The Moth Group Ch 04

Well, Gentle Reader, I think it's time to check in on the MOTH group again.

This one is difficult for me. It's so far from my real-world approach to women. Oh, I've disciplined my wives from time to time, but the kind of scripted, formal, ongoing, relentless treatment of women as, well, basically animals only good for a man's pleasure is just not me. Hell, I still open doors for women although I don't stand when they enter the room.

But I know there's a subculture out there that does live like that. Hell, back in the 1970s when my first wife and I were pretty deeply into the "swinging" scene, there was one couple who clearly lived that life. We were fascinated, of course, but beyond the occasional spanking, we never got deeply into it.

There is, however, interest. I just checked and the first three chapters of The MOTH Group story have a rating of around 4.3 stars, not my best but still strong. And, okay, I won't deny it. Like everybody else, there's that green monster that lives in my head that thinks it would be fun to make my wife do the

saltare doloris

, the "Dance of Pain," or to hear her

cantor doloris

, her "Song of Pain," as I laid stripes across her back with a whip. I'm not proud of it, but it's there.

So, let's peek in, you and me, and see what's happening this week with David and Arlene and The MOTH Group.

I actually like Fridays at work. There's an interesting sense of completion. This Friday I did my final proof and edit on the grant application, carefully reading it aloud in my office and making changes whenever my ear told me it needed fixing. Then I did the same thing with the junior planner's application. When I caught some really glaring errors I called her in and had her sit and read the damn thing aloud.

The form itself isn't really a problem. Everybody thinks getting grant funding is complicated, but it isn't. Just fill out the damn form, making sure EVERY box either has an answer or is marked "N/A" for "not applicable," and do your homework to make sure your narrative is supported by the data. Oh, and NEVER lie. You don't have to tell everything you know, and you can certainly pick and choose the data you use to make your case, but NEVER lie.

Anyway, the narrative she had written was solid except for some errors that just made a loud "KLANG" in my head when I read it aloud.

"Read the narrative aloud," I said, sitting behind my desk, doing my best to look formal and aggravated, something I do so rarely as to be remarkable itself.

Her eyes got big when she hit the first subject/verb tense disagreement, something like "it were," or "I are," I don't remember the details, and she said, "I'll fix it."

"Keep reading," I said.

Her eyes flashed anger but then I could see it hit her. This was what they call a teaching moment although usually that phrase is used stupidly.

When she finished, looking pretty sheepish by then, she said, "I'll have this fixed in an hour for your review."

I smiled for the first time.

"No need for me to see it again," I said, "it's good work except for the language problems and now that you've spotted them you'll take care of it."

She smiled and said, "Thank you."

"Do you understand, now, why I say it's important to read your work aloud?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she said with a grin, "I have learned my lesson."

I chuckled and finished in my best, high, squeaky Master Yoda voice, "Good, it is, now off with you be."

That stuff out of the way, I wrapped up my own things and was done in time to get out a little early.

I was home by a little after five, and Arlene greeted me, as she always did on Date Night, looking like she would be at home on a college campus. Her hair was smooth and thick and very blonde, with no hint of the grey I sometimes suspected.

She was naked.

I always choose what she wears on Date Night.

Usually, I enjoyed selecting complex outfits that showed my bride off. I may discipline her but that doesn't mean I'm not head over heels, crazy, stupid in love with her.

But I thought for tonight it would be best to keep her available from the waist down so I selected her long-line torpedo bra. She hates that thing and says it cuts so bad she's surprised she doesn't bleed when I do the 22 hooks up the back.

But I like it.

The bullet cups stick her big boobs out but she's completely modest, with hardly any cleavage showing, the way the cups cover and support. Plus, well, I like the look as her extra flesh bulges around the tight garment.

Keeping with my complete above-the-waist-covered-up motif I selected her red turtleneck. Not only did it cover her from below her belly button to her chin, but the long sleeves ended in fingerless gloves so the only thing that showed when she had it on were fingers and thumbs. Of course, pulling the tight turtleneck over her head had required 10 minutes of repair on her hair, something I always enjoyed watching.

Below the waist, though, I tied her wrap-around skirt and had her step into her red mules, something she usually wore only around the house. Their five-inch high heels and single strap across the top of her foot made her walk very carefully or she'd step out of them. That was another look I liked.

