad to stage a few photos !

They move into my apartment on their second day. They hand over their passports, money, suitcases for my ‘safe keeping’.

Already packages have arrived from various online retailers.

My London apartment overlooks the River Thames. It has a large, open-plan kitchen-living room with a big window and fine view. There is a corridor with three bedrooms leading off it; first, my master bedroom and en suite bathroom, then a guest double, and finally a smaller third bedroom that is fitted out as my home office. At the far end of the corridor are the family bathroom and a glass door to the spiral staircase up to my roof deck above.

The décor is cluttered contemporary; modern furnishings mixed with antiques, loads of photos, art and books, wooden floors and Persian rugs.

There are family touches everywhere. But I live here alone now. Sadly, my wife and I are having what’s termed a trial separation. Candace and Jed know the score.

I have relocated my office to a desk in the main living room. I assign Candace to the guest double and put Jed on a foldout in the third room.

Drudgery.

Many years ago, I knew a submissive woman who was turned on by domestic drudgery. She said that sex and bondage were all very well, but the true test of a lifestyle slave is 24/7 toil. No Master or Mistress is interested in permanent sex. He or she wants sex available on tap but the rest of the time needs a slave who quietly gets on with everything else.

It is what we have agreed. For six months. No breaks. No respite. In Part Two, I will give further insight into what that all means.

In short, the most monotonous, unexciting and boring jobs, all day, every day.

For now, Candace is dressed as a maid in black and white. Jed wears a shiny pink PVC ballet tutu I selected from an adult baby website.

She looks hot, he looks ridiculous.

It is Day 4 and already, my apartment has never been so spic and span. I have to create mess just to keep them occupied. The bedrooms and bathrooms sparkle like a show home.

“She’s getting better.” I comment to Jed.

Candace is sucking my dick.

After two decades of great marriage and good sex, my own dear missus recently agreed ‘to turn a blind eye’. Four years ago, she had a hysterectomy and her sex drive has been on the wane ever since. We’re still in love and want to work things out, so we’re taking some time apart, though we still speak on the phone most days.

Would I have pushed for a trial separation if Jed had never sent me that email ? That’s a question I would rather not dwell on. Ironically, I started writing sex stories as a way of keeping myself out of mischief. Yet, lo and behold, it’s one of those stories that has got me where I am today.

I’m sat in an armchair, talking to Jed. He’s leaning in close, his face inches from his wife’s. Candace is already giving me an improved service. Her tongue flutters, her lips slither with just the right amount of pressure.

“Good girl.”

I pat them on the heads like poodles. First her, then him.

Personally I’m a BJ guy. Always have been. I mean I love most everything else too but oral is my dish of choice. Somehow it feels less unfaithful to my wife too. I guess I agree with Bill Clinton on that score !

“Closer.”

I clip the back of Jed’s head until he touches cheeks with Candace.

Faces flushed, pressed together, they both look up at me.

I idly wonder what is going on behind those grey eyes of his.

What are her flecked brown eyes saying ?

It’s easy for me to say but I think that, deep down, my wife is relieved to be handing over her conjugal duties to a younger, more compliant model. After many years of marriage, even if we don’t admit it, we all know that making love to the same person isn’t really about sex any more. Not in its hot, raw sense.

It’s about love, familiarity, comfort, shared emotions and memories.

And pleasure too, of course.

But it is tame, not raw.

It is warm, not hot.

I still love to fuck my wife. I just wished she needed it as much as me.

It’s been over a quarter of a century since I had a sub that I could train to do it exactly as I like. Dedicated. Respectful. Analingus. Ball worship. Jaw ache. I prefer a blowjob to take a long time. Not so as it becomes frustrating for me, but no rush either.

What is that old joke ?

What’s better than roses on a piano ?

Tulips on an organ.

I’m near, now. Thrusting against her bobbing, tiring mouth. My shirt is open. Both their faces are shining with sheens of sweat.

Jed is his wife’s age; clean-shaven, fit, handsome, her husband.

While I’m over 50; with a stubbly chin, a bit paunchy, a stranger.

Yet by some quirk of sexuality and fate, it is my dick, not his, that Candace’s tulips are now sucking, two, three, even four times a day.

“Mmm … yessssssss.”

Her pupils dilate but she manages to hold my gaze as I seed her mouth. Jed studies her closely. After thirty seconds, she carefully extracts my dick from her lips, keeping them closed. She kneels back and tilts her head slightly as I’ve taught her.

Then she gargles. The sound of music. A gulping swallow is not enough for me. I want my jism appreciated like the fine porridge that it is. She trills it round her mouth. Tongue. Gums. Tonsils. Tasting. Chewing. Not swallowing.

“Share it.”

Jed’s neck twists and Candace leans over to drop the semen-saliva snowball into his open mouth. Then he gargles too. More music.

“Again.”

They repeat the dying swan embrace. Jed spits my gloop back to his wife.

“Okay. You can swallow it now.”

But the most important dynamic for me is Jed’s chastity. I am the Keyholder from Hell ! I have no idea why strict orgasm control is such a fetish of mine. It just is.

Fucking Jed’s wife isn’t enough for me. Frankly, I even have almost-zip interest in sharing a guy’s wife with him. Relegating a sub male to just masturbation isn’t enough either.

No, I want him chaste. Not just denied orgasms but strictly chaste. He must learn to give but not receive. To witness but not to want. Sex goes on around him but he is never more than a mere accessory to it.

I am not a sadist. Outside bits of fiction, I have no wish to deny ordinary males. Fortunately there are some like Jed who genuinely want to put their genitals at my mercy, who get the same buzz in reverse. As I get pleasure from control, he gets … well, the erotic thrill of denial. It’s always struck me as ironic how many guys seem to be out there jerking off visiting chastity websites. But the reality of abstinence is completely different from the fantasy. Like a chocoholic on a strict diet, you have to be prepared to suffer tremendous pangs.

We discussed it online. Jed then sent off for two tailored chastity tubes from a company called Steelworks Extreme, delivered to me here in UK.  Truth is, there are a lot of rubbish toys out there. Fortunately I heard about SE through Scott, an online friend. The company produces individually fitted tubes in surgical grade polished steel that are 100% secure yet can safely be worn for considerable periods of denial.

“An early Christmas present, Jed.”

He’s as excited about it as me. Poor fool. We’ve discussed the rules many times but it does no harm to repeat them once more.

“This isn’t a game for me, Jed. Not this part of it. It’s serious. From today, as long as you’re here, you must learn total self control.”

He nods like an automaton, blinking, his gaze is excited, yet queasy too.

“If you’re lucky I’ll let you cum once every month or two. Just for health reasons. Four weeks if you’re good, but eight if you’re naughty. Understood ?”

“Y … yeah.”

“It’s your steel curtain !”

Jed is a devoted fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers. By chance, while making small talk, he’d mentioned to me the nickname of the old defensive line of his team back in the 1970s: the ‘steel curtain’. It now seems like a suitable moniker for his 2008 Steelworks tube.

“I’m sure it will be excruciatingly difficult. At least, I hope it is, otherwise it would be no fun !”

His groin has been depilated bald, his scrotum is freshly plucked. I tied him spreadeagled and made Candace pluck out each pubic hair from his sac individually with tweezers. So he is smooth as a baby from his navel to his thighs, and from his asshole to the small of his back.

I push my finger and tap the custom chastity cage now locked round his dick. The steel curtain is shiny and perfect. The cylinder swings like a tiny pendulum.

“You just forget about your dick. It’s a wee-hole, nothing more. Your balls are just biological organs working in the background, like say your liver or lungs. Learn to ignore them.”

There is a steel base ring with an extended hinge and a steel tube. His shiny balls hang through the hinged gap. Jed is averagely endowed. Not big when erect, but certainly not small either. However, aside from cold showers, his 6 inches will now be permanently confined inside a tube roughly half that length. The full extent of the tube from his abdomen measures 3 ¼ inches. The inner diameter for his girth is only 1 ¼ inches.

“Try not to think about sex, Jed. Be like a monk. If it tries to erect, it’ll be painful.”

I console him on the shoulder like an old friend.

“I’ll look after Candace. And myself. You just do your best to ignore us both.”

There is a second, more evil cage, but that can wait a month or so.

I work full time from home, on the phone and email, based in London for occasional meetings. So life allows me to be productive but also to dedicate plenty of time to Jed and Candace’s training. Their individual desires and motives are subtly different but they share a basic submissive agenda; control, punishment, drudgery and humiliation, lots of it. The only things from Priceless they both definitely don’t want in reality are for their families to find out or for Candace to become pregnant.

“Lick her ready for me.”

It is the sixth morning, before breakfast. I’ve had a mug of coffee in bed.

Jed gulps like a gaffed fish. His face is sweating, hyperventilating.

It is time. One reason I have only used Candace’s mouth and tits so far is that early on we all committed to take STD checks together. The tests have all come through clean.

But I have been in no rush either. I have been deprived a proper tit-fuck for almost a quarter of a century, since I last had a girlfriend with suitable melons. Sitting astride Candace’s ribs while she pushes her slippery cleavage together into a soft vessel and then hosing her neck and face has not been a hardship at all.

However, above all, I have purposefully waited an extra couple of days to stretch out the tension. Mouth and tits are fine, but it’s her cunt that will designate my property, like a dog pissing on a bush.

It is time for me to bring it into play.

I am wearing my towelling robe. They are both buck naked, save for the shiny steel cylinder between Jed’s legs.

Candace tentatively spreads herself out on the empty half of my double bed, next to me. She glances up at me, apparently waiting for guidance.

“Clutch behind your knees and pull them to your shoulders.”

I turn on my side to watch, reach out and plump up her tit. Jed stares down at his young wife beached like a crab on its shell. I’ve left her with just a tuft of light brown pubic hair barely bigger than a toothbrush. Her coral-pink cunt and crinkled asshole are served up in front of Jed’s intense gaze.

“Go on.”

He hunkers down between her spread thighs, lowers his perspiring face to her open labia.

She inhales staccato gasps as his lips brush her. I smile encouragement.

“One of the advantages for you, my darling, is that Jed is going to learn as much about oral as you do.” I wink. “Maybe even more.”

Her mouth is open. As far as I know she hasn’t cum since they arrived. Not that I’ve ever felt as strict about female orgasms as male chastity. She gapes up at me. In seconds her nipples visibly harden.

Jed is on his knees, in an extended ‘n’ shape; his butt in the air, face buried, licking rhythmically.

I lean over, slap his muscled buttocks.

“Wider.”

He shuffles his knees apart.

The design of the Steelworks Extreme cage has the advantage that his physical frustration can be clearly viewed. The base ring and tube allow the bottom of his shaft and his circumcised helmet at the top to be studied like a helpless prisoner in a straightjacket.

His swollen scrotum bulges. His genitals glow with a layer of Vaseline that he applies every morning to prevent chafing.

Except this morning the Vaseline has been laced with a menthol and eucalyptus based muscle cream that is cooking his cock and balls. At first tears came, but 20 minutes later his reaction is just blood and sweat.

“Get your tongue right up inside her.”

It is all about contrasts. On the same morning I am going to experience his wife’s cunt for the first time, Jed is experiencing the savage delight of Deep Heat. His impotent, smarting cock rages hopelessly against the unyielding steel. Flesh and blood fight a losing battle against the tight 3 ¼ x 1 ¼ prison.

“Good lad.” I chuckle.

I am hard myself now. Rock hard. Thankfully I don’t actually need any erectile help yet but I popped a 20 mg Cialis last night to give myself an extra edge this morning.

I adjust my pillow, sit up in bed, and pull Candace’s hand over to my robe.

“I want to hear you say it.”

She blinks. Her fingers untie the knot, opening my gown.

“Please … f … fuck me.”

She’ll say most 4-letter words but still struggles with fuck.

“Louder.”

“Fuck me … Sir.”

“Hear that ?”

“Uhuhm.” Jed groans.

“Move out the way. There.”

He stands by the bed, his chin glistening, hands hanging limply by his sides.

I take his place, grin at him.

“Thanks for getting her nice and wet.”

She is juicy but snug.  After years with the same woman, the mother of your children, you forget how tight young, childless cunt can be. I sink down into her heat until I can go no further.

“Ahm …” she gasps, eyes wide.

I’m about ¾ inch longer than Jed when erect, a fraction thicker too. I can see it’s just enough of a difference for her to appreciate.

“Cross your heels behind my back.” I grunt, taking my weight on my arms. “Kiss her.”

Jed looks at me in surprise, then leans down and puts his lips to hers.

I am fucking Candace while he kisses her.

She’s fucking me while she kisses her husband.

“Come for me.”

She utters a little shriek and starts humping back. I feel her thighs open wider, so she can thrust back more vigorously. She shifts angle so her clit bangs against my pubic bone. Her heels pull me in tight.

“Ah … oh … ah … sssssss …”

She orgasms like a banshee, hissing into her husband’s mouth, bucking against me.

This is what I want for this first time. Us all to share it. Jed the poor relation. Preparing his wife like a sacrifice. Still demonstrating his love for her even as she climaxes on another man’s dick. It is what the past nine weeks have all been for, what they and I wanted, and it is at last happening to the three of us for real.

Candace is coming down from the clouds. Smoke in her eyes.

Confusion. Intensity. Lust. Fluid.

CILF.

Cunt I Love Filling.

“Squat over his face.”

She straddles his head. He lies on the tiled bathroom floor.

“Not sit on it ! I said squat above it.”

It may be a ritual, but it’s an important one. A valuable cliché.

I perch on the toilet seat and watch Candace balance awkwardly a couple of inches above Jed’s nose. Her naked flesh is red and sweaty. It’s cold outside but warm in my apartment.

She’s already lost 3 lbs in 6 days. She will leave me a more attractive woman than the one that arrived. Her pose exaggerates her pear-like silhouette. She has a slender back and trim waist but her hips are too wide, her calves chunky. Her basic shape won’t ever change but a combination of weight loss and focused exercises should give her a more athletic, toned lower half.

She wobbles, almost falls.

“Hold that position.” I snap.

Her labia hang down like slices of ripe fruit. A slug of pearly liquid slowly oozes from her gaping hole.

“Mouth open. Tongue out. Go for it.”

Jed’s jaws open wide, his tongue curls upward.

I hope Candace won’t lose any weight from her tits. They are large without being oversized. They hang high on her chest without any droop yet. Her nipples remain sticking out. It’s evident that she’s still turned on. By her own humiliation, and probably by Jed’s too.

Slowly, gravity elongates the slug. It dangles like a tampon string. His tongue snakes out and licks at it, his cheeks scrunching in a silent grimace. He has tasted saliva-sweetened snowballs, but this is his first 100% proof cream pie.

“No hands.” I warn Candace, as she struggles again not to fall, strain evident in her face and legs.

She looks at me. Eyes ahead, concentrating. My cum is semitransparent, runny like egg white, not as yolk-thick as it used to be when I was younger. Heck, three, four orgasms a day is hard work !

It is important I made her cum. She told me that she rarely climaxes from fucking. Jed normally used his fingers on her, before or after he’d cum himself. But now she’s cum with me, on my cock, first time. It would be nice to think it was my dick, my sexual prowess, but the truth is that Candace would probably have cum with a sexual maggot this morning, so hot was she to trot.

My jizz continues running down her thighs and drools into his mouth. I like watching it, witnessing this symbolic moment. Jed is face up on the floor, legs towards me, his steel tube limply resting to one side like a little kid’s. I don’t feel arrogant towards him. That bullshit is just for cuckold stories. You actually feel grateful to a guy, not superior. This is just a game.

A wonderful, sexual game.

“Okay, you can sit on his face now.” I instruct her. “Mash down on it.”

She arches her eyebrows to their fullest extent and her lips curl.

I watch Jed’s face disappear under the soaking triangle of her thighs.

“No hands. Put them behind your head.”

She frowns in frustration, lifts her arms, laces her fingers behind her neck. She strains to support herself, her calves and thighs tensed, and plonks her sodden weight with an audible squelch onto Jed’s nose.

“Get your tongue in there.”

