Sausages for the Slave

And so the day dawned; the day of my big punishment. The putative cause was the minor misdemeanour of ejaculating a lot sooner than my wife expected me to. The real cause was that she lost a bet on account of it. That was major. She's a competitive, alpha type, my wife: doesn't like to lose at anything. So because I had failed to perform to her expectations on a live cam she shared with her work colleagues, I was deemed to have wilfully and spitefully undermined her authority and so I must be punished. No appeal allowed. It had been decided, and this day was the day it would happen. I didn't get much sleep the night before, over-thinking the coming event. I should be able to let it go. It's by no means the first time I've suffered this way. I knew that it would happen and then it would be over. Easy to say, but hard to do.

Having gone through the necessary preparations, cleaning myself inside and out, I kitted myself out in my wife's usual choice of attire for me for these occasions; what she calls my Little Bo Peep dress, a frilly blue thing with a laced black bodice which stops below my nipples, leaving my upper chest and shoulders bare. The hem of the dress is short enough to just reveal my bum. All physical punishment is administered by a friend of my wife, called Bette. There is a fairly established pattern to how the event unfolds. The programme formally commences when Bette arrives and rings the doorbell. That happens sometime in the morning after my wife had gone to work.

Bette has a key but she always rings the doorbell to make me come to the door and let her in, a bit like the vampire thing; that he needs to be invited in. I jump when I hear that bell and I drag myself to the door to let her in, half dreading half wanting the torment ahead. I pretend to be calm as I open the door and stand to one side while Bette sweeps in past me. I wonder does she notice that I am shaking like a leaf and my breath is coming in short nervous gasps. But before any of that happens, my wife and I always have breakfast together.

That morning, I got my wife's cereal and made her coffee. I usually don't get to eat on these occasions, but on this occasion my wife kindly said I should get myself a bowl of cereal seeing as I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday. Big of her. I could point out that she was the reason I had nothing to eat yesterday, but that would be churlish of me. She was probably afraid I might faint from the hunger and fail to give Bette sufficient satisfaction. I gladly got myself a decent serving of cereal topped with lots of skim milk. I am not allowed full milk. Too rich for me the wife says. She has full milk in her cereal, though.

We sat across from each other at our big oak kitchen table. At the far end of table I had already placed my woolly helmet, the gag, a pair of strong white cotton panties, a leather collar and a matching pair of cuffs. This is a standard requirement on punishment days. They look a bit odd sitting there on the table while we eat, but we never talk about them, or their purpose, or the forthcoming enforcement during breakfast. My wife doesn't like to use crude words like 'beating,' so she substitutes the word 'enforcement.' She'll say that she has, with regret, had to order an enforcement session for me. She's a bit squeamish like that. Can't say the same about her enforcer, but we don't mention Bette at breakfast either. My wife regards breakfast time as one of our precious moments of togetherness. It sets her mood for the day and it is not to be spoiled by any mention of life's nasty realities. But I can't help myself glancing at the peculiar pile of clutter at the far end of the table every few minutes, and feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach. One of my life's nasty realities is about to happen to me.

I had already hand squeezed some oranges to make a glass of orange juice for her. She likes me to hand squeeze them, even though we have an electric juicer. She likes the personal touch, the bit of manual labour on her behalf. Surprisingly, as she sipped her juice, she suggested I might have some orange juice too, so I went to the fridge and got the litre carton of supermarket juice off the door shelf. It's the cheap one, own label, made up from concentrate - with added bits; bits of turnip probably. The blast of cool air from the fridge made my bare nipples harden and tingle a little, like they knew what was coming. My diet differs from hers in several respects. This is one of them. Pure orange juice, hand squeezed or otherwise, is not for me. She suggested I drink the whole litre; that it would be good for me. I can recognise an order pretending to be a suggestion from a mile off, and set about downing the litre of orange drink without protest. She was purposely setting me up for a rough time ahead. She does cruelty in her own quiet way. The bathrooms are out of bounds on punishment days. The litre of orange on top of a large helping of cereal and milk was designed to put my bladder under serious pressure. My choice is between a long day of holding on or an embarrassing accident. I could use a bathroom but I would be caught on camera and another, and worse, punishment would result.

