Short n Sweet

SHORT N SWEET

Part Three: September

or ‘Beyond the Fourth Wall’

I could never visit Sweet’s grave without shaking my head at the dates on the headstone:

July 9th 1979 – September 1st 2006.

Such a short time. Such a vindictive, unnecessary waste. Just when her life was getting interesting, it was suddenly over. I used to stare angrily for ages down at her real name – Candace xxxxx – and her epitaph, with sadly wilting flowers at the base, and wonder why on earth things turned out the way they did.

Real life can be a lot crueller than fiction.

Somebody wrote quite reasonably in a recent review that he didn’t like Rip ‘breaking the fourth wall’. One of the things I like about Bdsm Library is that you get readers who bring up theatrical and literary concepts like meta-reference and ‘the fourth wall’. After all, we perves can be intellectual too ! Now, if you flunked English or just want to jump straight to the action, feel free to bypass the next two paragraphs and skip to … ‘So you reckon’. But if you majored in Literature or have an enquiring mind, you’ll want to stick with the following brief interlude.

The technique of breaking the fourth wall refers to a character showing his/her awareness of readers or an audience (the term ‘fourth wall’ is literally the front wall of a traditional three-sided stage). It means the character has broken through the imaginary window through which people view the action. This is not something authors normally do (although there are many examples), but ‘Short n Sweet’ ain’t a typical story. It’s a stream of consciousness written by Rip – kinda like his diary left open for people to flick through – and his tendency to drift into self indulgent dialogue with y’all tells you something about him. I guess Rip wouldn’t win awards for niceness ! But I’ll leave you to judge him as this year goes by.

Somebody else sent an email about this story, saying he was looking forward to finding out what happens. He added that he had some ideas to contribute but assumed that I already know how things will pan out for Short, Sweet, Di and Rip. Just like my other stories, he said. Well, that’s true, most of the time. A story like ‘Best Enjoyed Cold’ was proper fiction, in the sense of being carefully plotted from beginning to end. But with ‘Short n Sweet’, I don’t have a clue. NFI. There’s no master plot. It’s basically bits of the truth masquerading as fiction, and pieces of fantasy presented as reality, unfolding one month at a time. There’s a smidgeon of autobiographical background involved but the only people who decide what actually happens in this story are Rip and each one of you, sitting the other side of the Fourth Wall. For example, ‘Surfer dude’ wrote in an earlier review what he wanted in Chapter Two and Rip obliged ! This is the 21st Century guys. It’s interactive. Make your requests. Now, let’s rejoin the action.

So you reckon Sweet died back in September last year ? Nah, of course she didn’t.

But hopefully you realised that you’d miss her, if the story ended now.

I was just making the point that her fate is in your hands.

However, we genuinely did have a burial last September. But what we actually buried were two parts of Sweet forever; her dignity and her innocence.

I don’t want to waste anybody’s time. This Chapter is mainly about the start of Sweet’s gangbanging career. If that sort of thing doesn’t float your boat, you’d be best to hit the ‘back’ button or that little ‘x’ in the top right corner and find yourself another story. But if you like the idea of a 27 year old chick learning how to take on all cummers, then stick with us.

But before we get onto the first orgy, I think I should run through a typical ‘Day in the Life of’ Short n Sweet. As I mentioned in Chapter Two, a slave’s life isn’t all fun and games. In fiction it can just be bdsm and sex but in true life there are tired dicks, bruised butts and bills to pay. I like to fritter away several hours a day reading, writing and watching sport. Di enjoys daytime TV and afternoon naps. The sex is fun but the main advantage of having a slave couple is the domestic and outdoor labour they provide at minimal cost. Most slaves will tell you the hardest part is not taking a thrashing or blowing a goat, it’s the sheer monotony of doing around 16 hours drudgery a day without respite or thank you. Actually I was kidding about the goat. Maybe that’d be harder ? I must ask Sweet.

