Ongoing Punishment

John parks the car at the far end of the large car park so we're not seen arriving together. That's very important. We play by my husband's rules. I have no choice in the matter.

"Come on you little slut," he says, killing the headlights and switching off the ignition. He doesn't smile, only puts his hand up my skirt and feels my crotch. "Jesus!" he says. You can't wait, can you?"

I'm already moist with anticipation, but this doesn't stop a tear coming to my eye. I have an odd mixture of feelings. On one hand I feel a naughty excitement, and on the other a feeling of hurt and helplessness to be used this way.

"Let's see if you can pull for me tonight."

My heartbeat is thundering in my ears and there's that familiar fluttering in my tummy. It's always the same.

"Yes, master," I reply, and he takes my chin in two fingers.

"You'd just better not forget it," he says with a cruel smile. The tear slips down my cheek.

He kisses me lightly, without emotion. He ignores mine. He slips his hand inside my panties and fingers me. I shift about on the seat as he teases me, playing with the hair, the leather upholstery squeaking and sticking to the bare expanse of flesh between stocking tops and underwear.

"You're crying," he's noticed. "Why do you cry?"

I just shake my head, and he takes his hand out from under my skirt and smells his fingers.

"Oh, baby. You're just so hot and dirty, aren't you?"

I've lost count of the times we've engaged in this scenario. It's a revenge thing for him partly. For the time I was unfaithful. A weekend away with the girls (a hen bash) and he somehow got to hear about my indiscretion with a waiter at the hotel and he's made me pay ever since.

The funny thing is, despite the tears (they don't always happen) I get a kick out of our sordid scenarios too. In fact I think I enjoy it more than he does sometimes, though I wouldn't let on. It would only piss him off even more. I know he gets a buzz out of me going with another bloke, making myself and any orifice available to the guy's whims and fancies. It turns him on something rotten. But it's not such a punishment as he thinks it is, making me go with someone of his choosing.

The tears and emotion that come with it are a kind of paradox. I guess it's because I know that I'm a willing slave to it anyway, and I hate myself for it. Sometimes I really wish it felt like a punishment and I would be relieved of the guilt for sharing that waiter's bed.

The keen autumn air nips at my bared flesh when my mini skirt rises as I step out of the car. John lets me go on ahead while he hangs back. My shoes crunch the gravel drive while my breath steams out ahead of me.

A man opens the bar door to leave, releasing the indoor acoustic of a blaring jukebox. He shoves past without bothering to hold the door for me. "Hey, mister..!" I say. He looks me up and down. Moves on. It's that kind of place.

I get a drink from the bar and head for a table at the rear. John enters a few moments after my first sip. We don't acknowledge each other. He chooses a table against the wall from which we can see each other as well as everyone else who enters the bar. He'll choose a man for me and give me the nod. We haven't been to this particular joint before, but the clientele seems kind of familiar.

A few cheap-looking working girls loll at the bar. Blue smoke curls up from their cigarettes, around the bags under their eyes and up into their frizzy hair-dos. They all look the same. They cadge drinks and vie for the cleaner looking punters. Most of the other patrons are well-paid contractors, construction workers with cash to flash and, if they happen to be particularly lucky, a little romance which they won't have to pay for anyway.

There are a few city gents too. Perhaps they're slumming it for a bit of rough, though I don't put myself in that category. Things are gradually changing in this neighbourhood, it's on the up. Hence the construction guys and latest building developments. One thing doesn't change though...

Working girls. They always look the same...

Unlike them, I'm dressed conservatively in a dark business suit and sheer white silk blouse with nothing underneath. I keep my jacket buttoned until my husband signals me to remove it and display myself. My breasts aren't large but they're high and nicely shaped. My nipples are dark and prominent and show through the blouse.

One of the nicer-dressed men notices me. He smiles and lifts his drink in acknowledgement. He's a good-looking guy. I glance at my husband. He doesn't give anything away.

