A Couple Brought Together Act 04

'CRISIS'

DAY FIFTEEN

'dEr Steph,

SBTA not 2 hav texted U soonR. Bad signal whr we R living nw. Chris & I hav Bin so BY since we muvD. bt we R havN a gr8 tym jst az we hOpD so don't wori bout us. Hs nu job iz goin rly weL. I'm writiN DIS n a real rush. GIV my luv 2 d gang. I'll txt agen s%n. luv Jane xoxo'

Jane looked up at her Master for permission. He nodded.

She pressed the send button with her thumb. In the past ten days, her Master had supervised her sending similar short, reassuring text messages to her mom and to a couple of girlfriends like Steph. He monitored her old Yahoo account and now kept her smart-phone mostly switched off. He had closed her Facebook page too. Already it was a case of out of sight out of mind. She and Chris were receiving less correspondence with each day that passed. Their old social lives were being phased out. Funnily enough, she didn't mind.

*** *** ***

I had to use a scented hanky to cover my nose and mouth.

After two weeks the stench from Chris's cell was overpowering. He looked less like the guy from 'Homeland' and more like Jack Bauer in that episode of '24' when he emerges from a year in a Chinese prison.

Chris had sunken red-rimmed eyes, greasy hair and a straggly ginger beard. He was grimy and naked, except for his steel chastity tube. His groin and thighs were vivid scarlet with diaper rash.

Apart from an old toothbrush and a tiny tube of airline toothpaste for him to brush his teeth, he had nothing. My only concession to hygiene was a cheap, chemical toilet. I'd purchased one from a camping website. I'd had to cut down on the diapers due to sores between his legs. He could piss and shit in his plastic portable lavatory but had nothing to wipe or wash himself with afterwards.

He had no running water, no toilet paper, no soap, no shampoo, no comb and no deodorant.

His diet was nothing but the dreaded Prison Loaf. Day after day. He drank nothing but the grey dishwater Jane had washed my dishes in; greasy and tepid, poured into one of those water containers that cyclists and runners use. He sucked the water up through a plastic straw.

It was a regime designed to crush his resistance. During the long days, he stood and stared for hours into the CCTV lens, feet apart, arms behind his back. At night, he curled up on the thin mattress under a horsehair blanket.

His only human contact were my or sometimes Bert's twice-daily visits to bring down his food and water and to remind him we would be monitoring him via the cameras.

By now, a fortnight had passed since Chris had seen Jane in the flesh. But I'd stuck a half-dozen photos of his wife on his cell wall for him, like most prison inmates have of their loved ones. To remind him of her. They were glossy 10 x 8's, affixed with brown tape. But whereas normal prisoners are denied porn, Chris's photos were hardcore XXX shots.

There was a recent date-stamp embedded in the bottom right corner of each photo. Most of them were freeze frame stills from the videos I'd taken of Jane's training.

In the centre of his wall, there was a full body nude shot of his wife posing, like you'd see on a cheap calendar in an auto-repair shop; she was pouting, hands on hips, thrusting her full tits at the lens, pretty as a topless model. Chris didn't know it but the same photo was the main avatar on her new profile.

To one side of it, there was a close up of her pretty face streaked with pearly juice; on the other, a zoom of her ringed pussy after Jacques had finished piercing her.

On the row below, there were three photos; her stretched asshole oozing my cum; a romantic shot of us fucking in my bed; and then, most shocking of all, a recent photo of Jane's tongue kissing Bert's wrinkled asshole. The six photos were like a whistle-stop tour of her past fortnight.

Chris was curled up on his mattress when I walked in.

"Wakey, wakey, Chrissy-boy. Tenshun!"

He was crying softly. He jerked the horsehair blanket up to cover his head.

"Hey, Chris? You okay?"

His head shook. "I'm not sure I can take this anymore."

"Look at me."

He removed the blanket and turned to face me, sitting on his grubby mattress.

"You had enough?"

His eyes were red-rimmed and wet. "I don't know. Maybe."

I immediately knew I'd gone too far. Fuck! I'd already been regretting the whole prison thing, at least to this extent. But Chris had given me carte blanche and I'd taken it. Besides, the basic fantasy was his.

I had to think fast.

I shrugged. "Well, it's up to you, Chris. Any time you want out, just give me a week's notice."

"What do you mean?"