I laid my hands on her shoulders and met her eyes.

"You are gorgeous," I said, and she actually blushed, as she often does.

"Arlene," I said, holding her eyes, "this is important. This is a big step tonight and if you want to say 'no,' it's okay."

She smiled, touched my lips with a fingertip, turned away, and went into the big walk-in closet.

When she came back she handed me a box, about the size of a shoe box, carefully wrapped in a brightly patterned paper with a big bow that I knew she had made herself, she loves wrapping presents, and handed it to me.

"I had intended to give this to you when we got to Thomas and Valerie's, but, well," she said and kind of wound down, "Oh, hell, here."

I really had no idea what to expect as I pulled the ribbon and tore the paper.

Laying on a pad of cotton balls was something I recognized, one of her "spurtles" from the kitchen. The spurtles, if you don't know, are kind of wooden spatulas. They come in a variety of sizes and shapes. If you're really interested, Google "spurtles." The one in the box was about a foot long including the handle, and highly polished.

She was blushing very red when she said, "It fits."

I suppose I could have stopped the smile that spread across my face, but I didn't try.

"David," she said, her hands light on my chest, her eyes flicking in tiny movements as she focused on first one of my eyes and then the other, something she did when she was fully concentrating, "I'm addicted. God help me, it really is that simple. You have addicted me. I'm terrified, but I

NEED

it."

"Arlene," I started, but she stopped me with a fingertip to my lips.

"David," she said, "I hate and fear the pain but I LOVE what you do to me. I can't explain it. Hell, I don't try to figure it out. I just know that even when I'm screaming, begging you to stop, feeling like I'm on fire and being torn apart, I love it."

She sort of wound down at that point.

"I guess you want to go ahead over?" I asked.

She giggled and play-slapped me on the chest.

"Please," she said.

Thomas and Valerie have a place in exurbia. You know, that area around any city past the suburbs where whole subdivisions are developed as a unit with curvy streets,

cul-de-sacs

and very big lots. Their place sat up on a hill on a full acre that was completely surrounded by a privacy fence. The MOTH group had some interesting parties in that

faux

private park.

I smiled, barely suppressing a laugh when Valerie greeted us at the door.

"Great minds think alike, and all that," I said, chuckling, as I tugged the bow that held Arlene's wrap-around skirt up, allowing it to come free.

Now they both stood, fully covered from the waist up, and completely naked below except for shoes. Valerie was in a bright turquoise top that set her blonde hair off nicely.

"Come in," Thomas called from inside.

He was waiting in the living room and whistled appreciatively when the women walked in, both doing that walk their high heels required.

"Looking lovely, Arlene," he said, "and you're okay, David."

I laughed.

"Drink?" he said.

"I'm a man of simple tastes," I said, "beer, whatever you got."

"Girls, go fetch," he said and they left the room.

"A bit of seriousness," he said to me, "Are you sure?"

"I gave her a chance to say 'no,'" I said.

He smiled then.

"You, my friend, are in for a very interesting night then," he said.

The girls came in with drinks, something in a round highball glass for him, beer in a frozen mug for me.

"Get dinner ready," he said to Valerie.

The women left and we talked, a talk only men in the MOTH Group could understand. We talked of the joy, hell, of the exhilaration, of finding a truly submissive, a masochistic, woman. How beautiful eyes red from crying were, that special taste of tears on cheeks, the amazing sensation of kissing snot-slick lips after a good session.

"Dinner," Valerie announced from the door and, as always when I saw her I was amazed at the way she barely fit through the door, those hips almost brushing the sides.

We went into the dining room where two places were set at either end of the table.

Arlene served Thomas and Valerie served me per the MOTH Group protocol. When our plates were loaded, a Mexican dinner swimming in a green chili sauce, spicy rice, and refried beans, each woman took a respectful step back to stand, waiting for any further orders.

This was part of our, well, our demonstration of control I suppose, on some psychological level you'd say. We talked of our women as if they weren't there.

"Do you feed Valerie something special or are those hips just a gift from her mother?" I might ask.

"Are those tits of Arlene's producing? And if not, why not? Because it seems to be one hell of a waste," he might ask.

