Our Happy Slave (3/?) {Redman} {F mast MF md anal Rom}
(c) October 2000
Authors Note: I would be interested in any comments or
corrections that readers might care to share with me.
I can be reached at redman@seductive.com.
Also, this work is not intended to be read by minors.
If you are not legally an adult in your country or
culture, please do not read it. This is a work
of fiction. Everything in it is a product of my own
imagination and does not represent the way that anyone
of any age should be treated or to represent a norm of
acceptable behavior.
Our Happy Slave 3/?
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?
John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale
My was laid out, slick with oil on our massage
table. This had been our nightly ritual for almost a
year. Her skin glowing and completely relaxed. The
only difference to our routine had been the addition
of our slave, Connie. She sits on a chair reading
poetry: Keats, Shelley, Browning (both) and Rossetti.
More often lately she would recite my wife's favorites
from memory. I had gained a deep appreciation of her
ability to learn: she was our sponge, absorbing
whatever we threw at her.
But, as beautiful as her lilting, clear voice was - as
much as I enjoyed the poetry - she was also a major
distraction. She was sitting naked in the chair with
the long, thin vibrator, sliding it slowly in and out
as she spoke. By my wife's dictum she was not allowed
to climax, but connie stroked it into herself for
comfort and amusement.
Massage is like a dance around your partner's body.
You should never be in one place for very long,
gradually kneeding the whole body. As I would pass
between the two orbits of my world, Connie would
sometimes hold the vibrator out toward my nose as I
passed. She not only wanted me to smell its pungent
aroma, which I did, but she would wait until I ran a
thick, clear line of the warm oil along its length.
When I turned my attentions back toward my wife, I
would hear a soft flutter in our slaves voice as she
returned it to her sheath.
So I`d dance, round and round, as the little room grew
thick with the smell of warm oil, fragrant and
Romantic period poetry. These sessions last anywhere
from 45 minutes to an hour depending on the stress of
my wife's day. As the time passed, Connie's voice
would grow softer and softer and my own stroking would
grow lighter and lighter. The end would be greeted
with the rhythmic, calming snore of a satisfied woman.
My reward for this is twofold. First, I received a
happy, sated who would overlook many of my faults
for these pleasures. And second, while she dozed I
would gather up our little slave and fuck her quietly,
to the beat of my wife's breathing. Connie would
writhe delightfully and I would plunge into her
deeply: the goal being not solely our own, sensual
pleasure but the perverse delight of attempting to
make the other groan, squeal or moan enough to wake
the sleeper.
On this particular occasion, about half way through
the session and at the commencement of "Ode to a
Nightingale," Connie held out not the plastic device I
was expecting, but the first two fingers of her left
hand.
It's astonishing what can be communicated with a
simply gesture. With this motion, my slave sent a wave
of desire through me and a vision of the near future I
was sure to appreciate.
When I could catch my breath, I coated those two slim
fingers with a supply of the oil and maneuvered
around my until I could watch Connie at the same
time. As her sweet voice softly spoke the words of
Keats, she seductively lowered those two thin fingers
until she liberally coated the exterior of her anus
with the oil. Our eyes locked together, but it could
not have been any clearer to me when her finger
penetrated ass. Her voice lowered and became
noticeably huskier even though she never lost the
cadence of either the verse or the oscillating dildo
in her other hand.
My fingers when into stealth mode. I gently caressed
my wife, easing her as quickly as possible into
maximum relaxation. I danced around her, lightly
stroking from her neck to her feet. Only once did
Connie have me re-lube both her digits and her device
and we were soon rewarded with the shallow, steady
breathing of my bride.
Connie's eyes were glassy and her own breathing was
shallow and ragged as she drew the poem closed in a
croaking whisper. My own eyes drew her like magnets
until she noiselessly rose and squatted before me on
the floor on hands and knees. I dropped onto the
matting of the massage room and took the oil bottle,
squirting a generous blast into her loose and pliable
rectum. As I applied its own generous coating to my
throbbing penis, I prayed that I would not too
quickly.
She rocked completely forward as I advanced with my
slick tool until the tip of my circumcised head
touched her rosette. A shiver ran down her spine,
through her ass and continued its track through by my
own shuddering cock. With a low growl she began, ever
so slowly to rock back on my stiff rod. My job was to
stay as still as I could convince my hips to be. I
longed to thrust mightily in her, spearing her
quickly. Instead, I watched fascinated as she slowly
engulfed me like an anaconda engulfing its prey.
When my crown passed in, we both quaked. She was
hotter than I could imagine and there was an earthy
smell that wafted up to me, making me dizzy. I
imagined that the earth was opening me up and the
Great of All Things was embracing me to her
buxom. When she had slid completely back, my spine
melted as I collapsed forward, leaning heavily on her.
She held still for an endless moment, two joined
completely. Her hips swayed seductively ever so
slightly from side to side. When she began to rock, my
own hips moved with her like an equestrian astride a
magnificent beast. I began to rise up off her and as I
did so my right hand snaked underneath her and found
the control of the vibrator protruding from her labia
and slowly turned it to the first setting.
Connie jerked convulsively as the device engaged and
her hips froze. I straightened up completely;
stretching to the pulse that burned along my shaft
buried within her. Within her pussy, the thin vibrator
hummed and I could feel her muscles through my cock
clenching it, squeezing it. I began my own slow
stroke, holding her hips firmly. The vibrating that
came within her necessitated that my strokes were
shallow things, but each tiny movement was magnified
until it seemed as though I were pummeling her
unmercifully.
I saw her reach beneath herself with a hand and I knew
that her fingers were beginning to stroke her
clitoris. I could feel my balls tightening and in the
silence of our coupling, I finally heard a mechanical
click, experiencing the renewed vigor of the device's
second setting. The sensation was electrifying. It was
as though my cock was thrust into a low electric
current run through hot butter wrapped in a tight
elastic sheath.
I could feel her colon my semen through my
cock like a straw. Vast quantities of sperm collected
in my testicles or my prostate or wherever the troops
gather for the invasion. This was D-Day, it was
Waterloo, and it was glorious. I held them back for
one final, smashing charge as they danced in me, eager
for victory.
When I felt the vibrator shift into third gear, the
boys could be restrained no more. My cock roared like
a thoroughbred out of the gate, thundering to the
sprint. I'm not sure what was pulsing more, my own
dick or the vibrator clenched deep within her but it
was as though we all were cycling at 220 volts. I felt
her tighten down on me, on the vibrator and on the
floor mat as she came in a gut-wrenching convulsion.
* * * * *
An eternity later, I was laying in the bed on my side
as my little slave rubbed her slowly across the
arch of my foot between her thighs. She was suckling
my shriveled, limp dick; both of us too exhausted to
cum again. I didn't know how existence could be
sweeter until my voluptuous crawled into bed with
us; pressing against my backside smelling like warm,
fresh bread dipped in olive oil.
"I guess she asked you to fuck her ass again," she
murmured half asleep.
"How did you know?"
"You're letting her sleep in the bed again. It's
getting to be a habit," she said yawning and nuzzling
into my neck while pressing herself deliciously
against me.
"There's a lot of habits developing lately," I sighed.
Following a slurp, we both heard Connie whisper, "I
like this habit."
"Go to sleep, you little slut," I heard my tease.
"You have to wake up early and fix me breakfast."
The last thing I remember is the brushing across my
hip as my caressed the soft cheek of our slave as
she resumed suckling me.
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