a day of discipline and degradation
The day was upon me. It had arrived with a certain inevitability. That's the thing about days: they just keep on coming. Monday will turn into Tuesday as conclusively as July will turn into August and Spring will become summer. Time and space stop for no man.
And now the day was here. Saturday. The day of my chastisement, my discipline, my punishment. Since my mortal crime, my misdeed, nearly a week ago, I had been looking towards this day. But not looking forward, you understand, not in the true sense of the word, anyway. Part of me had been dreading it, fearing it with a combined sense of trepidation and desireful hunger reserved for all punishments meted by my mistress - my wife.
I sat quietly in her basement hobby room, more of an adult play room, really - very adult. I looked around me at the familiar surroundings. The handcuffs, straps and belts used to restrain me hung purposefully from their own particular hooks. Always neat and tidy. The multi-functional, modifiable table stood in the centre of the room. The wood shone with a deep lustre, evidence of my drudgery and effort earlier. Always spick and Span. An array of her trade tools; paddles, strops, crops and decorative rings - nipple and cock rings - filled a glass fronted cabinet. Always orderly. Controlled and orderly. To me, the room had its own consciousness its own perception. It smelt of beeswax and polish, but the pervading sense was always excitement. Excitement, degradation, and, of course, unbridled love.
Still I waited for her presence to appear, to manifest before my yearning self. The old cabinet clock ticked away the seconds, the minutes with a deep, morose rhythm. It's regular tattoo echoed obscenely around the otherwise silent room. Still I waited, naked and ready. My hands felt clammy; the cold sweat of apprehension. The room was warm but I shivered, gooseflesh blemishing my skin. Still I waited.
And then my waiting was done. The metallic sound of a key in the front door-lock. The slamming of the door behind her. Then silence. I knew she was preparing herself and that I should never call out to her, never interrupt this important part of the ritual. She always made it quite plain that I should just wait until she was ready. And the waiting was the worst part. Worse than the spankings, worse than the humiliation - those I craved - the waiting built up an acute apprehension that was both physical and cerebral - almost intellectual.
At last I heard her foot-falls on the bare wood of the basement stairs. Not too fast or too slow; controlled, methodical, patient. I heard muffled noises from outside the door. My mistress was accompanied, it seemed. The door opened slowly. At first she was cast in shadow, but as she and her companion stepped over the threshold, they were thrown into relief. My mistress wore an outfit that was unfamiliar to me: High black boots made of plastic, I thought; black panties and matching basque that stretched at the front to accommodate the swell of her ample bosom. I felt a twitch between my legs and trembled. I knew better than to display my excitement thus, an erection at this time would surely have caused my mistress displeasure. I looked over at her companion. A tall, striking man. Shorts and sandals lay between him and complete nakedness. The muscles in his arms and legs bulged telling a story of undeniable strength and the veins in his neck projected as thick strands of heavy rope.
Immediately my mistress indicated the table and instructed me into a bent position. Without a word I obeyed. I had been trained well. The polished surface of the table felt cool and hard as I bent over the edge and gripped the pegs between my fingers. My feet were just able to touch the floor and the table edge dug into my abdomen. I could see mistress selecting one of her instruments from the cabinet and shuddered again. She turned back towards me, a smile on her face and a wooden paddle clutched in her right hand. The waiting was done. My eyes watered up as I felt the sting of the paddle as it contacted with the sensitive skin of my buttocks. Three, four, five, six blows rained down onto my upturned behind, the painful sting quickly transforming into a deep, glowing heat that permeated my entire body. My voice trembled as I thanked mistress for her attention after each strike.
With my rear almost afire, and my mind dizzy with contrasting feelings of pleasure and pain, I was led to a chair that was bolted to the wall of the room. Without realising what was really happening I was sat down and my ankles and wrists locked to the arms and legs of the chair with velvet lined manacles. Through watery eyes I saw my mistress smile at me again and move towards her well built companion. They kissed as they stood in front of me, their tongues deeply entwined in a ballet of lust. It seemed that part of the punishment I was to receive for my crime was to witness my wife and mistress with a better man than myself. His strong hands wandered her body. He caressed her breasts through the basque and her buttocks and pussy through the thin material of her panties as she allowed him to explore her most intimate areas. I watched awe-struck as his movements became more urgent; scooping her large breasts from their confines and playing with her stiffening nipples. His hands went quickly to the waistband of her panties and slowly began to roll them down over the boots and to the floor. Mistress stepped out of them and stood again, open-legged, as he eased two fingers into her wet pussy. His movements were professional and deliberate; twisting and turning his digits within her body to maximize the contact with her G-spot. My wife moaned and gasped as she climbed higher and higher towards what seemed an inevitable orgasm. I watched her fingers grip his sinewy shoulders and stand up on the tip-toe of her boots. Her head lolled back and her eyes closed as her whole body appeared to go into spasm. She gasped loudly as she came and I rattled my manacles in sheer frustration. I would have done anything to be able to have pleased her like that.