Things like that. Not precisely "small talk," but a, well, not a "scripted," but an exchange designed to reinforce our relative positions.

When dinner was finished we pushed our plates away and Thomas said, "Clean up and then meet us in The Room," his intonation making the capitalization clear.

"Come on," he said, "I'll show you Valerie's new toy."

It's a big house with a full basement. As always I felt a tinge of jealousy when he led me downstairs. Part of the basement is set up as a, well, a "dungeon," with raw wood posts, a packed-dirt floor, stuff like that. That part could serve as the set for a movie about Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition or maybe the dungeon where they kept Mel Gibson as William Wallace in

Braveheart

as he awaited his fate.

But that wasn't our destination tonight.

The Room was the opposite. Rather than wood and dirt, it was almost antiseptic. About 15X15, it's a pretty big room, very well-lighted, with white walls to reflect the bright light. It made me think of the Operating Room in a medical drama on TV. There was a couch along one wall, a cabinet along the other, and centered in the room was the Chair, just as he had described it. All chrome and white porcelain except for the dark leather on the seat bottom and back and the armrests and headrest. It sat on a big chrome pedestal that had four different foot pedals in evidence. He was right, it looked for all the world like an old-fashioned barber's chair.

On the back wall, a selection of straps and paddles hung on display. There was wood and leather and stainless steel in a dozen configurations.

Okay, I won't deny it, my dick got hard.

"Have a seat," he said, so I sat on the couch.

"I thought," he said, sitting next to me and sipping his drink, "that we'd let Valerie handle the honors tonight, we could just watch."

"Oh?" I said.

He chuckled and said, "It'll be quite a show."

The girls came in, then, and Arlene's eyes got big when she saw The Room.

"Last chance to say 'no,'" Thomas said.

She looked at me and said, "Not a chance."

Her smile was an odd mixture of excitement and fear.

"Up here, honey," Valerie said, patting the seat of The Chair.

Arlene took a deep breath and sat, settling back, squirming around a little, until she was comfortable.

Valerie worked the pedals expertly, laying Arlene back, not fully prone but reclined.

I watched, fascinated, as she put the first strap across Arlene's throat, preventing her from escaping. Then there was a second strap, across her forehead, locking her in place completely immobile.

She was almost professionally clinical as she strapped Arlene's arms to the armrests and then her legs to the stirrups. She moved the stirrups to their maximum point, parting Arlene's legs to the point it looked painful, and did something I couldn't see that locked them in place.

As I watched she worked the pedals some more, forcing Arlene's hips up, arching her back.

My wife is one of those big girls with very full labia. From this point of view, her sex was one long slit running from a little below her belly button all the way down to the

gluteal crease

of her big ass.

"Hey, Valerie," I said and when she turned she looked a little crazy if I'm being honest. Her eyes were wide, her lips were parted, and she was breathing hard.

"Arlene gave me this," I said, holding the spurtle out to her.

She took it in both hands, her breath catching a little as she stroked, more like caressed, the smooth wood. She swung it, testing weight and balance, and smiled, kind of a demented smile.

She was grinning as she pulled the little rolling stool over and sat, like a gynecologist, and laid the spurtle against Arlene's nether lips.

I watched, captivated, hell, I couldn't have looked away if I wanted to, as Valerie carefully fitted the handle to her hand, her fingers wrapped around the front of the handle, her thumb laid against the back of it, and then used her left hand to pull back on the top, her right hand holding pressure while her left hand acted almost as a trigger.

I realized, feeling foolish, that I was holding my breath.

The first stroke was tentative, hardly more than a pat, but the spurtle did fit perfectly.

When she pulled the spurtle back, after leaving it where it had landed for several seconds, those full nether lips already showed pinker than the surrounding skin.

Thomas nudged me in the ribs and said, "Watching is sometimes more fun than doing, ain't it."

I just nodded, too enthralled to look away from what was happening to Arlene.

The second stroke was harder, an audible smack this time, and Arlene flinched.

This time, when Valerie pulled the paddle away a thin silvery thread of Arlene's nectar, her natural lubricant, connected her to it.

With each stroke, and Valerie knew how to wait, to make the anticipation build, the paddle struck a little harder.

By the 10th stroke, when the paddle was making a definitely audible slapping sound, Arlene's womanscent was filling the room and I was so damn hard I was aching.