I knew that, if I apologised now, the spell would be broken. Deep down, we'd both know my authority was no longer absolute. I couldn't afford to let him see any weakness, even though I'd never set out to go too far.

"One week." I said, ignoring the fact he'd forgotten to address me correctly as 'Sir'. I could see in his eyes that he was searching for an answer too.

"You can't just walk out of here." I told him. "You said it was up to me."

He wiped a finger across his moist eye, waiting.

"But you can bargain your way out of here. Like I said, I'd never keep you long term against your will. You just have to pay your dues."

"My dues?"

"Sure. Or you always have a choice."

"Choice, Sir?" His voice was raspy. He was frowning, trying to keep up.

"A choice between staying down here like this or crossing another limit."

I knew Chris's dark fantasies. He gaped at me, slowly licking moisture from his unshaven top lip.

"It's up to you." I told him. "You can stay down here. Or you can prove to me that you're ready to do whatever I say. Then you can start a new life above ground."

"Wh ... what do I have to do Sir?"

I smiled.

"Suck cock."

He stared at me in silence.

"Yes," I continued, "you heard me right." I put my hands on my hips for emphasis. "You can say yes right now, or think about it down here for a week or two longer and then suck a few cocks. It's your call."

I was bluffing. Chris held the winning hand. If he refused, there was actually no way I'd keep him down here much longer. I was holding crap cards but I looked into his eyes, nice and steady, like I was hiding a Full House.

"But ..." his voice trailed off.

I made a pouty face, emphasising it was up to him.

"Hey, look. Take your time. Mull it over for a few more days."

His exhausted eyes searched mine.

"One or the other? You mean it?"

I smiled. My confidence was growing.

"One hundred percent. You agreed it was up to me. I've got to be sure you've really, truly had enough. Suck a cock or two and you'll convince me."

"I'm not gay, Sir."

I laughed. We'd had this discussion briefly during our negotiation. For many heterosexual male subs kissing a dominant's cock is simply a submissive fantasy, not closet homosexuality.

"I know you're not. And sucking a few cocks won't make you gay either. Especially if you hate doing it."

He paused. "Would Jane know, Sir?"

At that moment, I knew I had him. Psychology says that when somebody starts voicing their detailed concerns, the person has already made up their mind.

I sighed. "That depends."

"Sir?"

"Yes, I think it's important that you and Jane have no secrets from each other." I gestured to the photos on his cell wall. "You share in her sexploits, after all, so I think she should share in yours too. But maybe you and I could ... spare her some of the sordid details."

I emphasised the word 'maybe'.

"Is there no other way, Sir?"

I looked into his gaunt, red-rimmed eyes. He wanted me to say no.

I shook my head, sadly. "I don't think so. As I said, the choice is yours. I'd never force you to perform a gay act, so you can stay down here instead. But I'd never force you to stay down here either, so you can suck cock instead. You think about it a while."

He nodded. "Th ... thank you, Sir. I will."

I smiled inwardly as I walked up the cellar steps. The first part of our game was nearly over. He and I were both ready for the next level.

*** *** ***

By now, my PC was humming with activity.

I posted regularly to my own profile, mostly neck-down or photo-shopped pics of Jane's ongoing training. Photos that kept all our personal identities hidden. I wrote a mini-blog about her progress too. A couple of flamers but mostly positive feedback.

I was also busy answering the numerous private messages that kept hitting my inbox. Once you start getting talked about online and people know you're genuine, you get a tsunami of requests. I was living my dream, something I'd searched and waited for so long. But Jane's slut training was the best part of all.

I set up a separate profile for her. It wasn't visibly linked to mine. This one showed her face, using the harmless avatar of her posing nude. I named her 'Cunt Lottery' and wrote on her behalf that she was a married hotwife in the London area seeking NSA sex.

I added a small collection of scanned photos including a ten year old snapshot of Jane whilst she was at college. I blurred the faces of the two girls either side of her but left Jane's innocent smile nice and clear. I put up a sweet wedding photo of Jane and Chris cutting their cake, dressed in their finery.

To contrast with them, I uploaded recent close-ups of Jane sucking cocks. The date stamps and different penises made it obvious that she was genuine.

But once men contacted 'her', I took over and replied on Jane's behalf, as her Master, explaining the real situation. Some obviously didn't believe it and never contacted me again. It was their loss. I made it clear that pretty much anybody who applied could have a free crack at Jane.