I had seen the bulge in the strong man's shorts for some time - it was difficult to ignore. And know my mistress' hands were tugging at the garment urgently. She obviously wanted to see his pride and joy. Feverishly she tore them down his muscular legs as he stood in front of her, hands on hips in arrogant pose. I knew that he would not be small. Semi erect and now in the caressing hands of my wife, his weapon twitched higher and higher towards a right angle with his body. They both looked at me smiling as he grew and grew under her ministrations. And then mistress moved to the table herself. It anguished me to see her, my mistress, assume much the same position as I, her inferior subordinate, had assumed for my well deserved beating. But there would be no spanking for my mistress. I knew what was to happen as did her muscular companion. Stepping up behind her, his large cock now fully erect, he positioned himself at the entrance to her well lubricated vagina. With one deft movement he was in, sliding smoothly and professionally into the hilt. There were no moans of enjoyment from either of them as he began to saw his monstrous appendage in and out of her pussy. In fact they were both quite dispassionate, simply putting on an exhibition - for my benefit, I assumed - on how the act of intercourse should be properly orchestrated.
It was unavoidable. As the minutes passed and I watched the unnamed man thrusting so expertly into my wife's body, my excitement overtook me. I formed an erection. Not that anyone would really have noticed such a small, pathetic specimen of manhood next to my exulted rival. But, notice my mistress did. With a look of contempt on her pretty face she carefully turned and pushed away her perfectly endowed lover. She consoled him as he protested indicating the condition of his twitching, throbbing penis. She whispered in his ear and he smiled. I'm certain that I saw his cock visibly swell as she spoke.
Suddenly they were both beside me. My mistress had hold of my hair pulling my head back as she wedged a teeth guard into my mouth. This implement had the effect of stretching my mouth open without filling it. The filling was still to come. I could smell the manly, musky aroma of his cock as he moved closer to me. His hand was on the shaft massaging and squeezing. I knew what was to happen: this was to be my first taste, my first feel, of a man's body. I tried to withdraw, my eyes wide in horror, but my mistress kept a firm grip on my hair pushing me inexorably forward. And then the appendage was in my mouth. The texture of the head as it slid over my tongue and towards my throat was strangely luxuriant. I could taste my wife's most private flavour on him. Further and further in he pushed. I felt myself gag slightly as his cock head touched the entrance to my throat.
"Easy...easy." My wife whispered into my ear. "Just try and relax your throat, it will become more comfortable."
It was the first time that anyone had spoken to me in the last three hours and, although her voice was hushed, I felt the resonation deep in my mind. I tried to stay calm, controlled. The man above me was pushing urgently, jabbing his huge penis insistently against my closed throat. I took a breath, allowing my windpipe to open momentarily and he was on me immediately; thrusting, probing, plunging. I felt my breath cut off and panicked, gagging and coughing, but my crime, my sin was so grave that my tormentor cared not for my feelings but instead drove his entire length into the dark recesses of my throat.
For several minutes I was brutally plundered, orally ravaged by my castigator's thrusting member. My throat felt devastated, my eyes filled with water as he continued. But, slowly and with some surprise, I started to become used to the sensations. The velveteen texture of his cock in my throat became less unpleasant and more agreeable - I found I was actually starting to enjoy him using me in this way. But, before my mind could drift, I sensed in him a sudden urgency. I could hear groaning noises from above me and felt the swell of his weapon. I knew the signs, knew that he was about to explode and for the first time I would taste the salty issue of a fellow male.
My sweet mistress was still keeping my head still in a vice-like grip as the man climaxed. I could not move and had little choice but to allow my mouth and throat to be used as a receptacle for his sex-fluid. With a howl he conquered me completely. My face was suddenly awash with his thick, creamy sperm that trickled into my throat, covered my nose and eyes and matted my hair. It was an experience I am unlikely to forget quickly.
And my crime? The mortal sin committed to invoke such extreme chastisement? I broke a plate. Whilst washing the dishes one evening a week previously, the item had slipped from my fingers and crashed to the floor shattering into a myriad of tiny fragments. A harsh punishment? Maybe so, but I try to break something at least once every week!