She rises at 06.00 hrs daily and does three hours of household chores; the old fashioned way, with scrubbing brush and dust cloth, without using any new fangled electronic equipment. Di and I awake around nine and ring the bell for our breakfast. The morning is often when the two of us make love together. Sweet arrives in time to attend us, sometimes to assist, usually clean up. Then afterwards she serves us coffee, fruit and pastries in bed.

Meanwhile, Short sleeps every night down in the dark, dank basement. He rises at 05.30 hrs. A timer on his padlock lets him out of his prison at exactly five thirty. It has a mechanism that only unlocks for one minute then it closes again. He stays down in the basement and performs about four hours of household chores that Di’s left out for him to do, usually a big pile of ironing, handwashing, mending, DIY, that kind of stuff. Two CCTV cameras monitor and record him at work.

For us it’s essential that Short and Sweet spend no private time together. He’s down in the basement and she’s on the ground floor. They are not allowed to communicate with each other at any time of day without prior permission. During the day they see each other and occasionally interact, but always supervised. They never get the chance to discuss with each other what they’re thinking or feeling. Di had the idea of allowing them to write a brief weekly letter to each other, with a few lines about how they were doing, likes, dislikes, encouragement. Kind of ‘love letters’.  Of course, we get to vet the letters first. Di’s black marker pen ruthlessly obliterates anything she considers inappropriate. Sometimes she just gratuitously deletes a sentence so that Sweet wonders what Short wrote, or vice versa. Other times Di will just destroy an entire letter. Whatever takes her fancy.

At around nine thirty, we feed them both their healthy breakfast. The usual gelatinous gloop from our recycling bucket, as described in Chapter Two. It’s funny how strong and spicy flavours like raw onions, pickles and last night’s curry leftovers are so unappealing in the mornings. Then it’s usually up to me to supervise their ablutions. Di doesn’t like to watch them. Certainly our two slaves don’t like being watched. But I’ve always found it fascinating. I mean, sitting on the can is a bit like jerking off. We all do it – well, except Short – but we generally don’t talk about it and we regard it as a private act. And it never occurred to me, until I watched them, how people do things differently.

Take wiping your ass. Now I like to stand up and make a thorough job of mine. I put a foot up on the seat and give it a good swab. Di is more demure, and so I don’t really get to watch her, but I know she pretty much stays seated and kinda pretends she’s not wiping. Short’s more like me, but whereas I’ve always been extravagant with tissue, he is by nature a very neat guy, a single piece at a time. Sweet used to be more like Di, except she daintily lifted her butt higher when she wiped and glanced at the tissue afterwards, which I’ve never noticed Di doing. Overall though, men tend to do it one-way, women another.

I guess it’s a gender thing ?

Of course, pretty soon I figured that using a proper flushing toilet is a bit of an unnecessary privilege. Alright for the likes of you, me and the vicar, but a luxury when it comes to those who don’t think of themselves as our equals. So I had our two friends start squatting down, knees akimbo, eyes looking ahead, doing it into a plastic bucket instead. Sweet in particular blushed so cutely the first few times I sat and watched her grunt and perspire, noisily voiding her bowels. I got our camcorder out on a tripod and recorded her early performances for posterity.

I think it’s essential that a submissive learns that she/he hasn’t even the normal vanilla rights, like a teensy bit of privacy or dignity. So we posted a couple of clips of Sweet and one of Short to a … specialist website. I made them click the ‘send’ button themselves. Their faces, the lot. About two months ago they were still up there. If you’re interested I can mail you the link. Inevitably the recycled diet she’s on gave Sweet the runs a lot of the time and she found it doubly embarrassing to perform for me in such an uncontrolled way. On the other hand, she still occasionally suffers constipation and produces these spectacular huge, dry logs, which take an age of straining and pushing to expel. When we’ve had a ‘mixed gender audience’ in the garden this year, I try to ensure that Sweet has a few days worth of constipation under her belt before her public performance.