Well, obviously, I filtered out the real weirdos. But everybody else I made pick a number between 1 and 100, like a lottery ticket. The only difference was that there was only one losing number.

Provided you didn't message me '69', you had a winning ticket. So everybody had a 99 per cent chance!

With her popularity and her face showing, it was probably only a question of time before somebody from her past life stumbled across her profile, but as far as I knew, nobody had so far. That amusing moment was yet to come.

Within a week, I had numerous bookings from all sorts of guys; ranging from the dirty dozen who'd launched her bukkake career, to young and old, single men and pairs. My spreadsheet was flexible but I tried to get Jane a mid-morning visitor and then several afternoon and evening ones. Pretty much every day.

Her first individual booking was a nice looking, middle class student, eight years younger than Jane. He had a vanilla girlfriend but was exploring his dominant side. Jane later told me that she was relieved I'd chosen a beginner as her first trick. But he had an unusual, curved cock. I sat quietly in the corner and watched her suck him on her knees, until he unloaded in her mouth. He was intrigued by her pierced labia. I said he was welcome to return another time to sample her ass.

Later the same day, her next booking was a ripped black guy, heavily into the white cuckold scene. I let him enjoy the CCTV monitor feed of Chris while Jane licked his balls, rimmed his ass and then blew him. I invited him to revisit as well. I was in a rush to build up an address book of suitable anal-fuck buddies for her.

But my favourites were the mature guys, around my age or older. A lot of them weren't experienced doms. They were simply lonely 'Daddies' in need of much younger play partners. Sadly, there are nowhere near enough 'Janes' out there to go round us all, even single, unmarried ones. The one advantage of that mismatch is that there is massive lopsided demand for the few Janes that do exist. I felt it was my duty to be generous.

Naturally, she struggled mentally at times. Her own fantasies were her own; she certainly wanted a caring but cruel Master, and had pictured vivid scenes in her mind. She'd imagined things, knew the kinky stuff that turned her on. And being forced by her Master to do stuff she didn't like was all part of it for her. But that still didn't make certain things easy, especially at the start.

Swallowing cum was one of those things. Jane had never done it out of choice. Some women seem to like the stuff, its taste and texture, just like some people appreciate sashimi, or anchovies, but others don't. Jane realised that submissive sluts must consume jizz. Nevertheless, that didn't make it pleasant for her to learn to do it.

My rule was simple. Any man, every single orgasm, goes down the hatch. If a guy comes in her mouth, she must never spit or waste a drop. None of that porn star trick of letting it dribble out with her saliva as she pretends to clean his cock. Whenever I tell Jane, she must gargle it first and then let it slide slowly down her throat. It's only by treating semen like a precious wine that you can really taste the nuances of each guy's grapes and terroir.

If a man comes on her face or body instead, she must scoop or lap it up. And if he comes inside a condom, she must drink the contents afterwards. This way, Jane has been steadily trained never to be fussy about who or when she'll swallow. She knows that, however he shoots his load, she will politely consume the gift of every single visitor.

So, in those early days, whenever a random guy turned up and he obviously wasn't her type physically or mentally, Jane would know regardless that she'd be drinking his juice before long. No negotiation. She had nothing against ethnic guys, or old guys, but it was hard not to be put off by some of them. She'd look dolefully at me sometimes, her brown eyes seeking mercy, and she'd gag or retch on a particularly large cock or load, but she never refused, understanding that my strict policy was ultimately for her own benefit.

Very soon I'd received enough applications from London-area-based guys that I was able to start insisting that they send me photos beforehand if they didn't already have one on their profiles.

"Oh boy, look at this one."

Jane's head was between my legs. She was under my desk while I was sat in my dressing gown. Her tongue was rimming my asshole, nose nuzzling my sweaty balls.

I passed down the I-pad so she could see her latest fan mail.

"He can make this afternoon."

Her lips curled in quiet distaste when she saw his image. But she never verbally resisted. The decision was mine, and mine alone.

I tapped a reply on the keyboard. I work jointly with a laptop and I-pad. She stayed diligently tonguing the clammy creases between my thighs, no doubt thinking her own private thoughts.

At 4.25 p.m. the same day, the same guy rang to say he was in his car only five minutes away. I gave him final directions. I beckoned to Jane through the veranda doors when the doorbell rang. She was doing yard-work outside.

