If you are offended by female domination and cross dressing and freely
given slavery gone wrong, do not read this story.  Children in particular
should be supervised and not allowed to read this.  Correspondence by
mature adult to this sub male, of a friendly, dominant, submissive or
otherwise related nature is encouraged.

The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter One:  Mary's Inheritance
Mary's view

    I'd spent several weeks in summers past at my Uncle Randall's Virginia
plantation.  Up in his attic, the boxes smelled of mildew, but the
treasures in old clothing and jewelry kept me and Tiffany constantly
preoccupied.  We sometimes pulled up a near prehistoric mirror, framed with
moon and sun carvings under layers of nearly black polish.  We dressed for
every imaginary occasion, from Halloween to weddings.  When done, we sat on
piles of discarded costumes and sipped tea out of odd china pieces.  Out in
the old barn, we climbed to the loft, and swung from ropes to the songs of
anxious cows, boarded horses and scattering chickens as we swayed from pen
to pen.  The fields of cotton and corn dwarfed us for perfect games of hide
and seek.  Everything was bigger than life, maybe because we were so
little.  And, though we were so little, we were rich beyond reason.  I was
from Boston - Tiffany was from the farm just down the dirt roadway, each of
us emphasizing or trading our unique accents for flair.  On the way to her
house, we crossed the reddest creek I'd ever seen; we played there too,
never missing a resource, coming up out of the baptismal water with a layer
of rust hued clay, laughing and proclaiming it a Turkish mud bath.  That
was a long time ago.
    After a bit over twenty years, and what felt like a whole lifetime, I
was back at Uncle Randall's wake.  I'd so loved his place that my vision
was only it; at first I couldn't recall exactly what my uncle had looked
like until I saw him in his casket.  Of course, he looked only vaguely like
my stirred up memories, but then again, neither did the plantation of my
imagination.  The funeral and lodging were in town, a good fifteen minutes
from the property, so Uncle Randall was buried a day before the lawyer and
I drove out to what was left of it.  We passed a grotesque and dilapidated
farmhouse, then passed over a red creek before I realized it must have been
Tiffany's old haunt.  Then the plantation rose out of the next hill.
Everything was wrong from the first moment.  The barn out back was caved in
with weeds growing out of it's broken back.  The house was grey and
seemingly soon to be captured by the same nature claiming the fields of
weed.  Like the exposure of the tooth fairy, I imagined everything grand in
my child's eye nothing more than a lie.
    "It's not pretty.  More like inheriting an obligation.  If you consider
that the old man had to partial off most of the land, there's not much room
for profit.  He owned the house, and a little more than ten acres in the
end, two of them tillable - hardly capable of making a living unless you're
growing something illegal.  Don't laugh, it wouldn't be the first time,"
explained the lawyer as we navigated the rotting porch.
    "So what are the options?  I know you're a lawyer, but I'm a secretary,
and at least you live here.  What do you think I should do with the place?"
I asked, overwhelmed by the puddle of green water in the middle of the
living room.  There wasn't a square foot of wallpaper that wasn't either
peeling, rotted or yellow.  "He didn't live here in the end," I added, more
of a statement than a second question.
    "He spent the last five years in an old aged home.  We are probably the
first to set foot in the place for some time, Miss Mary.  I'll tell you
what, I can probably hint you towards someone in town who will help you
tear down the mansion.  If you do it quietly, a tractor can dig a hole and
drop both the house and barn in.  None of the neighbors would likely care,
even if they heard of it.  On the other hand, an arsonist might take care
of things less than the price of the land, and call it even.  Not that you
heard it from me, mind you; I'm officially advising you to have it torn
down and carted off legally, which will cost you more than the place is
worth - permits, special landfills, hauling, insurance, contractor, utility
coordination, historic society, legal fees, if you catch my drift.
Official word is, arson is illegal and will land a person in jail.  If
someone were to set a match and get caught, give me a call; I do criminal
cases too around these parts."
    "So I've inherited a bill?"
    "Well, he did have the business," said the lawyer, hoping to ease the
pain.
    "The roadside plant and feed?  I saw that yesterday.  I'll bet you I
make more money answering phones and guarding the copy machine than that
business does on its finest spring day," I told him.
    "He didn't do so badly with it.  You have to remember that it has been
run into the ground by a couple employees who have been thinking it's a
dead end deal.  There was never an official arrangement, sweetheart.
Things in the business have been kind of on automatic since your uncle got
ill."
    "Well whatever; I'm not losing the day job."  Fact was, I'd not
considered inheritance as part of my life until a couple days prior, when
it was mentioned upon my arrival.  Fact was, nothing much seemed to have
changed in that department, except enlightenment.  Oh hell, it wasn't Uncle
Randall's fault; I know how tough it is paying for old age in America;
maybe it was more a disappointment that the fairy tale plantation of my
dreams could be such a letdown.  I remember thinking it was kind of like
how I felt after the end of my first marriage.  Everything fucking
wonderful, and then one day, right in the middle of a long dry fuck, you
get to feeling like an oil well that's run dry with the machinery still
looking.
    A day later I'd made up my mind.  It was stupid, but I was driven by
sentimentality.  I just couldn't kill the house.  It meant too much to me.
I would need some help, but maybe if I took my few thousand in savings, and
added what I could save from my secretary salary for a few months I'd be
able to clean it up and make something profitable out of the old thing.
Maybe even the business would lend a few investment bucks into the
property.
    First I went to the plant and feed store and took a look around.  Five
minutes later I'd fired everyone but the newest employee, a kid named Tom,
still in high school, but eager and still unpolluted by that combination of
laziness and exploitation I saw with one glance into the eyes of the two
older employees.  They left with more of an attitude of good riddance, and
a, "You'll see," which I assumed meant they thought I was nuts for not
closing the place on the spot and selling off the inventory for pop money.
I gave Tom the run of the show, cutting hours so he could manage, and
offering him a straight take on fifty percent of the profits up to a
hundred grand, bonuses thereafter - not for a moment imagining the business
would ever approach profits warranting a passing thought of what I meant by
bonuses.  One glance at the books convinced me that even considering 80%
skimming, the store was good for five thousand a year in profits tops.  Tom
took to it like a boy who'd inherited his first Kool-Aid stand from a
sister - which was about right.  What the hell, it was better than giving
up, assuming we stayed clear of debt.
    Then I went to the local weekly and put out an advertisement: 'Madam of
local plantation seeking part time laborer," leaving my Boston address so
any unlikely responses could be forwarded.  I'd work the house on weekends,
be my own restoration contractor, starting with whatever was cheapest.  A
few bucks an hour has to be less expensive than hiring a crew, and besides,
I didn't need an expert to tell me what to fix - everything.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Two:  The Ad
Joe's view

    Nothing much is ever printed in the local.  Most of the time I use it
to find out who's going under and likely to have some farm tools worth the
drive over to the auction.  Sometime, I read the local sports, feeling less
like a part of the high school every year, though I catch a few football
games early in the season.  Coach Becker's still running too many plays off
tackle.  Mary's ad was maybe the strangest thing I'd ever seen in there.
    'Madam of local plantation seeking part time laborer.'  Nobody calls
them plantations anymore.  I used to take the Lynchburg paper and between
articles of condemnation from Jerry Falwell, still saw a few similar ads,
but I'd come to think nobody local had the nerve to advertise anything like
that.  When I noticed a forwarding address box instead of a phone number,
well I took that as a sign; people who are hiring for real always leave a
number.  I wrote her a letter right there and then, scrambled to find the
pen and paper, and then fussed over every word until I started thinking
maybe I was in some kind of deevolutionary cycle brought on by neurosis.
Finally I got it done, rewriting it for neatness.  I thought about redoing
it on the computer, but I was betting she'd like the personal touch.

Mary's view

    Nobody was going to answer my ad, I was thinking.  Maybe I should have
put Tom's number on the ad, since it seemed unlikely that a laborer would
apply for a job through the mail, something I'd not considered.  It became
three weeks after placing it, and I'd worked a lot of overtime days.  So
far I'd saved a couple hundred extra, and had counted almost two thousand
in the bank.  I'd spent my two weekends driving to Virginia and pulling
inventory on the damage.  After a few trips to the lumber store for
pricing, I was guessing material alone would be nearly six digits or maybe
a couple hundred thousand to do it right.  Of course, it was all just a bad
idea.  On the other hand, Tom was getting a handle on things.  I could tell
he'd been doing extra work on the store, opening up the greenhouse in back,
putting seedlings out in place of the rows of weeds.  He hadn't made much
more money than he'd invested in plants, but at least it was revenue
neutral and he was thinking like a businessman.  My idea wasn't going
anywhere, so I was glad for his small successes, feeling philanthopic about
how I'd given this kid a chance to make a life in true entrepreneurial
fashion.
    When I got Joe's letter I wasn't expecting much.  I had imagined I'd
have a couple dozen applicants when I first came up with the idea.  I had
thought I would be needing someone who worked construction, but who wanted
a few extra hours, and was something like brain dead when it came to the
issue of wages.  If I could just get the roof, wiring and plumbing safe,
I'd call it a season, and make plans for gutting the place when my Fairy
Godmother paid a visit.  So, with one letter to my credit, even the Fairy
Godmother scenario seemed remote.  I know from my work as a secretary that
most applicants aren't worth the energy a wrist wastes on the letter
opener, and I was nearly asking something for nothing, so maybe nothing is
what I deserved.  There is a professional group of unemployable applicants
who crawl out of the dumpster for every opportunity, if for no other reason
than to make marginal employees look like workaholics.
    I saved the letter for break time at work.  I tore open the end, blew
the opening wide, and extracted a couple pages of neatly printed text.  No
resume; no quick, textbook form letter, followed by a request for
information; just the craziest letter I think I've ever seen.  I'd have
thrown it away in a wink if it wasn't for the fact it seemed unbelievably
sincere.  Not to mention that, as I read it for the third time, I was
starting to think of it kind of like it had been sent by my Fairy
Godmother.  Or, maybe it was the biggest hoax to cross my path.  It read:

Joe's view

Dear Madam,

    I read your advertisement with interest.  For a long time I have had a
deep, unexplainable desire to serve.  If this is not what you had in mind,
I beg your forgiveness.  Please dispose of this letter knowing I mean no
harm.  From the short nature of your advertisement, and the references to
both the name Madam and plantation, I derived the thought that you are
seeking the most minimum of wages sort of menial servant.  I have skills in
carpentry, plumbing, machinery, cleaning, and am willing to assist you in
whatever duties you might demand.
    Duty to me means working under the foot and glove of a demanding
Mistress who know what she wants, and isn't bashful about strictly
insisting upon perfection.  I hope you do not think me some sort of
dangerous deviant.  I am not particularly interested in sexual fulfillment,
unless this also amuses you.  For me, the act of submission is sexually
fulfilling - this I admit, but it need not include direct sexual activity
between the slave and the Mistress.  At times I even find it sexually
stimulating to imagine myself sexually denied by some social order within
which I am cuckolded or denied pleasure entirely by means of chastity
devices.  In the animal kingdom, such relationships abound.
    I realize that I mention such things at the risk of seeming overly
involved in fantasies that might go beyond your limits, and not meet your
approval.  Considering the nature of the service I beg to offer, I hope to
be flexible to whatever you might have in mind.  Of course, I am sure that
you have many other responses, many who are more experienced.  I may have
less experience, balanced only by a lifelong desire and hope that I not
disappoint.  I am single, and during this time of year engaged in just a
few hours of maintenance on my own property and livestock.
    From your advertisement I assume you are in need of assistance in some
project that requires hard labor.  If all I gain from my service is the
knowledge that I have labored for your gain, I will willingly accept this
as payment for this, your chastened male.  Please allow me to work under
your direction, and prove my ability to please you as a proper and well
motivated slave.
    As a local farmer, I have tools that can be applied to many trades.  I
also have a home and access to resources that allow me to provide meals,
laundry service and any other maid services.  Alternatively, you might be
as established in this quite conservative community as I am, and not need
intrusion into your personal life.  This I respect, understanding the
complexity of our individual lives.  I mean no imposition.  I offer no
imposition.  I offer my services, and nothing more.  I truly will receive
my satisfaction from serving in whatever means you desire.  Please allow me
the honor.  Again, if I have misunderstood the intention of the
advertisement, I humbly apologize.  You may return by mail a curt response
of disgust, or simply throw this letter away, and I will understand.  Thank
you for reading my humble reply to, 'Madam of local plantation seeking part
time laborer.'


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Three:  Meeting and Trials
Mary's view

    That was the first time I'd had a proposition of that nature.  In
technical college we girls would laugh and make jokes about submissive men,
but I had never thought of it as something outside of a parlor in New York
City.  Maybe I'd been cut off from the swinging crowd because I had always
been fifty pounds overweight, regardless of the diet.  On a scale of one to
ten, my friends thought it flattering to call me a seven, which wasn't all
that encouraging when you considered they were trying to be nice.  I'm not
a man magnet; I know that.  Wasn't that what even a submissive man wanted,
some kind of towering blonde with leathered stems and spilling breasts the
size of cantaloupes?  Something to look up to and help their Martian visual
minds achieve that coveted instant erection?  Maybe not always?
    One way to find out though, I thought; I decided to write him back, and
tell him I'd give him a tryout.  Shoot, I needed any kind of help I could
get, even if it was someone to tell me to forget the plantation and get on
with my more pedestrian life.  If he saw me and ran, or ended up being a
louse more likely to be a pain than a help, I'd find out soon enough, and
be no worse off than I was now, working myself to death with my face
smashed up under the glass ceiling.  Truth of the matter was, I had spent
two weekends too many trying to get a handle on the workload, only to find
out things were more discouraging than I'd originally thought.  I wrote him
back, and made him an offer only a man desperate for more abuse than I'd
been going through could refuse:

Dear Joe,

    I'll have to admit that your letter came as a surprise.  Actually, I
meant to hire a person to help me renovate a certain property.  The job is
a daunting one, and I have little in resources, so I guess that is why my
ad came off as a bit frazzled.  It was not my intention to attract
submissive men to my fold.  Looking back at the wording, I imagine I came
off as some sort of professional dominatrix.  I've, of course, heard of
such activities, but have no personal experiences to draw upon, although I
can relate to the issue of cuckolding, having been once married to an
unfaithful husband.
    I wanted to be completely honest with you regarding this matter,
because your letter, strange at it seemed at first, had an air of honesty
that is hard for an insightful girl to deny or condemn.  I had few replies,
and at first entertained the notion that my luck was less than perfect.
Then, thinking about how miserly my resources are, I imagined that maybe I
could find uses for an unselfish hero who found pleasure in being my
personal Sir Lancelot.  As in any Shakespearean tragedy, we all have our
tiny flaws waiting to be exploited by those willing to indulge.  I guess
there is no harm in exploitation if both parties agree.  After all, can it
be exploitation if all eyes are open?  We are, I assume, both consenting
adults.  Honestly, I needed a veritable slave anyway, considering the
demands of the job and my small salary, while you need a woman capable of
giving you the theater of enslavement, if for no other reason than to allow
some breath to your lifelong fantasy.
    Still, we do not know one another, and as you surmised, though single,
I am not currently dedicated to the pursuit of just any sexual partner.  I
warn you that I am not the most beautiful woman on the planet, nor am I the
ugliest.  A few pounds overweight, and mid thirties, to set the record
straight.  I say this not as an invitation, but rather because I am aware
that most men who fantasize may have preconceived notions about their
Mistresses that are not realistically lockstep with the average American
woman.  If you choose to accept the position of laborer, you will have me
as a focus of your imagination, I expect.  The arrangement, I assume is a
little different from the standard labor agreement, only in the respect
that your interaction with me, brief and demanding as it may be, is your
ultimate reward.  I'll try to play the proper role only as long as you
accept the literal implications, as well as the practical constraints of
the things you have so generously offered.
    Since I do not know you, nor you I, I am proposing a neutral first
assignment.  I know a young man who is in charge of a roadside feed and
plant store.  His name it Tom, and no, he is not my lover.  I know him on a
purely professional level, and have been made aware of a need for some work
on the property.  I have a small financial investment in this property.
Since you are a farmer, I am guessing that you have access to plowing
equipment and other tools.  The store is located a mile east of
Shakersville on route seventeen.  Tom will be expecting you, and will pay
you a flat thirty-five dollars for what will be reported as an hour's worth
of clearing work on the lot.  The lot is only about an acre.  If cleared, I
can lay gravel and expand parking on the east side of the building.  The
clearing work will, of course, take you longer then an hour since I expect
perfection.  I am hoping for exactly six hours of labor from my slave on
Saturday.  Since you will finish early I suggest you start painting the
greenhouse structure.  You can claim that you need to do this because you
erroneously tossed rocks and weeds up against the wall and insist upon
doing an honest job; I'll leave it up to your imagination.  Tom is
eighteen, but still in high school, and in no way is he to be informed of
the ulterior conditions of your subcontracted labor.  Bring all the tools
and white paint necessary to clear the lot and I do expect several hours of
painting.  If you do this correctly, I will give consideration to an
expanded and more personally supervised employment option.
    Please arrive on Saturday at precisely ten o'clock.  During the day I
will be visiting the store.  I drive a red Mustang.  When you see me you
will not acknowledge me in any way that draws suspicion that you know me.
As far as Tom knows I've simply called a laborer for some work, and will
not know you, which is very much the truth.  I will have store related
business with Tom, and I will, of course, be getting a good look at the man
who wants to offer himself as my indentured servant.  The fact that you are
being observed and appraised might be embarrassing to you, an idea I
imagine you find stimulating, though I expect you to hide any erection, as
is appropriate when in the presence of a lady.  You will be unable to
respond to my quiet scrutiny, pretending attention elsewhere, and remain
bound to your toil, as is appropriate behavior for a servant who is
learning his place.
    If you prove your ability to work under the rigors of sexual denial,
proving your humility and worth as a true slave, I will undoubtedly be more
at ease about extending our relationship into one where your humiliation
and domination is more overt and personal.  In fact, I'm researching the
matter this evening, well before you read this letter.  For now at least,
I'm fooling myself into believing an investment in research will pay off in
the end.  It's up to you to convince me that I am not wasting my time.
Leave your name, number and address with Tom as a future reference when you
finish.  I'm sure he'll have need for more labor of his own at the store,
and find your work ethic most excellent, as well as a good value.