I found that even a bucket, surprisingly, constituted a sort of privacy, hiding their waste. Thus they were even more humiliated when I substituted a low-sided tray for the bucket so that their ablutions were on display until they’d completely finished. Often we wouldn’t flush the contents away that morning but we’d leave them covered up all day and then I had them use the same dirty tray that evening. Sometimes I’d try little ideas like having Short kneel holding the tray up only inches under his wife’s squatting butt, or vice versa. Later, I instituted a daily enema regime for both of them, after they’d finished their normal routine. The enema was a rearguard action to ensure they were clean and available for any form of anal sex.

But enough of all that lavatorial detail for the moment. It’s just that what I call ‘light scat’ has an important role to play in bdsm, even if it’s only rimming and scrubbing toilets. Making a sub keep the pan sparkling and fresh after your every visit is simple and effective too. It’s best done immediately after your visit while the little room is still humming. Or you don’t flush and leave the skidmarks to bake hard to the porcelain and the pan to fester for a few hours. One last observation on the topic; isn’t it interesting how it’s embarrassing for a sub to use the toilet in front of a dom, and yet it’s not embarrassing at all for a dom to use the toilet in front of a sub ? Perhaps my favourite pastime of all is being blown while I take a morning dump and read the sports section. Sad but true.

After breakfast and bathroom (including brushing teeth, washing faces, shaving and plucking, plus usually a cold shower, then applying make up), their day’s work begins in earnest. The early morning stint is just a loosener. Short works outdoors usually under Di’s instruction. Sweet does housework and … er, chores, for me. She also makes our lunch, dinner, and important stuff like that. At the end of the day, they have their own second and final stodgy meal. In Winter that’s earlier but in Summer and Autumn we had Short out labouring until dusk (9-10 p.m.). They get a second visit to the bathroom, after which Short is usually locked downstairs to sleep until his 05.30 hrs alarm call. Meanwhile, Sweet serves us dinner, washes up and tidies, and then performs whatever further intimate chores we require. That is pretty much it.

Seven days a week.

For fifty two weeks.

“I think you should try this.” I said to Short one morning.

He was kneeling holding up a magazine for me to look at, watching me uncork my dick out of his wife’s sweet anus. She was on her hands and knees in my office. A little teardrop of jizz hung from my erection as I extracted it after some after-breakfast sodomy, while I perused an interesting article.

He looked at me, a confused frown on his face.

“Eat up your chocolate éclair.” I said.

He closed the mag, shifted places with me and bent his face between Sweet’s pale globes. A pearly coin of my semen was emerging from her gaping rectum.

I watched him be gentle with his wife. How sweet. His tongue lapped up the chewy coin, only for a replacement to ooze straight out of her.

The top of his head was now completely bald. We had given him a monk’s “Friar Tuck hairstyle” with a shaved pate on top but leaving a lanky headband of brown hair round the sides. It added ten years to his age and made him appear very uncool. I mean, a completely shaved head nowadays can look attractive, even sexy in a ‘power style’ kind of way. Lots of thinning guys do it.

But however you cut it, the monk look is usually pretty gruesome. Not that Short is thinning. He still had a perfectly good head of hair before we shaved it on top. However, we have since found a heavy-duty depilation cream with one of those warnings; ‘frequent use destroys the follicles and causes permanent loss of hair’.

You know what ? The manufacturers weren’t kidding.

“Yes.” I repeated. “I really think you should try this. Why should your missus be the only one to know what a dick up the ass is like !”

Funny how you can see a body freeze. Literally.

“We’ll start with a big vibe. This month. Just to get you loosened up. But we’ll place a personal ad and find you a boyfriend or two. Eh ?”

He didn’t respond, just kept mopping up Sweet’s oozing crack.

“We did agree no limits, didn’t we ? Nod your head.”