I return the man's smile. Perhaps he'll be the one I'll get to go to bed with tonight. He carries his drink to my table and asks if he can join me. I nod yes. He sits across from me. He's in his mid-thirties, expensively dressed, his hair nicely styled, teeth white and straight. I've been with a lot worse. He looks like a lawyer or accountant. He asks my name.

"Jill,"

A white lie.

He says his is Dave, probably also a white one. People don't come to places like this to meet people they ever want to see again.

Dave asks what I'm drinking and offers to buy me a refill. I accept. I need a few drinks to calm my nerves and make myself ready. We make small talk. He seems nice, not the type to hurt a woman, but looks can be deceptive. Some of the nicer looking ones have been the meanest in my experience.

We talk for about twenty minutes. I'm comfortable with him. I hope John will give the thumbs up. He nods approval, but not the full gold seal. That means we won't be taking this particular one home with us. Pity.

I slip my jacket off. Dave watches me, ogling my breasts. Several other men notice, too. I tingle inside. I love being on display for strangers. Dave approves of what he sees. I can see it in his eyes. His gaze tracks across my breasts and the moistening valley in between. He's already planning how to get me out of here and into his bed.

We talk the small stuff for a few minutes. I glance at my husband. He licks his lips and walks to the men's room. That's my cue. Dave is in for a little treat, but he won't be the one going home with me. Perhaps John thinks he's too genteel or well mannered. He never explains why he chooses or rejects men.

John doesn't come back. That means the men's room is empty. I touch the back of Dave's hand, toy with the top button of my blouse and tell him I have something to show him. He follows me to the toilets and is puzzled when I enter the men's room. He hesitates before following me in.

He looks around suspiciously. I know what he's wondering. Is it a trap? Am I in cahoots with someone who aims to mug him? Is it some kind of sex-sting operation?

One cubicle has an "out of order" sign on the closed door -- my husband's normal trick. It isn't locked. I know he's in the cubicle next to this one. I open the door and Dave follows me in and bolts it. Now it's my turn to get edgy. If this guy was so inclined, he'd have time to hurt me before my husband can intervene. A few men have hurt me. One burned me with a cigarette, thinking it would somehow turn me on. I still have a small button scar on the inside of my thigh. Normally it's okay. Most guys are okay.

Dave pulls me to him and kisses me. He fumbles under my blouse and squeezes my breast. He smells of fresh shampoo and expensive cologne. I return his kiss. I wonder how he wants to play it. What will be the thing or things that throw his switches?

Dave's tongue probes my mouth while his hand slides away from my breast to lift my skirt. He finds what he's looking for and slips his hand inside my panties. He toys with my pubic hair then he cups me. "I love hairy pussies," he whispers in my ear. "And yours is supreme."

I smile inwardly at the strange compliment.

I move on his hand and pant into his mouth. I want him to soil me and I know that's what my husband wants too. He wants me to act like a slut, to prostrate myself at the feet of this guy, to take his cock out and suck it until he comes in my mouth, and then swill and swirl it around my tongue, opening my mouth to show it to him before I swallow the pearly muck.

I know that's what John would want. He loves to watch me shudder and gag as I try and swallow his (John's) copious emissions and I guess he gets a voyeuristic thrill from thinking of or seeing me doing the same to another man, particularly a casual bar "pick-up".

I'm here to satisfy - firstly my husband's lust, and secondly, this other man's. But what about my own?

I touch him through his trousers. He's nice and firm. I fumble with his zipper. His great cock springs into my hand like a small rubber cosh. Dave's middle finger finds its way between my labia and slides inside me and I move my hips to ride it.

I'm not supposed to experience pleasure in these seedy acts, only degradation and humiliation. That's what turns John on, the thought of me being humiliated at the expense of pleasure. Well, you're wrong, Johnny boy! Humiliation and pleasure go hand in hand in my book. Supposed to or not, I often have an amazing orgasm with the men you pick for me.