She adjusts her feet and knees, tilting her hips back, and I can see his glistening chin, his Adam’s apple working. The bathroom stinks of sex now. Sex and menthol. Stripes of watery winter sunlight filter in through the shutters.

There is silence. Just breathing and the occasional muffled slurp.

“Would you like to cum again ?”

She forces her nut-flecked eyes open. Uses her laced fingers to guide her head, nodding it at me. Her libido is like a seed. It just needs plenty of watering to burst into flower.

I smile magnanimously.

“Okay. You can put your arms down now. Ride him.”

She stretches her hands out behind her. Her knees open wider and her heels

rise off the floor. She has to keep her body upright to press her cunt against his protruding tongue. I watch her peer down between her thighs.

I suddenly get this strange feeling that I’m intruding on a private moment. It is a reaction I will feel increasingly often in the coming months. That I’m actually a voyeur on a young couple discovering themselves. A tiny part of me resents it.

Hey, after all, I’m the Master, the Alpha Male, the King Dick, the Extra Leg without which the stool falls over. The Iron Fist inside a Velvet Glove.

And yet, for the most part, I am secretly pleased. After this is over, I want only good things for these two. They need to go back to their lives and use this as either a launch pad or a memory bank. Whichever. It’s up to them. But I want Candace and Jed to stay happily together. I’m invested in them now.

This time her climax is more controlled, almost sheepish. As much relief as release. She blushes scarlet when I wink indulgently at her.

Everything is going according to plan.

PART TWO

THE VIEW FROM THE GUTTER

       

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars”

(Oscar Wilde)

I have found it much harder to write this story than any other I’ve written. I guess whenever any author writes anything, we are revealing and exploring our fantasies, inviting others to share them. Some readers are aroused, others are shocked, a few can occasionally be disapproving. But the characters involved are fictional creations, not ourselves. This feels different. It’s like I am lying in the gutter, with people staring down, ready with their opinions of my actions and motives.

We have all seen movies in which some cliché Drill Sergeant bellows at a squad of raw, military recruits.

“You don’t speak, you don’t eat, you don’t piss, you don’t shit, you don’t even move except when I say you can !”

That was the image Candace, Jed and I had used to sum up the situation we wanted: absolute, complete and unrestricted 24/7 control.

Whereas during our first 3 weeks, I pretty much concentrated on sex and mild BDSM, it had always been our intention that they would give me total power over their lives for the duration of time they stayed with me.

January 2009

After the thrill of the first week or two, during which I couldn’t get enough sex, real life began to assert itself: Christmas shopping, a family theatre trip, my business to be attended to. I took a break from writing stories and blogging but even then my time was limited. Also, I found my initial appetite for orgasms became slightly less insatiable than at the beginning.

All three of us got a little stir-crazy cooped up in my apartment. So I unlocked Jed’s steel tube allowing him to pass through security checks and we took a day trip to Paris on the Eurostar. Candace and Jed posed for tourist photos together under the Eiffel Tower and at the Louvre. We emailed them to their friends and family with a ‘Happy New Year’ message.

We all knew that their first few weeks had been a honeymoon period.

In 2009, their true test was beginning.

Trust is something we’ve spent a lot of time discussing. Each of us, in our own way, has to build it. You never really know when you let somebody into your home. I don’t remember the names of those movies with Sharon Stone or Glenn Close but there are real madwomen out there, and I couldn’t be absolutely certain Candace wasn’t one of them until she’d proved otherwise ! She and Jed might have been a pair of weirdo axe murderers – I simply decided the high reward justified what my experience and intuition told me was a low risk.

In turn, they didn’t really know for sure I wasn’t going to put them both in bondage and then slit their throats until I’d passed up that opportunity. That’s the unfortunate thing about casual bdsm sex. You can’t really enjoy it until you can properly relax with your playmates. It can be amusing to read stories about a blonde wife having unprotected sex with twenty black gangsters but I really don’t think that’s reality.

Ironically, the internet has provided all of us with opportunity and undermined trust in equal measure. Thirty years ago I used to have to trawl endless personal columns of UK sex magazines in the hope of meeting one local submissive woman. But at least those few that advertised back then were usually genuine. Nowadays it takes only moments to search specifically for a redheaded piss-whore within my own London postcode but the chances are that any respondent will actually be some bald dude whacking off in Australia.

I would have found it strange and unsatisfying to have Candace and Jed living in my apartment, relaxing, watching my TV, drinking my wine, then us all occasionally playing a couple of hours of bdsm games. That arrangement might suit some people but it wasn’t what they, or I, wanted.

Instead, I control every aspect of their lives from when they wake up, to when they go to bed, and every minute in between. And my job is to push them, challenge them, to treat them mean.

It begins from the moment I wake up.

In 1978 I was introduced to toilet play by a French girlfriend. She was a young Parisian nurse who enjoyed water sports in all its forms. She loved to be pissed on and to piss on me in the bath. She swallowed mine too, although I could never bring myself to reciprocate ! She introduced me to enemas too and calmly sat on the john to shit when I was shaving.

However, we never played with adult diapers.

Maybe they didn’t exist back then ? I’m not certain. I sure never found out about them until after I married, so Candace and Jed are the guinea pigs on whom I’ve been able to inflict this particular form of discomfort. They get only two opportunities to use the bathroom each day. At around 8.30 a.m. and 8.30 p.m., 12 hours apart.

After I’ve awoken, drunk a mug of coffee and brushed my teeth, I supervise their joint morning toilet session. I waited until January 2nd to introduce this deeper level of humiliation. It took several mornings of reluctance and even tears before they started being able to cope with it.

People who think this is all scatological miss the point. It is about control, embarrassment and indignity, not human waste itself. Above all it emphasises the difference between normal freedom and voluntary slavery. Like most westerners, Jed and Candace have both found it deeply humiliating to perform all their most private acts in front of me.

One of the goals of 24/7 TPE is to maximise any submissive’s value and to minimise their comfort. A harsh toilet regime is part of that.

As far as I’m concerned, any visit to the bathroom amounts to time wasted. Time that could be put to much better use slaving away on my behalf.

So what is more appropriate than to keep a slave’s bathroom time strictly limited and brief ?

Some privacy and a comfortable seat are both normal in the modern world.

Please tell me what is a better way to highlight the abnormality of their situation than denying them privacy and comfort ?

The ache of controlling full bladders or bowels during the day or night is a simple, natural way of causing them hardship. It costs me nothing. It happens naturally. I don’t have to do anything, although I have.

I’ve researched and designed their diets to make it increasingly difficult for them to contain their bodily functions over a 12-hour period.

Gradually, I tweak little ideas to make their performance as embarrassing as possible.

I generally make Candace go first, then Jed after her, both using the same plastic tray in the corner of the family bathroom. It’s simply a kitty-litter tray without any litter or newspaper. She squats astride it and awaits my permission.

I stand in my white bathrobe and use a hairbrush to prod her knees apart.

“Wider.”

She spreads her thighs, her spine leaning against the wall for balance. It takes a few moments for her to adopt the ‘dump position’ as we refer to it. She plants her bare feet and locks her knees.

Then her eyes slowly look up at me. Moist with shame, but holding my amused gaze. With each passing day she seems to have more composure.

“Yes ?”

“Please Sir. May I go ?”

“What type ?”

“Both, Sir.”

I hesitate. “Okay. You may dump first. Then pee.”

I find it’s harder that way round. Especially when you really need to go, as Candace does now. I can tell. After putting Jed to bed last night, she and I watched TV and then had sweaty sex. I allowed her a glass of water before locking her up in her own bedroom. She’s been restraining her bladder since before dawn. She just wants to release everything at once.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Jed and I both stare at her.

A ripple of concentration crosses her face. Her forehead frowns in a grimace and her brown eyes flicker sideways.

“Straight ahead !”

She snaps her gaze back at me, a flush of red washing over her neck and cheeks. Her knees twitch inwards.

“Wider.”

She pouts in frustration and apology, forcing her thighs wide apart. The rules are straightforward. She mustn’t flinch, mustn’t look away. She must maintain full eye contact with us throughout. Her knees have to remain as far apart as she can hold them.

Some sex psychoanalysts talk about the ‘submissive dichotomy’. This is the catch-22 whereby a sub craves a particular humiliation or pain but that doesn’t mean she or he actually enjoys it. That’s why so many cuckolds are happy being fantasists. The rational part of their brain remains in control of the sexual part.

Relatively few people are like Candace and Jed who have actually taken the serious step of making a serious fantasy reality. Their constant dilemma is whether to let their heads rule their sexuality, or vice versa.

And I can see it now in Candace’s eyes. She is staring at me. But she is also looking through me, into her soul. Her battle is with herself, not me.

“Come on.”

A few moments later, she passes wind loudly. So unladylike. It’s the pulses in her diet. The mottled skin on her neck turns puce.

“…sorry.” She mumbles.

She is trying to concentrate. Which muscles to relax ? Her cunt hangs open, fetid with last night’s action. Her body is tense. She farts again, this time one of those quiet hisses, more controlled.

“I’m s … sorry, Sir.”

I nod indulgently. I find it fascinating, how innate this shame is within us all. Why have doors become standard on toilet cubicles ? For much of mankind’s history, and in some countries even now, taking a dump was and is a social activity. And why do men fart more freely than women ?

“Hurry up.”

Personally, I love my privacy. I enjoy my own relaxed space and time with the newspaper, making whatever noises and odours my own body wishes. But, hey, it ain’t me who’s volunteered to be a slave.

Candace strains again and finally something emerges. It is large, shiny, dangling. She grimaces and pushes again, trying to be totally silent, to preserve just a modicum of her dignity.

I chuckle. “I never know where you store those things, my dear.”

It is important to comment. To ridicule. A fresh tsunami of scarlet washes over her neck and face.

It plops, steaming, onto the clean white plastic tray, lying there like a smoking gun at a crime scene.

I fan the air in front of my nose with the hairbrush.

Although actually, its firmness and scent are a credit to her system considering what she ate yesterday. I have to admit I wouldn’t want to be in a small cubicle with anybody else’s shit, but what my kids call our family bathroom is large enough to spend a short time here.

“Is that it ?”

She bites her lip, shakes her head, scowling with effort.

I sigh exaggeratedly, in mock annoyance, and glance at my watch. I have denied her privacy and comfort, now I refuse her time as well. One minute or so is all that any slave should require to void her bowels.

Suddenly two more, smaller logs tumble out of her. She whimpers with relief.

“Yeuch.” I scowl. “That’s disgusting. Finished ? At last. Okay. Go on then, you can piss now.”

Her eyes close in an extended blink of shame, relief and concentration. After a few moments a gush of golden liquid sprays the tray.

I had forgotten how disorderly the female anatomy is when it comes to urinating. We males often forget yet another advantage of having a penis. Men are much more comfortable taking a piss in public, as we do it at urinals all the time, at offices and sports stadiums, even outdoors behind a tree if we’re caught short. Our aim is accurate and controlled.

It seems that some women find peeing much more embarrassing. I’d love to be a fly on the wall of a ladies restroom when they’re all sat in a line in their cubicles, listening to each other hissing and tinkling. I’ve even been told by a couple of women they lay some toilet tissue in the pan first to deaden the sound of their fountain. Not using a normal lavatory highlights how a woman’s aim is scatter-gun and wild.

Most of Candace’s stream is contained within the plastic tray. She hoses her own brown waste and droplets splash up onto her calves. She lasts, thirty, forty seconds, still staring straight ahead at me, emptying her bladder as completely as she can, ready for the long day ahead.

I give her my most wicked smirk and raise my I-phone.

“Knees wider.”

‘Tch’. The shutter snaps another photo for her bedside. There are already 12 clip-frames of her and Jed in various poses and acts on the table next to her pillow, constant reminders of her lowly place.

To some people, however submissive, this total destruction of their dignity would not be erotic. To others, anything involving faeces is off limits. Even Candace and Jed had their doubts when we began. But underneath her fixed stare, inside her soiled orifices, she is steadily discovering the ecstasy and liberation of utter disgrace.

The bathroom starts to smell. Even Candace’s waste tends to stink shamefully after a while due to the spicy diet. I throw open the frosted window and a blast of freezing January air blows in. My message is clear. It is her fault that they will both now shiver in the cold.

Next comes Jed.

He spreads his strong thighs, his shoulder blades braced against the wall too. His bare feet are on the damp tiles either side of the tray. Candace’s soggy pile wallows underneath him.

Meanwhile, she stands at attention next to me, bottom unwiped, naked. Her skin is already goose-bumping, the nipples on her big breasts stiffening.

“Please, Sir. May I go now ?” he whimpers. I love the way Jed pronounces ‘Sir’, emphasising the ‘r’ like a school kid in class. It’s difficult to sound manly in such a compromising position.

“What ?”

“Please, Sir. May I go ?”

“What ?”

“Both, Sir.”

While he repeats the same cycle, Candace bends over for me with her bottom facing the open window. Nobody from the building opposite can see us, but it heightens her feeling of vulnerability. I lay my hands on her white buttocks and ease them open, letting the air circulate into her filthy rim. I know this is her least favourite moment of all. This wonderfully Freudian humiliation of childish anal inspection.

I take my time, letting 20 seconds pass, while I watch Jed perform.

“Okay.” I tap her round butt.

Still keeping her head down, she fumbles out an arm and blindly uncoils tissue from the roll. She reaches behind her and wipes her anus, dropping the paper into the toilet pan. I inspect her once more, give her a second smack.

“Disgusting. Do it again.”

She wipes herself, two, three more times, as necessary.

Jed empties the entire contents of their tray into the toilet, scrapes it clean, then flushes everything away. He hurriedly scrubs, disinfects, dries and props the tray neatly in the corner ready for its next use, and dries the tiled floor.

Meanwhile Candace steps into the shower for 60 seconds. The water is cold. Not icy, take-your-breath-away cold, but chilly. There’s no need for me to waste hot water except on Sundays when they both wash their hair. She scrubs her body frantically, fingers in every orifice, rubbing her shivering skin with a bar of old fashioned antiseptic carbolic soap.

I unlock Jed’s steel tube and he follows Candace into the shower. The cold water and chill air keep his dick limp for the one minute he spends washing his wiry, muscled body. It feels weird being in such close proximity to another naked guy. You notice things about a body you never would; a scar under his knee from keyhole surgery, a raised mole on his hip.

After they have both dried, they stand to attention. Naked, clean, skin blue-tinged from the cold and itchy-red from the soap, their ablutions done. Almost ready for another gruelling day. The first part of their bathroom routine has wasted a total of barely five minutes.

It’s now time for exercise and breakfast.

“Give me fifty.”

We have moved through to my open-plan living room.

Like a corporal and his recruits, I boil up my kettle and watch them do 50 press-ups.

Backs straight, bodies rigid, noses pressed to the floor.

Candace starts to sag at 30, Jed at 40.

“Okay. Now onto your backs.”

They roll over, hearts pumping. Candace slides on her heart-monitor watch.

“Legs apart.”

I stand between Jed’s legs, sipping a mug of tea. He is sweating, naked, blood pumping. It is already almost three weeks since his last orgasm, and that one was ruined. I love the frustration already visible behind his grey eyes. I can read him now. Like poker, you eventually learn almost anybody’s secret tics.

I’m assured this is the really hard period.

The first week or two of chastity is about breaking the habit. It’s largely a mental thing. The mind fancies an orgasm. Let’s face it, guys just get into an indulgent routine. Mostly it’s simply a naughty addiction to the nice feeling.

But after two weeks it’s increasingly about the male body’s physiological requirement to reduce its accumulation of testosterone. It’s a much more physical thing. The body actually needs an orgasm.

Or it thinks it does. But if monks and celibates can overcome any urges, then so can Jed. His eyes, his whole demeanour pleads for release. But he never says so. Asking me is strictly forbidden. I could never bear all that whining. Besides, he has several weeks to wait yet.

“Fifty scissors.”

They open and shut their legs; touching their ankles against the floor, then raising both feet up to meet each other, before lowering their legs down to the floor again.

At first, Jed’s freed dick twitches around in his hairless lap like an excited puppy. But as he warms up, he usually becomes erect.