I signed it, Mistress Mary, leaving my address in order to shortcut the
forwarding.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Four:  A Day at the Plant and Feed
Joe's view

    It had taken less than six days for a reply.  For a few minutes I
couldn't bring myself to open the envelope.  After all, it was probably
either a rejection or an offer from a professional.  For me these were one
in the same because my fantasies seemed to run in more personal and
practical directions.  Playing with whips, clothespins and leather cuffs
was just play, and to me had nothing to do with true use of a slave by a
real person who found ways to derive pragmatic benefits from the power
exchange.  I held the letter up to my nose, hoping to smell her perfume.
Examining it under the light, I could see that it was probably a couple
pages that seemed filled with script - not the curt snub I thought most
likely.  Getting a cup of coffee and snapping on the parlor light, I
loosened my pants, letting them drop to the knees, imagining her command,
and wanting the disgrace of vulnerability.  Then I sat down and opening the
envelope, my penis pointing up at the back of the letter as if it too could
read and was not the mindless origin of my anticipated abuse.
    The reply seemed too good to be real, and though there was to be no
personal contact on the first encounter, I knew I'd be thrilled knowing my
labor was to be both personal and valued.  Sure she was using me; exactly
what I craved as a potential slave.  Even the inexperienceed status of my
Mistress fit my compulsive dreams to a T.  The fact that she could string
decent text told me that she'd be well able to participate with imagination
and skill.  How could this be happening so easily, I wondered?  Still, I
had to prove myself worthy.  In fact, it was entirely possible she had not
liked my response, and had only decided to use me for the day and then dump
me regardless of my performance.  Whatever fate may be, I understood it to
be a good chance at lingering fulfillment, if for only the day and
lingering dreams thereafter.  I determined that everything on my part would
be perfection.
    It was Monday when I got the letter.  If I drove a reply letter to the
nearest post office, there might be a chance she'd get it before Saturday,
and know things were set.  I quickly scribbled a note of thanks and
acceptance.  Fearing a fit of regret, I determined not to touch my cock
until the letter was mailed and on its way, sealing my doom.  The regional
post office was almost an hour away, where I fed an automatic stamp machine
and posted the letter to air mail.  On the way home I slowly drove past the
store she'd mentioned.  By that time all lights were off, but I could see
the lot, though suffering from years of neglect, was going to be easy to
clear with my tractor.  I thought about the little things I could do to
make the job most impressive.
    Tuesday through Thursday were hell, only made pleasant by thoughts of
her reading my acceptance letter.  On Friday I checked to make sure the
weekend was clear of storms, and preloaded the pickup, booting the trailer
and tractor.  I'd make a second trip for the blades and had already bought
a couple five gallon buckets of white exterior.  For evening prayers, I
knelt beside my bed and read the letter, masturbating to a couple of
orgasms.  Still, I barely slept, and woke up early.  I occupied myself with
chores until eight thirty, and then drove the tractor down to the store.
    It only took fifteen minutes to get there, and another ten to roll the
tractor off the trailer.  Nobody was in yet, so I went back home for the
blades and was back a minute before ten.  I imagined my Mistress would have
liked me being right on time, not late, and not a whole lot early.  Tom was
in and expecting me.  He was a friendly kid, sharper than most of the young
ones, and seemed to know exactly what he would need the heavy equipment for
the most.  Not expecting much for the thirty-five bucks, he emphasized just
the heavy work of laying the land as bare and flat as I could make it, and
shouldering the heavy debris off the edge by a creek at the rear.
    I used the shovel to lay open a pit instead, and pushed all the debris
in so the landscape was perfect and wasteless.  Then I plowed the field,
and seeded in rows of bluegrass mixed with broadleaf defoliant, which I
hoped would stop the weeds a little and keep down erosion.  At worse, next
time she'd have nothing worse than a meadow of grassland to worry about
spoiling the view.  Near the foundation, I had to turn the weeds over by
hand.  At home I'd have just sprayed it, but I imagined my Mistress wanted
to see more immediate results, particularly if they came from the hands of
her servant.  Around noon the sun was well up, and I had sprayed and seeded
the edges of the building.  All day long people had come and gone, a level
of business I'd not noticed in any of my previous drives past the place.
Still no red Mustang, but I had no doubt she would show before long,
probably as interested to see me as I was to see her, but putting it off in
case I saw her and ran.
    Between customers Tom came out and offered some water and soda.  He
seemed impressed, and I imagined a little worried that the bill would
mount, offering the thirty five up in cash by noon.  I told him I never
left a job half done, and also told him I'd brought some touch up paint for
where the rocks had thrown up on the wall.  He looked at the wall, probably
unable to tell from the way the paint had faded to dry wood and the first
signs of rot.
    I was painting the first side when the red Mustang rolled into the lot
and parked in front.  I'd just caught the tail of it in my view, and missed
a decent look at the driver.  It seemed from the sound of gravel that she'd
parked about as far away as she could get, but I remembered my instructions
and kept on working, using my biggest roller to swipe strokes big enough to
see myself clear of finishing everything but the front by four.  I'd panted
enough barns to make quick work of the broad sides of this building, though
the greenhouse attached to the back would have to wait for a day of it's
own.  There were a couple of customers already in the store, so when a lady
came around and glanced my way, my heart started racing in fear as well as
anticipation until her husband came out with an armload of seedlings and
helped her into a foreign car.
    My stomach was growling, but I knew I'd be too worked up to eat.  The
heat was making me sweat more than usual because of my nerves, and because
ever since her car had hit the lot I had painted like there was no
tomorrow.  I painted my way all the way down to the window near the front,
and caught a glimpse of her standing in front of the counter talking to
Tom.  I tried not to stare, digging into my paint pan instead, and painting
as if nothing mattered but the job.  Still, between digs at the paint, my
eyes wandered by the window, catching new glimpses as if by accident.  I
moved on quickly, not willing to risk being caught at voyeurism.
    To me she was the most beautiful woman on earth.  Sure she was a few
pounds overweight, and nothing about her face said Madonna, but those
things had always been overrated in my opinion.  She was a real woman, not
an imagined fantasy, and she dressed nice, and she had a quiet, intelligent
sort of beauty I had always admired in women.  The way she talked to Tom
said all business, but mindful of Tom's importance as an associate at the
same time.  Any man should be glad to have a woman like her as company,
even if it was just to bow and serve, sharing some time with her and making
things easy.  I wasn't going to mess this up, I decided, going around to
the other side of the building and starting at the back edge.
    A half hour later I sensed someone looking at me from out front in the
lot.  Our eyes met, and I looked away respectfully, going back to my chore.
She, on the other hand, just stood there and kept on watching me work.  I
tried to stand up straight and look studiously at the quality of my work,
hoping to impress her and feeling inadequate at the same time.  How was I
supposed to look, I wondered?  How do you look manly and noble while in the
middle of an on-the-job interview for humiliation and enslavement to a
woman who might be thinking it only a joke?  Well one thing for sure, the
more she stood and watched, the more humiliated I felt.  Five minutes later
she disappeared, just in time for me to move my work up towards the front
of the building again.  I hadn't had the courage to do that before and had
developed a bit of a strain getting at new wood.
    A few minutes later I could hear someone leave the building and come my
way.  Her face appeared around the corner, catching me with my arms up,
rolling near the top edge.  "Nice work, Joe."
    I just stared at my work, unable to speak, painting the same spot.
    "Say thank you, Mistress, Joe," she said casually, as if introducing
herself.
    "Oh, I'm sorry, Mistress.  Thank you very much, Mistress.  I've been
having a wonderful time helping out here today," I stammered, bowing my
head, and lowering the roller to the pan.
    "I've left instructions for you with Tom.  When you're done, you can
get them.  Oh, and I noticed you missed some trim on the other side.
Please be a dear boy and pay attention to the details."
    "Yes, Mistress," I said.  My knees felt so weak I thought I might wet
my pants.  The word boy hit me between the legs, noting that I was almost a
decade older than she.
    "Well.  Don't stop now.  I'm only getting six hours out of you today.
I want this place done by then; otherwise Tom will have to worry about you
all day long.  You should hear him fretting over the cost in there," she
commanded, getting into her Mustang and driving away.
    I had the sides and front done by four thirty, a significant
accomplishment considering how much the front was cut up.  I loaded up, and
told Tom good-bye.  He had tons of compliments on my work, and I made up an
excuse that I just thought I'd be nice and give a young businessman a
little extra help.  Around here that's not that unusual, although not
common from perfect strangers.  As a parting gift he said, "Oh yeah.  I
almost forgot.  Mary told me to give you this.  I think she wants you to do
some work out at her new place tomorrow.  I'll tell ya, Joe; you'll have
your work cut out for you on that one.  The old man left her with a dump.
Don't tell her I told you so, cause I don't want her feelings hurt.  She's
a really sweet lady for a Yankee, and she's given me a chance to make
something of this place that I hadn't counted on.  Seems between you and
her, I'm about the luckiest person at attracting charitable breaks I know
of."  That's when he handed me an envelop with her note.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Five:  Housebreaking
Mary's view

    He looked so dear with his arms up in the air rolling out that paint.
Good looking body for his age too.  To tell you the truth, I'd expected a
complete idiot, but he could lay out the work in quick order.  No matter
what happened next, I'd come out a winner.  The lot looked incredible, and
I had never seen anyone roll out the side of a building like that before.
I had a worker on my hands for sure; it was going to be a challenge to keep
him.  Oh yea, and keep him I needed, sitting down on the one sofa I had
been able to clean.  It still smelled of mice and mildew, but that only
reminded me of my childhood days in the attic with Tiffany.
    I leaned back on an armrest and by the light of the falling sun and
what candles I'd been able to scrounge, I read one of the books I had
bought at the adult store.  Not having been in a place like that before,
I'd had to fight my embarrassment to get in the door.  Standing in front of
the female domination magazines didn't lessen the shade of red on my face.
I just grabbed three that had one liners on the front indicating some text
inside, and put them on the counter.  They were as expensive as hell.  A
man who looked like he had just gotten out of jail for raping ten year old
boys took my money.  For some reason I had to tell him, "They're for my
husband.  He wants me to spank his butt," as if a child molester needed to
know my personal business; embarrassment can do that to a person, I
realized, wondering if the insight into self humiliation psychology might
serve a purpose with Joe.
    Oh, there was a good one, I thought while reading; the story told about
some woman who'd put some man in a cupboard, written by some lady named
Christine.  That was a good one, but I imagined the man might get bored
after awhile.  I didn't imagine for a minute that what I had in mind for my
Joe would be boring - well drudgery maybe, but not boring.  Shoot, I needed
him busy as hell, but there was one insight in there that I found
particularly useful for my particular need.  If he's bored, he's also
bubbling over with a desire to do something - anything in fact.  Thinking
about it can make one eager.  I could keep him tied up somewhere until he'd
do anything to work.  Now that's an idea.  After all, even a slave needs
rest, all the better if that rest is enforced and motivation for work.  Put
a monkey in a padded cell with a dot on the wall, and what does he do?
Bangs on the dot all day long, that's what.
    I had one magazine that seemed completely devoted to men who liked
wearing women's clothing, or more appropriately, being forced to wear them.
That reminded me of something Joe had written about making meals and doing
laundry as a maid.  Well hell, I could do that kind of work.  What I
couldn't do was the roof.  Still, if panties he needed, who was I to argue.
I needed a list, I decided.  If I was to keep him on the job, I'd have to
work at it, maybe feel him out.  None of this came naturally, of course.
I'm a woman, I reminded myself; women are raised with constant reminders
about their roles as the family maid and lapdog to the husband.  And, not
to be overly critical of the social registry, there's that biology that
screams, "Build that nest!  Make babies!  Keep the man on the hook so he
can being home the worms!"  This micro social order between me and Joe was
looking a bit different from all of that.  I'd have to construct some kind
of model.
    I started my list: Bondage.  Depravation, leading to the goal of labor
needs.  Clothing: Maid like.  Pain: Unknown, but I could do that some.
Worship: visual, but watch out, touching can lead to sex, and we need
ground rules.
    It was a short list, but a start.  I'd have to find some creative ways
to do the simple, and explore from that.
    A scary thought had hit my head.  Here I was out on the virtual end of
a country dirt road, a single lady half the size of some pervert who I'd
just invited over to my house tomorrow.  Well, of course, Tom did know he
was coming; that was something.  He could give the police a lead when they
find the body.  Well, I had to accept some risk or the house was history.
I'd have to make it a point that he could only come over if we'd made
arrangements for someone to know about it.  This could work maybe, I
decided, thinking about creative ways to put my slave into his own personal
closet and panties.  Hum, that might help keep him in line and minimize the
risks some.  After all, who's ever heard of a rapist who dresses in panties
before his romp?  Well damn, how would I know; maybe they all do that?
Proper planning was very important, I decided, before setting my worry
aside and going on to my older list of jobs that needed done if I was to
keep the house from falling in around my ears.
    Somewhere around seven in the morning the automatic solar alarm clock
woke me up on the couch with a femdom magazine unfolded across the quilt at
my stomach.  There was a picture of a lady holding a whip over a guy she
was using as a footrest on the cover.  Men are so much more visually
stimulated then us women, I remember thinking, but then again, the man
would be looking at the woman in leather, and I more apt to be looking at
some naked man with a beer gut crawling around on his hands and knees.
Strange how these magazines are about women taking advantage of men, so
inconsistent with the economics of our world, and yet it was men who wanted
the material.  We could just take whatever we wanted - if we just took it,
I thought.  All we needed was a psychological makeover, time and place, a
little luck, whatever.  Of course, that's the big deal, beating the
instincts.  I checked my list, and used the hand pump to draw some water to
freshen up.  What should I do; should I dress up?  I had no idea.  I
decided upon some shorts and a shirt I could tie in front instead of
button.  Then I realized it made me look fat, so I smoothed it down and
left a few buttons loose.  He was coming any minute now and my hair looked
like shit!  I tied it up with one rubber band, which made me look a bit
like a Nazi.  I just had to paint my lips deep red to complete the effect.
I wasn't so bad.
    "Crawl in here, worm!"  I yelled at the door when he knocked.
    He had to push the door a couple of times because it was warped.
    "Yes Mistress Mary," he said, dropping to his knees and crawling across
the filthy floor to where I stood in front of the couch.  There was a long
hallway, and the main room was huge, so I got the whole slug effect
watching him advance to my feet.
    "Did you bring the tools and supplies I requested, slave?"
    "Yes, Mistress.  They're in my truck," he said.  He'd done some reading
of his own, I guessed, because his eyes never left my foot.
    "Kiss the shoe, slut," I said, plagiarism from one of my books.
    He started kissing the tip.  I figured I could work this one a little,
and told him to, "Keep it up.  I want a good shine.  It's been awhile since
I've had a house boy to put one on them."
    I lifted the shoe some so he could get at it.  They weren't heels like
in the book, but I'd decided the book was fake anyway.  He'd have to learn
how to serve a real person, someone with normal shoes and with normal body
fat, and who lived in a dump.  Face it, I wasn't too far from trailer
trash, but I was the one supposed to be keeping my dignity here.  He
started on the next one, which I held out for him, wondering if being
accommodative was the right thing to do.
    "I have a confession to make, slave.  I've actually never had anyone
lick my shoes clean before.  You're doing a pretty good job though.  Am I
doing this all right?"  God, I couldn't believe I said that.  It sounded
like I was asking him permission.
    "Yes, Mistress.  I love worshipping your feet," he answered.
    I had to regain some composure - fight that biological nurturing thing.
Just like a man, he was all ready talking about feet, and I was on the
shoes, a sign I was losing some control.  "I'm going to save the bottoms
for some other time.  You see, this place is so dirty I'm afraid I'll make
my brand spanking new slave ill.  I'll need a healthy slave for the kind of
services I require from my pathetic worm.  It will be up to you,
eventually, to see to it that there is less risk that my shoes will be
picking up so much filth.  Then maybe you will have earned the privilege of
cleaning the bottoms as well.  Can't you just see it; this mansion lit up
again, the walls bright, the floors perfectly smooth oak with light stain?
Maybe even bringing out the cherry.  You remember cherries, don't you slut.
Clean enough to eat off of; that's what I'm thinking?"
    Joe looked around, and I imagine he might have thought it impossible,
but he was such a dear, saying instead, "I can imagine it, Mistress.
Please, let me be used by you as a laborer and true slave, so that your
dreams may be realized, Mistress."  Of course he would see it that way, I
told myself.  He just wants to play slave, but I had to look at this whole
picture.  My goal was more daunting than his, the upbeat - selfish bastard.
    "I want you to behave.  You are a slave.  You will always remember your
place, regardless of the circumstances.  Is that understood, slut?  No
hints or innuendoes.  No feet when we're talking about the shoes.  My will
is thy will."
    "Yes, Mistress."
    "Good.  Then if I ask you to undress, you won't let it go to your
head."
    "Certainly not, Mistress.  I would never ..."
    I interrupted, "Take off your clothes, slave boy.  I want to see the
humiliation on your face when I'm dressed and giving the commands, and
you're on display like some sort of meat in a Mexican brothel."
    "Oh, yes, Mistress.  Thank you, Mistress," he stammered excitedly,
stripping off his clothing as if in a race.
    "Slow down a little.  Pretend I'm not really here, or you don't really
see me.  I want to pretend I'm looking at you like one of those lechers at
the strip joint.  You know how those whores do it, as if it's just a job
and they know it'll be a slow tip day anyway.  It's just a job, slut.  Take
it off.  That's better.  Now the panties, or excuse me, the underwear."
    "Yes, Mistress."
    He was sweating like a pig.  I could see it running down the sides of
his body as he stepped out of his Fruit of the Looms.  He took off his
socks last, just like a farmer I thought.
    "Did you take a bath?"  I asked just to humiliate him a little more.
    "Yes, Mistress ..."
    "You had better.  I expect perfect hygiene from my slave boys.  Nothing
is more offensive than someone who doesn't respect the Mistress any better
than to come to her with foul teeth or carbuncles crawling out of the ass.
Come here, and show me your teeth, farm boy!"
    "Yes, Mistress," he said through a mouth already with curled back lips,
and as he fell to his knees appropriately.  It was just some silly thing
I'd thought of spur of the moment, and I had to fight back a laugh.  This
was getting to be fun, which surprised me some.
    "Your teeth are fine.  You sweat too much though.  Be sure to use
plenty of deodorant - the non-fragrance kind of course, unless you like
feminine smells, but we'll get to that later.  I might even help you make a
selection.  Crawl over to that wall, slave," I commanded with an abrupt
change of tone.
    He crawled over to a door which was guarded by a dark old oil painting
of my long dead aunt.  I opened it up, and looked down, then gestured with
an eyebrow and a nod.  The closet was horribly filthy, and had a spider's
web in the corner I could see; maybe even black widows, I mulled over,
thinking how appropriate.
    "Well, get in.  I don't have all day just to put my slave in storage
awhile."
    He crawled in, and I shut the closet door.  Boy, won't he be wondering,
I imagined, deciding not to tell him a thing.  Let him sweat.  He was good
at it.  He'd be thinking, hours, minutes, seconds?  It was delicious.  I
wanted him eager as a beaver for toil; what he wanted was just a means to
an end, even if I did have to work it.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Six:  The Closet
Joe's view