At the 18th stroke she screamed for the first time. It seemed exceptionally loud and I turned to Thomas.

He was grinning. "It's set up like a live recording studio. I had a sound engineer help me design it."

I laughed.

"Sometimes, Thomas my friend, I think we may be a little crazy," I said.

He laughed and said, "Yeah, but it's a good crazy, isn't it?"

I had to wet my lips and work up some saliva, my mouth was almost too dry to respond.

"Yeah, it is at that," I said.

Arlene's labia were bright red and swollen now, and her natural lubricant was flowing freely. Thick and white, looking like the hair conditioner she uses, it ran down to hang in a thick string from the crack of her ass.

She came, suddenly, with a scream of a different tone, at stroke 32. I knew because Valerie had been counting carefully.

Her love honey came in a great gout as she screamed her release, a thick rope that broke leaving a white puddle on the chrome step at the base of the chair. My bride's Bartholin's and Skene's Glands are very active and between them and the mucus membranes that line her vagina, it's pretty obvious when she cums.

Valerie let her rest for a full minute, to get her breathing back to normal, but then resumed the paddling.

When Valerie looked over at me, God, she DID look demented. Her lips were parted and she was drooling a little and her nose was running. She was sweating too, obviously sweating, with big dark circles at her armpits and a dark line down the middle of her back.

She looked great.

The paddling lasted almost an hour. Before it was over Arlene's red turtleneck was ruined. She had thrown up at one point, and snot and drool ran down its front. She had screamed herself hoarse and she was so swollen that she would have to walk bow-legged.

"Very good, Valerie," Thomas said, "now use that pretty mouth of yours to soothe her."

She smiled, an almost grateful smile, and began kissing and licking where Arlene was so swollen.

Thomas was right.

It WAS fun watching.

And Valerie seemed to know what she was doing.

It was interesting watching Arlene, unable to move, as pleasure replaced her pain.

When Arlene cried out her release, Valerie turned to us, smiling, her face coated with Arlene's love honey. Hell, she looked almost like a man had cum on her face.

Which, of course, gave me a thought.

"Can your wife handle two cocks in her mouth?" I asked Thomas.

He grinned and said, "Dunno, let's find out. Val, right here," and he pointed to a spot on the floor, "On your knees."

She complied immediately, leaving Arlene in the chair.

Thomas slapped her with no warning, a hard slap that I was pretty sure would leave a bruise the next day.

"Do I have to tell you EVERYTHING?" he asked, well, he more like yelled at her as he slapped her on the other cheek, "Now get busy on our fucking zippers."

Her tears streamed and her nose ran, but she made no objection. She just started on his belt buckle.

He slapped her for a third time.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST," he yelled, "were you raised by fucking wolves or something. Guests first."

It turned out, Valerie

could

take two cocks in her mouth at once. The feeling of his against mine was oddly erotic. I could feel the ridge of the corona of his glans as she moved her head slowly, masturbating both of us with her mouth.

He pulled out of her mouth suddenly.

"You don't mind if I hide the salami in Arlene, do you?" he asked.

"Go ahead," I said.

With Thomas's cock out of her mouth, Valerie showed me what a world-class cocksucker she was. Her lips closed with just the right pressure. Her tongue caressed me wetly. The movement of her head became very slow, making it last nicely.

"Christ, he really has her trained,"

I thought, part of my consciousness paying attention to the pleasure she was giving me and part watching as Thomas moved to The Chair, worked a couple of the levers until he had the height adjusted so he lined up perfectly as he stood before her.

I watched, fascinated at the way she was so swollen, her labia already turning dark with the bruises that I was sure would have her walking bow-legged for days, as he pushed his erection down and took short steps forward until he touched where she had been paddled.

She groaned as he touched her and then started entering her.

I twisted my fingers in Valerie's hair, slowing her, not wanting this to end yet. Hell, I wanted to control her so I could cum at the same time Thomas did.

Arlene was twisting and groaning and Thomas was, well, "gentling" her. He would breathe a soft "Ssssshhhhhhhhh," or say, "It's okay now," in a very soft voice. It was like he was calming a dog he wasn't sure of or maybe a fawn he happened across in the woods.