Short’s bald head nodded slowly up and down in his young wife’s butt.

“Exactly. And the way you’re guzzling my spunk there makes me think you’d like to learn how to give a blowjob too. Nod if you agree.”

Again, his head froze, then slowly acquiesced.

“Tonight you can spend the evening writing your own advert.”

As I mentioned right at the start, we bought a large house and land in a rural area, several miles from the nearest small town. We kept ourselves to ourselves and hadn’t got out much. Our local social life was minimal. But after a while, we decided to have a few old friends to stay.

The first was a college mate of mine called Len who’d split up from his wife. He hadn’t had much luck since, and Di suggested that he could use a ‘sure thing’ to get his confidence back. Semi-reluctantly, I had to agree.

Di had decided that my own enjoyment of Sweet was becoming unhealthy. She thought I needed to see our slut for what she was; a fucktoy. Di felt that like a kid, sharing my toys would be good for me.

“Hey man. How goes it ?”

Len has always had something of the California dude about him, even though he’s from Liverpool. Think a Beatle with a Beachboy hairstyle. I took his luggage and ushered him in the front door. We hadn’t told Len about ‘Short n Sweet’. Figured it’d be a nice surprise.

Five minutes later, Sweet came in, serving tea and cakes in a maid’s outfit.

“Fuck, man. Who’s the wench ?”

We laughed and Di explained him the basics of the story.

“Help yourself.” I added.

He took a cake and let his chubby hand slide up Sweet’s fishnets to her butt. His brown eyes lit up.

“Fuck. Nice ass.”

“You must try it.” Di said, with a sideways glance at me. “But why not start with a blowjob ? I seem to recall you always complained to Erica about them.”

Erica had been his wife. Not the most giving of women.

He was looking at Sweet as she served my tea.

“Really ?”

“Sure.” Di replied. “Sweet, tell our guest.”

“Please, Sir. It is an honour for me to suck any penis that my Mistress or Master allows me to.”

He laughed. “Right on !”

Di had obviously taught Sweet her lines in my absence.

I have to admit I found it strangely compelling, watching the back of Sweet’s pretty blonde head bobbing in my old mate’s lap. A bit of me felt jealous. Call me invidious but I’d got used to my cumbucket being mine. On the other hand, the rational part of me knew this was just an inevitable stage in the whole arrangement. Wherever this was all going to end, it was going deeper than Di and I could take a pair of subs on our own.

I felt this extraordinary surge of power realising we were actually doing it; pimping somebody out. This wasn’t just another tick on the standard bdsm checklist. This was joining the major leagues.

And the sexual part of me loved the entertainment. Our own live porno flick. I exchanged smiles with my wife. I was pleased it had made her horny. The hot flush on her neck and cleavage was clearly visible. With a bit of luck she’d see it as her duty to blow me later instead !

We watched Sweet tip her head back and trill it round her tongue. She was kneeling at Len’s feet, gargling his load at Di’s explicit instruction.

“That’s it !” Di said, standing up. “All the way round your mouth. In your teeth and gums. Taste it. Chew the texture. Don’t swallow.”

I could imagine Sweet’s delicate dentist-advert teeth, swimming with a copious dollop of bubbly semen and saliva. Di was right. It would be fun to put her to a real test. Get a bukkake harvest going. That would really wake up the local farmers !

The gurgling sound went on for over a minute.

“Okay. You can swallow it now. Trickle it down. That’s it.”

Di smiled at him. “There we are. Better than Erica I should think ?”

“Oh man, thanks, yeahhhh.” He exhaled, with a satisfied beam.

“No.” Di retorted. “You don’t say thanks. Er … Sweet ?”

Sweet finished gulping. “Thank you … er, S … sir.”

“Oh ?” My wife said, feigning shock. “Of course. I forgot. You haven’t even been introduced ! Sweet, your weekend date’s name is Len.”