    Oh God, this was a dream come true, I thought, bowing in the center of
the closet.  I strained with all my might to hear her footsteps on the
creaking floorboards.  Naked, the morning draft had sent goose bumps up my
legs even as I'd nervously sweated with thrill at finally having a woman to
serve.  It seemed almost as if she'd been reading my mind, the way she'd
taken total control.
    The longer I waited though, the more my knees hurt.  I wanted to shift
to my side, but the cobwebs were abundant, and she'd probably be at the
door the instant I shifted around, so I waited patiently, determined to
revel in the discomfort; after all, it was my fantasy, including the
discomfort.  Still, the ache was getting to me, as I literally counted each
and every second as if counting sheep.  The air started to get hot from the
enclosed space, and I imagined the morning sun rising in the east, burning
off the morning chill.
    I had plenty of time to recall that note Tom had handed me.  She'd
began:

    Dear slave Joe,

    I have no idea why anyone would want to be a slave, but I have done
some research and decided the complex is real enough for there to be a
market in it.  If you are reading this, then I guess you have been found to
be an acceptable worker.  I think of this kind of the way bees interact.
There are the drones, the queen and her few gigolos.  Apparently, your
place has been determined by evolution as a drone, and it strikes me as
courageous that you have faced your station within the hive of man.  So
much for justification.
    I will do all that I can to reinforce your discovery until I see fit
for your discharge, or perhaps I should say, if I see fit to allow your
discharge.  Relationships do come and go, while some are of a more
permanent nature, including one between queens and worker.  Of course any
relationships I seek with true men while you are in my charge is still
another matter, this must be respected.  I hope we are both adult enough to
understand that this arrangement may work a week, month, year or longer,
and not be childish if I have to call it off.  This is employment at will,
necessitating no explanation on my part if and when you are discharged.
Otherwise, don't bother to show on Sunday.  Again, your service is at my
whim; this issue is not negotiable.  I will pay you a pittance every time
you work, mainly because I have no idea what some local prosecutor seeking
votes from the religious community might try to do if I am caught working
slaves.  They have no shame.

    She went on to give an address and requested I bring a ladder, tools,
slates and roofing materials.  I had everything I needed right on the farm.
My family has been working that farm for three generations, and even though
I had replaced the old house with a newer one a decade ago, I still had a
stack of slates in the corner of the barn.  Twenty greenbacks for tar and I
was set to help her out on the roof.  Still, driving up to my first sight
of the mansion, Tom's words came back to me, "you'll have your work cut out
for you on that one.  The old man left her with a dump."
    I had to admire her sense of priorities.  She had no electric from what
I could tell, and I imagine that meant no running water.  If she was lucky
she'd have an outhouse, or maybe she was improvising.  Most women would
want that done first thing, but there was a cost to setting up the
utilities that hit you every month.  No, her first instincts were to shore
the house up against the weather - smart, and in the event one had a slave
and some spare parts, cheap.  I remember even thinking, looking at the
sliver of light under the door frame, that I kind of had her right where I
wanted her; in need.
    Time passed in seconds, and I'd counted out an hour, though I imagined
it might have been less.
    The door flew open so fast I swerved against the wall.  She stood over
me, the tapered peach of her legs causing my fledgling penis to shamelessly
rise an inch.  I didn't normally do this, but when I looked down I could
see a bead of pre-cum glistening on the head.  I looked up at her, and saw
she'd noticed too.
    "Get out here, you disgusting slut.  Were you playing with yourself in
there?"  She asked.
    "No, Mistress.  I didn't touch myself at all, Mistress Mary," I
stammered, crawling out, and brushing her legs as I went because she
refused to step aside.
    She had her hands behind her back like she was at parade rest, (nearly
attention).  When I got to the center of the room she pulled one hand out,
and handed me a pair of panties and a bra.  "I have a present for you.  I
went upstairs and found just what you need in one of my aunt's chests.
They're nice and baggy, see.  I have some rags over in the corner you can
use to stuff the bra.  No girl wants to be flat chested."
    I took the garments into my hands.  They were plain white, bleached
probably whiter than they were when the old lady had bought them.  In fact,
I can't remember having ever seen any underwear as plain as they seemed,
relics of days gone by before Victoria Secrets.
    "Joe, say thank you, Mistress."
    "Oh, I'm sorry, Mistress.  I just don't know what to say.  This is so
... humiliating," I said, honestly, though I'd fantasized about it, and my
cock was letting her know.
    "Well, don't just look.  Try them on.  I want to watch you stuff your
nasty cock in those panties," she said, taking a seat on the sofa.
    I put the panties on, noticing how well they fit.  Her aunt had been
older and overweight probably when she'd last worn them, and there was
plenty of room.  None-the-less, the thin elastic and windy thin material of
the panties had an effect on my psyche.  I couldn't pull them up nearly as
far as felt comfortable in front, leaving the head of my penis sticking
out.  I tucked it in, wedging it to the side.  She laughed from her seat.
    "The bra, the bra, the bra.  I must see how it fits.  Adjust the straps
a little so it doesn't ride up on you," she advised.
    I pulled the straps out to maximum size, and put one arm in.
    "No, no, not like that.  Here, let me show you."  She got up, and stood
inches from me.  I could feel my blood boiling when she stood that close.
I remember thinking how I'd fallen in love with her right at that moment.
I'm sure from her point of view it was trivial, but to me it seemed a big
moment.  I'd have done anything for her just then; jumped off a cliff if
she'd have asked.
    She took the bra, and turned it around, then reaching around me, she
put it around my chest backwards.  Her breasts had touched me when she'd
done that, and I remembered the feel of how they'd mussed up against me
through the fabric of her shirt.  The feel lingered as she clasped the
hooks on the bra, and straightened the elastic, only now I imagined it was
my breasts that had the feel, as if the touch of her breasts against mine
had performed a magical transformation.  Of course this was all just mind
candy.
    "Now, this is how you do it.  You put the thing on backwards, hooking
the hooks in, and then you turn the whole thing around until the cups are
in front, and then you put your arms in.  There you go, Joe.  You're going
to be just perfect for when we get this placed fixed up and I need someone
to clean.  A little black dress, and an apron ... but I'm not to that yet.
There's a lot of man work to do first, so you'll have to pretend you're not
completely a girl yet."  She stood back, a fingernail in her teeth,
examining her new human Barbie doll, me.
    "I'll let you wear just this much today.  When we're done maybe I'll
find or make you a little black romper with an apron.  Aunty even has some
blonde wigs, but I can dye one black if you like.  Would you like that,
slut?"  She asked.
    "Oh, I guess, Mistress," I said, hoping to keep some dignity, for what
reason I had no idea under the circumstances.
    "Are you being honest with me, Joe?  I'll give you one more chance.  If
you don't show me some enthusiasm, I'll just have to assume you don't want
to be feminized.  Is that it?  Are you just not excited about the idea?"
She asked, a little bit of disappointment on her face, from what I could
guess.
    Man, I was in a fix now, I remember thinking.  I had no choice but to
confess and come clean on a matter that was pretty hard to spit out.  The
way she'd put it seemed so yes or no, so final.  "I'm sorry, Mistress," I
literally cried, falling to my knees.  "I do love to be feminized.  Please,
make me your maid.  It's just so mortifying, but I don't care.  Shame me,
Mistress.  Make me your humble slut maid, Mistress," I pleaded, breaking
down into something like Jell-O.
    She stepped beside me, and patted my head.  "That's OK, Joe.  I
understand.  I know it's hard to confess our deepest thoughts.  I was just
wondering if it was something you liked.  After all, some of this is really
more for you than me.  I'm probably the one who needs to adjust the most,
and I'm sure I need more information than you do.  Let's do it this way.
You go on ahead, and put on your pants, and then go outside and start on
the roof.  We'll leave the maid thing for later, and just do a little of
the feminization for now.  Give you time to get adjusted to the fell of
wearing a bra.  It took me awhile.  My mother was always scolding me to
wear one.  In fact, I'll tell you a secret; I don't wear one most of the
time even now.  But, you'll have to be more attentive, now won't you,
slave?
    "Yes, Mistress," I said between sniffles
    "Very good.  I think we have come to a complete understanding.  It's so
good to have heart to heart over such personal things like this.  My ex
husband was always so macho and closed lip.  I always just wanted to scream
at him just to find out if someone was alive in there."  She want into the
kitchen.
    I composed myself, and adjusted a wrinkle in my bra harness just under
the armpit.
    "What are you waiting for, Joe.  I have a busy day.  Go fill the cups
and get working on that roof.  Take a good look first, and tell me if you
can do a repair that will last a few years or if it needs something more.
You know, I shouldn't have to hover over you like a mother hen over some
barnyard chick.  There are your pants over there.  I'll not have you out
there indecent in case we have company."
    I went over, and slid my pants on, a feeling entirely new encased in
the panties.  Then I remembered the rags in the corner, and stuffed my bra,
feeling naughty.  Coming back to the center of the room, I picked up my
shirt, just as she glanced out of the kitchen again, a baby carrot sticking
out of her mouth like a tiny prick.  Having just stuffed my bra, my face
found another new shade of red, and I felt strange, as if caught with my
hand in the cookie jar, although it had been her request to stuff the bra.
    "I don't think you'll be really needing that shirt, now will you,
slut?"  She said, focusing on the shirt instead of what I'd imagined.
    "Oh, yes, Mistress.  Uh ... I guess I don't need the shirt; it's just
the sun's getting up ..." I squeaked.
    "Good.  Maybe you need some lotion.  I have some on the porch if you
think you'll burn," she said, going back into the kitchen.
    This was crazy, I thought.  I'll tan with bra lines.  I put on my socks
and work boots, then walked slowly towards the front door, thinking she
would surely change her mind, and stop me.  What if neighbors came by?
Good chance they wouldn't, given how remote the drive was, I thought, but
still, it was outside.
    I found myself on the porch, and found the lotion, under which was a
check for five dollars made out to me for my work.  I pocketed the lotion
and the check that made me feel like my efforts amounted to that of a two
bit whore.  Then I went to the truck and took down the ladder, setting it
up at the side of the mansion.  The steps bounced up across the nipples of
my bra as I extended the ladder a few feet above the gutter, greying the
white tips just enough to make it look like my nipples were showing
through, which made matters appear even more trashy.  Oh God, she was going
to make me do it, I recall realizing as the minutes passed and she remained
inside; she was going to let me work all day long in a bra with no shirt.
How humiliating.  People around these parts often knew me.  Yet, the die
was cast.  I got my gear, and strapped it on, the bottom half of me
pantied, but otherwise looking like a working man, the top half like a
whore who had half a foot in some greaseball's bed.  I ascended the ladder
a shamed slut, a feeling I couldn't shake even as the sun rolled a wicked
brown tan across my back.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Seven:  Working in the Sun
Mary's view