I stand in front of Candace. She is perspiring too. Already her stomach, thighs, legs are benefiting from this regime. Her labia wink at me every time she opens her legs. I’ve also started her on a separate, evening routine of Kegel exercises. She doesn’t really need them yet but they have two benefits. They not only make her feel that her tight young cunt needs improvements but they hint to Jed that I’m now getting some muscular thrills from her that he has never experienced.

We work our way through a brutal 20 minutes-cycle of stomach crunches, squats, thrusts, bicep curls, and leg raises. Candace’s heartbeat nudges up towards her limit. To slow down, they regularly ‘buddy’ each other in a few stretches of their hamstrings, hips and spinal columns.

She ignores her husband’s erection. It’s like an invited guest at a party. We all pretend it’s not there. Nobody shakes its hand.

But it amuses me how impressive a cock can look without any pubic hair. It looks larger, jutting out from his bare body, rather than nestled amongst a clump of male pubic hair. Ironically, Jed looks both hunky and childlike in equal measure as he struts his stuff like a lower league Chippendale.

“And now our favourite.

They both lie face down on the ground, gasping heavily.

‘The Plank’ is an exercise to develop core rigidity. They take their full weight on their elbows and toes, holding their bodies in the air, parallel to the ground. For a while, it’s easy. I glance at my watch.

After 3 minutes and 6 seconds, Candace wails and slumps to the wooden floor. But considering she couldn’t even hold herself up for one minute when she arrived in London, it’s quite satisfying.

Jed manages a whole minute and twenty seconds more than her, then he too collapses in exhaustion.

“Not bad.” I announce. “An improvement, at least.”

They have managed a combined 446 seconds, 15 more than their 431 seconds yesterday.

I think they have earned their breakfast.

The Recommended Daily Allowance for an average male is 2,500 calories, and 2,000 for a female. So many diets are bullshit; faddish and indulgent. Truth is, eat more food than you use up, and you’ll put on weight.

But eat fewer calories than you burn and you’ll lose weight.

Simple: stick to a strict diet, avoid sitting around, take regular exercise, and the pounds will literally drop off. An extreme example of this kind of diet is the Velvetglove Plan.

Since January 2nd, Jed has been on semi-starvation rations of 1,250, and Candace 1,000 calories, per day. Once they have lost sufficient pounds and toned their bodies, I will increase their daily intake to maintain their weight at a constant level.

But for now, they’re constantly hungry.

Which is a good thing.

I cannot stand fussy eaters. I feed them two meals a day, roughly 2/3rds of their RDA in the morning and the 1/3rd balance in the evening. Conscientiously, I have purchased a small library of nutrition, diet, calorie and recipe books.

I began in December using tins of baby food as the basic ingredient in their unappetising slop. But that worked out too expensive due to the small pot sizes. For me, it’s crucial that I spend very little on their food.

It’s not the money, of course, but the principle.

I also researched and found reputedly human-grade dog food but I was still concerned about health and safety. I fed them one sample and decided I could do a better job myself.

My first rule is that their food should be harmless and edible. I am not turned on by the idea of making anybody ill. I also ensure that it contains a balance of protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and greens, in line with their dietary regime.

However, beyond that, it should be a severe test of their obedience. I do my best to make their meals stomach churning. Unless I’m following a particular recipe, I aim for a glutinous texture, or liquidised with chewy, gristly chunks. I go for sludgy brown or green colours and sometimes use food colouring.

Some Masters prefer seeing slaves eating out of bowls on the floor like pets, but that’s not my preference. Instead, I sit and watch them close up at the table as they spoon the slimy swill I have lovingly prepared for them into their mouths.

In an email before they arrived, I asked Jed and Candace each to list me their five most and least favourite foods.

“Hurry up.” I snap, whenever they linger.

I love it when they visibly gag on mouthfuls. This is food reduced to its most basic function; sustenance. It is a fuel, nothing more. All of the pleasure that food can provide – visual, fragrance, flavour – has been eliminated, except for pungent spices.

Why do I get off on this kind of domination ? Heck, if only I knew. It’s about denying them control of yet another facet of their lives. They cannot even decide when they eat, how much they eat or - most importantly - what they eat.

“It’s so hard.” Candace reveals two evenings earlier, when I ask her. “Disgusting.”

“Hunger is good for you.” I smile. The two of us are lying alone in bed.

“It’s not the hunger. It’s the food.”

I take a sip of my brandy. “They’re linked. You’ve eaten all those steaks and chicken over the years. Donuts and fries. Hunger teaches you that you don’t need all those Western indulgences.”

For me it’s crucial they miss out on treats like chocolate and ice cream, savouries and sweets, caffeine and alcohol. They can have as much as they want of that stuff once they have returned to ‘normal life’.

She looks at me doubtfully yet bravely. “I guess. But I often feel sick.”

“That’s the idea. But only to feel sick.” I emphasise the word ‘feel’. “I haven’t actually made you sick have I ?

“Actually, oftentimes I gag up into my mouth and have to swallow it down. You know, bile.”

“Sure but I haven’t made you ill. Look at you. You’ve lost weight, you’re beautiful, healthier too. You probably don’t realise how much good this regime has actually done you.”

Then I look into her eyes and soften my tone.

“Seriously, are you saying that you want us to agree some food limits ?”

Her brown eyes search mine. Slowly, silently, she shakes her head.

This morning, their spicy, curried stew is a serious challenge. Their faces are sweating, pale, sickly green. The portions are substantial. Dietary advisors tell us that breakfast should be the largest meal of the day.

Tripe is the muscular lining of the stomach, in this case beef. The blonde, glutinous honeycomb section is the cow’s second stomach and it’s cheap, protein-rich and relatively low in calories. Their bowls are identical but Jed’s wallows full to the brim with 900 calories worth, while Candace’s is only three quarter’s full.

While they eat, I sit and sip my home-brewed latte, nibble chilled mango segments. The contrast between our bowls is important.

“Come on guys.” I repeat impatiently, as they choke it down as best they can; big mouthfuls, synchronised eating.

I almost always serve them offal.

It is no coincidence that offal rhymes with ‘awful’. The word shares its Teutonic etymology with abfall, afval and affald, literally ‘garbage’ in German, Dutch and Danish.

Tony, my local supplier, is an old fashioned Cockney butcher who invariably has a selection of tripe, brain, snout, lung, sweetbread, chitterling, scrotum and testicles. Strangely, if you can get past the idea, some of these things are delicacies in parts of the world.

Seriously.

I sometimes wonder what Tony thinks about my sudden conversion to entrails and organs. But he’s never asked me.

I prepared this morning’s Tripe Curry yesterday. Whatever I’m making, I often do 2-3 days worth at a time and freeze some, because the stink in my apartment takes hours to clear.

The only really important discipline is to wash whatever offal I’m using very thoroughly in salty water. Tripe recipes usually recommend cooking it for hours so it becomes tender but I prefer to cut the cooking time right down. You can make this delicacy the proper way with chillies, cumin and spices, or just use a cheap jar of hot curry powder, along with onions, garlic, coconut milk and seasoning.

After the curry has boiled and simmered until the tripe is cooked but still chewy and tough, I add lentils and prunes, monosodium glutamate for extra sliminess, a vitamin supplement powder, and then stew it all a bit more.

Again, I would not expect every submissive reader to be turned on by the idea of force-feeding. It’s an acquired taste, so to speak. But Jed and Candace said they want to experience the full “Velvetglove treatment”.

Like many hardships, it’s about humility and acceptance. Humans can get used to virtually anything.

“No regrets ?”

I can tell when I have pushed them right to the edge. So long as they shake their heads or indicate tolerance in some way, I know they’re okay. Deep down, they want to be tested every bit as much as I want to push them.

And if you read about what slaves and prisoners, even sailors and soldiers, were forced to eat to survive in the past, then I think revolting food is all part of an extreme TPE experience.

The defining difference between TPE slavery and Bdsm-games is that the latter are temporary. It’s possible to maintain a high degree of eroticism for a few hours, even a whole weekend. But clearly that’s neither possible nor desirable in a long term arrangement.

The best indication that an erotic-moment has moved on to a slave-moment is when Jed and Candace lose any visible sign of sexual excitement. During the limited spells when Jed’s Steelworks tube is removed, I like to see his penis become soft and small, as a sign he’s struggling more than he’s turned on.

The spoons I’ve given them are deep, like small ladles. They eat in wordless, rhythmic tandem; raise, sniff, slurp, taste, chew, gulp - raise, sniff, slurp, taste, chew, gulp, etc.

“Thank you, Sir.” They say afterwards, bowls scraped clean, hunger temporarily sated, trying not to belch.

I smile magnanimously.

Breakfast has only wasted another few minutes.

We return to the chilly bathroom.

The stench has cleared by now and I shut the window.

First, they brush their teeth and rinse thoroughly with mouthwash.

They each take turn to shave their pubic areas on alternate days. They both use a Seiko clean-cut shaver that gives an incredibly smooth finish, but once a week they use wax strips as well. I make Jed use Veet for Men depilatory gel on his underarms and legs.

While Candace applies lush mascara, eyeliner and red lipstick, Jed promptly lathers a generous coat of Vaseline onto his dick and genital area. So long as he’s quick, the combination of eating breakfast and the cold air means his dick is usually soft, slotting easily back into the steel tube for another day’s chastity. Keeping his skin smooth and well lubricated has so far prevented any in-growing hairs or chafing problems.

I slip the key into my robe pocket nonchalantly, as disinterestedly as I can. His eyes can no longer resist glancing longingly as it disappears.

Finally, they spray deodorant under their arms and Candace adds a dab of my favourite Guerlain perfume to her nipples and neck.

They are now ready to dress. I don’t require that they both wear diapers every single day. It depends on my mood. I put Jed in one most days and Candace about 3 or 4 times a week.

Jed wears man-size adult diapers that are cream-coloured with a kiddies sky-blue and pink balloons motif. They are sealed, odour-and-water proof. Although I don’t want Jed to suffer chafing from his steel tube, I have no problem if he gets a splash of diaper rash.

Candace wears less cumbersome black PVC diapers that are sexier, more like panty-pads than Jed’s bulky adult nappies.

On top, they have various outfits to work in.

Today Jed slips into a ballet tutu again. This one is bubblegum pink with a frilly hem, purchased from a famous transvestite store in Soho. The material is a cheap satin that stretches over his diaper giving him the profile of an overgrown toddler. He has a similar one in PVC that came from an adult baby website. He dons a pair of sneakers. Unfortunately, the cross dresser’s high heels that I purchased for him have had to be put into storage because he fell over in them and hurt his ankle.

Candace puts on a classic domestic uniform. I’m afraid I’m a sucker for the French chambermaid look. I prefer her wearing a bra, to braless. My favourite is a black quarter-cup shelf bra, size 34 C, that her D cup tits spill out of. Over it she wears a rib hugging, low cut silk blouse.

She puts a suspender belt round her waist and seamed black fishnet stockings. Over her black diaper or thong, she wears a tasteful leather miniskirt. If her backside and legs had been better I’d choose an even shorter one but this is the length I find most flattering and sexy on her for now. Around her waist she ties a frilly white apron and slips shiny black stiletto heels onto her feet.

Now they’re ready to start.

Candace serves me a fresh coffee while Jed begins his chores.

It is just after 9 a.m. and I can relax at last, having got them both washed, exercised, fed and dressed in under an hour. For most of the remainder of the day, I can leave them relatively unsupervised to their menial toil. They work in strict silence except when I speak to them or they need to ask me something. Talking or even communicating with each other in gestures is forbidden.

My apartment takes on a wonderfully calm atmosphere. I read the newspaper and any mail that’s been delivered, drink more coffee, surf the BBC website. Candace and Jed work like a pair of those discreet hotel chambermaids carrying out turndown service while you’re still in your bedroom. They work in the traditional manner. No noisy modern appliances. Just what used to be called ‘elbow grease’. Hard slog with brushes and cloths, down on their hands and knees.

They knew what to expect. Of all my stories, Priceless and Short and Sweet are the two they both hark back to. Some are too extreme, others too bland. It is the M/mf domestic triangle they wanted to make real.

I don’t think I, and certainly not they, would want to live like this permanently. This is like a temporary exotic vacation or a jail sentence, depending on your perspective.

The antique clock on my mantelpiece makes a heavy sound. It beats out the passing of each second with a monotonous tick. I find it a comforting background noise that I don’t notice because I’m distracted. But for Jed and Candace that endless ticking defines their drudgery. Minutes and hours slowly drag by as they tick off the seconds of another day passing.

Here they are on the ‘trip of a lifetime’. A six month tour of UK and Europe for two educated, professional, young married Americans. And yet each day is another one lost, an unpaid waste of time holed up inside a 3-bedroom apartment in wintry London.

After an hour of brutal scrubbing of every kitchen and bathroom surface, underside, tap and pipe; dusting, wiping and polishing of every skirting board, glass surface and mirror, Candace goes up to the roof deck.

It’s bitterly cold. Grey, scudding clouds fill London’s skies. A dirty smattering of yesterday’s thawed snow litters the streets below. It is one of England’s coldest Januarys for years. Too cold for just a miniskirt and heels.

She wears her own coat and boots that are warm enough for US winters. She sweeps up the leaves that have been blown from the tall surrounding trees onto the deck. They swirl, dodging her broom like brown mice. She scrubs the safety rail and reties the plastic covers protecting my tubs of plants and bushes. The outdoor air does her good, bringing pink to her cheeks and clarity to her eyes.

I sit indoors in the warm, make a couple of phone calls, climb the stairs to gaze out at her a couple of times. Jed is washing and drying every glass in my apartment to a sparkling finish. I can’t stand drinking from dull, smeared glassware. He does an excellent job. He did them yesterday and will probably redo them tomorrow. My entire array of champagne flutes, tumblers, highballs, beer and wine glasses.

While they are busy, I take my own leisurely time in my own spotless en suite bathroom. Naturally, I leave a mess; bristles in the basin, skid marks in the toilet bowl, suds in the shower, damp towels on the floor. I pull on a T and shorts and climb onto my rowing machine set up in Candace’s bedroom.

I do twenty minutes sculling and ten minutes of free weights, then down a glass of grapefruit juice, and towel my sweat off. I’ve taken advantage of their stay with me to lose a bit of weight myself, to step up my own training regime.

Whilst in the kitchen, I check that I have lard to make their evening meal.

In fact, I have all the necessary ingredients: lard, onions, tomato puree, plain flour, seasoning.

And horse’s testicles !

Tonight I am giving them a spicy stew made with stallion’s balls.

I found this delightful Eastern European feature dish in ‘Cooking with Balls’, a recent publication marketed as the world’s first testicle recipe book.

I kid you not.

By now, Candace is back inside the apartment, coatless, her hands warmed.

It is time for my massage.

I strip off and take a quick piss in a convenient jug while Candace lays out the towels and warm oil. Then I lie face down on the bed. I’m still clammy and the jojoba she applies to my back feels good. She’s becoming a good little masseuse. Firm but gentle fingers, with improving stamina. She teases the knots out of my old muscles, smoothes out the flabbier wrinkles.

I can hear Jed bustling away quietly in my bathroom, repairing the disarray.

I spent a lot of time in Asia and South America. I love being massaged. But I used to hate that nagging feeling that you’d only paid for, say, one hour, and the distraction throughout that your time may finish at any moment.

With Candace, though, I just lie there for as long as I like. Ninety minutes, two hours, whatever, until I can feel the exhaustion in her hands. Like most subs, I know she actually enjoys the feeling of giving me pleasure, although it’s a punishing workout. I never do more than give her a curt grunt of approval afterwards. It’s important to leave my gratitude unspoken.

Criticise yes, thanks no.

Massage doesn’t always lead to sex. But today it does. I roll over and she works oil into my front; feet, toes, legs, shoulders, arms, hands. Finally, I spread my thighs as a sign. Or I tell her I want to give her a ‘tip’.

Her fingers float over my dick like a butterfly, teasing me hard.

I lie there, eyes shut, just enjoying it all.

Her wet mouth encases my crown and her fingernails tantalise my balls. She recognises my signs, knows what I like.