She persisted with the fiction of our enjoyable breakfast together. We talked about anything but big item on my agenda that morning. We continued to ignore the gear sitting at the end of the table. My wife mentioned that the grass was getting a bit long and it would be good to cut it before the rain comes that is forecast for the weekend. I concurred. As she was finishing her coffee, I sat opposite her, feeling a lot of liquid sloshing around in my stomach. I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking he's probably shitting himself now and he deserves it. She was right about one part of that sentence.

It was time to put on the gag and helmet, yet she delayed, wondering if I saw the new shrub the neighbours across the way had put in. Turning the screw, seeing if I'd crack. Inside I was screaming, 'let's get on with this and stop pretending I'm not about to get brutally beaten by a sadist.' But outside I said, 'yes, I did see it. It's a rhus - nice autumn colour.' Stuck it right back to her.

At last, and not because she is feeling sorry for me, but because it's time for her to go to her important job in the big tech company, she said, 'let's get you prepped.' Always the same phrase, but she never says what I'm being prepped for. No, we couldn't go there, too crude to even contemplate apparently. Well, I was busy contemplating it as she fixed the kazoo gag into my mouth and fastened it at the back. (Don't ask: Basically, it makes a 'baa' sound as I breathe out of my mouth and an 'aaa' sound as I breathe in: Very humiliating. You have to breathe in and out your nose to prevent baaing. That is noisy too in its own snorting sort of way, and it gives away just how panting and panicky your breathing is.) Next she pulled the woolly head piece over my head and locked it in place. With my animal head in place I could only see with difficulty and I fumbled a bit before I managed to pick up her coat and bag for work. I had just handed them to her when the doorbell rang.

Bette was early. My wife told me to go and get the door. I felt my usual vulnerable and panicky state as I opened the door dressed in my short Bo Peep dress and woolly mask. Bette stood there on the step in her coveralls, check shirt and work boots. She had her utility belt on - bad sign. I stood to one side against the wall holding the door wide open and snorting breaths in and out my nose. She looked straight past me, as she always does, but that time she saw my wife coming out to meet her.

"Hi Bette, you're early."

"Hi Mary, yeah. A job got cancelled this morning. Spare part wasn't delivered in time, so I decided to take a chance."

Mary is my wife's name. I'm not allowed to use it. If I'm answering her formally it's 'Madam,' unless we are doing our husband and wife chit chat, or pretend chit chat, like that morning. Then I don't call her anything. Just tip toe around the little difficulty. I used amuse myself with the thought that if my wife's name was Belle, they'd be Belle and Bette, as in Belle et Bete, Beauty and the Beast. Though the Bitch and the Beast would be more accurate.

The Bitch and the Beast were out on the step doing their huggy, huggy, kissy, kissy thing; wonderful to see you; must meet for a drink sometime and all that stuff. I'm stood there in a skimpy frilly blue dress and my woolly mask and gag, looking totally ridiculous, holding the door. The cool wind blew over my bum and balls and reminded me what all this was about, while they had their little catch-up. My wife did her 'gotta run' thing to Bette and headed for her car. Bette waved her off, normally my job, and went back out to the road to where her pickup was parked. She got her tool box; her special tool box that has all she needs for this particular job. She smiled and waved to my wife again who was backing down the short driveway. Then she turned and headed in towards me. Suddenly, the smile was gone and Bette was all business.

The woolly mask with the integrated gag may be a ploy by my wife to dehumanise me in Bette's eyes. No need for my wife to worry on that score. Bette probably thinks of me as little more than a dumb animal anyway, ever since the first enforcement when she had her collies herd me around her field. To her, I'm just Mary's little lamb, or her little black sheep today; the one that needs bit of obedience re-training. As far as Bette is concerned, it's just another of those things she does to help out a friend or neighbour, like worming their dogs. It's a job on her do list for the day and the sooner she gets it done the sooner she gets on to doing a real paying job. From Bette's perspective my feelings in the matter are neither here nor there. Once my wife is happy with the result, it's a job well done.

There is a bonus in it for Bette too. She gets to use me for a day in return for acting as my wife's enforcer. She gets a labourer who will do exactly as he is told, and who will cost her nothing for the day. She doesn't get into conversation with me on those days either, even though I am not wearing my gag. She tells me what to do and if she doesn't like the way I'm doing it she feels free to correct me very directly. I won't be walking off the job if she gives me a clatter across the back of my head. I'll just say, 'sorry Ma'am,' and get back to doing it her way.