A week later I had Joe back up on the roof rolling out aluminum to line the
old flat gutters.  The aluminum had set me back three hundred bucks, but I
couldn't have the slut paying for everything and thinking he owned part of
the real estate should I need to discharge him.
    It had taken several dozen slates, and a couple buckets of tar to fix
the old roof, and once painted, the gutters would hold for at least a
decade, my slave told me.
    "There'll still be a leak or two to find after the next rain, but
that's normal," he added.
    "That should be fun.  I'll have to make sure you get to spend a couple
extra hours in the closet for each one that crops up.  When I get tired of
that or need you to be busier, I'll have to find an enjoyable way to go
about beating you instead.  I'm sure you've been wondering when your first
whipping will be anyway," I said, not wanting to miss an opportunity to
make a threat.
    We only found one leak, fortunate for us both, because a week later
that he had to start repairing the exterior walls, and all off the ladder,
which I imagine had nothing over a scaffold.  You should have seen him
laying in new plywood on the soffit, tons of bird nests, mouse droppings
and dust cascading all over his head.  He had to keep shaking the stuff out
of another bra I'd found and given him to wear so he could change if he got
too dirty between things.  I doubted his tan lines would go away in
anything less than a month, but the debris was better than sunscreen.
    Still, he seemed to be reveling in the abuse, which I admit hadn't been
much more creative than the first day for that first month.  I determined
to turn up the heat little by little rather than risk scaring him away or
burning him out.  I had certainly given enough hints to keep him wanting.
    I started cleaning the place myself, knowing that the place was
becoming more watertight by each weekend.  Regardless of how hard I
scrubbed though, the plaster walls just kept peeling, and weeping big
yellow stains, and the now cleaner floors were as old as ever and laced
with rot or discoloration that the dirt had mercifully hid.  I must have
had fifty thousand square feet of priceless oak flooring, a near third of
it rotten, and worst of all, rot in every room to complicate things.  I
decided I'd have to pull up all the boards in one of the bedrooms, and
maybe the whole main room on the first floor, and use what was good out of
that to fix the rest of the house.  It was an enormous job, but one I
wanted to do personally.  There would always be plenty for the slave to do,
though I'd be sure to let him do most of the hauling when the boards were
loose.
    Of course, tending to the slave was definitely more important than
cleaning up the shell of a mansion or ripping (not to mention saving) two
hundred year old nails out of flooring.  My work was piddle work, the kind
of thing anyone could do out of devotion and time; my slave did the things
I had no idea how to accomplish without help.  It would never do to neglect
my commitment towards dominating my charge, for both pragmatic reasons and
a growing love for a human craft I was beginning to master.  It always
feels good to be good at something, and as a trained secretary, my work
life had usually been too multitask for me to call myself an expert in any
one thing.  I was determined to be the best Mistress alive.
    "Adjust your straps, slave boy.  You're unpresentable," I yelled up at
him while he put a couple of fresh boards into place by the front porch.  I
was sitting on a recliner sipping lemonade.  I gave him some usually, but
today I'd told him he was on bread and water.  You should have seen him
eating the loaf of day old out of a doggie dish I found out by the old
beaten barn, while I sat and ate a grommet salad layout I'd splurged and
bought in town.  It had been a nice day, and I had determined to enjoy the
view.  Him stooped over that dish on all fours had been part of that fun.
    "Sorry, Mistress Mary," he said, straining to fix the strap while he
held the board in place with his other hand.
    "You're such a slut.  I should have you fucked.  But, you'd like that
too much, wouldn't you, slut?"  I teased, as he nailed in the board.
    "Whatever you want, Mistress," he said, his mind on the job; I found
that a little unacceptable.
    "You'd probably leave me for another man," I teased.
    "Of course not, Mistress," he said, a bit more focused.  His eagerness
to do whatever it took to remain my charge nearly brought tears of joy to
my eyes.
    "I'll have to train you first, Joe.  There are standards, you know.  We
girls talk about it for a long time before we actually give it up to some
pimply boy we think we love.  At first we all think boys are yukky, kind of
like the way you might be thinking right now.  A few years later we're
telling one another how we're saving ourselves for the right guy, and then
we giggle about someone we know who has actually done it, for me it was an
older sister of a girl I'd had a falling out with.  Later we do this thing
where we talk to one another about how we had to fight the hands off while
trying not to gag on that first tongue; incidentally, everybody I've ever
known has said the young ones are wet; that's why all the high school girls
I hang with started dating college types.  It's a process, and the process
is what makes it so much fun; you'll see.  Oh yes, and then there's that
learning curve, with the vegetables and romance novels, that I wouldn't
have traded for the world," I told him reminiscing.
    "I've really not considered romance and other men, Mistress.  I'm
committed to serving my Mistress," said Joe, trying to dodge the
uncomfortable.  I'd found a limit, but imagined dancing around on the edge
of it useful anyway.
    "Did you know they color code romance novels as a means of rating?"  I
asked.
    "I didn't know that, Mistress," he said, pounding in the first few
nails.
    "Well they do.  I want you to check that out and tell me what you've
discovered by next week, Joe ... baby," I instructed.
    "Yes, Mistress.  There's a book store in town."
    I'd about played that out, so I went on, "I'll have a surprise for you
next week, Joe.  Here's what I'm thinking.  If you can find a way to come
by during the week and scrape down the walls for painting, we can spend
more time inside on the weekend, teaching you how to be a better slut or
how to suffer for your Mistress.  What do you think?"
    "I'd love to suffer for your pleasure, Mistress," he confessed.
    "Good.  Well, you know how hard it's going to be, flaking off the loose
paint.  I'll just be hoping you can get it done so we can play; then the
week after that you'll be ready to paint.  The outside will be done for now
after that."
    "Yes, Mistress.  I've been really anticipating serving you inside,
Mistress Mary," Joe said with special intensity.
    Of course the outside would still be miles from done, even the grass
was two feet tall, but what was the point of having a million dollar
outside and a fifteen cent inside to a house?  It was a cave in there.  He
could do the grounds, chimney rebricking, window seal refinishing,
crawlspace clearing, and other details next year for all I cared.  Oh yes,
and I was thinking about next year.  He would have to last.  I would have
to find a way to make him last; this was too good to lose.  There were
ways; I'd been reading my research.  Thinking that brought an idea, "Say
Joe, I was wondering, do you have any female domination magazines; you
know, the kind with stories and information in them?"
    "Yes I do, Mistress.  I have a few," he lied.  He had a ton.  I could
tell.  My ex lied all the time, and I could always tell; it's a feminine
gift, just one more that was making me really believe Joe's superior female
ideology.
    "A few, huh.  You've been naughty, slave boy.  I want you to find a
half dozen, make it that half dozen you've nearly worn out, and give them
to me next week - no, mail them to me tonight, air mail.  I can read ahead.
Underline the good parts.  I want to find out what it takes to make you
into a complete zombie for want of things you've only imagined."
    "I'm already a complete zombie to your beauty and creative domination,
Mistress Mary," Joe said, more a compliment than an attempt to wedge his
way out.
    "How cute.  I love it when my little pet says such sweet things.  Come
here, slave.  On your knees, like a good bitch doggie," I commanded after
he'd put in enough nails to keep the board from falling out.
    He started to walk down the porch steps and find his knees at the
bottom.  "I've changed my mind.  Pull your pants down to your ankles first,
then crawl over here."
    It was lovely, watching him crawl two inches at a time as if his legs
were tied together.  I had never gotten used to the panties, and the bra
wiggled indecently, though without much in the way of realism.  In
delightful seconds though, he was bowed between my feet.  I was barefoot,
so I pointed a toe up at his face and led him around with it as a guide
until he was heeled at the foot of the recliner.
   "You'd like to kiss my feet, wouldn't you, slave boy?"
    "Oh definitely, Madam Mary," he pleaded.
    "I want you to kiss my big toe.  Right on top.  That's perfect.  You
didn't get it too wet; rare for a beginner.  Now lick it around the sides
like a good slut might lick an ice cream cone.  Oh nice.  or a penis.  Not
there, it tickles.  Or a pair of balls.  That's better," I instructed,
admiring how he was trying to be so careful.
    "What an eager cow whore.  Now start at the top, and gently, slowly,
guide it until it's all the way in.  Oh, very nice.  Not quite enough to
fill your mouth, but it's not hard yet," I started to laugh, then cooed,
"just keep your mouth like that for a few seconds.  You can rub the
underside of it with your tongue.  Yes, that's heaven.  I've never had a
toe massage before.  Do that for about five minutes, then you can go to the
next toe.  I'll just lay back and relax, Joe.  Give it about twenty-five
minutes a toe, and then you can go on to the next foot," I said, laying
back on the recliner, and putting my arms over my face to shield the sun.
    When he finished the first foot, he moved on to the next.  I'd almost
fallen asleep from pleasure.  "You know, Joe, I think I might keep you
around a long time.  You've really been working out.  I could find all
kinds of uses for you; shoot, I had no idea having my toes sucked on could
be so enjoyable.  That was spur of the moment, you know; I'm beginning to
loosen up and understand the benefits of having a slut around.  Are you
enjoying yourself too?"
    "Yes I am, Mistress Mary," he somehow managed to mumble while his mouth
was still an oval over my big toe.  I imagined the vibration from his
mumbling must have felt a little like a hummer.  I had always wondered if a
hum job actually meant humming, thinking it more likely to be simply one
more generic term for a blow job.  Then again, I was the Mistress, and
could have my own prescribed reality.  "Could you hum a song for me while
you're doing that, Joe.  I want a hum job on my toes."
    "What song?"  Joe mumbled, his tongue circling another lips encased
appendage.
    It took me awhile to think of one, and in the end could only come up
with, "How about Macho Man by the Village People.  All you men must
secretly know that one," before drifting off to a dreamy, pleasure driven
nap.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Eight:  Being Black
Joe's view

    Having my lips around her toe should have been humiliating, but I had
grown so in love with her I couldn't feel anything but this aching in my
heart to make her happy.  Her legs were wonderful, seductive towers.  I
could see the peachy skin, and how smoothly shaved they'd been.  I would
have done anything just for the touch, but the view and the taste of her
toes were too wonderful to risk losing.  Her shorts were pulled tight, and
I could see the crease where her pussy lips strained, hiding a pleasure she
had told me endlessly I would never have.
    My cock felt like it would explode without being touched, an idea I had
often read about, but knew to be idle boasting.  I could touch it though, I
thought.  If I did, it might take but seconds; that would be enough
perhaps.  I was singing Macho Man, a dumb song, but easy, and singing it
slowly to keep time with the caresses of my tongue along the rough
underside of her toes.  I imagined myself able to tell her toe prints with
my tongue, wanting to stamp them into memory in case she were to vanish and
I needed them for a lifetime of searching.
    Then she was asleep.  I knew I shouldn't have done it, but when I
strained my eyes down I could see the head of my cock poking out at me from
where it overflowed the panties.  If she owned me, my own cock was the
agent who had signed the deal.  It said, "Touch me too."  I rubbed along
the head, and in a couple of minutes squirted my cum into the bent reeds of
grass, feeling bad and undeserving immediately for the sin.  The seed of my
traitorous orgasm was sewage, as if everything I had done to please here
was something on a much more important level, more deserving than my own
urges to procreate.  She hadn't noticed, but I had, and I was ashamed by
the transgression more than by any other act.  The selfish act of pleasure
had cheapened the much more noble acts of worship.  The world had already
become completely changed, one in which pleasure was abuse, pleasure was
degradation, pleasure was abstinence, self indulgence was, however, even
more puritanically judged then would have been expected from the Saints.
This, or course, was most appropriate, she, not the Saints, being the
Goddess of my affection.
    Her house was being restored, her business growing, and if it was the
only way I could be near her, her throne would be hand carved out of the
ivory of my bones.
    When she awoke, I tried to act as if nothing had happened, fearing
discovery from the look of shame upon my face.  She took it as shame from
having to suckle at her toes, and seemed to glow with the satisfaction of
discovering something a bit more intense than usual.  She prided herself so
in how well she moved me, her greatest act of selflessness, and more than I
had ever wanted.
    The following week I worked from noon to dark, scraping the huge
mansion of chipped paint.  There was nothing easy about chipping two
centuries of paint off hand hewed siding.  I doubt if Mistress Mary's uncle
had ever painted the place himself, allowing the paint to come off in
random layers.  I would have to putty some on the larger gouges before
repainting, I realized, as the difference between top and bottom layers was
often approaching a quarter inch.  What kept me going was the knowledge
that she had promised a weekend inside.  There was a lot of grunt work in
there too, but at least I would be closer to my love than I was out here in
the endless weather.
    Without Mary I grew solemn at this work.  I had no reminders, deciding
not to wear my bra and panties on those day, least someone would come by
and think me strange.  With Mary around, there would be someone to explain
my presence, but without her, I imagine I could be reported.  Oh, the
gossip mill would report me anyway, but I mean, legally.  My truck radio
played country, the only thing available this far from the city; I had
never played it before out of respect for the Mistress.  I grew weary of
the work, needing something to motivate me to get this done enough to earn
time in the great house next weekend.
    There was the anticipation of her reading the female domination
newspapers I'd sent her.  I had picked some of my favorites, wanting her to
learn as much as possible, and underlined some of the better parts as she'd
asked.  Of course, there were some the more extreme parts that I did not
mark, imagining that they might do more towards driving her away than
peaking her curiosity, not to mention the fact that even I have limits to
self mortification.  By Wednesday I imagined she would have received the
package, and be reading, discovering my innermost secrets, and devising
plans for further exploitation.  The thought of that, thinking of her on
her bed, reading me into those scenes, filled me with a feeling not unlike
I was being watched.  I looked across my shoulder at the fields, and could
see no eyes.
    I looked up, maybe for the millionth time, at the tall walls of the
mansion, and the size of the place was staggering.  It had outlived almost
a dozen generations, and it beckoned my scraping tool upward.  I had put
the tool on a stick so I could do much of the upper work without much of a
ladder, and it seemed my tiny finger was reaching up to touch something
monstrously out of proportions to my mere mortality.  Both the stick and
the house were of the same stuff though; I and the house were of the same
stuff too perhaps.  I was tired, worn, and hallucinating a little, and as
the week had nearly passed, I understood that this was best thought of as
no simple house, but as a living thing.  After all, it was taking a
significant part of my life as hostage to it's restoration as if my aging
was contributing to its renewed youth.  The great house was a part of
Mary's inheritance, and no doubt the inheritance had a rich history that
one lived more than learned.  The house was part Mary, part all those
before her - maybe more.  Her earliest relatives, had they the chance to
return from hell, would have kept slaves, and run the place with as strict
a hand as Mary's, perhaps even ruthlessly, whipping the slaves for any
infraction during sixteen hour days.
    I had always hated the things I had read about slavery within my State,
thinking it the ultimate degradation of mankind.  In my mind it was those
who had engaged in the horror for their own personal benefit who had denied
their humanity - a victim cannot be blamed for the inhumanity perpetrated
upon himself, and can even show extraordinary dignity by the way he copes.
This, compared to my fetish, seemed somewhat paradoxical, though my desire
for self loathing was reaching beyond rational lines, and made me forget
the paradox; I yearned for another century, another color, a set of rules
that legalized my condition and made it inescapable, not for whole races,
nor for any other bias, but for me, quite personally; it was so deeply
personal that my soul seemed to dance at the thought's invitation; I
imagined the chains both literal and legal, permanently embracing my soul
with the rotting smell of despair.  I imagined myself the only black alive,
a slave assumed such by a mere glance, my Mistress casually leading me down
the colonial road with a natural air of inbred authority in a world where
nobody bothers with a backward glance because it was just assumed to be the
way things were.
    Yes, there was still to be one slave on the property, a mere
representation of the horror of the enslavement of a whole race.  I
imagined myself that black in the early 19th century, a lifetime before any
chance of emancipation, standing beside the house, my tool aimed upwards,
stroking the monster, and a ghost of a woman leaned out the window above,
to watch my work, pointing to a spot I had missed, and insisting, no
expecting me to obey the nonchalant command.  She seemed so real, a bit
angry out of habit, her hair at one point falling around her neck like rope
because she had not yet dried it as she prepared for a ball at which I
would be lucky just to serve from a corner, and then disappearing into the
rectangular frame above.  Yes, I'd be inside by this weekend.
    She had seemed thin and hurried, like she'd been starved by time and
had much to catch up to before we returned to her grave.
    After awhile, a childlike woman leaned out, her face a much younger
representation of my Mary, a construct of a relative, I imagined, my mind's
sense of fairness necessitating that it not be exactly her.  Of course she
too had a face as light as the warm spring sky, and though the Master often
came to our huts and insisted upon satisfaction with our women in order to
breed free labor, I knew I, the darkest of my kind, would never touch this.
She smiled down, her face the picture of innocence and joy.  I smiled up,
an act which brought an instant look of scorn to her face.  For the
transgression of a smile she spat, and I dared not move least it miss.  She
ducked back inside, screaming and no doubt on her way to tell someone of my
impropriety, as the young are apt to do with surreal exaggeration.  I
touched the spittle on my shirt, and tasted the mouth of a young white
woman, a hanging offense.  The Master soon appeared with his foreman and
the head black.  I was tied to the poll used to tame the horses, my hands
high above me.  I was expected to turn and hold myself tight so that the
whip would not scar the more tender flesh in front, then told to not scream
too loud and offend the women further.  I glanced back at the house, and
saw the young woman smiling by the kitchen door before hearing the whistle
of the bull whip reaching to rip my newly darkened skin apart, exposing the
more commonly held skin an eighth of an inch deeper with each of my
Master's twelve promised disciples of hate.
    I came leaning in the driveway gravel beside the house.  My lips were
kissing the wall I had nearly completed.  I imagined the skin of my
Mistress upon my lips, as if the house, appeased, had flesh.  By the end of
Friday I had scraped the last of the loose paint free, finding my bed well
after the night had fallen.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Nine:  Inside
Mary's view