I hear her voice summon Jed into the bedroom.

“He’ll soon be … mm … ready for lunch.” She mumbles to him, between sucks.

Her hands dance mischievously, then she drizzles more oil onto my shaft and skilfully pumps it in exactly the best place, with just the right pressure.

I spurt what feels like several gallons over my abdomen. I keep my eyes shut and grin at my wildly optimistic imagination, my orgasm gently subsiding.

I feel her lips pressed to my chest, licking, cleaning it all, sliding down to mop up my navel.

Yep, she’s right, I suddenly feel hungry for lunch.

PART THREE

SAINTS AND SINNERS

“Every saint has a past, and every sinner a future”

(Oscar Wilde)

On January 26th 2009, the possession of extreme pornography became illegal in UK. The legal definition of “extreme pornography” was introduced in an Act of Parliament to include realistic images of actual people involved in (i) an act that threatens somebody’s life (ii) a sexual act involving a human corpse or an animal (iii) an act that results, or is deemed likely to result, in serious injury to a person’s genitals, anus or breasts.

Now, I am a liberal who believes that governments nowadays are generally too quick to ban things and tell us what to do, but on balance I think there probably are extreme movies and photographs that should be controlled. I personally don’t like photos that portray mutilation, asphyxia or necrophilia (so I never look at them) and I would never possess any, not that my own tastes are relevant. Overall, I guess I wouldn’t want to propose or oppose any motion on ‘extreme images' and I plead the 5th on the issue.

However, something rather more sinister has also been debated in the UK House of Lords (the second house of the British Parliament) that proposes making possession of “extreme pornographic writings” illegal as well. Whilst I am sure my American cousins and overseas readers needn’t be alarmed yet, it would be naïve to think that our lawmakers don’t keep an eye on the debates of their international counterparts.

The idea that ‘scribbles’ written by adults, for adults, featuring adult characters, on this and similar sites might somehow become illegal seems to me both inherently absurd and a legal minefield. The proposal intends to define extreme writing on exactly the same basis as images, namely those involving death, corpses, bestiality or genital mutilation. Again, I personally don’t get off on fantasies that feature snuff, necrophilia or disfigurement (so I don’t read them), but I think that legislating about possession of them (is just reading them ‘possession’ ?) and defining them (to be judged ‘pornographic’ it is proposed that the writing must have been produced principally for the purpose of sexual arousal) is likely to waste an awful lot of police and court time that could be spent chasing the real murderers, rapists, terrorists and criminals.

I have never claimed to be a saint. But I’m not a sinner either.

February 2009

Jed remained entirely without an orgasm throughout the chill, dark 31-day month of January and then into February. We experimented with an alternate tube while his original was briefly sent back to Chris at Steelworks Extreme for a very minor (1/32nd of inch) adjustment. I would strongly recommend the Steelworks company, its service and their products to anybody who is contemplating serious chastity.

Most of the time I like to control Jed’s mind as well as his body. The only way he can avoid the restricting discomfort of his steel curtain is by thinking ‘pure thoughts’. I tease him about having to behave like a saint in a house of sinners.

He wears the tube almost 24/7, obviously including throughout the night. Inevitably he suffers wakeups in the dawn hours that are more to do with his bladder than sexual desire.

During the day he has to ignore Candace and whatever’s going on. Whether she’s in her sexy housemaid outfits or totally nude, Jed can’t afford to allow his mind to wander in the lustful way most males do.

But when called upon, he still has to lick her cunt or body, either in preparation or cleanup and try to suppress his instinctive sexual and submissive reaction to what he’s doing.

“It’s a great piece of engineering, isn’t it ?”

“Yes Sir, it is.”

“Comfortable ? Snug ?”

His expression is deadpan. “Yeah, pretty much, Sir.”

Of course, my most important requirement is that he shows no visible signs of grouchiness. In my life, whenever I’ve felt like sex or an orgasm and not been able to have it for whatever reason, I get tetchy very quickly. So I simply won’t put up with any bad attitude from Jed.

I scratch my own balls in a leisurely manner and grin at him man to man. His tube is like a highly polished thimble, not that much longer than my thumb. “It looks cute. But those balls do look a bit swollen.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Mine get like that after a day or two as well.”

He nods in sympathy. “Yes Sir.”

“Well, don’t worry. It’s a new month. I’m sure by the end of it you’ll have had some kind of orgasm. I mean, well, that’s pretty much certain. Say ninety percent certain.”

“… yes Sir. Th … thank you, Sir.”

Sunday, February 1st 2009, 11 p.m. in the UK.

Super Bowl XLIII is starting on the BBC. Jake Humphrey introduces the British coverage.

I’ve stayed up to watch it in the living room on the huge widescreen, rather than my old bedroom TV, which is where I usually catch television at this time of night. The Steelers are Jed’s team and they’re playing the Cardinals in Tampa.

Back in my twenties, on those occasions I had threesomes or with some other guy watching, I used to find it harder to perform sexually. I’m not an exhibitionist and it always took a while for me to get used to people. Now that I’m 50, before Candace and Jed arrived, I was seriously concerned I’d struggle, or even not enjoy it at all, if Jed is present.

I’d seen on the webcam that he was younger and fitter than me. Some residual vanity made me sensitive about my age, looks and stamina. It’s all very well to write porn about this and that, but in the flesh things are different.

However, surprisingly, I suffered no early nerves and have loved him watching us, being in attendance, witnessing every new step of our journey. I sometimes like Candace to ‘trash talk’ during our sex, telling him what a great time she’s having, what he’s missing. I tend to be less verbal, quietly relishing it all.

“Thank you sooo much, Sir.”

It amuses and excites me when he thanks me profusely afterwards. We have a kind of cuckold movie script that we adlib.

“That’s okay.”

“It’s awesome watching you both. The way you guys have sex.”

“Not have sex. We fuck. I fuck your wife.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. The way you fuck her. It was better than ever.”

“Hear that ?” I nudge Candace. “How was it for you ?”

“Mmm. Better than ever.” She says, stretching like a cat.

“I am seriously grateful, Sir.” He says. “I sincerely mean that.”

Sometimes, like an actor on stage, I have to bite my lip not to laugh.

Candace was an anal virgin. Only digits had ever been up her backdoor. She and Jed had never quite got beyond the old finger diddle. During our ‘negotiations’, we’d obviously discussed anal sex. For Christmas I gave her a brand new boxed set of five butt plugs, graduated by size, to prepare her for the big day.

I’d been holding back, taking things slow, just one a step at a time. I decided that February 1st would be the perfect night. I decided two weeks before, the moment Pittsburgh won the Conference Game, but I kept it quiet from them until lunchtime. Candace was wearing the largest plug when I told her.

“I think we’ll put the real thing up there this evening.”

She turns pale. She’s referred to anal sex as ‘the last taboo’, although she has no idea how wrong that comment will eventually prove to be !

I wink at Jed.

“I’m going to need your help tonight.”

Late that evening, Jed plays his supporting role. He administers her enema, washes her, fingers a small dollop of lube inside her, then dresses her in just seamed stockings, a suspender belt and high heels. He arranges her for me on the Persian rug in the living room. The lights are on low, just lamps and the flickering light from the television. The black lingerie frames her dimpled buttocks. She moans into a cushion, ass in the air, as he thumbs open her cheeks.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Please fuck her ass, Sir.” He whispers. He’s dressed in a tutu, white tights and glow-pink trainers.

“Why ?”

All three of us have kind of rehearsed this exchange during trash-talk. But this time it’s for real. The Super Bowl coin toss is underway onscreen.

“Because I never have.”

“And never will, right ?”

“And never will, no Sir.”

“Other men, maybe. But you, never.”

“No Sir.”

“Not even when you return home, and live a normal life again.”

“No Sir. Never.”

“This … is my hole. It will always belong to me. Whatever.”

I touch her rim, see her body tremble, hear her gasp.

“Tell me.”

“It will always belong to you, Sir.”

I slap her white buttock, making a red handprint appear.

“You say it too.”

“It w … always belong to you, Sss.” Candace shivers, mumbles.

“Lick it.”

Jed prises it wider with his fingers, lowers his head, drools into her.

I let him spend a full minute preparing her for me. We’re right beside each other on the floor now. Master and husband. Making our personal history.

“Now take my dick.”

I’m not into fluffing. I’m pretty certain this is the first time in my entire adult life a guy has handled my erection.

“Put it against her rim.”

He carefully guides my purple crown to her puckered brown entrance. The shimmering combination of shiny lube and his fresh saliva catches the flickering colours of the TV, resembling morning dew on a flower.

“Now move and go kneel by her head. Hold her shoulders down.”

I dribble more of my own spit onto my shaft, I grip her hips and shift her down so I’m pushing at the correct angle. Fucking an ass is like riding a bicycle, right ? I use my thumbs to crack her crinkled walnut open.

“Aagh.”

I’m no thicker than the widest butt plug she’s already worn today. I seesaw in and out and her sphincter surrenders almost too quickly.

“I’m in.” I wink at Jed. “It feels good.”

I wait, just savouring the moment. This is a rite of passage. Candace’s back passage. I am in her ass, planting my flag. I slowly push, studying each veined inch disappearing between her cheeks.

“Aahhmm …” Candace gasps or groans, I can’t be sure which.

I ease out slightly, then wiggle in, out, in, and it becomes easier each time.

“Your ass is mine.” I hiss.

Not exactly my most original line.

“Yesssss.”

I grin at Jed. Of course, being honest I have no idea if they will honour their promise. Will he truly never sample her anus ? Would she let him ? To be honest, I neither know nor care. A little bit of me would like to imagine that some part of Candace will really remain forever mine but the only important thing for now is the fantasy. If this memory turns us all on in the years to come, then that’s really all that matters.

She is tight. Uncomfortably so.

To be honest, I’m not the world’s greatest fan of butt fucking. For me, it’s about dominance more than sex. If there is a next time I’ll be using more lubricant. But there is something erotically hot about a dryish fuck, something more akin to using real force. Besides it won’t take me long.

I want to close my eyes when I cum, but I manage to force them to stay open. I snort and try to focus on Jed’s face. Meet his eyes in the lamplight.

Candace is hissing ‘yes’ when I squirt up her ass, more from relief than anything. She hasn’t responded in the same way as when we fuck. I haven’t fingered her clit. I don’t want her to cum yet. Anal is a one-way ride, in my view.

The commentary on TV suddenly seems to fill the room, drowning our uneven breathing. I hadn’t noticed it but the pre-game hullabaloo is reaching a crescendo.

I push against her butt cheeks and gingerly uncork my dick from her ass. I catch Jed’s furtive peek at my gleaming, still marble-hard dick.

I allowed Jed to watch the fourth quarter of the Divisional playoff mid-January against the Chargers. I let him enjoy the whole of the second half of the Championship decider against Baltimore. I’ve purposely made him no promises about the Super Bowl, but I know he’s optimistic.

I pull on a robe and sit on the sofa.

“Fetch me a beer and water for her. And bring a towel.” I tell him.

I pat the cushion and Candace snuggles next to me. I leer suggestively and arrange her on the sofa. Her knees flop wide apart.

Jed returns and sets our glasses on the side tables, hands me the towel, imagining that I want it to wipe myself.

“Here.”

I help Candace lift her knees up to her chest and she sinks back into the cushions. Her butt is raised up and I ease the towel under her hips to protect the sofa.

“Higher.”

There is a joke. What decoration does a lady wear on her ears to attract a man ?

Answer. Her ankles.

Candace looks like that joke now, clutching her calves so her feet are next to her head. A smear of my jizz wells up from the o of her bottom.

“Kneel.”

Jed sucks in his cheeks and gets on his knees facing us, with his back to the screen.

I smirk and slowly jiggle my finger at his wife.

“Okay. Clean her ass up.”

I watch the start of the Super Bowl. I’m no expert on Football but I know the rules and enjoy a good game. However, the BBC coverage starts to annoy me early on. During the endless ad breaks, we cut away to some talking heads that start explaining even the most basic elements of the game to the British audience.

Heck, if you’ve stayed up after 11 p.m. watching, I figure you probably know a tight end from a tight ass, right ? It’s like some bozo trying to tell Jed how his wife would like her anus corked.

He’s been a good kid, patiently slavering his tongue in, out and around her upturned poop chute for ages whilst pretending not to listen to the commentary. Pittsburgh takes a 3-0 lead. Emotion flickers across his face.

“Just concentrate on her butt.” I warn him.

Candace seems pretty disinterested in the game. She occasionally sits up to sip her water but mostly lies there quite contentedly enjoying the tongue massage. She has let go of her calves and her knees have fallen open. Her nipples are hard and she occasionally runs her fingertips over them.

On TV, the talking heads prattle on about some technicality.

“I can’t stand all this bullshit.” I mute the volume during another ad break.

I lean over and kiss Candace. She responds breathily, giving me tongue.

“You naughty minx.”

We make out like a couple of teenagers until the action restarts.

“That’s enough. Refill my beer and rinse your mouth out.”

I flick the volume back on while Jed fetches my drink. He soon reappears, mouth smelling of peppermint. His Steelworks tube creates the usual small indentation in the front of his pink tutu.

“Now kneel and lick your wife’s cunt.”

She shifts slightly, hips forward, head thrust back into the cushions.

Pittsburgh goes ahead 10-0. His expression doesn’t change. I lower the volume again.

“How did you enjoy your first taste of anal ?”

“Mmm …” she hesitates. Her nipples are now like bullets in my fingers. “Okay. B … better than I feared.”

I glance down at Jed. His eyes are closed, his forehead creased. I occasionally wonder how he copes with his own frustration at moments like this, but it’s not something I lose sleep over. And shucks, I genuinely will let him have one orgasm sometime in February.

“Hold off as long as you can.” I tell Candace. “Don’t cum.”

I leave the volume muted. The action has resumed. I switch from necking and teasing her to glancing at the game. The Cardinals pull back a touchdown to make it 10-7. Luckily for Jed, he’s totally unaware his team has been pegged back.

Another five minutes pass, maybe longer. Candace is writhing on the sofa now. Her breathing and his slurping are the only sounds in the room.

“Pl … m … may I c … ?”

I catch Jed’s eye just as he peeks up, pleading with her to climax.

“Just a moment longer. It’s nearly Jed’s bedtime.”

Then comes one of those extraordinary coincidences that life sometimes throws up, I swear. On screen, still muted, the Cardinals are camped on the Steelers’ goal line.

“Aagghh … pl … nngghssss …” Candace finally has a titanic, shrieking orgasm.

As her wailing kicks off, my peripheral vision catches the Cardinals’ quarterback throwing an intercepted pass. I grab the remote control and whack the volume up, as some Steelers’ player runs from his own end zone all the way to touch down at the other end, to make the score 17-7. What a climax to the second quarter !

The crowd and commentators have gone berserk.

“Oh fucking A, Jed. You should have seen that.”

He looks at me, a spark of anger, excitement and heaven knows what swirling in his confused eyes. His chin is slick with fluid.

I stab the ‘off’ button on the remote again. The screen goes grey.

“Well, I’m going to catch the second half in bed.”

His mouth opens, shuts, frown-lines creasing his forehead. The outline of a ‘pl …’ shapes his lips.

“No Jed. I’ve spoilt you already letting you listen to the first couple of quarters. You can find out the result in the morning.”

Funny. All the ‘sadistic’ things I’ve done in 7 weeks, and this is the one that brings moisture to his eyes. He sulks but undresses and gets into bed like a naughty kid.

“And you too.” I say to Candace, slapping into her bedroom by her satisfied butt.

In the event, I actually drift off to sleep and miss the final quarter. I check out the score in the morning. Jed’s Steelers have triumphed 27-23. Must have been exciting !

But I make him wait a further 24 hours before I eventually tell him the good news.

Of course, a small part of me still has the nagging concern that I was unnecessarily cruel that night, in a very non-erotic way. Making Jed go to bed and miss his team in such a huge game wasn’t very kind of me.

And yet, the irony is, without even seeing the game, Super Bowl XLIII will be the one he’ll remember most vividly for the rest of his life.

“I feel as if you’ve seen inside my soul.”