By the time he’d left on the Monday morning, Len had rifled his way through eight fucking condoms. Eight ! Pissing away my damned money as well as using my pleasure holes. Eight times he fucked her ! As Di had said, talk about a ‘sure thing’. Her strategy worked a treat. I sulked for 48 hours after, not touching Sweet because she’d been sullied by my fat and divorced mate. In revenge, I made excessive demands on Di for several days, grabbing her at every opportunity, even pushing her head down onto my dick one night. She chuckled tolerantly, although she only made a half-hearted attempt at pleasuring me. Di is a ‘lady’. She says I have Sweet for that kind of thing now.

It’s true. I’ve taught Sweet to jack and blow me exactly how I like it. I’d spent years always secretly being ‘not quite happy’ with the way my missus and, before her, other women had given me oral. You know, always kinda nice but no cigar. But with Sweet I had no reason to compromise at all. I made her practice, practice, practice, and I was incredibly demanding, punishing even the smallest of mistakes. I enjoyed being lazy, just sitting or laying there, while she worked her exhausted neck muscles giving me ‘no hands’ oral. Next I moved onto ‘skull fucks’. I’d watched those gag factor movies where guys hold the chick’s heads and literally slam their dicks in and out so I tried that. I purchased an anaesthetic spray and we numbed the back of her mouth and larynx so she could learn to deep throat me. Eventually she would lie face up on the sofa in my office and I would climb atop and fuck her mouth as if it was a cunt, with my hair, balls and belly squishing her head. It’s called irrumation. In old Latin they called it ‘offendere buccam’; ‘to offend the cheek’ ! Trust the good old Romans to define the difference between fellatio when the sucker takes the initiative, and irrumatio when the suckee lies back and has a dick slam dunk her (or his) throat.

After Len’s visit, as the evenings shortened and Fall descended, we placed an ad for Sweet’s services on a UK Bdsm personals site.

Fuck me if our inbox soon didn’t sound like fingers drumming on a desk. You have mail, you have mail, you have mail.

Di and I sat there surrounded by over 120 responses and jpeg photos from people all over England and abroad; fat ones, thin ones, old ones, young ones, black ones, white, brown and oriental ones. Hung ones and piddly ones. Plus some who weren’t male and a few who were probably not even human ! We like to think of ourselves as Equal Opportunities Advertisers.

It’s hard to describe the power kick you feel choosing sexual partners for somebody else. You look at a photo and peruse the blurb and you think, hey, that’s not a guy I can imagine any chick wanting to fuck !

So you put him in the ‘probables’ pile.

Then you see some hunky Chippendale who’s seeking a ‘life partner’ and you say, whether or not he’s for real, no way !

You dump him on the rejects.

Let the fucker find his own pussy.

Pretty soon we cut the 120 down to a short list of 38.

Time to involve Sweet. We set down 38 photos and simply asked her to choose the 19 she fancied the most, and the 19 she liked least.

She found it pretty hard to select 19 she ‘fancied’ but she got there in the end. So then we trashed that bunch.

And we kept he pile she’d rejected.

Meanwhile Short was working on a parallel project. He came up with the names and contact numbers of the dozen guys that he or she would be most embarrassed and humiliated by if they fucked Sweet; you know, schoolmates of theirs, friends of his, ex-colleagues, bosses, neighbours.

Then we got Sweet to peruse his list of 12 names and asked her to choose the 6 she found the most excruciating. This time we could tell she was two-faced and so we called her bluff.

We threw the ‘wrong’ pile into the rejects. The better ones !

And we put the 6 worst along with the 19 from above.

Now we had a joint list of 25 priority names to approach.

The next day Di came home with an empty scrapbook. It had 100 pages. On page 1, Di had pasted a photo of Short taken after he’d emerged from a bath in cubes of ice. He was naked, hairless and his dick and balls were shrunken miniatures. Across his chest the words ‘my wife’s Lovers’ were emblazoned as the title page. On page 2, she’d pasted a photo of me from the neck downwards sporting my most impressive erection. On page 3 was a rather unflattering shot of Len sat in a chair being blown by Sweet.