    "Hello?"  A tired voice said over the phone.
    "Hello, Joe.  I know it's late, but I needed to let you know that I'll
be a little late tomorrow.  Just let yourself in and I expect to find you
in the closet with your panties and bra on.  Do you understand me, slave?"
    "Yes, Mistress," answered Joe.
    "I have to see Tom at nine at the store, and we have to go over the
books.  Oh, and one more thing, Joe; I'll expect you to be hard as a rock
when I see you, so no funny business in there while you're waiting.  I want
you sexually frustrated so I can abuse you without a hassle."
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," said Joe, regretting the fact he had masturbated
twice that night already, yet in spite of that, could barely contain
himself just listening to her lovely voice.
    "Be there by seven, slave."  I said, putting the phone on the cradle.
It was three in the morning, and I was about to get on the road.  These
long weekends were about killing me, not to mention ruining my car.  I had
at first thought the restoration unlikely, but things were beginning to
look a little better, maybe fifty fifty even.  There hadn't been much of
the big money stuff done to the place, but the back breaking work was
coming along, the place was watertight, and the business had looked like it
was making a few dollars.  At least now there was reason to be optimistic.
I wondered if there was anyone in that dinky town who needed a trained and
experienced secretary.  I would be losing a few years of retirement if I
made a change, and I might even miss a few of my friends.  On the other
hand, what is twenty percent of next to nothing, and since I had been
spending most of my time in Virginia, my friends had come to expect my
absence, and acted accordingly.  In fact, the driving was rough on me, so I
slept most week day evenings too.  My only relaxation had been with Joe,
strange as that felt.  I know I didn't love Joe, at least not like a lover,
but I had grown quite attached to him, maybe like one does a puppy.  I
would terribly miss him if he got run over by a car; I knew that, and the
feelings went further than missing the work, which would be very
devastating to say the least.  I had even stopped giving him the five
dollars a weekend.  The gesture was pointless, given he supplied many
multiples of that in materials every week.
    As I drove the toll road, I realized that my life had become that house
and my time with Joe.  It was that simple.  If I had a little more time on
my hands, maybe I would have been able to have a social life?  What was
life anyway?  Work?  Driving?  A house?  A slave?  I just had to move down
there, that was the only rational approach, otherwise I was going to miss
everything normal that filled the gene's grand interests.  Not that the
house and Joe weren't interesting, the reading I had done over the two days
prior had kind of redefined interesting, but I needed some steady rest,
steady friends and maybe even a steady sex life.  What was I doing to
myself?  The word old maid came to mine.  Keep it up and before I know it,
Joe will be getting his dick wet for sure, god forgive; biology has its
merry way.  All of which brought me to the thought that one sure way to
lose a friend was to have sex.  Slaves were no doubt the same sort of
arrangement.
    Tom was out back patching the caulk around the greenhouse glass when I
drove up.  Two customers were waiting at the door, so I let them in, and
after they'd shopped, took their money, though I didn't know how to unlock
my own cash register, and guessed at the tax.  As soon as they left, three
more cars hit the lot, which drew Tom's attention, much to my relief.  The
place was looking real nice.  He'd added some racks of home gardening
products, and some baskets of various flowering bulbs.  The plants in the
greenhouse were growing, making them look a lot more attractive to the
customers.  The pillars had been stenciled with vines, and everything
cleaned to McDonald's standards.
    After he had a chance, he gave me a quick rundown on how the cash
register worked, and I gave him a hand for the morning rush, feeling a
little guilty knowing Joe was going to have to pay for what I was doing
with excessive closet time.  I had never left Joe in the closet more than a
couple hours before, and he had probably been in there two before I had
even arrived at the store.  What would I do if he grew bored and called
quit to the whole deal?  The very thought brought a rush of anxiety.  I
could tell Tom was harried, and I felt sorry for him too, realizing he had
done such a good job of making the business thrive that he was going to
work himself into a bed.  Then what would we do?  Success can be such a rat
race.
    I felt responsible for the well being of two men I had only known for
just over a month, both of whom were working themselves to death over
little old me, the lady who goes for coffee and types memos in real life.
That was heady material, when I thought about it.  I could have a powerful
effect on people, a fact I was just then coming to grips with.
    I took it upon myself to ask the first teenager I saw over sixteen if
she wanted a job.  It was kind of spur of the moment, and I instantly
regretted not consulting with Tom about it, so I made up for the mistake by
offering it only for the morning.  She was kind of an airhead, but her
parents said OK, and said they would be back by one to pick her up, giving
me a chance to get out of Dodge.  Forget looking over the books for now, it
was bad timing.
    I think Tom liked the idea that I had picked a girl from his school,
because he smiled and hang a lot closer to the counter after I told him he
had help.  She was on the edge of playing him too, and I resolved to have a
talk to Tom about the dangers of getting it on with the help, not to
mention a Bubblicious bimbo, when I had the chance.  Even Tom had his
faults I realized.  How men have been able to dominate the business world
without pendectomies, is beyond me, I thought with a smile, driving to the
mansion and pulling in at just before eleven.
    "Come on out here, slut.  I want to look at you," I yelled after doing
up a few surprises that had taken most of an hour, and changing into my
outfit.  The door creaked open, and my slave crawled out on stiff knees.
    "Oh, thank you, Mistress.  I thought you'd forgotten me.  I missed you
terribly," said Joe, bringing himself to the center of the room where I
stood with my arms crossed and my feet sixteen inches apart.  He had been a
good student, and didn't look up the whole trip, but as he got closer I
knew he would notice the costume.
    I had on black panties, stockings and garters.  Further up I was
wearing a black bra.  My white blouse seemed transparent over the deep
black brazier, and I had left the first few buttons undone so he could see
the cleavage and naked black lace without having to squint.  My hair was
up, and my lips red as blood.  He was looking at my heels.  A flowing black
skirt covered my knees, leaving the garter to his growing imagination,
though I had reason to believe the garters may go under-appreciated.
    The biggest mystery of all was the tent I had made of my skirt by the
one piece strap-on.  No fidgeting with parts, I had bought a big black cock
that came as one piece with leather panties.  When I had first put the
thing on I found I could move the penis around and feel it on my clit,
certainly to be a bonus after six months of maturation.  The thing was a
monster, the way it fit like a part of me, not too thick, but an ample ten
inches long.  If I had ever had penis envy, this thing was the cure, like
in the form of a perpetual erection immune from those embarrassing moment
of numb nuts men have from time to time.  At a hundred and a half, it had
better be reliable, I told myself, not regretting for a minute that I had
bought it.  I was sure the investment was worth many times that in both
work and material from Joe.
    Even the convict at the store seemed a bit timid when I had pointed it
out and handed over the wad of twenties.  "What's a sweet little lady like
you going to do with a thing like that," had been painted all over the dumb
clerk's face.  He had looked at my finger to see if I was married.  Fat
chance it would make a difference for him.  I bought it and said, "Fuck
you," on the way out, which bought a, "Thank you," to my back that I had
not expected, though I imagine the curve of my ass had something to do with
it.  Me and the convict at the adult store were coming to understand one
another.
    Joe's eyes were slowly grewing accustomed to the light after the hours
of darkness, and arose to greet the tent in my dress.  At the moment of
recognition, his eyes lowered in natural shame.
    "How long have we known one another, Joe?"  I asked.
    "Over a month, Mistress Mary," he returned.
    "And, in all of that time, we've barely touched.  You've kissed me only
once.  Why do you think that is?
    I could tell Joe was thinking about the time I had let him kiss and
suck my toes, and then I bet he was trying to second guess where my
conversation was leading.  His hard penis was growing even harder, the head
sticking out purple.  I had a lot of lust on my hands that day, and I
imagined I might need to use all the faculty I could muster to guide it to
my whim before it spent itself automatically.
    "Because I am a slave, Mistress," he guessed.
    "Yes, because you are a slave, but not exactly.  You see, you and I
have only touched once for a reason that is a little embarrassing.  I want
to be honest with you, Joe.  I've had some personal problems getting it up.
Now, as you might have noticed, I've managed to overcome the deficiency.
In fact, now that we're onto the subject, I seem to have developed kind of
an opposite sort of issue.  Don't you see?"  I asked, as if made miserable
by my condition.
    His eyes looked up, pouting up at me just under the tent.  I wished I
had a camera to shoot a picture of the look from my point of view, I
remember thinking.  On the other hand, the rented video camera I had put up
at the top of the grand staircase had probably caught a thing or two I had
not been privy to from this angle.  Joe hadn't noticed it yet, and probably
wouldn't as long as I kept him aimed in the proper direction.  I was
determined to keep him perfectly candid for that natural, unacted quality
to my very first feature film.  If I was successful, maybe he'd not even
know I'd taped him.
    "I understand, Mistress," answered Joe, temporarily rendered incapable
of long winded replies.
    "Could you touch it now, slut?  I see that you're down to your
underwear waiting for me.  You're not on your period now, are you?"  I
teased.
    "No, Mistress, but I'm a virgin, Mistress," Joe said, probably thinking
I didn't know how to handle my cock.  Well, I did have something of
experience with a penis or two, but wasn't going gab at Joe about that.
    "Do you want to be fucked, slut?  Have you waited for me; for this
moment?  Or, do you want to wait until your wedding?"  I couldn't resist.
    "Yes, marry me, Mistress Mary," my slave asked a bit too sincerely.
    "I don't think so.  Fuck em and leave em is my motto.  The perfect
whore is one that turns into a six pack when you're done.  You know what I
mean, don't you slut boy?"  I was killing him with a lifetime of lines I
had always personally hated.
    "Well, are you going to touch it, or am I going to have to go into the
bathroom and take care of myself?"  I, face it, commanded.
    His hand came off the floor and started to reach up under my skirt.
    "No, no.  Keep your hands where I can see them, you worthless cunt.  I
let you in my pants and the next thing I know you'll be wanting your way.
Then you'll get pregnant because I doubt you've remembered your pill; trash
like you rarely do.  Next thing you know you'll be telling some judge about
how, 'I' made 'you' pregnant, leaving out all the juicy stuff about how
you'd begged for it half naked!"
    His hand found the outline of the cock, and touched it timidly.  Just
like a virgin's first touch, I remember thinking, as if my own long lost
virginity had somehow come back to memory.  I never thought I would see my
virginity again; I never thought I would feel this way again either.  The
excitement had me so horny I was a danger to myself.  Then he started to
rub the thin black material of my skirt along the shaft, as if masturbating
my tool in slow long strokes.  Between strokes the fabric lifted, and I
imagined he was getting a first good look at those thighs and garters.
    "A little tighter, bitch!"  I instructed in a deeper, most personal
purr, instantly feeling his hand pressure move the penis around.  The
beauty of the one piece construction was that I could really feel it.  The
penis wasn't going anywhere; it was a virtual part of me.  He wasn't too
steady at the task either, moving the cock from side to side a little,
making my clit very happy due to the incompetence.  Isn't it just like
mother nature to make the motion of the ocean for men ninety degrees off
from the motion of the ocean for us girls?


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Ten:  Inside for Awhile
Joe's view

    For the first time I had wondered if I should run.  The hours passed so
slowly, and I had been so tired from the week's work.  Asleep in the
closet, having abandoned the discipline of counting the seconds of
servitude on my knees, I nearly missed the sound of my Mary's footsteps
announcing her arrival.  My eyes still fighting the urge for sleep, it
seemed as long waiting for her to release me as it had waiting for her to
arrive.  It had even occurred to me that perhaps a stranger was inspecting
the house, perhaps the Sheriff, wondering about the truck outside, parked
on long abandoned property.  Any minute he might jerk open the door,
finding the strangest sight he'd ever imagined in a long, varied career.
    The words, "Come on out here, slut.  I want to look at you," brought
incredible joy and relief.  I crawled out, feeling as tired and miserable
as the crawling implied.  When I looked up a little, and saw the way my
Mistress had gone to so much trouble to make the day exciting, I felt so
ashamed that I'd been thinking of my own petty weariness.
    Then there was the matter of that cock she had grown between her legs.
I'm not gay.  When I go into town, read a magazine, or watch a movie the
women are the ones I undress with my eyes.  Once I was propositioned and
briefly fondled by an older man, and told him to flat out go to hell,
without an ounce of regret.  I'm not prejudiced against gay rights like I
used to be, but that's not because I need a man to cozy up to on a cold
Virginia night; it's just because I understand some people are different
and shouldn't have to be treated like shit for it.
    None of that explains why my cock got harder than I'd known it to be in
quite awhile when I realized she had a strap-on under her dress.  My heart
had already nearly stopped in mid beat; for this it flipped backwards.  I
had thought about this part of me a little, reading my femdom magazines,
and knew it had a lot more to do with submission than gay genes.  I craved
female domination so desperately, my imagination went deeper and deeper
into my own self depravity.  It isn't logical to want to kneel when you can
sit, it isn't logical to want to work when you can lounge, and just as
paradoxically, it isn't logical to want to give up your masculinity when
you can find any one of a number of women more than willing to fuck, a fact
little changed by an age of killer viruses.  Submission seems to be all
about how some of the most logical and intelligent people on the planet
give it a rest in order to balance the scales and prove their brains are
the same size as everyone else's after all.  I wanted that cock like the
biggest fairy ever to play MTV.
    I had never seen my Mary dressed up like that before either.  Usually
it was jeans or shorts.  Some women think the less you wear the sexier.
That's the biggest hoax ever perpetuated on the female race.  I love the
sight of a woman in stockings and mid length skirt, especially plain old
black and white.  Black and white are so clerical, so in control.  Black
and white hides so much mystery too, like the thoughts of a whole dark age
behind the simple smile on a Mona Lisa.  Of course the genes and shorts had
been good too.  In fact, the only thing I really hate is when women overdo
dressing sexy with uncomfortable looking costumes that reek of fake
intentions, like in most of the sex industry magazines.  All I get as a
visual from that is some shallow overpaid model posing for a check.
    My hand played with the new toy between her legs, the silken feel of
her dress as it glided over the prick I imagined like foreskin.  The ridges
of artificial veins made the phallus so realistic I grew weak from desire
to please the flesh as if it were attached by nerves and veins and meat to
my beloved Mistress Mary.  As I played, I started to realize that her
breathing was growing heavier.  She no doubt could feel my touch where the
cock met her body.  I listened closely to her sighs, increasing the motions
that met with her deepest moans.  Male, female, submission, dominance, none
of this mattered as my desire to bring pleasure to my Mistress became the
universe.
    "Stop, slave boy," she said weakly.
    She pulled the penis from my grasp, it wabbling like a real cock.  Then
she turned, soon walking to the couch.  She sat down, and leaned back so
her knees were a foot from the edge and her legs were firmly planted on the
floor.  She kicked off the heels and nudged them to the side, looking down
at me like a cannibal might a hogtied virgin in a two hundred gallon pot of
hot oil.  Her hand went back to the penis, and stroked the dress over it,
as if slowly masturbating to the sight of me on the floor.
    "Come here.  Do this," she commanded.
    I crawled between her legs, and with one hand planted on the floor,
reached with the other for the cock.  Her hand led me to the beast, and
came over mine, instructing it in the way she wanted it done.  I wanted to
remember every detail of the lesson - I wanted to never forget any instant
of the touch of her hand on the back of mine.  My eyes were inches from the
French curves of her legs.  I bowed my head, and let my hair feel the
cherished hem of her dress.  Her hand left mine.
    "Keep your head down slave, and don't change what you're doing until I
command you to.  If you don't do this right, I'm going to have to flog you
worse than I've already planned," she demanded.  I felt movement above,
realizing her hands must be caressing her breasts, pulling at the nipples.
The fact that I was a servant, and not privileged to see her absorption in
her own sexual satisfaction proved she could be so maddeningly sadistic.
    I could smell her then, a smell that rose above her usual baby powder
and light perfume.
    She abandoned all pretenses, and started to moan vocally.  Tears fell
from my cheeks when I realized the pleasure I could give her.  The pain of
my love for this woman was driving me beyond the superficial disguise of
sadomasochism.  My balls ached blue.  And, though it had been no more than
an artificial penis through which we were connected, I loved the prick as
if it were she.
    My hands stroked the cock, feeling each detail, the rippling arteries,
the dip and then bulbous head, the way the cock's head came around at a
slow odd angle and was more deeply ridged on the top then the bottom, even
the slit on the end.  I loved it, and wanted it inside of me.  "Fuck me.  I
want to have your baby," used to be a joke I told past lovers.  I wanted
Mary to fuck me.  I wanted her conceptual cum inside of my conceptual womb.
I wanted the feeling that came with walking around, trying to hold her
priceless sperm inside, knowing that the more successful I was at walking
around as if so obviously and recently whored, the more likely my eggs
would submit to the attacks of yet thousands more of the swimming masses of
sperm that knew nothing of our fantasies, intent only upon one focused
mission that predates even the mammals.  I craved having her conceptual
female baby, passing on her factually perfect inheritance so that I could
appease the watching ghosts of the mansion in my unwed slave shame, and so
the legend of Masters and servants would go unbroken both in my seed of
serfs as well as her seed of demanding Lords until the end of humanity on
planet earth.
    She came, grabbing my hand in both of hers to force the pressure, and
slowing the pace so the orgasm would linger in its intoxication for twenty
minutes of pure joy.  Her hands were fine and hot with blood across mine.
Her legs shuddered inches from my lips, and I dreamed of their kiss through
eyes of liquid glass.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Eleven:  Hanging Around
Mary's view