I push his hand gently aside and sink to my knees on the stone-tiled floor. Dave's cock bounces in front of my face. He's large and natural. I wrap my left arm around the backs of his thighs, take him in my right hand and work his tight foreskin back, exposing the scarlet head. The waiter was the only other uncut man I've ever been with. Dave reminds me a little of him.

He's clean and pleasant, unlike most of the men with whom I have sex. I lick the head. The ridge behind is prominent. I imagine how nice he'd feel moving back and forth against my G-Spot. I lick the eye of his cock, penetrating it with the tip of my tongue. I can taste the sweet stuff oozing up his shaft. He trembles with pleasure.

I guide him between my lips. I continue to hold him while he's in my mouth to keep him from thrusting in too deeply and also to resist the temptation of touching myself if I were to let go. I would come too quickly. Dave holds my cheeks clumsily between his hands and fucks my mouth. The stone tiled floor grazes my knees. I squeeze his cock and suck hard to bring him on quickly. Our time is limited in here.

I imagine John masturbating steadily while in the cubicle next to us. He likes me to be noisy when I'm sucking somebody off. That's another thing that turns him on -- sounds. He's a real sound and vision man all right.

He and Dave will have their orgasms to enjoy and I'll have a mouth full of caustic cum to savour - saline and viscous. Whether I spit or swallow will depend on taste and mood. We all get our own little kick from this sordid scene.

Dave grunts and forces himself deeper into my mouth. I let go of his thick shaft. It's almost over. My nose touches the wiry hair at the base of his cock. He smells of musky men's talc. He gushes hotly against the back of my throat and then pulls partway out so he can feel my tongue against the knob of his cock. I swirl it around while he fills my mouth. It must have been quite a while since he'd jerked off or fucked, which is surprising - good-looking man like him. He's very viscous and, my god, he's so very salty! He ejaculates in about half-a-dozen pulsing spasms, not the single explosion I was expecting.

I time it badly and some of his sperm slips down my throat before I can do anything about it. John likes me to keep some back to share with him when it's all over, so I have to be careful not to swallow it all at once. But there's loads of the stuff and I can hardly swallow fast enough to keep up with him. I gag and cough and the back of my throat burns to the ammonic rush.

He softens quickly and withdraws, zips up, straightens his clothes. He suddenly looks guilty and embarrassed. He asks, "How much?" I shake my head, and wave my hand flatly. He looks puzzled. There is no goodbye kiss, no word of endearment. I no longer exist now that he's satisfied. He can't wait to get away, back to his wife I bet.

He departs, coat collar up, looking sheepishly around him as he crosses the floor. The door swings close again.

He seemed like a nice bloke. I wish he'd been the one to take home with us.

John enters the cubicle and leers at me, a curious mixture of disdain and admiration. He's still hard, his cock shiny wet with ejaculate in the bare white electric light. It twitches in time with his pulse.

"Are you hot?" he demands. "Do you like sucking off strangers in public toilets?" He inspects my nipples through my blouse then slaps my breasts because they're hard. But it's not the sex that has made them pointy. The room is cold. But he interprets it as a sign of insolence and smacks them again. A slice of pain makes me gasp. He commands me to raise my skirt. He touches my pussy. I'm sopping. He forces my thighs apart and plunges two fingers into me.

"Oh, you are hot!" he says. "You don't care who fucks or fingers you as long as you get your little "cum", do you, you filthy bitch!"

He moves his thick fingers roughly in and out and rubs my clit with his thumb. He watches my eyes. I try not to react but I can't help myself. I need the release of an orgasm desperately.

He masturbates me until the breath is hissing between my lips. I pat them with my hand and some of Dave's "cum" I've been trying to keep back for my husband oozes out and begins to run down my chin. It's one of the things he demands - that I share the other man's ejaculate with him when I can manage it.