There were 97 empty pages.

I’d be lying if I said it was easy setting up Sweet’s first gang-fuck. We aimed for ten guys but in the end had to settle for half that number. A few turned us down outright. Others couldn’t make the date. One accepted but then changed his mind when we said we wanted to take photos. Another accepted but then we rejected him because he sounded, well … dangerous. But eventually we got five guys who were real and could make the date. We kept the list secret from Sweet and Short. Figured it’d make another nice surprise.

Saturday, 16th September 2006 was still warm enough to spend the early evening outdoors. I sat drinking beer with five guys. First was a geeky kid of 25. He’d been a couple of years behind Sweet at school and had a crush on her back then. She never gave him a second glance, which Di and I thought was understandable but it was time for her to make it up to him. Second was actually okay looking but he had a body odour problem. He’d taken some persuading to join us because he’d once been Short’s best mate at school. Third was a portly, mid-forties guy who’d been Sweet’s leering boss in her office job before she changed career and joined us. Fourth was an Asian mini-cab driver who’d answered our internet ad. It’s hard to describe how physically unattractive this particular guy was. Fifth was a widowed pensioner of 68 who wasn’t remarkable, but Di and I felt sorry for him. All in all, they represented a fine cross section of the male gender.

Of course, the atmosphere was a bit awkward for a while. The guys all arrived independently around six and it took a few beers to relax everybody. Short took orders, ferried drinks and endured a few jibes from the guys. His bald head and caged dick copped a lot of flak. Gradually our guests became more comfortable with each other.

Di gestured through a window for me to come inside.

Sweet was cute in a microskirt, topless with tassels on her nipples, crying.

“I can’t.” she said. “Please. I know I said anything, but not this.”

“Shhh.” Di soothed her. “Calm down. It’ll be fine. You’ll enjoy it.”

“Nooo. Not five of them ! Not those five.”

“They seem pretty nice guys to me.” I chipped in helpfully.

Sweet gawped at me through her tears like I was mad.

“But I don’t see the problem.” Di said, an impatient tone creeping into her voice. “Five dicks ? I mean, you’ve been fucked five times in a day by your Master, haven’t you ?”

I grinned sheepishly at both women.

“What,” Di continued, “is the difference between five men once, and one man five times ?”

Sweet shut her eyes. “But … them …” she whispered.

“Oh !” Di replied, in a mocking hoity-toity voice. “I see. You’re too good for them, are you ? Fuck it. They’re just dicks. We’re not asking you to marry them !”

It was clear that Sweet was worn down, beaten.

“Come.” I said, taking her hand. “Let’s go meet them.”

“Wait.” Di said firmly. “Wipe your eyes. I don’t want to offend our guests. So you walk out there with a big smile and when it’s time to fuck you get those ankles behind your ears and show you’re loving it. You got that ?”

Sweet snivelled, slowly nodded her head. “Y … yes, M … istress.”

The guys gave Sweet a raucous welcome. By now the party was rocking, background music, funny stories, refilled glasses. Sweet’s topless entrance with a tray of nibbles produced wolf whistles and cheers. One by one the guys posed for a photo – as agreed beforehand – with Sweet. I produced a set of matches and we played spoof to see the order the guys would go in.

The age spread that Sweet was going to fuck that evening was 43 years, and the youngest guy aged 25 won first dibs. She’d barely recognised his photo but he sure as heck recognised her ! Short offered the tray of condoms and opened the foil of the ribbed tickler that her admirer selected. Sweet lay down on the rug, a brave but apprehensive smile on her face, and awaited him. He was pale, skinny, with a zit-infested butt, and he nervously dragged hard on his cigarette to finish the final puffs. The rest of us patted him on the back and encouraged him.