    After my orgasm I put Joe to work moving the flooring I had ripped up
from one of the bedrooms on the second floor.  He sawed off the bad parts
with a miter he'd brought over the previous week as he went, and tossed
them out the window to a growing pile well below.  He had a sharp and well
oiled hand saw, which was fortunate since we had no electric and almost all
of the flooring in the house would need at least one cut.  It took nearly
the afternoon for Joe to saw and redistribute the flooring from the one
room alone.  I wasn't going to have him do more than that since I'd only
put him to work in order to put some distance between the morning
festivities and what I had planned for later.
    Maybe it was me who needed the break, a little embarrassed at losing
control.  I needed a breather after the sex.  That's what it had been too,
I had to keep telling myself, realizing I'd had sex, sort of, with my
slave, a violation of a pervious standard I had thought I would have no
trouble abiding.  Equally troubling was the fact that this was supposed to
be Joe's weekend, I had to remind myself as I ripped another ancient board
out of the next room's floor and clawed out the nails for my coffee can.
So far I had ruined most of the first day when I'd fallen out of control
and had an orgasm, not to mention the late start.
    I had let Joe wear some pants and shoe so he could move around the bare
joists without trouble or pain.  I was saving the pain stuff for later, and
trouble I didn't need at the moment with as much as there was to do.  Joe
had underlined a few passages that included whippings and bondage.  We had
never gotten into that before; I was eager with determination not to
disappoint, though I knew I'd take little personal satisfaction from
violent behavior.  On the other hand, maybe it would put some perspective
on the sex part if I punished my slave, and reinforced his place.  As for
me, I was back to jeans too, not much for formal on a construction site, I
guess.  Doing what I was doing in heels and skirt was even too dumb for
Hollywood - well maybe not.  I was thinking that maybe when the place
started looking like a real house I might feel better about dressing up,
but that seemed like a next life from the perspective of standing on two
beams fourteen inches apart and with the floor boards piled against the
cracked plaster wall.
    At around four I put a stop to everything, and led Joe down to the
study.  The mansion was basically divided into three parts on the first
floor.  The great room was in the middle, with a little divider sectioning
off the back third where windows let in enough light to feed the plants in
a sun room.  Of course I had nearly gutted the old furniture, pushing
almost everything on the first floor into the enormous dining room, which
was in the same wing as the kitchen.  The last third of the floor had four
rooms, a bath, library, study and sewing room.  The sewing room was the
smallest room in the house because about a hundred years ago someone made
half of it into the bathroom when plumbing came into style.  The basement
was about five feet tall and only big enough for a coal bin, root cellar
and heating equipment, another afterthought, I judged from the way it was
fed by an outside doorway.  The only way in from the house was a ladder
that led down from a trap door in the kitchen pantry floor.  I had taken
one look down with a flashlight, and decided it could wait till later; much
later.
    The bottom line for me that day though was that if I was going to have
a dungeon for my slave it would have to be somewhere on the right section
of the first floor since that was most out of the way.  I picked the study
because it was just the right size, and because the bedroom just above it
was the one I'd just been in, and was missing part of the floor.  All I had
to do was poke through the plaster and drop some ropes through the ceiling.
The floor joists in the bedroom were at least ten inches thick and four
inches across.  I could hang an elephant from the thing without a hitch.
Before I called my slave, I had the rope looped over two of the beams, one
end angled down at forty-five degrees and tied to a nice solid radiator
pipe at the room's edge The other end of the rope had the most slack.  It
dropped directly down into the center of the room from the solid white
ceiling.  The ceiling was a good twelve feet up, adding an airy verticality
to the room.  I was impressed by the old world, maybe French Revolution
authority the dangling rope seemed to represent.
    Nothing in the books looked like this.  The tall curtains on the
windows filtered in the late afternoon light.  A cross of light split the
dusty air, and now the rope, enough light to accentuate the dimness.  I
imagined myself a vampire, avoiding the slit of light with a hiss.  This
room still had a little furniture, a couple of stoic wooden chairs, a roll
top desk, two lamps waiting for the electric.  I had rescued two
candlesticks from the attic, seven candles each, both by the front wall
windows so that later the evening's curtain shadows would draw as long as
possible.
    "Kneel, slave.  Take off all of your clothes.  You won't be wanting
them in the way," I commanded a curious Joe as we descended to the grand
central room.
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," he said shakily, dropping his pants roughly where
we'd begun the morning festivities.  He seemed almost timid, taking off his
panties and bra, having grown accustomed to being clothed at least in these
while in my service.  I noticed his penis had not lost much of it's rigid
attention through the day, or at least not during the times I had crossed
Joe's path.  I had allowed him to eat, clean and visit the bathroom with no
restrictions, so I guessed he was in good shape for his ordeal; he would
need it.
    "By the couch I've left some things in a bag.  Get the handcuffs and a
couple pair of wool socks.  Put the socks on like gloves so the cuffs don't
cut you, and then cuff yourself front, slave.  Then hand me the key."  He
started to get down and crawl, but I had no time for it, "Just walk.  I
want to see your ass wiggle."
    He cuffed himself, and handed me the key with hands like mittens.  I
loved the idea that he could do this for me, saving me even the work of
cuffing him.  I went over to the couch and grabbed the collar from the bag,
and put it on his neck, snapping the leash onto the D hook.  Then I led him
by the leash directly under the rope, looping it around the handcuffs and
pulling the rope tight while standing on a chair in front of a perspiring
slave.  I looped it a couple more times before threading a knot, taking my
time with the rope because it had a lot of slack.  Done, I dropped the
slack in front of Joe before undoing the leash and tossing it to the
doorway.
    Just like that, I had my conquest dangling from the ceiling, though
dangling wasn't completely correct, given his feet were fairly comfortably
planted on the floor.  I pulled the chair back to the side and sat,
admiring the view.  Joe had a pretty decent body, for a farm boy, I recall
thinking, showing some prejudice.  The excess rope was spoiling my view
though.  I went to the roll top desk and found a letter cutter.  Maybe it
would do?
    "Something's in the way," I whispered, Joe's eyes watching my every
move intently.  I reached for the rope, thinking to slice some off, but
caught the fear in Joe's eyes and got another idea.
    "We don't really need this, do we?"  I poked his balls with the letter
opener teasingly, a wicked heartfelt smile crossing my lips.  We girls all
have a little of that penis envy buried deep inside.
    "Oh, please, Mistress," Joe said.
    I wasn't too sure exactly what he meant by, "Oh, please," but I wanted
it to mean he was pleading to keep his balls.  Certainly I did as well,
understanding that his extreme sexual compulsiveness might well be reliant
upon them.
    "Or this little thing.  It's pointing at me.  In fact, it's been
pointing at me all day.  What kind of slut are you, anyway, Joe?"  I
pricked at his erection with my letter opener, starting at the base where
the cock met his balls and working my way up to the head where I stuck the
letter opener into his piss hole and held it while looking at his face.
    "You know, without this you'll be eternally desperate for my attention.
Maybe it'll be for the best," I said, remembering something I had read in
one of his magazines.  Though it had been unmarked, it had also been a
peculuarly well turned page.
    "I'm so sorry for pointing at you, Mistress.  It's just that I admire
you so much, Mistress Mary," the slave pleaded.  I could feel his penis
pulsating at the end of my letter opener.  If anything, it was getting
larger.  Unbelievably, my servant would have given me his cock, I remember
thinking, so smitten he'd become.  I thought that a bit sweet, and
touching.  I also was thinking it a bit scary, like I had gone in a
direction a little over my head.
    He was the one tied to the ceiling, not I, I reminded myself, finally
finding the rope with my letter opener.  The rope was thick, making me work
awhile before making the cut.  Joe patiently waited like a dear.  With the
new piece of rope I tied Joe's feet together, kneeling in front of him.  My
head was inches from his cock, and I was beginning to get those, 'I haven't
been fucked in months,' feelings back.  I could smell the cum, and I
definitely wanted to take that beautiful cock into my lips and suck it so
badly.  God, that would have done it, wouldn't it?  I mean, I wasn't in
love with Joe; I was just a woman with needs.  But, of course, once you do
a thing like that, it's kind of like you cross a line of no return.
   I fought my feelings, and regained my feet.  I was a bit tongue tied.  I
stepped around the bound body, and pulling the drapes so even the slit of
light vanished.  I lit the candles.  Then I went around behind the slave
where he had left his pants and there I retrieved his belt.  I looked up at
my slave, his head trying to catch a glimpse over his shoulder.
    "Keep your head down, slave.  I'll tell you when I want you to look at
me!"  I said with more force than I had originally intended.  His head
snapped back around and sagged dutifully.  I wanted to get fucked so God
damned desperately!  Here was this man with a perfectly good dick, and yet
useless to me.  It was pissing me off!  I imagined all of this Joe's fault
too, for being here like this, and getting me into this emotional mess.
Not to mention that if I'd never gotten into all this construction I would
probably be back home and have found someone to have sex with from time to
time.  It's not unheard of for a normal healthy woman to get laid, you
know.  Maybe even some rich guy who could eventually make all of this
Virginia effort moot.  But no, I had to find this masochist to keep me
strung out on fixing up this hole of a house!  I doubled up the belt, and
smacked the bastard on the ass.  The smack told me I'd managed a decent
blow.  Joe grunted, but otherwise didn't make as much noise as I'd have
expected from someone not so well read on the subject.
    I turned him around, an amazingly easy task all spindled up the way Joe
was.  The light from the candle showed me a nice inch wide stripe of pink
across the previously pantied part of Joe's ass, the only place other than
the bra strap not tanned by endless work in my sun.  I was going to make it
all match, finding strength in my frustration.  I hit him again.  He winced
a little.  I had been spanked by my father when I was a child, and knew it
hurt worse when you hit the same spot a few times.  I tried that a few
times and got a little squeal out of my piggy.  Nothing like a little
feedback to create incentive.  My biggest fear had been that I didn't have
it in me to be cruel.  I laughed a little at the thought just then,
realizing how good it made me to take out some frustrations on this
dangling pussy whipped target.  I got to work filling in all of those white
spaces.
    The shadows on the far wall danced in stretched exaggeration of my
sadistic delight.  The more I beat him, the more I admired the pantomime
display.  And, the more I beat him, the more I saw him as meat; the less I
saw him as a viral man.  My frustration eased, as if transformed by the
miracle of Joe's dehumanization.  I stopped when I realized I'd been
transfixed in my own little micro world, only vaguely registering Joe's
steady scream.  Tossing the belt back into the pile, I looked up at Joe's
exhausted face.  He'd been struggling so desperately that his feet had left
the floor in vain attempts at shielding his now perfectly red ass.  I
smiled before walking from the room in triumph, one more apprehension faced
and conquered pleasingly.  I would definitely be doing that again.

The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twelve:  Exit Stage Left
Joe's view

    There is a point at which one's pain hits a level of barely tolerable.
At that point, a person knows that the next stroke cannot be endured, and
yet, as the pain continues to rise above this place, the body fights in
ways unreasonable.  How does a scream or a tense muscle help one avoid the
hand of one's torture?  In fact it does nothing, yet the body insists upon
the meaningless expressions anyway, as if the primal man is adamant that it
knows more than the mind.  Mary had grown angry, it had been so very clear,
having been struck by some need deep inside that had made her detached from
my misery.  I pulled my legs up, grasping the ropes at my chains, and
swinging.  Still the blows continued, most of them aimed over and over at
the same inches of skin, surely aware of the torture such insistence
delivers.
    At some point I lost all sense of the fantasy and just threw my head
back with one continuous yell.  Up above me the thick rope held tight the
body my mind yearned to escape.  Small chips of plaster flaked down in fine
sprinkles of dust from the rub of the rope, twinkling in bits of light.
There, between the holes through which the two ends of the rope had been
dropped was a third hole, one with an unexpected eye of something small,
round and glassy.  It could have been anything, I told myself; the room was
horribly dim.  Only the flicker of an occasional weave in the candle's
light gave it away.  Of course, all of this was merely an exercise in
passive observation, my mind and soul so completely identifying with the
sheet of pain.  My face screamed upwards towards the glass disk; camera or
not, as I've said, I was no longer in control of the animal within.
    I groaned between breaths, my head lulling about.  I did not know this
woman on the far wall, the woman who's shadow wavered in the candles'
shadow.  The shadow had reached back, then swung forward before merging
with mine, a second shadow that bowed away ever so slightly before the snap
of the belt.  At first the pain had come as much as a full second beyond
the blow, but as time moved forward, so too did the pain merge to meet the
snap.  Further on still was one solid wall of flame.  She stopped, throwing
down the item of my torture before looking up at me with a smile that was
perhaps the truest expression of unadulterated thrill I'd ever seen on my
beloved Mistress's face.  Then she left me there, my body still bent away,
my legs uncontrollably trembling.  The legs barely held half of my weight.
I traded the cramp of cuffs on my wrists for relief.  As time expanded, the
trembling seemed never to end.  I had to force my weight back to my feet,
fearing the loss of circulation to my hands more than the sickness I got in
my gut from standing.
    Time passed, and I still waited, the fear abating as I began to realize
that my Mistress was through with me for awhile.  The room was macabre, dim
with myself as a reminder of what I had brought myself to as a shadow of
humanity on the wall.  About me, the real world kept slowly returning.  The
doorway to the hall was much brighter than the room; it was still
afternoon, and other than the torture of my own hanging carcass and the
rasp of the breath I struggled to draw with my arms held high, the room was
calm.
    The skin on my backside was tightening.  I sensed horizontal seams of
pain as if the skin were rupturing along fault lines left by the edges of
the belt.  Half of the blood in my body seemed to have found a way back
there, because even as the pain subsided, the heat kept rising until I
thought my ass about to erupt into flames.

Mary's view

    After I caught my breath I had myself a sandwich and a tall glass of
wine from the cooler.  I had been working very hard lately, and remembered
it was Saturday.  What do normal singles do on Saturday evening, I asked
myself?  I found that dress and put it on.  The stockings were 'doable'
too, but I put on a white bra under that sheer white blouse.  Why not go
out, I thought?  He'd underlined this sort of thing too, as I recalled.  In
fact, one story about a wife cuckolding her husband was almost unreadable
with all the marks on it.  Well, if he wanted me to fuck someone else
behind his back, maybe I could accommodate, not really because it did
something unexplainable for my lackey, but just because I was ready for
some sex myself.
    "Did you go to the book store and find out the color code for those
romance novels, slut?  I noticed you'd forgotten to mention it," I asked
the slave from the doorway after I'd gotten dressed to kill.
    "Oh, I'm sorry, Mistress.  I completely forgot.  I was so busy scraping
the paint off the house," the still half breathless slave said.
    "Yeah, I know, so you could play in the house.  Well, that's OK.
Romance isn't really your thing anyway, now is it, honey?"
     "But, yes, Mistress, but ... I could try.  I can go to the store next
week and find out all about the color codes," the slave tried.  I wasn't
going to let him have second chances; it would spoil him, not to mention
the deliciously, punishable position he now found himself in.  It was the
kind of thing I had read in a lot of his stories; slave messes up; Mistress
goes for the jugular.
    "That won't be necessary.  You've already slipped up.  You've already
shown your Mistress how much thought your capable of putting into romantic
ideas; I mean, look at you," I said still leaning in the doorway.
     "Oh, please Mistress.  I do want to be romantic," Joe hopefully begged
from across the room.
    "I'm going out, slut.  You, on the other hand, won't be going
anywhere," I said, slowly walking into the center of the room where my
slave dangled.  My heels clicked slowly, heel-toe, heel-toe.  He didn't
look at all comfortable, was my first impression as I got closer and saw
the tension in his muscles.
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," he said after a pause that lasted long enough for
me to put myself right in front of him.  I notice the erection he had
completely lost about half way through the whipping had twitched a time or
two.
    "I've had a tough day, slave, and I thought a few beers, some dancing,
whatever ... might cheer me up.  Maybe when I'm out I'll find a real man,
someone capable of romance, maybe even capable of a little fucking without
being pathetic; someone who can keep it up without having to be treated
like a sissy; someone who's dick doesn't pretend like it's a hard-on when a
girl mentions fucking someone else, someone with big hands and feet," I
said.
    "Yes, Mistress," said my slave from the back of his submissive throat.
    "Do you want this test, the ultimate chance to prove your loyalty to
me, or should I go see if I can remember where I put the key to your cuffs?
In a little while it'll be too dark for me to find that key anyway, so
maybe letting you go would be for the best; maybe your servitude should be
ended," I asked.
    He seemed to be weighing the perfectly rational option of asking for
release.  In fact, I thought he was going to do just that, but he would not
break.
    "I want to serve you, Mistress," he said, a pained expression on his
face that foretold of a cry.  Here was a man truly torn two ways.  I
realized it was hard being what he was, though for him I guess not quite as
hard as being what society would suggest was normal male behavior.
    "Oh good," I said, actually a bit glad to know he would not be free to
follow me around or whatever he might be predisposed to do.  I reached down
at the panties on the floor and held them up for him to see.  Then I
stuffed them in his mouth before he could take his wish back.  There was no
turning back now, I read on his contorted face; he had a standing up job
tonight, and he'd be doing it knowing his Mistress had other things on her
mind.  Then I took the bra, clasped the hooks and doubled it up, stretching
it around his head to hold the panties in his mouth.  He looked like a man
with two white pyramids for earmuffs.  I stood back, satisfied; that should
keep him.
    "If I find someone nice I might be awhile.  I want you to know that.  I
want you to suffer knowing that, slut.  I want you to imagine what a man
feels touching and sucking on my breasts, and what he feels with my warm
pussy swallow his cock, or my lips nibbling at his balls.  I want your high
and dry cock to know that too while it waits and the cum fills your useless
balls with no hope of escape," I said, taking my finger and flipping down
on his prick, which bounced back up like a diving board on downers.  I
walked out the door without a look back.  After all, I truly did deserve a
break.  We'll kill two birds with one stone.  And, don't think for a minute
I had not noticed that lost look of puppy love in his eyes.  It would do
him good to have that nipped a bit in the bud.