It is two weeks later, Saturday, February 14th 2009. The three of us are having dinner at a London restaurant; tablecloths, candles, three courses, the lot.

“I’ve seen inside a bit more than just your soul !” I reply to Candace.

We all laugh. The wine is talking. I’ve decided to do my bit for the UK economy and spend the last of my savings not already destroyed by another interest rate cut and last week’s further collapse in my bank shares.

So to celebrate Valentine’s Day I am giving them a surprise treat. They’ve both had haircuts earlier in the day, been shopping, walked in the fresh air. Breaking the ‘slavery spell’ for a few hours is a risk that I decided to plan a couple of weeks ago to keep us all sane.

Later, Candace’s comment sets me thinking. I think it’s quite astute. Earlier today I had lunch with my wife too. It went pretty well. We avoided any difficult subjects; just enjoyed catching up on nostalgia, the kids, her news, my work. I love my wife and, whatever happens, I will always feel as if we can see inside each other’s heart.

But the soul is different.

I’m pretty sure that in my half a century on this earth nobody has opened up to me in the way that Candace and Jed have. The soul is a person’s personality, their mind, their spirit. Although I have actually spent relatively little time verbally discussing stuff with them, I feel I understand them more intimately than people I’ve known throughout my adult life.

“Still no regrets ?”

They exchange glances. We are roughly a third of the way through our six months. Neither they, nor I, know exactly where we’re heading.

“None.”

“Enjoy the meal ?” I smile. They’ve evidently relished every mouthful but neither of them could finish due to their shrunken appetites.

“Fantastic.”

“And still no limits ?”

“None.” They chirp in unison.

After my morning massage, I always eat a light lunch. Big meals in the middle of the day just make me sleepy. I like cold food; a salad, maybe some poached salmon or sliced ham, a piece of fruit or cheese. I don’t keep a lot of food in my apartment. There are nice shops, a deli and the butcher, just around the corner.

Jed buckles on a ball gag while he prepares my food. Just as the tube ensures his chastity, so the gag stops him picking at my food and drink. It’s a sad fact that men can’t be trusted like women can.

Before I tuck into my lunch, I watch the regular ceremony of Jed bringing the plastic jug from the fridge and pouring a pint of golden liquid into a pan. It is time for he and Candace to stock up on fluids.

They are always thirsty after their exercises, spicy breakfast and a morning’s hard work. Jed uses a measuring pot to add exactly a pint of tap water to my green-tinged urine, mixing a 50/50 cocktail.

In my opinion, the goal of this kind of slavery is to set subs extreme mental challenges for them to overcome. I mean, there’s no subtlety or imagination required to push a sub or slave too far physically, by skewering her breasts or flogging his balls. Anybody can exceed a person’s limits with brutality and mutilation.

But that’s not the kind of scene Jed and Candace want and it’s certainly not what excites me.

A challenge should be achievable with the right level of submission, humility and commitment. Drinking piss is straightforward and low risk. Quite early on I peed directly in Candace’s mouth and Jed drank my undiluted urine.

Frankly, an occasional water sport sex game is a harmless, second to third base Bdsm activity in my book. For some subs it’s a hard limit but in my opinion those calling themselves slaves shouldn’t say no.

However, for 24/7 slavery, I wanted something much more permanent, a kind of long term challenge, but obviously one that was safe. So I decided that they would drink only my piss for several months, apart from occasional glasses of tap water to help flush their systems.

Living on urine is physically quite doable. But there’s a serious mental block to be overcome. I did actually agree with them we’d review my decision a week at a time.

We also decided to render it even safer by reducing the mineral and salt concentration. Firstly, we only use mine, not theirs, as recycling can be dangerous. Secondly, I allow them to mix it with water, usually 50/50, and thirdly to flash-heat it in the microwave to limit the risk of any bacteria. Nobody can say I don’t take health and safety seriously !

While I slowly enjoy my meal, their brew cools. An advantage of heating it up from the fridge is that they drink it tepid, not chilled, making it less pleasant. It is greenish gold today with a distinct vegetable odour. It’s said that we are what we eat, and I ate both asparagus and pickled cabbage yesterday. I frequently use the jug to piss into during the day and then it matures on the bottom shelf of the fridge until it’s needed.

“Mmm.” I point with my chin. “Looks good.”

I myself have a nice glass of chilled white wine and a highball of sparkling mineral water with ice.

Their drink has now cooled to lukewarm in the microwave pan.

They are both too thirsty, too well trained, to be pernickety.

I push my plate away. It’s the sign they may now drink. Jed carefully pours a pair of pub-style beer glasses full and hands one to Candace.

It’s a sight I never grow tired of. Watching their eyes over the top of the pint glasses as they glug back the nectar. The squint of distaste they can never quite hide. Even a simple thing like quenching their thirst is an act of submission. Jed finishes, wipes his mouth.

Candace pauses and belches acid quietly.

“Sorry, Sir.” She blushes.

She downs the remainder, her tongue snaking over her upper lip.

“Right, guys. Back to work.”

Those of you who have had kids may remember that expression on their faces when they fill their diaper ? Well, adults do the same. Jed’s harder to read than Candace but I can tell whenever either of them is doing it. He grimaces, while she puts on more of a guilty blushing face.

Afterwards, they carry on their duties regardless. The only type of accidents that have to be cleared up quickly are Candace’s poops. Fortunately they’re rare, only twice so far. Jed’s diapers keep everything odour-proof inside.

I love watching their awkward gait as they continue working with soggy thighs throughout the afternoon.

“No regrets ?”

It’s still our safe question.

A shake of the head, means everything’s okay.

A shrug means, not sure.

A nod would mean they want to talk.

Jed shakes his head.

Candace is on her elbows and knees, forehead pressed to the wooden floor, butt in the air.

“Lick her clean for me.”

Jed dry-swallows and hunkers down behind his wife’s upturned hips. Today I came inside her after breakfast. I’ve just finished my after-lunch coffee. In the past four hours, her cunt has festered nicely.

I watch a while. Today he is dressed in a kind of butler’s uniform; shiny shoes, white shirt, black waistcoat. His dark, herringbone pants bulge over his diaper and steel cage. His face burrows between her cleft, his tongue lapping up my stagnant leftovers.

I have often wondered how a couple like Candace and Jed get together, get married. I knew a few submissive couples in my twenties but nothing like this pair. Life would be so much neater if one of them was dominant, the other submissive, although that would mean I’d never have met them !

Of course, I have asked them how, both together and individually. Jed is the more hardwired sub sexually, but in other ways the more alpha personality too. Candace is more confused. She has a deep seam of Catholic guilt running within her. In private she had admitted tearfully to terrible shame about our adventure. And yet her need for it is even greater.

What is quite clear is that, despite everything, they love each other. They met, fell in love, married and are still in love. Each has told me separately that, even knowing what they now do about each other, neither would change a thing. They would still get married.

It is that certainty that means we can continue deeper into the garden of sin. I drag up a low chair and sit facing Candace’s face.

“Suck.”

While he prepares her, and she gets my dick hard, I talk.

“So far, so good guys. But it’s time to broaden Candace’s diet.”

They both acknowledge me with slight moans.

Jed is doing the ironing while Candace is on my PC. First she sends a quick email to USA about what fun she’s having in Scotland. Second she logs onto her new Ashley Madison account. The day when she starts taking on a few lovers is fast approaching. This is the darkest, most illicit, part of her particular fantasy.

We have set up her profile and uploaded a discreet photo. Her limits are set as ‘Anything Goes’. She’s already had a lot of interest, although many are either timewasters or perhaps they think she’s phoney.

Which is half true. We’ve ticked her main intimate interests as being submissive and oral sex. But we’ve said her older ‘British husband’ wants to watch her give head to another guy.

This is Jed’s fantasy too, in a different way. Way down deep, I know he’d prefer Candace to be a domme wife cuckolding him, but this is second best.

I sometimes call him over, ask his opinion, look over our shoulders.

What about this guy, Jed ? Hey, look at those muscles ! He’d look good with Candace.

But mine is the only opinion that counts. I tell her what to write to whom. It’s a wonderful feeling of power. I dictate aloud like a boss to his secretary. I mix-n-match truth and fantasy and make her fingers tremble with embarrassment as she types. She’s an active correspondent but has no idea which guy I’ll choose.

Nor do I.

But I’ve narrowed them down to three.

We meet in another bar, located quite near to the one where I first met Candace and Jed. But this is a tourist hotel; cheaper, drab, a few questions asked type of place.

Jason is a nice, mid-thirties, middle class, professional black guy. Trustworthy. We’ve spoken on the phone and he knows the score. He smiles at me, then appreciatively at Candace. She looks good in a tight wool sweater, new jeans and boots.

“No small talk.” I say. “This isn’t a date.”

To be honest, I’m nervous. In fiction it’s easy to involve strangers but this is different. Although I’m confident Jason’s not going to be a mad axe-man, there’s always that tiny bit of doubt. I like the idea of today being rushed and sordid but it’s also about wanting to get in and out of here quickly.

Is it legal to ‘pimp’ a consenting female adult in a hotel nowadays ? Who knows in the nanny police state my country has become.

Jason nods. He’s a music industry accountant. Charming but matter-of-fact. He and I have discussed everything beforehand. He addresses me not Candace.

“I have a room.”

It’s number 11. At the end of a corridor. A view of the trash and recycling bins through the net curtains. Avocado wallpaper. Floral eiderdown. But it looks clean and smells okay. Perfect.

“I’ll sit in the corner here. Out the way.”

I have locked Jed in his bedroom back at my apartment, writing lines. He has keys in a wax sealed jar so he could let himself out in an emergency. But I’m his wife’s security here.

“Top off.”

It’s a topless blowjob. That’s the agreement. Nothing else.

Jason sits on the bed. He’s 6’ 3”, wearing a charcoal suit and tie.

If this were a story, I’d have made the stranger a fat Asian cabdriver ! But I actually want Candace to enjoy her first time. She said in her fantasy his part would be played by Johnny Depp. I guess Jason’s a compromise candidate.

A Stranger.

And not fiction.

She timidly pulls her sweater over her head. She’s not wearing a bra. She keeps her jeans and boots on.

He has my permission to touch her. His black hands cup her plump white tits.

“Okay.” I say, hurrying them on.

The agreement is fifteen minutes. It’s a squalid quickie. That’s what I want her to experience. The excitement and shame.

Jason shucks off his suit without embarrassment. It feels weird watching another man undress but I keep still. He’s got sleek satin boxers on. Candace kneels and cautiously tugs them down to his ankles then he sits on the bed.

“So how was your journey here ?”

“Slow. Traffic.”

I have to shift in my chair to hide my erection. I have always wanted to select a woman’s partner. The feeling is immense. Yes, the decision to submit to this was hers but everything else is down to me. The when, the where, the what, and above all, the who.

The deal is simple: I chat with Jason while Candace blows him. We both discuss her, ignore her, as if she’s not here.

“Worth the travel time so far ?”

He smiles, smoothing Candace’s ash-blonde hair back from her eyes. “Yeah.”

The skin on her neck is mottled red with shame. For a moment I wonder if she’s going to back out. Jason flashes me a concerned look. Then his face dissolves into a shit-eating grin as her head descends into his lap.

“Let me know what you think. She’s not that experienced yet.”

“Sure. Only my second white one, you know. Most of that stuff about horny white wives on websites is bull.”

“Not total bull.” I smile. “This one’s for real.”

He winks. “Right !”

I am not a racist. My brother-in-law is black and I have a lovely nephew and niece of mixed ethnicity. I have mixed feelings about stories that use cliché black and white stereotypes. But I want Candace to submit to several obvious tests, including giving a blowjob to a stranger and having a sexual experience with a black man. It seems a good idea to merge the two.

As far as I can tell, Jed isn’t a racist either. But he isn’t one of those ‘white wimp with black dude fantasists’ either. So this will be a nice test for him too. He doesn’t know Jason is black yet. It’ll be too late for him to do anything about it when he does.

I sit quietly a while then chat some more with Jason about this and that. I can see Candace’s tits in profile, her nipples rubbing against his legs. She’s lost ten pounds in weight, mostly from where I intended. Her cheekbones are prominent where’s she sucking him.

“Mind if I take a photo ?”

“Sure.”

I use my I-phone. Snap three shots.

“Smile.”

Candace peers sideways, blushing, stares up at me with black meat bulging her cheeks.

I take a couple more souvenirs, glance at my watch.

“Time to use your hand.”

Her hand timidly reaches up to him, pale fingers round his shaft. For this symbolic occasion I have let her put both her rings back on. She masturbates him while still sucking the helmet.

“Feel free to cum where you like.” I shrug. “Mouth, face, tits.”

He bites his lower lip, sitting back on the bed. Her hand is moving in a practised blur. The small diamond of her engagement ring catches the light. Slightly obscene noises escape from the sides of her mouth.

“Oh … yeah …”

Jason unloads into her throat. I study her closed eyes, her neck.

“Swallow it bitch.” He mutters, rather obviously.

Candace does as she’s told. Her throat gulps as she knocks a stranger’s load back for the first time in her life.

Just 22 minutes have passed since we arrived at the hotel.

Jed stands to attention.

He is naked, unlocked. His dick hardening, already pointing north.

I sit on the sofa with Candace, the scent of strange semen still on her breath. Or am I imagining it ?

Neatly handwritten pages of lines are stacked on the table next to my I-phone.

‘My wife Candace has gone out to meet a guy called Jason.’

“Jerk yourself.”

He reaches down, starts sliding his fingers along his erection.

I gesture to Candace. By chance, her period began yesterday. It’s fortunate my decision for her only to blow Jason coincided so neatly with her menstrual cycle. She crawls over on her hands and knees, takes Jed’s cock in her soiled mouth. He takes his hand away.

“Don’t cum yet, Jeddy-boy.”

He sucks in his breath, grimaces.

“Can you feel how much better she is now ? Feel the way her tongue works. The pressure. None of that dreadful mwah-mwah slobbering she used to do. I’ll bet she could have got Jason off no-hands with a bit more time.”

“Uhmm.”

He seemed to take the photos showing Jason in his stride. I’ll print a couple out later for their bedside tables. C & J. Same initials.

“Okay. That’s enough you two. Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.”

‘Doing a number’.

Last year I had an interesting email and yahoo exchange with a female correspondent about the psychological effect on a man of having his ass penetrated. She’s Australian but now resident in Sicily. Online she’s known as ‘the White Lady’ and she’s into Female Supremacy, which must be especially interesting on such a macho Latin island !

Anyway, in her view, fucking a man’s ass definitely ‘does a serious number’ on his masculinity.

Her comments set me thinking. I have zero interest in gay sex. But I liked the idea of seeing the effect of anal penetration on Jed. I decided it would suit my plan better if Candace were the one to breach her husband’s virginity.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Yes Sir.”

You know that slightly ridiculous phrase ‘through gritted teeth’. Well Jed’s teeth really are the definition of gritted.

“Are you ready to do anything to cum tomorrow ?”

“Pretty much.”

I nod, beaming.

I’d already purchased a double-ended dildo with an elastic harness. It’s a weirdly garish shade of yellow with one of those dividing plates half way along. On one end is a smooth 6-inches plastic dildo that pleasures the wearer. At the other end is a ribbed 6-inches shaft that penetrates the recipient.

It’s a starlit evening. Outside the window, a silver moon hovers in the dark, clear sky. What is that old song ? Bad Moon Rising.

Jed is folded over in a bondage harness facing the view of the river. Leather straps fasten his wrists halfway up his back. He is forehead down on the floor, buttocks in the air. His inner thighs are red, pockmarked with spots of diaper rash.

Candace kneels nervously behind him wearing a dildo for the first time in her life. Her period is over and she’s dressed for her maiden voyage in a bra, suspender belt and fishnets, the dildo’s elastic straps are around her waist and between her legs. One end of the lubed prong is already inside her cunt and the ribbed half juts out from her body like a ripe banana.

Jed’s anal rose is puckered but well prepared, a dollop of gel emanating from the rim. His steel tube has been unlocked, removed, and his own dick quivers between his thighs; 57 days of chaste celibacy have trickled by since his only previous release. December, Christmas, New Year, it is now late February.

