I bent over and my wife eased the five-inch anal intruder into my arsehole, then adjusted the double rubber straps from the front and rear of the dildo up my body to the slave collar around my throat. The D-rings the rubber straps hooked onto pulled the thick intruder deep into my back passage and provided stimulation to my sphincter muscle, thus making my uncut cock rise to its full, eight-inches of erection.
She then placed a large, red rubber cape over my head and let the cool material fondle my flesh as it fell to cover my nudity. The hem of the cape came to just below my knees, the neck had a sort of ruff which hid the leather slave collar around my throat.
"There, Rupert," she smiled, regarding my ridiculous appearance, "that's your travelling uniform. Every time I take you out and loan you to one of my girlfriends, this is what you will wear. It will remind you on the journey there, that you are my sex slave and always available to be lent to my friends for them to slake their sadistic sexual appetites."
Turning of her expensively-shod heel, she led the way to our garage which, thank goodness, is at the rear of the house and accessible by a little walkway from the rear door and thus secure from any of the prying eyes of our next door neighbour's. Not that Tanya, my lovely, large-busted 38-year-old wife, gave a damn about that, I'm sure.
It was a Monday morning, exactly a week since my humiliations at the "passing out parade" where Tanya, her younger sister, Vanya, my wife's best friend Paula, and her golfing partner, Jan Frobisher, had heaped punishment upon punishment on me. At the conclusion, Tanya had smugly announced herself "pleased" that I was now a fully-graduated sex slave.
A day or two later, Mrs Frobisher – a tall, long-legged fair-haired beauty who I really fancied – rang Tanya to ask if she could "borrow" me the following Monday for a day of "sexual entertainment".
Tanya had agreed, and as usual made me call my bookstore manager Naomi to make sure the lovely young black girl could take charge. It was a chore Naomi enjoyed, since she was more than capable, I paid her a handsome bonus for running the shop in my absence, and she was now becoming almost used to being asked to run the place for me on Mondays.
I settled down in the lush leather seat of my wife's new Jaguar, feeling the cold rubber tingle against my buttocks, but then realising it would soon be warm and slippery as my body heat transferred to the rubber.
As it was just 9 o'clock, there was still a lot of commuter traffic as Tanya drove to Mrs Frobisher's lovely new home – the proceeds of an extremely generous will from her husband, an airline pilot who had died almost two years before in a freak accident involving a golf cart and his mistress in Los Angeles, where he often "stopped over" during his long-haul runs from London to LA and places south, such as Honolulu and Sydney.
As I said, it was a busy drive and many commuters were still on the road. At one set of traffic lights, a car driven by a stunningly attractive young blonde drew up on the inside of my wife's Jaguar. The blue-eyed beauty looked at the upper part of my rubber "travelling uniform", nudged her passenger, an older male, and they burst into laughter. My face turned red, but then the lights changed and my wife drove ahead, the blonde, thankfully, made a left turn and was gone.
At another red light, a large delivery truck drew up on the inside lane. The driver, a bearded hulk, peered down, laughed and blew me a kiss. I wanted the seat to swallow me up!
At last we arrived at Jan Frobisher's lovely new home, set on the outskirts of Virginia Water, and not more than a couple of Tiger Woods' drives from the Wentworth course where she and my wife often found themselves partnered in their weekly Wednesday foursome.
Tanya drove into the large, leafy driveway and climbed from the car, then opened the door and allowed me to sprint across the gravel drive – not an easy task in my bare feet – to the side door of the house, which was discreetly opened a foot or so by Mrs Frobisher.
I stepped into the modern home and looked at the tall woman. She was already dressed for domination! Her small but beautifully-formed breasts were circled by an arrangement of leather straps. The 32-inch beauties were firmly held in the clasp of the straps, the nipples pointing erectly at me as if she say "Hello!"
On her hips was a similarly erotic leather arrangement of straps, which left her shaved pussy naked to my gaze, the only hair left down there a fair, fuzzy little splotch on her mons. On Mrs Frobisher's feet were a pair of classic-styled Manolo Blahnik metal-heeled pumps, the heels, coloured gold in rich contrast to the gleaming black leather, almost demanded worship.
But my thoughts were then dragged from Mrs Frobisher's steel-heeled stilettos to my present predicament by my wife's stern voice.
"Right, Jan, here he is, all ready to perform at your beck and call. He's your slave for the day," she said, pushing me on my buttocks towards the pert-breasted beauty.
"I'm sure you'll have no problems with him, seeing as how he's now a fully-fledged sex slave, but if anything crops up, I'll be on my mobile."
Then she turned to me. "OK Rupert," she said, "while you're under her roof, Mrs Frobisher is 'Mistress' and her command is law, understand?"
I nodded and answered in my meek "slave" voice: "Yes, darling."
Tanya turned to head for the door. "I'm off to town, an old school friend's treating me to lunch in some impossibly expensive French restaurant in Chelsea," she told her golf partner. "What is it they say in restaurants – enjoy!" And with a laugh she was out of the door, the Jaguar's throaty engine roared into life and Jan Frobisher closed the door and walked towards me.
"Hello, you adorable slave, you," she said, stepping up against me and rubbing her body sexily against my rubber cape. "Hello, what's this?" she inquired, her hand running across the crotch region to feel my hardness beneath. "What did Mae West say – 'Is this a gun, officer, or are you just pleased to see me?' Well, Rupert, are you pleased to see me?"
I swallowed and then answered, with utter honesty: "Very, very pleased, mistress. You know I love you."
Mrs Frobisher smiled and kissed me hard on the mouth: "And you want to be dominated my me, you want to worship me, be punished my me, drink my urine, fuck me, don't you? Tell me, say it!"
Her words were said in a hush, but they were almost harsh in their delivery. "I want you to dominate me," I said. It was true.
"I want to worship you," I said. It was true.
"I want you to punish me," I said. It was true.
"I want to drink your urine," I said. It was true.
"I want to fuck you," I said, "but I can't." Both statements were true.
"You can't fuck me?" demanded Mrs Frobisher, her lovely eyebrows arched in question marks, "or won't? Explain."
I gulped, then explained my predicament. "My darling wife doesn't let me have cock-in-cunt sex any more," I said. "It's part of my punishment, you see. I can only bring her to orgasm by letting her slide her pussy up and down on my shaft, or by oral adoration. A fuck is not permitted, mistress."