The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirteen:  Tiffany
Mary's view

    The evening was early when my Mustang sputtered into the parking lot of
the only dance hall for fifty miles around that wasn't country western.
Somewhere in cyberspace someone had forgotten to post the news that the
western part of Virginia wasn't anywhere near Texas, and in spite of the
fact of the State's misguided participation in the Confederacy, was barely
south of the Mason Dixon line.  In Massachusetts I'd have had my pick of
dance formats and live rock venues.  Here I had the Rocking Rooster.  There
were a bunch of teenage bikers in the parking lot who looked like they took
their redneck tattoos a little too seriously.  The sun was still in the
sky, so sitting aside in a booth alone, I started my first beer before the
warm up band hit the shoe box stage.
    They had a newspaper, which was full of editorials about how the
country was going to hell in a hand basket because the President was
getting more than his fair share of blowjobs.  I thought about my slave
still hanging from those rafters, and the blowjob he wasn't getting,
imagining it Ollie North or some other self righteous murdering prick.
    Up on the stage the warm-up band had just finished its last cover of
Lynyrd Skynyrd, and I seriously considered projectile vomiting when I
realized it was bringing down the house.
    I couldn't see a single man who didn't look like a diesel mechanic or
worse.  I took a closer look and realized the diesel mechanics were the
ones with dates; the rest were wandering back and forth to the pool tables,
fondling their sticks.  Some of them looked my way but I had one of those,
not-in-this-life pictures on my face.
    There were a few other women there as well - regulars.  They'd all come
to dance, so they did, only with each other.  Not too close, even the
dancing wasn't all that interesting; mainly line dancing.  For the first
time in my life I considered the benefits of mosh pits.
    The main act got going.  Some guy with a Jersey accent was singing punk
originals.  He and the lead guitarist were good and tight, but on the
second song they let the bass player out of his cage.  Some animal with the
name jo199 stamped on an SWR head was laying down sixteenth notes, locked
to the drums, and doing it on a weird looking Kubiki bass.  He sounded like
the reincarnation of Les Claypool, a ray of rock sunshine.  It wasn't
local, I'll tell you that; most of the women sat down, and looked bored,
maybe because it was too existential before the third beer, but probably
because it's hard to dance to fusion.  The second song finished, and maybe
three people clapped, as certifying a statement as a Gallup poll that the
whole crowd was brain dead.  (wink!)  These guys wouldn't be back.
    The lead guitarist was cute, but the show was a long way from over, and
of course he would be upstage till last call.  Besides, I didn't want to
take anyone home, and touring bands are notorious for sleeping four to a
motel room.  I switched to checking the women out because the mechanics
were so drone, not that I'm gay.  I was thinking, this is what it means to
be a woman around here; it's maybe a miracle Joe didn't have a harem, all
this other meat being so duh.
    "Tiffany!"  I caught myself yelling across the floor before I knew it
was me. A bass/percussion duet drowned most of it out, so I yelled it
again.  One of the women looked my way.  My God, I was thinking, it's
really her.  My God, I was thinking, she's lived here all of her life!
    She came running, fluttering like a butterfly.  After all this time she
looked like she'd not changed a bit, except for maybe being a little taller
and sans braces.  Even her tits were small.
    We talked an hour about our lives.  Tiffany managed ten whole years of
school before succumbing to the overwhelming temptations of waitressing at
the truck stop.  Then she got religion and married a man twice her age
because he was a deacon of the church and bought her a used Lincoln.  After
a year he took the Lincoln and left her for another waitress.  He repented
in front of the church so convincingly that everyone attended his second
wedding.  He was still a deacon, and Tiffany was still willing to sit in
the opposite set of pews every Sunday.  Her ex had two kids now.  Her ex
was a good father.  Her ex was a member of the volunteer fire department.
Her ex made good money now.  Her ex was having trouble with his new wife.
I thought, get a life honey!  Like I said, Tiffany hadn't changed a bit,
and I was beginning to appreciate the way some people change when they grow
up.  A little psychic maybe, Tiffany told me she was up for head cashier
soon, and was coming to the dance halls every Friday and Saturday in hopes
of finding someone as solid as her ex.
    "Now there's upwards mobility," I told her without a smirk so she'd not
guess I was being cynical.
    "I hope so," she said kind of airy like.  "Anyway, where are you
staying, Mary?"
    "Up at my uncle's house.  He died a little over a month ago, and left
it to me," I told her.
    "You're kidding.  I still live at my house down the road.  This is so
crazy."
    "Please don't give me such conviction when you say that.  I've been
fighting the feeling that I'm completely off my rocker, and I don't need
the reinforcement."
    "Well yeah, now that you mention it; that place is kind of spooky.
Last time I looked at it, it was falling down," she said with concern.
    "I'm fixing it up."
    "You must be rich.  What did your uncle leave you?"
    I told her about Tom and the store.
    "So you're taking all your profits and fixing up.  I should come out
and help," said Tiffany.
    "Oh, that's OK.  I have my own helper.  Actually I'm only living there
on the weekends for now.  We should set a date and relax instead of
focusing on work."
    "Uh oh, I see a man in your life," said Tiffany, her insights pretty
well honed in on that topic.
    "Just a guy I met.  He likes to do handy work.  He thinks it's kinky,
but he's not really my man," I said, not wanting to go too deep with a
local.
    "That's disgusting," said Tiffany.
    "It's also cheap, Tiffany.  Beggars can't be choosy," I was working on
my fourth beers and was starting to feel it.  Some people get silly or
violent when they drink.  I just get honest, which is really fatal.
    "I've heard about guys like that.  They like women who dress up in
leather and make them lick their boots.  It's disgusting," she said
repetitively.
    "It's not disgusting; it's actually kind of admirable in its own little
way."
    "Admirable?  It's a sin, Mary.  You don't know what you're getting into
with a man like that," she said almost with spit.
    "I don't believe in sin.  I believe in bad things and good things, and
as far as I have seen so far, Joe hasn't done any bad things, not like your
ex," I told her, immediately wishing I'd have stopped my sentence a little
short.
    "That's mean, Mary," said Tiffany, a tear welling up in an eye.
    "I'm sorry," I said, offhandedly.  I had been predisposed to be more
sympathetic until I'd seen that tear.  What kind of idiot gets torn apart
hearing criticism of a man who has dumps her for a younger woman?  He'd
even taken the Lincoln for Christ's sake.  God, we were so alike when we
were kids.  I didn't know this lady.
    "He's not my guy, Tiffany," I tried to mend.  "He's just a local guy
who wants to help out.  Sex isn't part of the equation.  I actually came
here tonight to find a good man, same as you.  There ... see ... I'm not
all tangled up in sin, I'm just out at a dance hall where the Hell's Angels
guard the door so we women can browse for fresh penises like bitches in
heat."  I offered a self critical smile.
    Tiffany tried not to, but broke up in a laugh, tears streaming
ultimately, mostly from the emotional ride women like her seemed always to
be on.  We were laughing when two truck drivers asked us to dance.  Tiffany
said yes so fast that I didn't have a chance to tell them to, "Fuck off,"
which was my only impulse.  They couldn't dance even a little, doing some
kind of country western two step to jo199's Peter Gun version of Ticket to
Ride.  The juxtaposition was so strange, me, her, these cow fuckers, the
two step, funk and the Beatles, even I started laughing and having a good
time.

The Inheritance
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Fourteen:  Tits
Joe's view

I remember trying so hard to stay awake.  Once, while the late night cold
painted goosebumps across my body, I slipped into sleep.  I woke minutes
later with a start.  Having lost my breath, I swallowed great gulps of air
through my nose and around the gag.  My chest and shoulders burned from
strain and exhaustion, from all of that time enduring my whole body weight.
I wonder how those women did it on all those B vampire movies I'd seen in
the drive in as a teenager.  No doubt that was fantasy; this was real.
There was even less relief from the cramping in my arms and chest then
before.  I knew that if I feel asleep again, I might never recover.  My
Mistress was still gone, deep into the first dark morning hours.  She would
not be aware of the dangers of being so extended on muscles unused to this
strain.  I, the slave to my own need for torment, had no intentions of
telling her.  It felt like I had put my own foot in the bear trap and
watched it close, even as help wandered within earshot, yet I refused to
yell out an alarm for fear I would lose the animal that identified me.
Knowing my will, my cock got hard with no hope of a hand.
    My hands were asleep, I noticed after I'd caught my breath.  It seemed
like they never fully regained the sense of feeling, though I knew some of
that had to do with the heart pumping less blood up high, not to mention
the encasing socks.
    I counted the seconds for time, a trick I had learned in a photo class.
    I had to pee.  I couldn't even double over and hold myself.  For at
least an hour this tormented me until I thought my stomach would split.
Every minute or two, a few drops dribbled out of my cock.  At first I had
been able to stomp the urine around and watched it dry.  Then, again and
again I leaked until I stood in a tiny puddle.  Finally I cringed to no
effect, and a stream threw a line of piss out in front beyond the reach of
my feet.  I was unable to stop the offense until I'd puddled the floor from
my feet to a meter away.  This I smelled.  My Mistress would kill me, I
thought, though at the moment that was the least of my troubles.  I still
had to pee.
    The room had grown a little foggy at the top from the candles.  I was
still a shadow on the wall, watching myself torment myself with my own
weight and humanity.  The mice in the walls made little sounds.  I could be
doing things, I thought.  I usually found things to do on my Saturdays.  My
life was passing me by while I hung meaningless.  A part of my prime was
being disposed of with malice and negligence.  I imagined a prisoner caught
for a major crime sitting in a jail cell wasting half of his life, the best
half, doing nothing at all, being nothing at all, paying with his very
existence for some unrelated sin.  Upon his release, he finds himself an
old man with no hope of love, family or even a peaceful retirement.  He has
to fight for a job at the local fast food, only to find himself unfamiliar
with a foreign lifestyle.  I was paying for the sin of being born a
submissive.  I was giving my self way for the sin of being male and
damaged.  How many days need I hang here until my life comes to nothing,
and my existence equates to total waste?  I had craved being nothing, and
here I was, nothing, struggling for control over my own piss.
    My cock was hard.  It was a combination of the need to piss and the
fantasy.  Still, there it was, pointing about in shadow.  I turned on my
ropes until I could see my cock in the shadow on the wall.  That was me, I
thought.  I was a hanging effigy of something wasted, but that cock was
just Mister Happy.  That god damned penis was what held me prisoner.  I
started to laugh.
    This was incredible, I thought.  I could only be a man if I managed to
lose the fantasy of being dominated, and it was my cock that took me there.
I couldn't go half an hour after an orgasm and it brought me right back;
shoot, most of the time it didn't even wait that long.  If I cut it off,
then what?  Would that make me more or less of a man?  Ha!  A man without a
cock can't be a man, how stupid, and a man like me with a cock that only
had eye for leading the body to its knees, well this wasn't being a man
either, I thought.  What a catch 22.  Fact was, regardless of what I did,
I'd never be a real man, and my life would never amount to much.  Why not
just hang here and waste it.  Mary was better off with someone else.  All
of this brought on a fit of laughter that kept me awake even though it
jiggled the tired muscles with pain.
    I imagined my Mary well fucked by now, held in some man's arms;
sleeping comfortably, with her fingers nestled in his crotch.  I was
getting so turned on that my desire to piss was fading.  That was such a
relief that I resolved to indulge my mental fantasizing about my
cuckolding, though this tormented me so, as long as I could stand it.  Oh
yes, she would wake up at dawn, and suck him awake.  I could smell her.  I
could taste her flesh.  I could feel the tickle of her hair brushing across
my thighs I could feel her fingers touching my cock, like the one touch she
had given me just before turning away.  "Oh, god, Mary," I screamed through
tears of pain, desire and lost love.
    Her car drove up the driveway near dawn.  I was so ready to see her
that I stood up on legs that I'd thought impossible to remain rigid for
hours.  The piss on the floor waited undried, a wild card certain to throw
a hitch in the reunion.
    "God, he was good.  He was dumb and ugly, but he was good.  I think he
was married too, because he had me in a motel, but I didn't care because
between the legs he was all man," said Mary in the doorway.  Her hair was
down on one side and she had abandoned the bra and stockings, though she
had on shoes, a skirt and that transparent blouse.
    "I'm so glad to see you, Mistress," I said muffled around the gag.
    "I bet you are.  Oh, Jesus Joe, look what you did to my floor.  I can't
leave you alone for a minute," she said, with a lot less anger than I'd
expected.
    "I'm sorry, Mistress.  I tried so hard to not piss.  I had no control,"
I pleaded.
    "It's alright, Joe, you'll clean it up.  Next time I'll have to lay
something out.  We don't want the house smelling like piss.  Besides, I
know you can't really control that thing between your legs, now can you.  I
mean, look what it has done to you," she laughed.
    "I'm so sorry, Mistress," I repeated into the panties held in my mouth
by the bra.
    "Here.  Let me take that out of your mouth," she said, stepping over
and removing the gag.  "This way I can hear you try to bargain your way out
of this."
    She came up behind me.  I felt her body up against mine for the first
time in my life.  She was hugging my back, and her arms caressing my chest.
Mary licked her right finger, her eyes looking up at me from the side with
wicked seduction.  Her tits brushed against my ribcage under my arms.  I
felt the points of her nipples where they poked through her shirt.  She
licked a finger on her right hand, and then touched my right nipple, which
instantly grew.
    "I want you to count for me, Joe.  Count to two hundred and fifty.
One, two, three ... you know, four ...." she said, flipping up on my nipple
with each count.
    The way she did that made me cringe, but I resigned myself to it, and
let the uncomfortable element shift to the desire for abuse.  I started to
count, "five, six, seven ..."
    "From the beginning, slave.  You aren't going to get away with that,"
she smiled a little.
    "Oh, god, one, two, three, four ..."  I began.
    "Isn't this just pure torture, slut?  Doesn't it just get to your pussy
and make it hot?" She asked.
    "Yes, Mistress, five, six, seven ..."
    "I know.  We women all know this.  Men think of our tits kind of like
on off switches.  One's the switch, the other's the channel changer.  This
is for all those times," she said, flipping up on my nipples once a second.
She licked her finger again, and kept going.
    "Eight, nine, oh Mistress, ten, eleven, twelve ..." I moaned.
    "I love this.  Are you having fun?  Do you want me to stop?"  She
asked.
    It was killing my nipple, the way she was flipping them.  She paused,
and then snapped her finger up like she was flicking a piece of lint off a
shirt.  I jerked.  Still, her body was against mine.  I wanted her body on
mine.  "Yes, Mistress.  Please abuse my nipples like a slut," I caught
myself begging against all logic.
    "Aha.  OK.  Start over, slut," she said, a bit of alcohol on her
breath.
    "Oh!  One, two, three ...."  We did two hundred and fifty without a
stop in sight.
    I thought my nipple was going to fall off.  I watched her hand do me,
and saw the nipple grow red.  The nipple stood at attention like the little
masochist that it is.  When she quit a dozen over for uncertainty's sake, I
was left with her arms around me.
    "You took that like a good little virgin bitch.  Most girls with your
experience would have gone home or spread their legs by now, but you just
gave me so much titty.  Are you sure you're human, Joe?"  She asked.
    "I'm not too sure, Mistress," I said honestly.
    "Well then, while you're trying to figure it out, I'll just have to do
the other."  Her hand reached around my body and started flipping up on the
left nipple.
    "Oh, Mistress Mary.  One, two, three ...." I started, thinking two
hundred and fifty a million miles away.
    At about forty she said, "You know.  I think you need it.  Don't you
bitch?"
    "Yes, Mistress," I said, well beyond redemption.
    "Yeah.  I think you need a man.  Let me see what your little clitty
says.  There; how does that feel honey?" She asked, putting her right hand
on my cock and stroking it slowly up and down.
    I started to buck in motion to her hand.  She was stroking the cock
lightly, and I yearned to feel her fingers tighter on the flesh.
    "Oh my, you are in heat.  Did you forget to count?  I think you missed
a few.  Oh well, never mind.  We'll just start over," she commanded, her
hand still stroking my penis.
    "I'm sorry, Mistress Mary.  I'm such a horny bitch, Mistress.  Thank
you, Mistress, one, two, three ...."  I started counting, my tit in torment
and my cock thrusting through the hand that slowed, letting me do the work
of fucking.
    "If you cum, that means you are my whore bitch.  Come on now.  Cum for
me and prove how needy a bitch you are, prove how much you want my big cock
in your pussy.  When you cum I'm going to have you lick it all up like the
cunt you are.  A good whore never wastes cum.  Would you like that, slave?"
She asked.
    "Four, five, six.  Oh, yes, Mistress, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve," I counted.
    "That's perfect.  I've been hoping you were capable of the transition.
You see, I'm going to need a maid to keep this place clean when it's all
fixed up.  Should I hire someone for the job, bitch?"
    "Please, Mistress.  Thirteen, fourteen.  Let me be your maid, Mistress,
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen ..."  I begged.
    "Then the job is yours.  I was hoping you'd volunteer, since I know you
like to work for free.  See how easy it is.  All you have to do is promise
to prove to me you're not some kind of male impostor, or worse yet, a
lesbian.  Do you like it when I play with your titties, slut?  Are you a
girl?"
    "Yes, Mistress.  I'm a girl.  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one
... I love it when you play with my titties.  I want to be your maid,
Mistress Mary, twenty-two ..."
    "We'll see.  Let's see you cum when I play with your clit, and then we
can see if you like the taste of cum.  All girls like it when someone plays
with their clits, and most girls like the taste of cum, though a woman who
thinks of herself as better than you sluts might spit it out."
    "Oh, yes, Mistress.  I want to taste cum and prove myself a slut," I
moaned, between counts.  At a hundred and sixty I came in spurts that
splashed across the wet flooring in long white milky streams.  I took the
next ninety flicks on my tit while recovering from the orgasm.  She walked
to the wall, and untied the rope at the radiator.  I fell to the floor like
a rag.
    "OK.  Get to it.  Prove you're a girl."  My Mistress commanded, leaving
the specifics of the task to my imagination.
    A moan wobbled from my throat, as I struggled to my knees.  My head
lowered to the nearly dried piss, and the lines and spots of white cum.  I
licked.  The taste was a little salty from the piss that still left dark
stain on the floor, but I focused on the cum.  It wasn't so bad; there was
hardly much taste at all
    "Good girl.  I guess you aren't a lesbian after all.  For awhile there
I was wondering about you," said the Mistress leaving me to finish on my
own.