Candace smiles at me nervously. She has downed the shot of neat vodka I poured to calm her nerves.

“Go on.” I grin.

Do a number on him. The words echo in my head.

Candace gnaws her lower lip, steadies her fingers on his hips, and leans into her husband. Only recently she was an anal virgin herself. The banana bobbles about until she uses her hand to guide the tip to his rim.

“Shh.” I hiss a warning. “Hold still.”

I am down in his face now, watching. I raise eyebrows at Candace. She thrusts, triggering a loud grunt from her husband. His cheeks scrunch tight.

Actually, to be precise, the dildo is calibrated metrically not in inches. According to the packaging, the diameter is exactly 5 centimetres thick, including the ribbing, and its length is 15 centimetres, which I figure are say 2 and 6 inches respectively.

A comfortable size for a vagina.

Slightly less so for an anus.

His breath stammers in a series of short, sharp gasps.

I exchange glances with Candace. We are like two interrogators silently communicating; the old hard guy - soft guy routine.

“Don’t worry, Jed. You can take it my friend.”

She grips his waist tighter, grinds her pretty white teeth with determination.

I’m certainly no anal expert but I’ve fucked enough women’s butts to know there is that crucial moment when the defences are breached. Like the 300 Spartans at the Battle of Thermopylae, however well they resist, once the sphincter has succumbed, the opposing forces flood through the gap.

It is the same with Jed’s asshole. Resist, resist, resist, then suddenly, several inches of yellow plastic invade his virgin territory.

“Aagh … nghm …” he groans, part-pain and part-acceptance.

His grey eyes blink up at me, his face slack-jawed.

“Oah, Jeddy boy. That was beautiful. Pure poetry. Whatever happens now, you’ll never be a hundred per cent man again.”

Candace reaches under Jed’s hips and takes his penis in her right hand. He is rock solid and his circumcised helmet is the colour of eggplant.

I nod to her again. Her mouth pouts in an unspoken thank you. Sweetly, it’s on his behalf. But I raise a finger of warning that she doesn’t forget our agreement.

Slowly she builds rhythm, sawing to and fro, an expression of mild surprise emerging on her face as she realises the dildo inside her own body actually feels good. She begins pegging her hubby with gusto.

Jed’s face gradually changes too. While Candace’s hand is pumping his erection, I’m assured even the most hetero guy can also derive pleasure from a dildo massaging his prostate.

“Come on Jeddykins. Enjoy ! It’ll be a long time until you can do this again.”

His eyes close as eight weeks of frustration finally boil over. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a visceral roar from any man.

“Yesssss … aaaarrrrrrrrrrrmmm …”

I pass my finger across my throat in a cut off sign.

Candace immediately pulls her hand away.

“Nnnagggh … nnnpll …”

He groans in helpless disappointment; part orgasm, part denial.

It is wonderful, awe inspiring to witness. His eyes roll in their sockets like fruits in a slot machine. A single spurt litters the floor beneath him. His erection twitches as he bitches and gasps, finally triggering a second jet onto the wooden floor.

“Is that all ?”

“Nnn … hhh …. Hhh.” He pleads.

His shoulders, elbows shudder in the leather harness as he starts fighting to retrieve his orgasm. A third pearly globule drops out of his piss slit. His body has begun to sag just as Candace picks up the pace. One final, unexpected, squirted teardrop is like a last hurrah.

I smile encouragingly at my accomplice. Her own eyes are glazed now, selfish and hungry. She thrusts, almost snarling, concentrating on her own climax.

The change in Jed is almost instant. His body has tensed. One second he was into it, lost in the moment. Post-orgasm, he is shamed by what’s happening as his asshole is reamed. His remaining seminal fluid dribbles harmlessly onto the small puddle beneath him.

But Candace doesn’t stop. She is entranced in her own world.

Her head leans back like a howling wolf.

Yep, my plan is slowly working.

Most evenings I spend quietly at home. On the few occasions I have to go out for some reason, I leave Candace and Jed locked in their separate bedrooms with their homework. They each have pairs of keys in separate wax sealed jars, to their own room and to each other’s, just in case there were ever an emergency. Candace also has a cell phone with my number plugged in. But I leave a sound recorder running to check they don’t communicate or unnecessarily break silence in any way.

Their studies are usually mundane but useful school-type homework such as learning lists of dates or the Kings and Queens of England, the Presidents and Vice Presidents of USA, long passages of poetry, or speeches from Shakespeare.

When I return at 10 or 11 p.m., it’s nice to sense the studious hush, quite unlike when I returned home to a place full of teenagers.

“Fuck, I’m horny.” I say to Jed with a wink. I’ve gone eight hours without an orgasm while he’s just been eight weeks. I switch on the baby monitor in his bedroom and turn his light off.

“Yes Sir. Have a good night, Sir.”

Jed has the parent’s unit at his bedside. I’m not a noisy sleeper but I often like him to hear my bedroom: me getting ready for bed, a bit of late night TV. He can listen to me getting up for a piss in the night, my light snoring. And unless I switch it off, the children’s unit by my bed also broadcasts my conversations and sex with Candace.

“I’ve had a few drinks. Just jack me off a while.”

I lie back, eyes shut, relaxing after the business dinner I’ve been to.

“Mmm. That’s nice. Now tease my asshole with your tongue too.”

It takes a while. One of the things about getting older is you sadly can’t mix alcohol and sex like you used to in your twenties.

“I bet Jed used to love it when you rimmed his butt ?”

I don’t like to leave our eavesdropping friend out of the conversation.

“Mmh …” she replies in an uncommitted murmur.

Her tongue and fingers work their magic. I enjoy everything about a female slave but, when all is said and done, having sex on tap is ultimately the best part. However willing a wife or girlfriend is, there are always those times when they’re not in the mood. Heck, there are even moments when they’re frisky and you just want to go to sleep !

But a true slave just adapts her rhythms to yours. Her periods become irrelevant. Her headaches are beside the point. Her own desires are neither here nor there.

As I’ve said before, no guy wants sex literally all the time. We have beer, TV, sport, sleep, and our mates. Even our jobs. But when we want sex, we want it now. We don’t want bullshit about it being inconvenient, or she’s watching some soap, or not in the fucking mood.

We just want maybe a quick blowjob. Perhaps a leisurely fuck. Or something a bit different, a bit imaginative.

“Okay. Get on all fours. Let’s finish off in the doggy.”

Like any normal woman, even Candace didn’t used to be like this. Not with Jed or anybody else. But it’s what she wanted. She’s not just learned to do exactly what I want, when I want, she does it unquestioningly and with a smile on her cute face.

Or a smile on her cute butt.

I love doing it from behind. Her face in the sheet, both holes presented. She has a couple of faded yellow bruises across her buttocks. There is something caveman about the position. I can really thump my dick its full length into her clenching, Kegel-enhanced cunt.

It still takes a while, thanks to the booze, but I eventually empty inside her with relief. She’s nowhere near an orgasm herself. Which is fine tonight. She’s just a receptacle.

I collapse back into the pillows with a sigh.

“Scoop it out with your fingers.”

She makes a face. Funny how she swallows readily enough nowadays, but I think she considers my making her shovel out her own cunt after fucking to be simply gratuitous.

“Good girl. Now lick your hand clean. You still awake Jed ? You should see this. Say goodnight to Jed, darling.”

“Night Jed.”

I dismiss her off to sleep in her own bed, with my salty toothpaste on her lips.

The following evening I test them on the previous night’s homework. Jed and Candace are an intelligent, educated couple and I set high standards. I not only expect top scores for their latest studies, but I throw in questions that test all previous lists, names and passages they’ve learned as well. This cumulative library of trivia will be a handy memory for them to take home.

Funnily enough, Jed and Candace are both keener devotees of CP than me. I think that’s quite often the case. Subs get a masochistic thrill from being beaten. And many female dommes seem to get a buzz caning subs. I’m sure sadistic males enjoy inflicting pain too, but for others like me who are more dominant than brutal it’s a challenge.

I have never been into real life corporal punishment. Stories are okay, but I just don’t get off on actually hitting people. Never have, never will. But that’s not to say I spare the rod entirely. I think spankings and canings have a role to play in teaching, training, behaviour reinforcement and punishment.

My father brought me up with the attitude, if you’re going to do something, do it right ! So that means making any caning humiliating and painful enough that your sub doesn’t want another in a hurry.

I enjoy the ritual most.

To even take their tests, I make Jed and Candace bend over side by side and clutch their ankles. They are sometimes naked, sometimes partly clothed, but always bare bottomed. It is dusk outside, and they face the window overlooking the Thames. In theory somebody with a telescope in the office block on the other side of the river could be watching. Minimal chance but I find the possibility enhances the tension.

I use a plastic cane. It’s wide and flat, like an architect’s ruler. It stings without breaking skin. I use it to tap their ankles wider apart. Both their faces stare up at me through their open legs, cheeks turning red.

I make them wait in that humiliating posture for five to ten minutes, while I pour myself a drink, maybe make a phone call, prepare my questions.

I rest the cane gently on the bottom of Jed’s spine.

“Who was the eighth President ?”

“Martin van Buren.”

I tap Candace. “Twenty ninth President ?”

“ … er … Harding. Warren Harding.”

“Thirty eighth ?”

“Jimmy Carter.” Jed answers.

I thwack the cane without warning across his buttocks. There is still very faint yellow-brown bruising from his most recent punishment. A brand new bright red line appears.

I take a step and give Candace her first stroke too. She must pay for Jed’s errors and vice versa. It’s a mixed doubles event.

“Thirty eighth ?”

“Gerald Ford.” She gasps, correctly.

“Forty fifth ?”

“ … none.” She replies. “Obama is the 44th.”

I give her a warning rap.

“Not Obama. Show respect.”

“Barack Obama.”

I nod at her. Her upside-down face grimaces at me with concentration.

“James Monroe’s Vice President ?”

Silence. Jed doesn’t know.

I’m loosening up now. I give him a second blistering lash and his entire right buttock turns a satisfying crimson hue. I do the same, only a touch less harshly to Candace.

“Do you know ?”

“Tompkins.” She blurts out.

Correct.

But no cigar !

I give them both a third hard stroke each.

“Daniel D Tompkins. I want full names !”

And so it goes on. They shift from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching their baboon-red posteriors.

“Date Thomas Jefferson died ?”

“July 4th, 1826.”

“Age when he died ?”

“Eighty three.”

As I said, they learn some pretty useful stuff.

PART FOUR

KISS AND SWORD

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves.

By each let this be heard.

Some do it with a bitter look,

some with a flattering word.

The coward does it with a kiss.

The brave man with a sword.”

(Oscar Wilde)

Spring 2009

As the evenings get lighter and the days longer, we exercise more outside, in the nearby public park. London has many green spaces that fill up in the Spring with young women sunbathing, couples picnicking and kids playing soccer or cricket.

I take out a pitcher of rose wine and a magazine and settle on one of the benches as the evening shadows of the trees slowly lengthen, under a pink-tinged sky.

There’s an asphalt track laid round the perimeter of the park for cyclists and joggers. I can observe its entire mile and a half from my seat, bar a couple of hundred yards where it kinks out of sight.

Both Candace and Jed have improved their fitness and times dramatically. It proves how slim and fit we all could be if our lives were run by a Master. No booze, no smoking, no ice cream, no television, no lazy indulgence.

They both run in trainers, tight shorts and vests. I have to allow Jed to remove his tube for any outdoor run because his spandex shorts are obscenely tight, the outline of his dick and balls is clearly visible.

But Candace attracts more glances than her husband. Her big, braless tits jump around like yoyos in her white cut-off vest. It is bare below the ribcage to reveal her flat abdomen. Front on, her matching spandex shorts grip her mound tightly. From behind, the snug cut means her ass cheeks are only partly covered.

I don’t believe in public demonstrations of bdsm. There is nothing we three do – quite – that crosses the line between subtle exhibitionism and inappropriate humiliation. You can see passers-by look, stare, maybe shake their heads occasionally, but then continue on their way.

Of course, watching two people repeat a cycle of six-minute miles gets boring. It’s my job to make things a little trickier. Running with full bladders or churning bowels adds some interest and stress to their exercise. I use binoculars to study their sweating expressions as they demonstrate their newfound toilet training on the running track.

But my favourite ‘extra’ is figging. At home, I skin, pare and slice pieces of ginger root into a couple of 2-inches long dick-shaped plugs. One corks Jed’s butt and the other wedges up Candace’s ass. Then they put on their shorts and out we go to the park. The burning sensation starts almost immediately but it builds to a peak once the laps start.

I genuinely can’t stop laughing. Figging was apparently used to ‘ginger up’ old nags to make a buyer think the horses were younger. And Jed and Candace do kind of resemble skittish colts as they hop along the track, rumps wagging and puce faces scowling with exertion.

“Get a bloody move on.” I call out in my best Drill Sergeant’s voice, as they reach my end of the park again, commencing another circuit.

Candace’s eyes, tits and bum cheeks roll as she comes past, damp stains making her skimpy outfit cling even tighter to her sweaty skin. She admits that her endorphin rush when the ginger’s up her ass is off the scale. The thing about ginger is that it reacts with bodily juices, moisture and sweat, developing from a tingling sensation initially, like a nettle sting, into a searing pain like a burn.

“Just you wait until I get you home !” I threaten, when nobody else is in earshot. She almost seems to neigh and sets off at a renewed gallop.

At home, after a long drink, she does her regular Kegel routine for me. She strips off and squats naked on the wooden floor, still sweating. She uses a stainless steel vaginal barbell that isn’t ‘sexual’ like a vibrator, but has a much more ‘medical’ appearance. It’s 7 inches long with ball-like bulges at both ends.

By now, her combination of Kegel exercises and daily bladder control has built up Candace’s pubococcygeus muscles to intense levels. The barbell weighs over a pound and she can squat, gripping it, contracting her vaginal muscles in repetitions of one hundred.

“Damn, you should feel her cunt now.” I shake my head in wonder at Jed, who is standing alongside his wife.

He is naked, feet set apart, fingers laced behind his head. He nods at me.

“Yes Sir. I’ll bet she’s great, Sir.”

He too is exercising his genitals. After his outdoor run, instead of relocking him straight back into his tube, I allow him to get an erection and stand there clenching his buttocks and prostate, making his underused penis jerk up and down in rhythm, like a dick doing its push-ups.

After weeks without an orgasm, this routine is pure frustration for Jed. I can literally see his biceps twitching with pent up desire to put his hands down and grab his bobbing cock.

“Good lad. Mustn’t let your love muscle totally waste away.”

Occasionally, I let him masturbate himself as well. This is the ultimate test of his self control. He’s right handed and I prefer to watch him use his left. The reduced grip and rhythm from doing the exercise wrong-handed make it more awkward, and so he’s less likely to get carried away. It’s a matter of a crucial two seconds; taking him right to the edge but not over it.

“Tell me when you’re ten seconds away.”

“Mm …” his wrist shifts to and fro, teeth biting his lower lip, eyes fixed on me. “N … now.” He gasps.

I give him an extra couple of moments, so he can stare into the abyss.

“Enough !”

His eyes panic, his face dissolves in distress. He wrenches his fingers away like they’re burnt. His dick spasms, drooling clear pre-cum.

Slowly, after 20-30 seconds, his breathing creeps back from the brink.

“Phew. Close !”

He dry-swallows, forcing his eyes open. “Yes. Very, Sir.”

I grin. “Don’t you like it when I let you diddle your cock ?”

There’s no correct answer to my question. He’s fucked either way.

“I love it, Sir. Thank you.”

“Good lad. In a few days time I’ll let you jack off again. Now, let’s get that cock nice and soft and locked, and out of any mischief.”

Candace and Jed both regularly do ‘Kegel tongue exercises’ too. These are my own invention ! They stand facing each other, only inches apart, and stick out their tongues towards the other as far as they can. But instead of kissing, they vigorously try to lick the tip of their nose before closing their lips again. They repeat a set of these one hundred times as well, building their lingual muscles to equally intense levels.

