So knowing I was fully committed to him and to whatever he wanted, Ben made a few changes in our domestic relationship.
I no longer had any human responsibilities: I wasn't expected to cook, or to clean, or to take care of the shopping or anything like that. Jarvis moved in and the two men lived like college roommates, meaning they ordered a lot of take-out and let a housecleaner worry about the mopping and tidying, even the dishes, and they usually stayed up late into the night, playing cards on the deck and drinking and making a lot of noise. Suddenly Ben had become a smoker.
I wasn't allowed to read or use my computer, or speak unless spoken to, or make eye contact with either of them, or even with the housekeeper, who was from Estonia and never so much as acknowledged my existence. I wasn't even allowed to use the bathroom: each morning Jarvis would take me outside on a leash to "potty" in the yard, often right in front of our neighbors, who never said a thing to us but always watched, eyeing me surreptitiously until I was finished. The wife and daughter were known gossips, and although I had no way to verify this I was certain that word about my unusual lavatory habits had reached everyone in town, as had my recent escapades at Tito's Bar. Since I had little else to think about, imagining what various friends and acquaintances now thought of me became a constant dialogue I kept with myself, getting me wildly worked up and making me loathe myself, the two sensations becoming less and less distinguishable as time went by.
Both men agreed that I should be given lactation drugs, and Jarvis took it upon himself to administer the daily shots, piercing my behind each morning with large, disposable needles.
Jarvis was also extremely interested in the state of my bladder, and he liked to make sure it was always uncomfortably full. To this end he made me drink pot after pot of coffee, along with what must have been gallons of particularly sour lemonade. All that coffee made me sweat all the time, and since I wasn't allowed to shower except on rare occasions, and I certainly wasn't allowed any form of deodorant, my body started emitting a very pungent, distinctly feminine odor. I smelled like pussy.
And when the two men noticed and took my new condition into account, they decided to exacerbate the situation rather than correct it: they forced me to masturbate for them by impaling myself on a large, floor-mounted dildo, right there on the deck, always at least potentially visible to various neighbors. But usually it was impossible to tell who may or may not be in which window, so my degree of exposure always remained a mystery.
The oversized, chrome-polished dildo, which Ben called a "Steely Dan", turned out to be a fail-safe way to make me squirt. There was something about its polished smoothness and absolute rigidity that had that effect on me, but also the particular angle and force with which I was required to drive down on it. And the two men made me do it every night, teasing me mercilessly or discussing excruciating tortures they were planning to inflict upon my nether regions "very soon" or "whenever they got around to it".
I was always desperate to pee at these times, and perhaps for that reason I found myself responding conspicuously to threats and promises of urethral tortures in particular. And these were never presented as fantasies, but as very real plans, which my owners were always currently preparing to enact.
Red hot pokers were to be inserted into my tender pee-hole, or catheters forcing a back-flow of unbearable irritants right up into my bladder, liquids such as habenero sauce, poison oak oil, or bee venom. Other favorite insertables were stiff wire bottle brushes, which were sometimes intended to be left in my urethra while I went out on the town, sewn in place perhaps so I would have to piss through the wire bristles. Sometimes they were to be super-glued in place, sealing the exit so I could never pee at all. Sometimes my pee-hole dildo would shock me violently: a remote controlled, electrified metal rod; or sometimes the horrible blasts of electricity were triggered only by urination, so that I was motivated to hold it in for lengthy periods of time, especially while out in public. Scenes of me suffering repeated electrical shocks to my urethra while wetting myself in front of a crowd of onlookers were commonly discussed.
They loved escalating their threats, getting crazier and crazier as I climbed towards orgasm, humping down fiercely on the unyielding Steely Dan.
Sometimes they'd throw in wildcards, queasy stuff that I knew held little appeal for Ben, but for Jarvis I didn't have any certainty. He was a strange man and it was hard to determine whether to take him seriously. He'd chide me teasingly with disturbing scenarios, such as having me kneel in the park and rub my face in a pile of fresh dog shit. And though these sorts of images grossed me out under normal conditions -- particularly anything that put my face or mouth in the proximity of poop -- it turns out that when teetering on the brink of orgasm these same images could provide the final tiny shove to push me over.
Each night they'd work me into a frenzy with these threats, watching me impale myself on the Steely, and when I finally squirted my copious discharge onto the deck, they'd have me rub my face in it, making sure I got the slick fluid all over me and in my hair. They did this to me every night, until I smelled so unmistakably feminine that my worst fear became the utter disgrace I would feel going out in public smelling like this.
And that was precisely the effect they wanted, both of them, but Jarvis in particular. Neither of them talked to me except to occasionally interview me on camera about the way I responded to various stimuli, but I was frequently privy to discussions about me and their disturbing plans for me, plans both long-term, short-term, and medium term. They had all kinds of ideas, but essentially Jarvis had become obsessed with what he called "the many and varied flavors of humiliation". It was for this reason they had backed off the actual whipping and torture for awhile, restricting themselves to the terrifying threats that escalated towards my squirting climaxes on old Steely. They did not want actual pain to somehow distract me from fully experiencing "the subtler flavors" that Jarvis so imaginatively explored.
To this end they enrolled me in a night class.
It was a geometry class intended for returning students at a local community college, but it was a second semester course and I had not attended the first semester. I remembered being good at geometry in high school, and there seemed a chance I'd be able to keep up with the work if I really tried, but it was unlikely, and they found it amusing that I'd be sitting at my purgatorial school desk, failing to understand what the teacher was saying while suffering other and more extreme humiliations, especially in such a public and socially charged atmosphere. Everyone is on their best behavior at school, and the pressure to behave appropriately is deeply felt. And unlike many other public situations, like a bus or theatre or restaurant, the classroom has the added bonus of requiring regular attendance: no matter what happened on Tuesday, I would have to return to the scene of the crime on Thursday, to be recognized again by the same scowling, judgmental faces!
So, reeking profoundly of vagina, and with my bladder ready to burst, I walked into my first class and sat at my desk. I had been instructed to sit right in the middle of the classroom, and I was to flip my skirt as I sat so my naughty and smelly bottom would rest directly upon the wooden seat. And of course there would be a chance of the person behind me catching a glimpse of my rear-end tattoo: "No Limit Pain Slut." Although my garments were inappropriately scanty, my other tattoos were covered, "Rape Me" with a large pendant that hung from a collar-like choker. But my facial tattoo, which read merely "Oink", was covered with nothing but my dark bangs, and so I had to be very careful to keep my hair from tossing about.
Most of the students were younger than I, and all of them cringed when they caught a whiff of me. I could hear murmurings of surprise and disgust quietly articulated from every direction, mostly whispered, but one pair of blond girls dressed in fashionable athletic wear were loud enough so everyone could hear them. They were seated two rows behind me, and I could hear them but not see them without turning around in my chair.
"Is it her?"
"Oh my god, is she the one who smells?"
"Does she even shower, like, ever?"
"She obviously doesn't wash her twat."
They tried to quiet down as the teacher approached the front of the class, but they were obviously suppressing a fit of giggles. The teacher was a small man in his forties, who wore a tweed vest and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. I noticed him scrunch his nose in reaction to my smell, but he said nothing about it, instead introducing himself as Mr. Roberts and proceeding to call the role.