I suggested giving him a bit of privacy to get started. The old pensioner told us all a funny joke about Viagra and then produced his own supply.

By the time we all looked round, the 25 year old had mounted Sweet and her legs were up high in the air, just as Di had instructed.

“Impressive foreplay.” Sweet’s ex-boss called out sarcastically.

“Phew … that’s unreal.” whistled Short’s ex-best mate.

We turned our chairs so we could watch properly. Di got up and sat down by Sweet’s head so she could stare at her close up. She ushered Short over to kneel alongside her.

Within two minutes, the geek was howling, shooting his wad.

“Impressive finish too.”

“My turn.” boomed the Asian driver, who’d been drawn second.

“Offer him the condoms.” Di instructed Short.

The Asian guy may have been unsightly but he sure could fuck. His big belly squished down Sweet and he grunted on her in rhythmic snorts. Her tits went berserk, bouncing around her chest like two inflatable toys.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” He kept repeating, in his cliché golly-gosh Indian accent.

“A little more enthusiasm.” Di murmured into Sweet’s ear.

Blushing, Sweet slowly began whimpering, then increased her moans, finally summoning up the will to participate properly.

“Yes … mmm … ahh … yes …”

Short’s friend patted Short on the shoulder. “Shouldn’t ever have married her, mate. She’s a fucking slag.”

“Here.” Di said to him. “Kneel here and let her suck your dick.”

His friend winked at Short, removed his shirt and slid into position. Sweet reluctantly suckled his limp cock into her mouth. The stench of his stale armpits was sickly and overpowering.

Eventually, after more than ten minutes, the Asian served his vindaloo.

Short’s friend grabbed a condom and replaced the Asian in between Sweet’s legs, while the 69 year old limped over from his chair to her head. His flesh was wrinkly but his dick was fully erect and surprisingly large.

“My !” Di admired. “You can come again !”

He gave her an embarrassed grin and fed it in between Sweet’s lips.

“Fetch another round of drinks, Shorty.” I said. “And a lipstick.”

His friend seemed to want more than a quick fuck. He took his time, almost gently. He fondled Sweet’s tits, thumbed her nips, fucked her in slow but deep thrusts, and kissed her full on the lips, inserting his tongue.

“Kiss him back.” Di said. “With passion.”

We watched them acting like two lovers. Short arrived back with a tray of drinks to see and hear his wife and ex-mate making out like lovebirds.

Di took a stream of photos with her digital.

“To decorate Short’s wall.” She explained.

Finally our guest could hold out no longer and collapsed in orgasm.

Next up was the old guy. Sweet’s father had died when she was young but, if he were alive, he would have been 20 years younger than the man now clambering into position on her.

Di stroked her face. “I want you to climax now. Work for an orgasm.”

We all crowded round the rug as Sweet started writhing, doing most of the work. After a couple of minutes, the old guy rolled over and lay face up, so that Sweet could ride on top of him.

Her tits rocked and her hair flew as she bucked all over, sliding up and down on his pommel. Di snapped more photos, beers were swigged, hands reached out to fondle Sweet’s boobs. The party really was in full swing.

Rather sweetly, they came within five seconds of each other. The grimace of pride mixed with the ecstasy of orgasm as the old guy realised he’d got her rocks off was a sight to behold.

And last but not least was Sweet’s ex-boss.

Di had Sweet crouch facedown in the doggie position to reward his patience. He deserved something different. His beer gut rolled around on top of Sweet’s back as he fucked her from behind.

Rather pathetically, he shot his bolt inside 90 seconds.

“Truly impressive.” laughed the 25 year old.

“Right, who’s for seconds ?” Di asked.

I used the lipstick to paint Short’s lips red. Then I painted a red outer circle too, starting in the centre of his forehead, over his temple, down his cheek, across his chin, then back up the other side to rejoin on his forehead.