Standing to attention by the front door as Bette passed into the hall, placing her heavy tool box on the floor, I was panting a bit more now from nerves, and giving the odd unintended 'baa.'

"Close the door. Bring the box into the kitchen and put it on the table."

Like on her building jobs Bette gives me direct instructions and I obey them to the letter. I placed the box on the far end of the kitchen table beside the knickers and collar. She directed me to clear away the dishes and glasses from where we had been sitting. As I mentioned, my vision was distorted by the rough green lenses of the mask. I have to look carefully at what I am doing and where I am going when I have the helmet on. I managed to pick up the bowls, glasses and cup, bring them to the worktop and wipe the table clean.

"Up on the table."

I knew what to do. It is a big strong kitchen table, at least six feet long and three feet wide, with thick sturdy square legs set about eighteen inches in from each end and drawers along each side for cutlery. I stood at the end I'd just cleared and bent forward till my upper body was lying flat on the table, my legs still on the ground. Bette took a firm grip of my left wrist and extended my arm at full stretch towards the far left corner of the table. She slipped a leather loop over my wrist and pulled it down over the end of the table and fastened it to a small hook high up on the leg of the table at that end. She did the same to my right wrist. My arms now extended towards either corner of the other end of the table where Bette's tool box sat. I lay my face to one side and tried to relax, like you do as you settle into a dentist's chair as he tips it back. You tell yourself, 'this is OK. This is comfortable. This can't be too bad.' Then he starts the drill.

Bette got two more thongs out of her box and went around behind me. She tapped the back of my left thigh and said, 'lift.' It was like I was a horse and she was a blacksmith about to put a horseshoe on me. The thought gave me the beginnings of an erection. I lifted my foot. I could feel her place the thong behind my knee, pull it tight up against the leg of the table and hitch it tight into its hook. She did the same to the other leg without asking me to lift it, just pulled my right leg hard off the ground and tied it up. Both my feet were off the ground now as I lay stretched out flat on the table. Sideways on, I probably looked like a question mark. My torso was stretched flat on the table, my bum bent round the end and my thighs held in under the table top, hard up against it, with my knees pressing against the table legs. From the knees down my lower legs and feet hung parallel to the table legs and probably stopped a foot off the ground. I could wiggle and move my lower legs below the knee. Otherwise, I was tightly held and tightly stretched. The width of the table legs apart meant my legs were pulled and stretched painfully wide.

Panting hard now, baaing and aaaing constantly, I felt Bette reach between my legs and pull my balls and cock free from under me so they hung off the end of the table. It was a bit of relief as they had been squashed between me and the table top. But it made my balls available to her. I heard her get a bucket from under the sink and place it below me at that end of the table. Then she got a length of hose from her box and slipped one end over my now shrivelled cock. I heard the other end of the hose drop into the bucket. A tidy worker was Bette. She knew how to avoid mess. There was one final act of preparation. She grabbed my head by the top of the woolly mask and pulled it back till my chin cleared the table. She slipped a smooth shaped roll of wood under my chin and set my head down again. The wooden piece forced my head back and obliged me to look straight up the table to where her box was. The effect was probably a bit like when you'd see a suckling pig set out for a banquet. If I hadn't a mask and gag on she could have stuck an apple in my mouth to complete the effect. I could no longer lie my head down sideways and rest it. I was readied.

Through the green lenses of my helmet I could see Bette go to the box and take out a wooden paddle and lay it on the table in front of me. It was the sort with two parallel rows of holes drilled into it. She probably made it herself. She reached in again and took a rolled up leather strap or belt out of the box and laid it beside the paddle, folded in two. She was humming some tuneless tune now as she rooted in the tool box again. She found what she was looking for down at the bottom of the box, a thin bamboo cane. She rooted again and pulled out a long handle and fitted the cane into it. She laid that beside the other two implements. Then she took the box off the table. Showtime. I could make out the clock on the far wall of the kitchen. All that had happened in less than five minutes. Time seemed to be moving very slowly.