I love tongue baths.

When I was younger, two people licking each other seemed the height of vanilla intimacy. Nuzzling, kissing, sliding my tongue over and into a girlfriend’s body made sex seem as lustful as one of those swirling, soft-focus 1970s-80s chocolate commercials.

And to me analingus was the ultimate oral act, involving cleanliness, trust, erotic sensations and animal instincts in equal measure. It wasn’t anything to do with Bdsm back then, it was only about giving and taking pleasure.

Later I discovered that having my flesh licked and worshipped without reciprocating was what I really enjoy. It’s not so much selfishness as a desire for inequality; sauce for the goose, not the gander. To smell my own body odour lingering under my armpits and watch a sub’s pink tongue snaking out of her mouth to lap at my salty underarms was always bliss.

And, above all, sitting on a pretty face.

After twenty years with a lovely wife who didn’t see eye to eye with my rim, so to speak, it is wonderful to have a sub again whose pride doesn’t prevent her doing exactly as she’s told. I won’t pretend Candace ever was, or is now, a devotee of salad tossing but she has learned her place.

There is little to match analingus while you watch soccer on TV. I went and purchased a stool from a shop in North London called Fettered Pleasures specifically for the purpose. I’m sure it’s meant for women queening men but, hey, it works for kings too !

The manufacturer humorously branded the product a ‘Rim with a View’. It’s a stool made out of tubular steel but it comes with a rather basic, plastic toilet style U-shaped seat. So I got Candace to sew me a sleeve to cover the seat, out of a piece of purple plush velvet, so that it’s more comfortable for me to sit on for long periods. Purple is the colour of kings.

The legs hold the seat at a height of 13 inches off the wooden floor and, with the curve of my butt and a cushion under Candace’s head, that’s the perfect height for her to be able to lie underneath me and worship my ass.

I guess my butt isn’t as pert and muscled as it was thirty years ago. But life isn’t about soft focus and shared pleasure any more. It’s about Candace’s commitment to full service submission.

I rarely smoke but at times like this I still enjoy the occasional puff. Maybe 5 to 10 a month, always when watching sport on TV. A beer, a cigarette, a good Champions League Quarter Final, and a thorough rim job. Bliss.

For obvious health reasons I keep myself pretty clean down there. I guess I have a slightly scatological fetish but I’m not stupid. The last thing I’d ever want is Candace or anybody else to get ill due to me. I shower and use an antiseptic spray before a rim job. Not necessarily immediately before, of course. It’s nice to allow a bit of natural sweat and moisture to rebuild.

But it is now time to push on, to journey deeper than we have been so far. And there is one new humiliation that is a shocking but safe way to truly test a submissive.

Gas.

After all, it’s only hot air.

I blame the beer.

Once evening when Candace has begun to accept her analingual duties, I noisily and without warning brutally pass wind. It’s a ferocious, flatulent blast right into her face. Oh boy, is she mad. She recoils, struggles out from under the stool, makes a damned fuss, calls me gross.

So I get mad at her too. We have a little discussion. There is only one outcome, one winner. No harm has been done. It’s only a question of her unlimited commitment. She must control her natural reaction.

Not long afterwards, once she’s restarted, I smile down between my open thighs. I can’t see her eyes properly but I can watch her chin and the lower half of her face.

Like most families I guess, my kids invented our own family slang for two types of gas. One is the ‘Labrador’; its bark is worse than its bite.

This Labrador is not quite as loud, easier for her to stomach.

There is no smell worth talking about. Just a bit of harmless flatulence.

Her tongue stops licking momentarily, lips still, her neck and chest are goose-bumped scarlet with shame and exasperation.

“Good girl.”

This time, after a brief pause, she starts tonguing again. A slight moan but no verbal objection. So it’s time to push on.

“Jed.” I call over to the kitchen area. “Bring me another beer.”

I time it perfectly. He is filling my glass like a waiter. I study his eyes as he pours. He hasn’t previously expressed an opinion on me riding his wife’s face, not that I’ve asked him. Anyway he can’t now, as a red ball-gag is strapped into his mouth to prevent him pilfering any of my food while he makes my supper.

My third fart is quieter but perfectly audible, unmistakeable.

I hold his gaze. He blinks. A man just passed gas on his love.

And Candace is totally aware that Jed’s feet are inches from her head. She knows that her meek acceptance is obvious to him.

I calmly raise a quizzical eyebrow and then turn my eyes back to the TV screen.

“Oh, and empty the ashtray.”

He timidly skulks back to the kitchen.

And his wife’s tongue skulks along my cleft.

Much later, in bed, I kiss her.

“You were a good girl this evening.”

“Thank you.” She murmurs. I have fucked her and am now gently teasing my fingers over her protruding, slimy clit. She badly wants to cum.

“No harm done.” I smile, tasting her breath.

Her expression is part-sulk and part-arousal. She doesn’t reply.

“Only to your pride.”

“It’s not my pride.” She whispers. “It’s just … disgusting.”

“Oh, go on. It’s just one more broken taboo.”

Her hips grind in frustration.

“Bastard.”

I accept her insolence in the semi-jovial manner it’s meant.

“Say it.” My index finger hovers over her clit like I’m deciding which piece of sushi to pick up. “Ask me to fart in your face whenever I want to from now on.”

She dry-swallows, humiliation and stimulation washing over her.

“Please … do it in my face whenever you want …”

“Not ‘it’. Say the word. Fart.”

“F … fart in my face. Whenever you want. Please …”

Her head tilts back, on the verge of an orgasm.

“… Sir …”

I slap her hip to signify it’s over. The raw tuna can go back in the fridge for now. She gasps, eyes shut, waiting, hoping.

“Not tonight.”

Two evenings later, after dinner, another exam.

I just love that sensation of her wet tip flicking the length and breadth of my crack. The tongue exercises have given her real power and stamina. I am sitting on my stool facing the screen again, supporting my back against the sofa. I’m enjoying an action movie DVD.

Candace is lying face up below me, her legs extended towards the screen. She’s dressed in a maid’s costume with stockings and heels but is topless above the waist. I can reach down and squeeze her tits during an exciting moment. Like those tension-relief stress balls you can buy.

Her tongue action keeps me rock hard. But her arm is reaching up and blindly jerking me off too, so I don’t have to do any of the work.

“Mmm, that’s it. Don’t slow. Just keep the rhythm nice and steady.”

It’s hard, a difficult new skill, masturbating me from underneath and without being able to see. But she’s making a decent fist of it. Plenty of bicep curl repetitions in the mornings, and jerking me off like this, will soon make her perfect.

Now the last, trickiest exam question.

My stomach is full.

My family’s term is a ‘Jack Russell’; unlike a Labrador, this is a terrier whose bite is much worse than its yapping bark.

This Jack Russell is almost silent, a long hiss. Within moments I can smell the sulphurous aroma. So, of course, can Candace.

“Just keep that rhythm nice and steady, I said.”

Her fingers seem to pause on my dick, almost imperceptibly. Like they are linked to her tongue. Then like an engine only missing a single beat, her hand and mouth continue their synchronised service.

It’s a myth they all stink. Mine anyway ! My flatulence is mostly aroma-free. I swear. But like anyone, I do have my moments.

I lean my head down to one side so she can hear me better over the screeching tyres of the movie. Her tired arm maintains it pumping tempo.

“And keep that tongue action going.”

The thrill is immense.

I’ve heard it said that once a couple start passing gas in front of each other it’s bad for the romance of their relationship. Well, frankly, romance is for lovers. I wouldn’t have dreamed of insulting my wife this way. Of course, she’d never have accepted it either.

And that’s surely the point. Candace doesn’t want to be my wife. Not even my girlfriend or lover, in the romantic sense of the term. She wants something else entirely. Me doing something so repellent - and her learning to accept it - was never an individual act on a menu that she or I consciously considered beforehand, but she did ask to be tested to the limit.

Scatological it may be, but there are few tests that plumb the absolute depths of a submissive’s obedience.

And this is one of them.

With her lips and tongue worshipping my ass, her fingers fondling my dick, I sit, drink, burp and enjoy the movie until I finally lose it and give her a helping hand.

Blissfully content, I spurt pearly jets in an arc all over her tits and stomach.

Jason was chuffed to meet up with us again. This time to fuck Candace.

Same hotel. It’s Room 13 this time.

Not unlucky, I hope.

Candace is just as shy but slightly more relaxed this second time. Jason has agreed I can watch and photograph from the corner again. They both strip off properly. He has an enviably good body; 6’ 3”, broad shoulders, V-shaped torso, long legs. His skin is milk chocolate and, to my amusement, he keeps his navy blue socks on.

As if to return the favour, Candace retains her stockings and heels.

It’s been a long time since I watched two people fuck. She sucks him a little then rolls the condom onto his black shaft. He mounts her on the floral eiderdown.

“Look at me please.”

I snap a couple more for her and Jed’s European album. Her face is centre-shot. His big, dark frame highlights the pallor of her skin. Jason is surprisingly relaxed about his face featuring. I take another photo capturing their lips together.

I have long since noticed that Candace doesn’t often orgasm from straight, penetrative sex. The handful of times that she’s cum fucking with me have been when she’s feeling the strongest emotional humiliation.

“Put some back into it.” I call out to her from my chair.

Jason turns and grins, driving into her with long, powerful strokes.

Her head rolls, eyes towards me, cheeks creased with effort.

“Yesssss.”

I’m not sure who cums first. A dead heat ? Maybe ‘Usain’ just bolted ahead, with Candace breasting the tape a close second. I’m not sure. What I do know is that I have to hiss at them.

“Sshhh, guys !”

The thin walls of the hotel don’t seem very soundproof.

Their loud male grunts and female yowls slowly tail off.

“You came big time, didn’t you ?”

We are in my car, driving home. Candace is looking out of the window at the pedestrians and commuters. It’s early evening. The days are longer. The clocks have changed to Summer time. People on their way home, to pubs, shopping. Normal people.

“Yes.”

She turns to look at me. In many ways this was the defining moment. More significant than any other that has passed between us. We both know it.

“Fucking doesn’t have to be about submission, you know ? It can just be fun.”

Slowly her face breaks into a lovely smile. She slides her hand over to my lap.

“I’m driving.”

I hear her giggle.

Part of me is sad. I can’t speak for every guy but sharing a woman for the first time feels weird. What I mean is, a dom sharing his sub. For me, a blowjob is one thing. I could watch Candace giving head to a hundred guys and it wouldn’t feel like this. Fucking is different. It is impossible for me to value her exactly as I did before. It was inevitable this would happen. Heck, I wanted it to happen in our final weeks. But it’s still poignant.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves.

By each let this be heard.

“Let’s go straight to a restaurant.” I say. “Drink some champagne.”

She smiles then bites her lip.

“Jed ? Oh, don’t worry about him. He’ll be safe for a few more hours.”

I’m not sure exactly when it was that I first had the idea.

Slowly but surely my germ of a plan mushroomed. I realised that it would be best for both of them; for Candace and for Jed.

In the final six weeks, I start giving her more free time. She occasionally sleeps with me now, all night in my bed and she has a morning lie-in, snoozing while Jed performs double his quota of morning chores to make up for her. I loosen her diet, relax her regime and treat her less harshly, at least in front of him.

As I have grown less interested in fucking, she has become hungrier for sex than she’s ever been. She has more orgasms, even during this month’s menstrual period. Perhaps it’s the fact that our time is now limited ?

I start encouraging her to sit on Jed’s face most days. Whereas before it has mostly been about cream pies and humiliation, now it is about her own emancipation and pleasure. I make her try things she is hesitant about.

“Piss in his mouth.”

She squats above him in the bathtub and lets rip.

“Relax and let him massage you.”

She lies on the bed and enjoys an hour of pampering.

“You wear his key.”

Slowly, slyly, she starts being able to consider herself as Jed’s superior. Not exactly his Mistress yet, but certainly more than his equal. I have her wear the key to his chastity tube on a gold chain round her neck. At first it’s just a symbol. I don’t trust her to be ruthless enough yet. But she enjoys the game. All three of us have proved she no longer needs Jed’s cock for her pleasure.

Not that she has it all her own way.

I want to whore her out now. After Jason, she pulls her first trick. All staged, of course, but still it’s for money. The guy is a pleasant, older ginger haired executive I choose for her on the Ashley Madison site. He’s into roleplay too. Another hotel room. Another blowjob. Another condom. And more photos. He hands me over £50 in cash.

That same evening, we go to a nightclub. It’s a posh place; casino, dining room, dance floor, long dresses and suits. There are plenty of single businessmen types and top of the range hookers.

“Please …” Candace murmurs, as we sit at the bar.

“You know what Winston Churchill supposedly said to a woman he was once sat next to at dinner ?”

“No.”

“Would you sleep with me for a million pounds ?”

“And ?”

“She said yes. So he asked, would you sleep with me for ten pounds ? And the woman replied, what do you take me for Mr. Churchill, a prostitute ?!”

Candace looks at me expectantly, sipping her champagne.

“And Churchill replies. We’ve already established what you are, ma’am, now we’re merely haggling over the price.”

Candace pouts. “You think I’m a hooker ?”

I kiss her on the lips. “Of course I don’t. But I think you’re a hot lady unsuited to sticking with one guy.”

Her eyes sparkle under the bright chandelier. She bites her lip, cheeks blushing.

I look around the large, crowded room.

“I could choose any man here. Him, him, or him. And not just good looking ones. Pretty much any. That one. The tubby guy there. You’d have sex with them and enjoy it.” I whisper. “You’d cum !”

“But … I’d prefer it with you. Or Jed.”

I shook my head. “No. Actually, after a while, I don’t think you would.”

When I do fuck her myself nowadays, it’s rough, urgent, coarse. There are only five weeks to go. I have to indulge myself in the time that’s left.

She reciprocates. Our lips mash together, our bodies slapping. I am still the only one allowed to spurt my seed properly inside her unprotected young cunt.

“You watching, Jed ? Go fetch me a cold flannel.”

I flatter myself that they have been very fortunate finding me. I don’t give them more than a 100 to 1 shot that they can go back to the States and locate somebody else like me who’s sane, or a full on situation like this.

I mean, sure, I bet such people exist. But it’s needles in haystacks stuff.

“Get down and lick her cunt out, Jed. Guzzle that load down.”

But could they find an achievable way to get a similar but safe thrill ?

“How long since you came ?”

Five Words.

“Jed ? How long ? Remind us.”

Again, five words. For Kelly and Mart, read Candace and Jed. They could create their own version of my story in real life.

His eyes don’t lie. He knows what I’m doing. The threat excites him too.

“Sixty two days, Sir.”

“Pshoosh. Sixty two ? Really ? Fantastic. That’s longer than last time.”

He lies between his wife’s legs. They’ll never be a super-model’s but they are now super-fit, toned. Her knees are raised in a welcoming V.

“Mmm …” Candace sighs in wicked greeting.

Moments later her fingers claw at the iron bed rails in ecstasy.

One evening in late April, this time Candace is doing my ironing while Jed is on the PC. It is his turn to send an email to USA and then log on to his IC account. The big day when Jed takes on a stud of his own is near. We are approaching the bottom of the well.

“I think he’s the one.”

The photo is typical. The guy has a shaved head with short, steel-grey hair at the sides, sparkling blue eyes and a salt-and-pepper moustache. His profile says he’s only 41 but I’d place him nearer 50. He’s American, living in UK for many years. His Ad title is the American Werewolf in London.

I gave Jed several opportunities to back out. He isn’t gay and I simply refute all that bullshit about cuckolds always being closet homosexuals. This is all about submission and humiliation, pure and simple.

We meet they guy at the same cheap tourist hotel where Candace and I first met Jason. I provide Jed the same security as his wife, except I wait outside the door instead, while he offers his throat to the werewolf.

No anal, no rough stuff.

Just 15 minutes of oral homage and a sweet kiss on the lips. Like his wife, Jed has now blown a complete stranger.

I snap an I-phone shot of the two men posing and saying goodbye.

“You’re both as bad as each other.”

We’re drinking. It’s the first alcohol Jed has tasted since mid-February. He’s drunk. Not roaring drunk, but merry.

