Chapter 3 Daddy's Home
It was almost time, and Lori went in to finish dinner prep, which apparently was just for the two of them, and I was to serve it. In His infinite wisdom, he had ordered my wife to make a very light dinner. He didn't want us weighed down by food for the later activities. I would be "having my dinner later (teehee)." I knew what that meant and the thought made my dicklet swell in its cage, which was pretty painful, as the cage was really too small even more me. It had dawned on me that he and my wife had orchestrated this whole evening without my knowledge. I wondered exactly how much contact and conversation they had had.
We were on pins and needles... and finally the intercom buzzer went off. Lori sat at the set table as if she were a guest. Candles lit, romantic lighting in the room, soft romantic music playing in the background, I ran to get the door as "Madame's maid, Michelle."
When I opened the door, there he stood. He was wearing exactly what he had on earlier but with a leather jacket instead of a lab coat. While we had done all this prep for him, he hadn't even bothered to change. He wore a plain black tee, which was a bit snug on him, so that his powerful physique was apparent, and the same black chinos, through which I could see the profile of his deliciously large package. There he stood, almost mythical in his proportions; large, muscular and fit. I fell into a reverie undressing him with my eyes, seeing the outline in his pants and imagining the beautiful beast curled up in there.
"Hey! Faggot! You gonna ask me in, or just stare dumbly at me all night?!"
"Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir. Please come in."
"Is your, erm, 'mistress' home?" Yeah, yeah, I get it, I thought. I'm the maid.
"Yes, Sir, everything is ready. Right this way, please." I took his jacket and led him to the table where my wife sat looking every bit the cheap street whore who had wondered into the Waldorf.
He sat across from her, barely acknowledging her face and staring at her big beautiful barely covered tits and projectile nipples.
"Here," he said, handing me a very nice bottle of white wine, "chill this and get me a gin and tonic, and a plain seltzer for the... erm... 'lady' (hehe)." He chortled.
"Yes, Sir, right away, Sir." As I turned to tend to the drinks, he gave my ass, a forceful but playful swat, then he grabbed my right buttock and with it pull me toward him. He felt for the plug, giving it a few taps. Sending waves of pressure toward my prostate and making me squeal like a little girl and drove my dick to push against its confines painfully.
I am embarrassed to say, that my only thought, as I was being roughly handled this way, was "maybe there
is
a chance I can convince him to fuck my ass." I wiggled my ass for him, hoping for more attention. With his large hand, he slapped my whole ass including the plug, forcefully; the feeling drove me crazy, and, once again, caused discomfort to my pulsing pecker up in the front.
"Go get our drinks, Michelle!"
"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir." I fixed the drinks from our small bar and set the wine to chill, and checked on dinner, which was about ready to go in the oven. It was roasted salmon in a butter sauce. Lori was a great cook and had set it up so that even a kitchen klutz like me could put it together. I just had to put the fish in and toss the salad.
When I came back with the drinks, he and my wife were intimately speaking just like all those times at the clinic. It still stung to watch their intimacy; my heart would break a little bit every time. However, as with the physical pain, I figured the emotional pain was a part of it. Had it been easy to give him my wife, it would not have been as meaningful a submission.
The emotional pain I felt now, was to serve him. It would please him to know how much this would wound me, and it was my duty to allow him that pleasure, and indeed any other pleasure he wished. But that meant that I had to continue to feel the pain. Getting used to it, as if it were nothing, would dimmish the gift of my submission to him and his superior Cock, I reasoned.
Another time, I passed by to see him leaning forward with Lori's nipples between his thick fingers. He had opened up the slit further and now both of her titties were framed by thin material of the tank-top. As he squeezed and twisted them mercilessly, my wife would shriek and squeal, her face showing anguish. But she kept her body leaning forward offering herself to the torture. I gasped when I saw this; the picture of Mrs. Smith's breasts and the effects of his treatment of them came into my head.
When I could hear their conversation, she was detailing our old sex life. And, He was making astonishingly vulgar jokes, while she laughed uproariously. As I was going about my serving duties, I heard a sentence that ended,
"...with that tiny little dick?"
"No, Sir, not ever, only with his tongue. I never had the heart to tell him, but I bought a dildo the first year we were married, and used it when he wasn't around." I heard Lori respond, and he broke into a guffaw, and she followed suit. Then she loudly proclaimed, "it's smaller than your pinkie, Sir."
This was yet another dose of that emotional pain. As she said this, he reached under the table and her miniskirt and roughly buried his fat pinkie (indeed bigger than my dickie) into her twat. She moaned and cooed despite how roughly he had done it.