Not showtime yet: While I was lying stretched and tied on the table, panting and panicking, and looking at the cruel implements she was about to abuse me with, Bette went and made herself a cup of coffee. Then she pulled up a chair about three feet from the far end of the table. She sat down on the chair and started sipping her coffee while facing me, just looking at me. It was very unsettling. Even through the distorted green lenses I could see the coldness and indifference in her eyes. I didn't matter to her. I was a job to be got done, but she wanted to have a cup of coffee first. She took her time. All that orange juice and milk had filled my bladder and the hard edge of the table was pressing into it. Best not think about it.

Bette put her coffee cup on the worktop. She pulled on a pair of white latex gloves and picked up the paddle. As she moved out of my sight and behind me, I braced myself and took a deep breath. Not long now.

Bang! The hot pain of the paddle strike roared across my left buttock. I held it together for that first blow, but had to let out a long baaa for the second and for each of the rest. Bette didn't hang about. She continued steadily until she had given me five hard slaps of the paddle on the left side, a brief pause between each one to allow me appreciate the pain and anticipate the next blow. Then she switched to the right side and gave me five more slow slaps of the paddle. My position meant my buttocks were wrapped tautly around the edge of the table and spread apart to give her the easiest of easy targets. I couldn't even wriggle to give my ass some relief. She paused for a moment. My ass was on fire. Then I felt her hand reach around my ball sac. She pulled down on it and squeezed hard a few times, then she let go and quickly slapped me hard on the balls with her open hand. The pain shot through my groin and I heard a dribble of pee dropping into the bucket. She slapped me in the balls twice more and got the same result. It was like she was milking me. It was a different pain from the paddle, a weakening, wincing pain that moved in waves up into my groin.

While I was trying to get my breathing back under control, she came around the table in front of me and returned the paddle to her tool box. She picked up the cane, swished it a few times through the air in full view of me, slowly and deliberately, before moving out of sight again. The cane gave a wicked whipping sound as she swung it. I knew all this was being recorded by the cameras mounted into the ceiling at either end of the room. Bette was putting on a good show for her pal Mary. I was the meat in the middle of this particular sandwich. I would be done right. Honour would be satisfied. Entertainment would be provided. This session would probably be sent out over the web to pay porn sites. Money would be made out of my punished ass.

I may have screamed when the first stroke of the cane whipped into me. Though it must have sounded like a very high pitched bleat. The pain was searing and piercing across both cheeks of my ass at once. It felt like I was cut, but probably not. Bette was methodical; she knew how to do just enough damage without permanently marking me. Her pace didn't falter. My screams turned to sobs at some stage, or sobs were added between the screams. She kept going. After ten or so sharp, whipping strokes I became quieter, exhausted and resigned, just the odd sob heaved out of my chest and mingled with my tired, resigned baaing. She stopped after twenty strokes. I had emptied my bladder into the bucket somewhere in the course of that phase of the punishment. I was barely aware of it happening at the time due to my state of shock and the level of pain inflicted on my ass. After the caning, I could see her take the bucket to the sink and tip out the contents and rinse the sink out while I lay sobbing and recovering, stretched out on the table, my face still staring ahead expressionless in its woolly mask. She replaced the bucket; so not finished yet.

My sobs and bleats sounded were gradually easing. Bette stood to the left side of the table, just out sight of my restricted vision. I was limited to seeing what was in front of me basically. The lenses removed all my peripheral vision, and blurred the outer edges of my straight on vision. She ran her finger slowly up along my taut stretched left arm and up my shoulder till she reached my head. Then she slowly stroked my cheek, tenderly, through the helmet. She had some compassion in her after all, I thought. I pressed my face against the back of her hand, seeking comfort from my tormentor. It was nice. She gave a little squeeze to my cheek, comradely like; we were in this together, and we'd get through it together. It was a tender moment. She went around to the other side and did the same. I couldn't wait to lean my face in against her hand again. I'd have kissed it too but for the mask. But she pulled her hand away before I could lean my cheek against it and, with her other hand, gave me a tremendous lash of the belt across my shoulders and upper back. I hadn't noticed her pick up the belt while I was trying to recover from the caning. The belt did physically hurt me but I felt the emotional hurt more. I had psychologically surrendered myself to her in that moment. I had trusted her to give me some comfort, and she had pretended give it. Her brutal betrayal of my trust, naive though it was, cut me to the core. A sob rose up in my throat and I couldn't suppress it. Baa-hic- aaa; pathetic. She was probably waiting to hear that; to know that I was broken now.