“Well, she’s worse !” he retorts, playing at being annoyed.

“You’re both unfaithful sluts who deserve each other.”

Candace points at the photo on my I-phone screen.

“But at least I have taste !”

“That would be a fishy taste.” Jed cracks, quick as a flash.

It’s an atmosphere-buster. We all start laughing. It’s one of those jokes, not even that funny. But it sets us off in a round of uncontrolled tittering.

And then my phone rings.

It’s my wife.

There is something I’ve always wanted to see.

But for over three decades I’ve never had the opportunity.

Until now.

I’ve been saving it. I want to see Candace make herself cum with a cucumber. There’s something about a woman masturbating herself with a vegetable that looks wonderfully embarrassing. It could be a banana, carrot, whatever, but a big fat green slicer is my veggie of choice.

She is lying on the bed. Her thighs are akimbo and for now she’s wearing just a bra and thong and a pair of wedge heels. She’s already teased the end of the cucumber over her face and nipples.

My friend Nick is with me, working the camcorder. He is a well known Bdsm author and we talk and share ideas online. It’s the first time I have ever met him in person. I finally gave in to his request that I invite him to increase Candace and Jed’s embarrassment.

As a new test and humiliation, Candace has signed a model’s release form, legally giving me copyright and free usage rights over every single photo and film I’ve ever taken of her. It is a subtle blackmail weapon that will always hang over them from now on.

She is sweating, teasing the scrubbed cucumber against her mound.

“Put it inside you.”

She pulls aside the gusset of her black thong and starts edging the green dildo between her labia. Her mouth opens and her glazed eyes widen.

“Deeper. You can do it. Go on.”

“Oah … ahohh …sss.”

The red light on my digi-cam glows. Nick grins at me.

Her cunt is now totally hairless. I got rid of that little tuft of pubic hair. She holds the gusset open like the curtain of a theatre as the ten inches long hero takes centre stage.

But it’s not the length that’s a problem, but the thickness. It distorts her labia, and the pink and cream folds within.

“Push it back in deeper this time.”

Jed’s eyes bulge. He is watching her too. Hogtied on the floor. Lying on his front, ankles roped to his wrists. One of my socks is taped into his mouth as a gag.

“Ohm ……nnnggsss.” She gasps.

In two days time, Candace is booked to go to a tattoo parlour for a final souvenir. She is going to have a discreet but indelible ‘V’ inked into her bald pubic mound, like an arrow directing traffic to her cunt.

I haven’t charged them anything for board and lodging the entire time they’ve spent with me. The cold showers and offal meals are all free. Aside from a few internet purchases, this European vacation hasn’t cost them a cent. Jed’s wallet has lain untouched since our trip to Paris.

But the £30 cost for Candace’s tattoo is being paid for by Jed.

It seems only fair. After all, he’ll be the one able to stare at it in future, not me.

“Ngah … mm.”

“Come on. This is fucking boring. Shove it in.”

I wink at Jed. A hogtied guy always looks ridiculous. Jed simply gawps up at me.

“Take that off. Let’s see your bare snatch.”

She lays the cucumber aside and tugs her black thong off.

After the tattoo, of course, one day she’ll be able to choose to grow her pubic hair back and cover up my mark if she wants. A mommy doesn’t want her kids seeing a rude memento of her wild youth.

But so long as she keeps it shaved, she’ll visibly belong to V.

V for Velvetglove.

“Okay, now switch cucumbers.”

The second one is even longer. It’s called a marketmore ridge, a type that’s smooth but with those tiny raised dimples along its oiled length.

Candace starts feeding the first few tapered inches inside herself then easing them out again.

“Come on. Or do you need a helping hand ?”

A strangled squeal escapes her throat. She suddenly manages to push two thirds inside. Eight inches. Past the widest point of the cucumber, leaving four inches for her right hand to grip onto. Her index finger guides the stalk end in and out. It’s wonderfully obscene.

“You getting this real close up aren’t you, Nick ?”

He nods.

“Pan up to a shot of her face too.”

Her voice whimpers in shame. Publicity was a hard limit when this started. One of the reasons they wrote to me was because I live in another country and they thought that this adventure could always be a secret.

It still can. But from now on it’s my decision.

“And make sure you get him too, Nick. Full face.”

I squat down on my haunches for a closer look, out the camera’s way. I turn and grin at Jed’s shiny-red face.

“This is what she needs.” I tell him. “Once a week. Some nice market produce. Much, much bigger than you. Soon she won’t feel you, even if she does fuck you.”

It is, of course, an erotic myth about taut cunts being stretched by huge dicks. Any guy who has watched his wife giving birth knows that the female anatomy was designed for bigger challenges than sex with a vegetable. But hey it’s fun to wallow in the verbal mud.

Eventually, Candace does climax. It’s not one of her best. She just wants to get it over with and please us. The photo shoot is over.

“Smile !”

For our final weekend, we go to Rome. My favourite city in Europe; so much sexier than Paris, classier than Madrid, cooler than Vienna.

It is also the easiest European city to get laid if you’re a female looking for uncomplicated sex with gorgeous, olive-skinned hunks. Romans are invariably dark and handsome, if not universally tall. They are used to fair-skinned Swedes, Brits and Americans coming to visit their city for more than just the pasta !

I have taken a suite for two nights. Two bedrooms, a living room, a magnificent hillside vista over an olive grove, swimming pool and the ancient city below.

Jed and I take drinks together on the pool terrace. It is a sultry evening at the end of May. We can see our room’s balcony bathed in cerise light as the sun begins its descent. We chat, passing time, waiting patiently. I think the waiter even concludes we are father and son, which pisses me a little !

“No regrets ?”

Jed gives me a tense, wry grin. “What do you think ?”

“She’ll need your encouragement. Loads of it.”

He nods. “I know.”

“But she’s a changed woman.”

I raise an eyebrow to underline my comment.

Candace has appeared on our balcony. She is wearing a white hotel robe, holding something in her hand, waving.

“Looks like mission number one has been accomplished.” I say to Jed.

Twenty minutes later, she arrives at our table in a new black silk dress. It is similar to the woollen one she wore on that first night we met, but sexier, bought to show off her sleeker curves. I still have an urge to lean over and squeeze her tits as they strain against the delicate fabric.

“How was room service ?”

She opens her equally new Italian handbag. There is a knotted, bulging condom inside.

“Very quick.”

I smile, loving her confident air. Jed blushes in that half-ashamed and half-thrilled way that I think is perhaps unique to a submissive cuckold.

“Let’s eat.”

That night is the first, last and only time we ever have a threesome. Not a truly genuine 2-on-1 romp of equals, but after Candace has sucked me hard and I’ve fucked her while Jed lies alongside us, I invite him to enjoy sloppy seconds.

I pour a brandy while they fuck. Jed doesn’t disappoint either. He loses it, groans and spurts in less than 90 seconds. It isn’t surprising given how long he’s waited and Candace isn’t bothered. She clutches him to her as his body sags in post-orgasmic relief.

Still husband and wife.

I have one last unrealised ambition for her.

Bukkake.

I doubt there is anything as humiliatingly beautiful for a submissive female as having her face and tits streaked with loads of pearly scum. It is safe but sordid sex and hence totally suited to a slut you care for.

An Italian friend of mine has told me about a private sex club and obtained tickets for us for one of their Saturday night fancy dress parties at a discreet venue. We turn up and over 200 men and women of every age and shape are drinking, chatting, partying in the floodlit gardens.

It is another first meeting. I am surprised how my online contact looks exactly as I expected. He speaks fluent English and has that easy charm so many Latins seem to possess.

I whisper to Candace what we’re here for. Her eyes widen in alarm. I tell her she can’t let me down after six months training. Besides her co-stars would be very disappointed.

My friend has rounded up 7 men. There were to have been 10 but 3 don’t seem to have turned up. They resemble characters from that Night at the Museum movie; everything from Roman togas, to military costumes, tight spandex shorts and elegant James Bond tuxedos.

We settle under a floodlit tree with a curved stone bench. Candace downs her glass of wine and lies down on the bench. A silver moon hovers in the starlit sky above us. It is sultry and the sound of cicadas fills the air.

The men gather round her, extracting their penises from under togas or through zips. I watch them shuffle forward, arms jerking.

Somebody says something in Italian and Candace raises her head.

Gobbets of cum splash her face and hair.

A second guy follows up from another angle and splatters her cheek.

Laughter. More Italian exclamations.

The remaining six, including my friend, close the gaps vacated by the two who are adjusting themselves back into their clothes.

One of them turns and looks at me. I catch his wink.

Somebody unbuttons Candace’s top, bares her tits. Male grunts are followed by arcs of semen sparkling under the floodlight.

Jed stands in the background like a benched substitute. He is a squad player watching the first teamers. I guess that makes me the coach.

After they have all finished and disappeared cheerfully back into the party, I help Candace off the bench. She has never appeared so magnificent. Her mascara, lipstick and blusher applied so painstakingly in the hotel room, now look like a splurge of modern art. There are wet blobs in her hair and marks on the top she is buttoning up.

“Leave it open. Wear it with pride.”

Some do it with a bitter look.

Some with a flattering word.

We stay another two hours, talking with strangers who speak some English, Candace bare-breasted and cum-stained. Three more men ejaculate over her when I casually invite them to.

A woman joins us. The only redhead I’ve seen at the party. Emaciated, flat-chested, with the aristocratic bone structure of an ex-model. She speaks good English with an American accent and talks animatedly to Candace for ten minutes.

“May I.” she suddenly says to me, making it sound more like a comment than a question.

“May you what ?”

“Use her face. Like the others did.”

I look at them. Both faces are impassive. Candace’s makeup has mostly been washed away now. There is a gleam on her skin.

“Sure.”

In the corner of the room, with over 30 people present, most of them admittedly not paying attention, Candace kneels down, face up. The redhead stands astride her and lifts the hem of her dress. I am shocked by the curly thatch of tomato coloured bush that she plonks unceremoniously down onto Candace’s nose.

“You taking this in, Jed ?”

He shakes his head, raising an eyebrow.

“This I didn’t expect.”

I ruffle his hair. “I hope she’ll have many more surprises for you yet, my friend.”

Four days later, I drive them to Heathrow airport for the flight home.

As a thank you for everything, I have paid to upgrade Candace to Business. Who knows ? She is wearing a come-hither top and short skirt that will attract a lot of attention from her co-passengers. I have fucked her one last time just before we left. She will travel with a dirty cunt and a V tattoo pointing the way to her future. Maybe some nice executive will invite her to join the mile high club ?

Jed is back in row 1,003 or whatever, with the backpackers and stinking armpits. His Steelworks toys are safely stowed in the hold luggage so maybe he’ll be able to nip to the aircraft toilet and treat himself to a swift handjob ?

The scene at Border Control is like a teenage RomCom movie.

Suddenly Candace realises that, unlike in the States, where I could have accompanied them to the security scanner or even the departure gate, at Heathrow I cannot accompany them beyond the ticket and passport check. She starts to cry and I have to wipe away a few tears of my own.

The coward does it with a kiss.

I shake Jed’s hand formally, as if it were a job interview, and then we both suddenly smile and embrace like a couple of long lost brothers.

We all three hug and snuffle in each other’s hair. Then I break off and dig Jed in his ribs.

“No regrets ?” I ask them one final time.

“None.”

“Well, so far, anyway.” Jed adds, a crooked smile on his face.

“And nor have I. But this is finally it.”

The brave man does it with a sword.

“We will never see each other again.” I tell them. “It’s been great but it’s over. I don’t ever want to see you again. Not even on Skype. No revisits next year. No maybes. We can keep in touch by email occasionally but otherwise this is it. Finito. Yes ?”

Candace’s eyes are brimming with tears but she nods. We kiss again.

“You’ll be fine.”

I watch them line up and present their boarding passes, then start to disappear amongst the throng of travellers.

“Who was the eighth President of the United States?” I call out.

Jed turns and smiles wryly. “Martin van Buren.”

“And the thirty eighth ?”

“Gerald Ford.” Candace replies, wiping her eyes on a tissue, blowing me kisses. “And write !”

“I’ll drop you a line tomorrow.” I shout back. A couple of people are staring at me.

“No.” she waves. “Not to us. You know. Start writing again. Please.”

I look at her.

A changed woman, now giving orders to me ! Start writing stories indeed !

But you know what, eventually, I did.

Epilogue

June 3rd 2009: Arrived home safely. Loads of family stuff. It feels weird. We miss you already !! J + C.

June 5th 2009: You have until the end of June. You choose the who, the when, the where, and it only need be once. But you have to try it. Good luck, V

June 26th 2009: It’s very hard. I want to. I just can’t bring myself to do it. We are going to a cookout tomorrow so will keep trying. J still supportive, I promise. But I’m sorry, I feel we’ve let you down. C

July 3rd 2009: As you suggested, no more PC time for Jed. He starts work on Tuesday. Maybe now that he’ll be out the house ? LOL. Party tomorrow. Another opportunity. C

July 5th 2009: Hope July 4 went well. All is going fine here. Off to Italy for a week with the family – my wife is visiting us for part of it. Not Rome this time ! Too many memories. BTW, enter ‘cucumber’ into a certain porn search engine and see what you find. You’re almost famous. More to follow, unless … V x

July 26th 2009: Job done !!! Less than an hour ago. Better late than never. In the end A. Seemed easier as I didn’t want to risk gossip. Will send proof later. No faces online – pleeeeeease. Thought of you the whole time. Only joking ! Thanks and love, C.

July 28th 2009: Congrats. Will you be seeing A again ? BTW, getting into the rhythm of writing. Two stories: first is fiction, working title is Demo of Power; second is our story, I’m calling it Stranger than Fiction. Neat, huh. I’ll send you a draft once I’m ready. Good luck, V

August 27th 2009: We loved STF. A few typos but wouldn’t change anything. 7.5 out of 10 indeed !! It made us both want to start over and write you again ! We know that can’t happen now. But we will never regret we took the plunge and asked for the full ‘Velvetglove treatment’ ! Love from us both, always, C. PS: Jed 33 days and counting !!

THE END

By the same Author:

velvetfeedback@googlemail.com

Completed Novels:

“After the Pestilence” – a long (80,000 words) novel set in the near future, involving numerous characters and containing, as one reviewer said, ‘something for everyone’ (MF/mf, most of it is non-consensual and the humiliation is extreme, although the actual violence is mainly moderate).

“Five Words” – a long (70,000 words) Fem-domme novel, starting with just five words that changed his life. The handful of words that turned him from a husband, father and businessman to something else entirely (F/m, a bdsm romance).

“Best Enjoyed Cold” – A medium length (35,000 words) ‘Rape and Revenge’ thriller (non-consensual and emotionally cruel).

“Priceless” – A medium length (32,000 words) ‘Blackmail Saga’, originally conceived as a short-story, that grew into a novella punctuated by advertising industry taglines (consensual becomes non-consensual, M/fm).

Completed Short Stories:

“A Special Relationship” and “A Special Weekend” – A fem-sub POV story and its sequel (f/M, consensual, cuckqueening).

“Used / Damaged / Soiled Goods” – a series of three Male-dom short stories (M/f, violent).

“Credit Crunch” – a Male-dom short story (M/fm).

“Son-of-a-Gun” – A historical Male-dom short story (M+/f+, part non-consensual and part consensual).

“The Ballad of Lara and Gemma” – a Fem-domme, lesbian spin-off tale from ‘After the Pestilence’, in two parts (F/f, non-consensual).

Unfinished Business:

“A Demonstration of Power” – a work currently in progress, set in a fictional country (MF / mf, non-consensual)

“Loaning Lucy” – started out as a single part Fem-domme, lesbian short story (F/f, consensual) but has ‘grown’ via occasional new chapters into I’m not sure what ! No longer just F/f or consensual

“Beyond the Pestilence” – sequel to After the Pestilence (MF/mf, non-consensual).

“Hard Labor” - (MF/mf, non-consensual).

“Short n Sweet” - (MF/mf, consensual).

Planned for December 2009:

“Droit de Seigneur” – a one-part period story set in 1150 AD.