John seizes on my soiled lips, his tongue driving through. I know he gets a buzz out of tasting another man's nectar so I let him have it. He spits it back and for a while we play around with it, passing it back and forth, until finally, he swallows it. My hips take up the rhythm of his hand. Maybe he'll actually let me have a climax in this dirty, foul smelling little room. I clamp down on his fingers. He pulls them out of me with a wet, sucking sound. My need aches and burns.

"I haven't given you permission to cum!" he snarls. "You don't deserve it."

But it happens anyway, and as always it almost jack-knives my body in half with the spasm.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and forces me down on my knees. I know what he wants. I raise my face and open my mouth. He peers in, then pushes two fingers inside to feel the last of Dave's white stuff. He withdraws his fingers, smears them on my cheeks and holds them in front of my face.

"Did you like having that man fuck your mouth, you little whore?" he demands.

He'll punish me whether I answer yes or no. If I say yes, I'll admit to taking pleasure without permission. If no, I'll insult him by indicating that following his commands is not pleasurable. I mentally flip a coin, hoping to give him the response he wants.

"Yes, master," I reply. "Thank you for letting me suck that man's lovely big dick." He slaps my cheek so hard I see stars. Perhaps he would have done it even if I'd answered no. It doesn't matter.

"Is his as good as mine?" Another chance to be punished.

"No, master." No slap follows. I've given the right answer this time. He smiles and holds his fingers in front of my mouth. I lick them clean of Dave's remaining goo. John shakes his cock at me, as if in anger.

"Now do it to me, bitch!" he hisses. I start to take him between my lips. He slaps me again. "I want to cream your filthy throat!" he hisses. "Keep your head still, you dirty bitch, and let me fuck your head!"

After allowing him to drive his cock into my mouth until I'm almost retching, I take him in my hand and masturbate him the last couple of strokes. He squirts into my mouth several times, mixing his sweet, insipid cum with what's left of Dave's savoury fare. He softens. I wait for permission to swallow. He puts his cock back in his pants and combs his hair before he grants it with a chin nod. With great relief I let my second helping of cum slide down my throat. The drinks and excitement are having an effect on me. I ask permission to use the ladies room.

"Go ahead and piss here," he says, pointing to the urinal bowl. I push the filthy seat up with my foot while he blocks the doorway, straightening his tie. I squat over the bowl. The urine-splashed, discoloured porcelain is cold against my legs. I have trouble starting. He leans toward me, slaps my face. "Go on, slut, piss in front of your master."

Then there's a dribble of liquid from me followed by a sustained gush that would have done a horse proud. John nods satisfaction. He watches, enjoying my humiliation. "Oh baby, some day I'm going to drink all your steaming piss!"

Afterwards, I wash my face in a disgusting, cracked sink, straighten my clothes and tidy my dishevelled hair in a graffiti decorated mirror.

I leave the room first and return to my table. He waits a few seconds, then walks back to his. If anyone has seen me come out of the men's room, they're not making an issue of it.

My husband scans the crowd. A lot more customers have arrived. It must be shift change at the construction site. They work through the night there.

Dave's drink sits half-finished on the table. He got what he wanted; now he's gone. I finish mine, swirling it around in my mouth like a mouthwash. I finish his, too. The taste of the spermy cocktail gradually recedes.

A large, heavyset black man in a worn leather jacket looks at me from the bar. My husband gives the signal. I smile seductively and move my shoulders back ever so slightly to accentuate my breasts. I wonder why he couldn't have chosen Dave or one of the other clean cut ones. I pray silently that the man won't want anything to do with me. Maybe he'll think I'm out of his league. John likes to see black men fuck me in the arse. The black guy buys another beer and caries it toward my table. Game on!

I notice John smiling, licking his lips in anticipation of watching and videoing this man having sex with his loving wife-slut in our special little room back home. I have the feeling the three of us are in for a long night!

The End