I’m lying on our bed, reading and watching TV, when my wife walks in.
“Strip, Slut-boy! Drop that book and kill the tube. I’m going to do you.”
With a complex yet familiar shiver of fear, lust, humiliation and anticipation I immediately rise to comply. While I do so, she steps into the wardrobe to change. Three minutes later, as I stand naked by the bed (except for my chastity belt, which I am of course incapable of removing) she emerges transformed.
Always incredibly beautiful and unbearably sexy, she’s now unsettlingly intimidating as well. Her waist-length raven hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, emphasizing her high cheekbones and haughty expression. Her proud, generous breasts are thrust up even higher than usual by her black leather corset, and her strong arms and long legs are three-quarters covered by tight black gauntlets and stiletto-heeled boots. She carries a long coil of quarter-inch rope in one gloved hand and a riding crop in the other. But by far the scariest thing about her is her giant cock.
My wife is completely uninterested in conventional sex. This I learned to my dismay on our wedding night. Rather than eradicating my virginity in the unimaginable heaven of her vagina, I soon instead found myself locked into a chastity belt, then tightly bound and brutally buggered by a strap-on dildo. Whenever I tried to assert myself in the slightest, I had my bare ass whipped with my own belt until I cried, sniveled, appeased, and finally promised to obey my new Mistress in everything.
So here it is five years later, and I’m still a virgin. Mistress has accumulated any number of her own penises, of wide and varied shape, size, material and design, some for use on herself, but most for exercising her outrageous marital rights upon me. The one she’s chosen for tonight’s wicked fun is as black as the rest of her outfit, over two inches thick and twelve full inches long.
“Turn around and face the bed, you fucking slut!”
Meekly I immediately reply and comply. “Yes, my beloved Mistress.”
Right away she begins to tie me up. My wrists are bound together behind my back, and then to the back of my chastity belt. Next my elbows are pressed together and likewise bound. Long years of bondage have made me limber enough for this, and the fact that my musculature is rather underdeveloped helps as well. The rest of the rope is then wrapped all around my shoulders, chest, and back and finally tied off brutally tight, encasing my arms and torso in an implacable harness. Already my shoulders are protesting at their cruel contortion, but Mistress remains unimpressed by my conflicted whimper.
As always I obey her without hesitation. Standing directly behind me, she immediately proceeds to ball gag me. The hard plastic ball that fills my mouth is so large that my jaws creak to accommodate it, and the harness that holds it in place brackets my nose and straps over and about my head and jaw in every which way. It seems then that at last I’m bound to her satisfaction, for without further word or deed Mistress bends me over the side of the bed, shoving me brusquely facedown on the coverlet and spreading first my feet and knees and then my vulnerable cheeks.
Her enormous boner is already lubricated, and this act is as familiar to us both as breathing by now. So these days there’s rarely a pause for ceremony or preparation. “Here you go, you little slut!” she hisses at me. “Here comes my big hard cock!” And with that she pushes forward and forces it in.
My drawn-out groan of pain and invasion is as eloquent as any oratory. The flush of shame that burns in my face originates equally from what’s being done to me, and from my own uncontrollable reaction to it. For years, serving as my Mistress’ slut-boy was a terrible torment to me. But the dearth of sexual expression she allows me has finally forced my psyche to accommodate and embrace this act, just as years of brutal use have sufficiently trained and stretched my anus. Lately I’ve even grown (groan) to love being used this way. Thus as Mistress starts pumping pneumatically into me, I raise my ass as high as I can, reluctantly welcoming and accepting her unstoppable assault.
Within a dozen strokes her hips are slapping my ass. Her enormous cock is boring me to the core, bringing whimpers, whines, and finally agonized cries that not even that giant ball can completely squelch. It feels like I’m being bashed up the ass with the fat end of a bat. And yet Mistress’ rhythm is relentless. After all, she’s barely getting started. For nearly an hour she pants and pumps and pounds my ass at an ever accelerating rate, punctuating her butt-punching thrusts with taunts, insults, orders, urgings, and even uncontainable screams of glee. Helpless to do otherwise, I respond in kind: sobbing, squirming, and somehow enduring, all the while trying to tell myself that I really don’t like this; that her cock is only filling me, and not truly fulfilling me. But the futile attempt of my own cock to be constantly erect belies this, as do my tingle balls and racing pulse.
Mistress isn’t just in me; she’s onto me of course. She knows me far better than I do myself. And when she’s finally had her fill of fucking me yet again into slavishly servile eternal submission, she laughingly mocks me as she at last pulls that incredible club from my brutally battered ass.
“Quit your blubbering, Slut-boy! You know that you love being fucked! That’s why I’ve named you as I have: Slut-boy. You do love it, don’t you? You love it more than anything else in the whole wide world! Admit this for me, and you’ll get a reward.”
A reward? Might she actually, at long last, allow me an orgasm? Despite my inner conflict I nod eagerly, desperate to pursue any such possibility.
“Good boy. Good SLUT-boy, I mean. For that admission, I’m going to cut your nightly punishment from fifty swats with the crop down to twenty for tonight. I’m sure your ass is sore enough as it is!” Damn fucking straight! Still, my disappointment at this decree is twofold. First of course, my ridiculous hopes for an orgasm have been crushed yet again. Yet also my inner conflict, the incredibly deep shame that I feel at my arousal during involuntary sodomy, has turned me into something of a masochist. The truth is, after wallowing so unreservedly in such a debasing experience, I crave an ever harsher punishment afterwards. I deserve to suffer for being such a disgusting pervert, and only twenty strokes falls far short of the apotheosis I need to cleanse my soul of self-loathing.
Oh well. I brace myself to make the most of whatever pain my Mistress will allow me.
Image Copyright (c) Thomas Roche, skidroche.com