He was a primitive, human dartboard, with an outer circle and a bulls eye.

Or rather, urinal.

By that stage, the beers and wine consumed had been considerable. As soon as Short knelt down on the lawn, with his head tilted, lipstick  marking the target, guys started using him.

It was like at a ball game. Several times there was a line waiting to use the restroom. By the time I took my turn, Short’s hair and body were drenched. His face glistened and his open mouth still bubbled with the previous user’s piss. But the waterproof lipstick had barely smudged.

An example of a product living up to its marketing promise.

I winked down at him kindly. I mean, you’ve gotta hand it to Short n Sweet. They’d done well, hadn’t they ? I resolved to try to persuade Di to reward them with a treat; maybe half a chocolate biscuit each, or an hour’s lie in ? Something real nice to encourage them for the next time.

“Please, Sir.” Short said one evening a few days later, “permission to speak ?”

He was naked and Sweet was practising her cocksucking on his dick. She’d just withdrawn her lips and a long strand of spittle hung like a spider’s web between her lips and his swollen crown.

I shrugged. “Mm ?”

Ever since I’d had my heart-to-heart chats with him and found out he got off on the fucking ‘tantric energy’ of frustration, I’d begun to explore ways to make him regret his comment. Best way was having his wife give him a couple of minutes oral a day. Enough to get him hard and horny and near the edge. It had the added bonus of improving Sweet’s blowing skills.

“I really need to cum, Sir … I mean … really.”

I gave him a withering stare in silence. Sweet looked shocked, worried.

“What a ridiculous thing to say !” I finally hissed. “It’s not been even three months.”

He cringed, thinking I was going to strike him. “I … I’m sorry, Sir.”

I smiled. “I should think so too. You will not have an orgasm while you remain an anal virgin, is that clear ?”

He dry-swallowed, Adam’s Apple bobbing. “Y … yes, S … Sir.”

I mean, really. Outrageous !

I did say last month that was going to tell you more about their ‘housing arrangements’. To be blunt, I can’t think why. There’s not much to say really. Sweet sleeps in an old linen closet, just along from our master suite. It means she’s readily available if we need her during the night. She has a narrow cot with a thin mattress and a prickly horsehair blanket. Her halogen striplight, heating and locks are controlled by us from outside the door and on timers. There’s a peephole in the door that we can look through, and also two surveillance cameras in the ceiling. A bedpan and clothes hooks are her only furniture.

Meanwhile, Short sleeps in a box about 4 ft high x 3 ft wide x 5 ft deep. The size of a generous dog kennel. It’s in our underground basement and made of brick walls, concrete floor, timber frame, barbed wire and iron bolts. Our bathrooms are all that side of the house and the plumbing drips into Short’s cage. There’s a constant whiff of raw sewage from the drains. But, to be honest, it meets his needs perfectly. The trouble with the world today is that people want more than they need. That leads to waste. He has oxygen, a floor, even a roof, running water, he’s perfectly satisfied.

As I mentioned in Chapter One, our basement is massive, the area of our entire house. Long before us, it was divided by brick walls into five ‘rooms’. At the bottom of the stone spiral staircase is a vast cellar for our wine collection; then, after the first wall, is a general storage area; a second wall separates the boiler room, and behind the third wall is another storage area that we’ve converted into a laundry/ironing room. Finally, beyond the fourth wall is the dark, damp area where Short’s cage is built.

That’s why we always say he lives ‘beyond the fourth wall’.

The subtitle of this Chapter.

I know y’all enjoy my sign off words of wisdom:

Every dawn, an impala wakes up with the thought that, if he doesn’t run fast enough that day, he may well get eaten by a lion.

That same morning, a lion awakes thinking that, if he doesn’t run fast enough, he’ll go hungry.

So, tomorrow morning ask yourself, are you an impala, or a lion ?

END OF PART THREE

To be continued – all being well – in Part Four (‘October’)