There were only two words to describe him; 'geek' and 'nerd'. It wasn't that he was totally ugly. He had thick spectacles, a pale complexion and a narrow, oblong face. He was quite tall, but thin and in my youth was called bit of a 'weakling'. In a rom-com movie, he'd have been cast as the harmless hanger-on who never gets a girl. Well, leastways, not unless her name was Jane.

She was wearing dungaree overalls, gloves and boots, heavy lifting in the rear garden. Her face was shiny with perspiration.

"This is Kevin." I told her. "From this morning. He's managed to pop by for a quick blowjob, after all. Hurry."

I motioned for him to relax outside on an Adirondack chair in the unseasonably warm Spring sunshine.

Jane removed her gloves, wiped her forehead and smiled weakly.

Kevin sat down, giggled at me, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. They were the kind that distorted his eyes. In the sunlight, I could see bad acne scars on his forehead and jaw line. Jane unbuckled his belt and jeans.

This guy definitely wasn't at the front of the queue when God handed out good looks. His body was scrawny. Most noticeably, his dick was on the tiny side.

But Jane lowered her perspiring face into his lap and put her lips round his thin cock, sliding her mouth up and down it.

I winked at him and made myself scarce. Kevin obviously didn't have much experience and certainly not at performing in public. So I left the happy couple to it.

A few minutes later, it was all over. I heard him cry out obscenities as he came. I walked over and watched Jane tilt her head back to gulp down his load.

Another six calories.

"Well done." I said. "Now get back to work."

"Mmm." Kevin groaned, as Jane dutifully rose and put her gloves back on. "Fuck, that was amazing." He said to me.

I shrugged. "Nah. It was nothing." I looked at my watch. It was only 4.42 p.m. "Thanks for dropping by. You should do it again some time."

He blinked. "Really?"

I caught Jane's eye as she recommenced digging the flower bed.

"Sure. It gives her a nice drinks break from gardening. Just drop me a message whenever you fancy."

"Er ... tomorrow?"

I grinned at him. Greedy sod.

"Yeah, fine. Why not? Same time tomorrow?"

The average male orgasm contains between five and ten calories, although I'd seen Jane gulping much larger helpings. Generally, younger guys on a protein diet who have saved up can provide double that.

By comparison, a tiny mouthful of milk chocolate or just a few sips of frothy Latte each contain about ten calories. That's not a good use of your daily allowance. So by giving up the likes of chocolate and coffee, Jane was able to consume much more suitable produce.

By now, I had steadily increased her daily calorie allowance to 1,000 calories. Her body had been in full blown ketosis and had already burned away the fatty acids it had been storing before we met. Her hips, buttocks and face had shed the cellulite and unhealthy excess she'd arrived with. Now I was sculpting her new figure with lean foods, strict exercise and plentiful sex. Her hunger pangs had declined and she had adapted to her svelte shape and new diet.

And on a busy 'Bukkake Day', semen could account for over 5 per cent of her daily energy source!

DAY TWENTY THREE

Jane was writhing in the shower tray.

I was using the shower nozzle to wash her cunt. I'd unlocked her padlock and allowed her to take a nice hot shower. Now I was rinsing blood from her soapy cunt with a warm jet.

"Aaa ..." she wheezed.

"Don't you dare cum, young lady." I warned. Her clit was a livid nubbin of arousal; red, stiff and proud. It had been two and a half weeks since she'd had her last orgasm. She was also having her first menstrual period after her arrival. In front of me, she was needlessly embarrassed by her own bodily functions.

When she was dried off and creamed with antiseptic, I padlocked her pussy shut and then gave her a sanitary pad to put over it. Afterwards, she lubricated her asshole.

She had lost 11 lbs in twenty two days, an average of half a pound a day since her arrival. More importantly than how much weight she'd lost, was from where she'd lost it. Remarkably, her tits were unaffected and they looked even fuller compared to her slender hips and ribcage. She worked out on my cross trainer, did stomach crunches and other reps daily. But it was long days of sweaty domestic and garden toil that had toned her shape most.

She hadn't had any red meat, chocolate, caffeine, alcohol or cigarettes since her first evening. Withdrawal had been tough but she was over the worst. She served me my own steaks, dessert, coffee, wine and cigars without visible resentment. She'd learned instead to savour her portions of undressed greens, raw vegetables, smoked fish, tofu, berries.

I pulled her nude body to me and kissed her soft mouth. Her skin glowed with good health. Whatever I might be doing to dent her ego, her body was unquestionably benefitting.