The Inheritance  Part II
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Fifteen:  Laying Tile
Mary's view

    A year passed.  I missed cities.  Getting out to a city had become
something like a vacation.  The need to shop in a store not named Walmart
sometimes put me in a funk.  On the other hand, things could be worse - in
fact they had never really been better.  I worked seasonally at my own
store, paying myself ten bucks an hour because it didn't seem fair to give
Tom half of the profits without subtracting my labor.  Not that I didn't
owe Tom a bunch.  We had each turned close to six figures, mostly from
Tom's innate ability to turn a loser into something respectable.  The kid
was out of high school by then, and talking about going to business
college.  I asked him, "Why do you want to teach?"  It took him a half hour
to register the joke.  Then he giggled about it all day long.
    Tiffany and I went out most Saturday nights, though she'd never been to
the mansion and I'd never been to her shack; we were still friends as long
as we kept a distance.  Being friends with Tiffany was kind of like
inviting a Jehovah Witness to your door every Saturday.  We met at the
dance hall Saturday nights instead, each more intent upon flaunting sin
then curing sin, progressively so as the sun made its traverse along the
under side of the earth.  Not that I was as loose as Tiffany.  She had a
way of talking about evil in an abstract, church bought manner, and then
kind of forgetting when the time was right.  I, conversely, in Tiffany's
eyes, the ultimate sinner because of Joe, rarely let any of the local
yokels into my panties.  On the other hand, on my two allowances at sexual
intercourse, I did make it a point to amplify the evil by repainting every
livid detail of the encounters for my slave Joe.  In a way, my sexual
episodes seemed more for him than me, though certainly not entirely.
Tiffany would never understand.
    Joe went home most nights, and did his farm work in the mornings.  Some
seasons he pretty much dedicated himself to his farm; I didn't want a
pauper on my hands.
    I had gone to the library and figured out how to make ceramic tile.  In
high school I'd been into ceramics pots and loved the feel of clay in my
hands.  Joe was kind of like that, clay in my hands.  You had to keep
squeezing him, but every so often you also had to let some squirt through
the fingers.  Anyway, I had gone to Georgia in Joe's pickup and come back
with a load of Georgia clay.  There was a brick barbecue in back (no
southern dig is complete without one) that I opened up for a kiln.  While
Joe did his planting, I baked my new living room floor one rack of pieces
at a time.
    "I like the yellow ones like that, Joe.  Like a sun," I said,
inspecting the tiles he'd laid out in the center of the great room.
    "We'll need more orange and yellow, Mary," said Joe, getting creative
and lining up some wavering radiants that made the sun look like it was
throwing off warm surf.
    I flipped the switch to the pre Civil War chandelier, and the early
evening room burst into light, the sun above matching the one below.  The
new walls shone white at the back, and with tall, pink and yellow floral
wallpaper everywhere else.  The floor was done except for here in the
center of the room, and most of the furniture, Spartanly placed about the
center so the walls could shine, was antique, refinished to cherry and oak
gloss.  I had put a motley assortment of large inexpensive rugs about to
break up the glassy look of the ceramic, a touch that gave the grand room
some cozy.  My television was a dinky thirteen inches.  It sat on an end
table near the last of the column of furniture, and for some reason I loved
it because it seemed like a child.  It was unthinkable at that moment that
someone had suggested I have the place burnt down just a year earlier.  Of
course I had about twenty cents in the bank, and Joe was probably just as
rich.  I worried about Joe.
    "I've checked on the land my Uncle sold.  You're right.  They haven't
found a sharecropper," I told Joe.
    "The old man who bought it is an idiot.  Nobody wants to farm anymore,
Mistress.  He'll be sitting on it forever," answered Joe.
    "You do," I reminded.
    "Well, my family's been farming the same farm for a long time.  I mean
people are either staying with what they have or moving off.  Only the big
operations are taking on more land," said my slave.
    "We could buy it back, probably for what it sold for," I told Joe.  My
thoughts of restoring the plantation were moving out of the walls.
    "It's all I can do to farm my own land, Mistress," my slave complained.
That's what I liked about my slave; he was open for abuse, but he knew his
practical limits, and was man enough to say it.
    "So, farm this land instead.  It's nearly the same acreage."
    "Instead of my farm?"  He asked.
    "Sell the farm.  We'll make you a little slave house in back.  It would
be fun.  Just like the old days when slaves worked this place," I said, not
telling Joe about the dreams that had given me the inspiration.
    "Stay here, Mistress?  With you?  There's no barn for the equipment?"
    "We'll put up a metal one.  They're cheap."
    "I'll have to think about it, Mistress," negotiated my charge.
    "Good.  Take off your pants.  It always helps you think."
    "Yes, Mistress," my conditioned servant said, stripping to the panties
I exclusively let him wear.
    "The shirt."
    His shirt joined the pile.  He had not been wearing a bra except on
special occasions because I always worried that Tiffany would show up
unexpected and report me to whatever organization of bigots is striking
fear in private people's lives these days.
    "Crawl over here, and start sucking on my toes, slave," I told him.
    "Yes, Mistress."
    He started on a big toe.  I had him well trained.  His mouth was only a
little wet, as the lips circled the ped and applied the slightest of
pressure.
    "Do you love me, slave?  Would you do anything at all for me?"  I
asked.
    "Yes, Mistress," he said, going right back to the toe.
    "I've done things for you, haven't I slut?  Things nobody else is
likely to do for you in this lifetime.  My what you would miss without
this," I said.
    "I know, Mistress Mary.  Thank you so much."
    "Do you want to be here forever?  Do you want to live here as a true
slave to your Mistress?"
    "Oh, yes Mistress," he confessed, to the point now where his penis was
doing the talking.
    "Kiss my leg, just above the ankle, slut," I commanded.  He'd rarely
gotten that far before.  I knew it would do things for him.  Joe started
kissing, maybe afraid to say anything for fear he would lose this chance.
    "What is the most disgusting thing I can do for my slave?" I offered as
a tease.
    "You can make me your maid, Mistress.  You can make me suck cock,
Mistress Mary," he confided, though it was no more than conditioning, a
place I'd often taken him to without prompting.  I had no doubt my slave
didn't have a gay bone in his body.  Still ....
    "You can start building a barn tomorrow.  I'll let you use a
contractor, and make the arrangements for a loan.  If you do this right,
I'll have proof that you really are serious about being my maid.  Do you
understand me, slut?"
    "Yes, Mistress," slut Joe said.
    "Very nice.  Now you can kiss my leg all the way up to the knee.  Don't
miss any skin," I told him.
    "Yes, Mistress Mary.  Thank you so much for letting me kiss your legs,"
he admitted.
    "That, of course, is an honor, now isn't it?  Yes, slut, you're going
to do exactly what I want you to do.  You're going to put up a metal barn,
and then you're going to make arrangements with that old man, and help me
buy back the land he ignorantly purchased.  Then you're going to sell that
family farm of yours.  It will take some time to sell, but we'll eventually
pay off the loans with what we make from that," I told him.
    "But, Mistress ..." he started.
    I cut him off.  "And, do you know why I'm sure you'll do what I want
you to do, you pathetic little whore?"
    "No, Mistress," he said, his lips reaching a knee.
    "You can start on the thighs now, bitch.  If you're good, who knows
what I'll let you eat," I teased.
    "Oh, yes, Mistress."
    "Well, the reason why I'm so sure you're going to do this is because
it's the only way you're going to become my maid.  In fact, it's the only
way I'm letting you back into my house.  Are we clear, girlfriend?"  I
asked.
    "Yes, Mistress," he said, a hint of deep despair in his voice.
    "The truth of the matter is, I've nearly finished the house, or at
least enough to make keeping a slave on the property no longer a
necessity," I threatened.
    "Please, Mistress.  I have plenty of work I can find to make things
better," he begged.
    "The business is going well ...."
    "Please Mistress.  I'll do anything," he was a mess.
    "Excellent.  There is one more thing, however.  Do you remember the
video camera I took some pictures of you with?"
    "Yes, Mistress," he said.
    "Well, I've taken a lot more video than you've noticed.  If you don't
do what I say, everyone around here will know how much you want to suck
cock, and how many times you've asked for it.  I have no doubt that the
actual act of sucking a cock couldn't compare to the embarrassment when
everyone hears your confession.  What do you think, slut?"
    "I think you're right, Mistress Mary," the slave confessed, kissing my
thighs.
    "Then we have an understanding.  I know it's a difficult thing, losing
your family's farm.  I tell you what; just to show you how much I
appreciate your sacrifice, here's something I want you to taste," I
offered, moving my robe aside and showing him my pussy.  My legs were only
a little apart, making him work for the first few licks.  After awhile I
realized he wasn't very good at it, though he was very enthusiastic,
probing with his tongue and sucking like I was the bottom of a bowl of
soup.  Well, he'll learn, I thought, throwing my legs apart and
surrendering to the touch of a man's mouth upon my pussy.  I took an hour
to orgasm and another twenty minutes to finish, not because it took that
long, but because I wanted it to take that long.  When he was done I threw
his clothing out the door, pointed him to follow, and locked the huge
wooden doors behind him as he stooped to retrieve his clothing.
    It was a long time before I heard from Joe again.


The Inheritance  Part II
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Sixteen:  Tiffany in the City
Mary's view

    I had been her only neighbor for a year before I got the nerve to stop
in at Tiffany's house.  It was a thin two story house, one of those with a
porch of rotting boards and a broad, unbroken front wall.  The siding was
shingle, and the roof tin, which I recalled made one hell of a racket in a
rain storm.  I knocked on a door stripped of paint by normal age and
unusual neglect.
    "Oh, hi!"  said Tiffany, her head in a towel and feet in elephant
slippers.  She held some man's robe closed at her throat with one hand.  I
detected a little embarrassment upon opening the door.  It was one of
those, oh-god-the-place-is-a-mess looks she'd given me.
    "Hi.  I just wanted to borrow a cup of platinum.  Thought I'd barge in
on you at an inconvenient time and ask," I said, trying to make her more
comfortable.
    "Well come on in.  Watch what you step on.  I was just about to clean
up," Tiffany lied.
    The place was a mess; that part was true.  Trashed actually, is a
better word, as if she'd not heard of the performer formerly known as a
trash can.  She had a dog, a plague I smelled at the door, and he'd laid a
couple dried deposits in a corner of the living room for that earthy touch.
He was hanging back, wagging his tail, waiting to jump on me and lick my
crotch like inbred dogs are compelled to do.  He came up and started,
scratching my leg as I held him back with both hands.
    "Down, Lenny!"  Tiffany said from the hall where she'd disappeared.  Oh
sure, I thought.  That ought to do it.  Where's a good cattle prod when you
need one?  The dog kept pestering me, so I gave him a kick.  He yelped,
stepped back a foot, and barked once.  I tried to remind myself that I
really do like dogs.
    "Fuck off, Lenny!"  I said.  He read my face and sat down.  I
considered that a minor miracle, and wondered if it was a previously
dormant side of my personality that had come to the surface due to my time
with Joe.  What was going on with Joe was troubling me.  I had not seen nor
heard from him for two weeks by then.  I'd decided to let Joe work it out
himself, but that didn't mean I wasn't suffering some significant pains of
withdrawal.  Fact was, it was worse then my last breakup with a steady
boyfriend; Joe had become a very real part of my life.
    "Is it behaving?"  Asked Tiffany when she finally returned to the
living room.  She had on jeans now, and a bra.  Her hair was combed
straight.  Her socks and shoes were in hand.  The elephant slippers were
gone.  From the look of the floor, going barefoot was probably an OSHA
certifiable biological hazard.
    "Wish I knew," I said, still worried about Joe.
    "Well Lenny's right in front of you," she said from the other
wavelength.
    "Good boy," I said with a scowl, and not at all convincingly.
    "He's a girl," Tiffany corrected.  Tiffany sat down on some newspapers,
the cleanest part of what used to be a couch.  She started putting on her
socks.  Her breasts were about a C, I remember thinking while watching them
sag deeply into the bra when she leaned over.  They sag that way when you
let ever leach in the neighborhood suck them dry, I recall thinking
unscientifically.  Of course mine sagged some too, though I told myself
from gravity.  I sat down next to her on a stack of Lady's Home Journal,
and sunk so deep I thought I might never get out of the hole.
    "So why did you name her Lenny?"  I had to ask.
    "That's my ex's name," she said at about the same time I started
wondering why I had to ask.
    An Italian Jesus was looking down on all of this from a cracked wall
where he shared space with a poster of Elton John and Princess Di.
    "I was going to the city for something to do.  I was wondering if you'd
like to come along.  On me," I offered.  That's how desperate I was feeling
about Joe's rejection.  I wished I'd never asked him to sell his farm; if
he came back I'd tell him that too, I'd decided.  Maybe it was for the best
if he could get away to his own place from time to time anyway.
    "OK," said Tiffany, giving me a hug.  I had expected a little snag
about how she needed to clean up a little first, but then realized how
silly of me to think that.  We were out the door in five minutes, and boy
was I glad.  I noticed she'd not put the dog out, though the mutt whined
when she saw Tiffany leaving.
    We shopped until the sun went down, and then we danced in two up scale
places full of men who were definitely a notch above diesel mechanics.  In
spite of that, at the last place Tiffany managed to find a table beside the
only guy I saw all night with a quarter inch of grease under every
fingernail.  I found an accountant; really - I asked.  It was so refreshing
that I didn't even notice he was supposed to be a geek.  Our dates had
absolutely nothing in common except they were both in the mood to fuck.  So
were we, me to get rid of my loneliness after losing Joe, and Tiffany
because she was Tiffany and it wasn't Sunday morning - well not until the
sun came up at least.  Sex apparently was the tie that bound our quartet,
because we ended the evening in the motel room Tiffany and I had reserved
earlier in the evening.
    We had double beds.  I turned off the table light.  Me and my
accountant tried to imagine ourselves alone.  That was difficult because
Tiffany was about as discrete as the Rush Limbaugh broadcasting network.
    "Oh, oh, oh, oh yes baby," she started at foreplay; I swear.
    I was losing interest because of the noise, and just kept kissing my
date like a teenager without an ounce of experience and a padlock put on
her panties by a father in the next room.  Somehow my accountant overcame
the chill and had me down to panties, bra and stockings, an accomplishment
I had to admire.
    "Yes, yes.  Oh yes, deeper," the slut next to us moaned without
interruption.  It was like she had a tank of air in her lungs and didn't
have to breath between the thrusting dialogue.  Her greaseball was bouncing
the bedsprings and knocking groves into the wall with the headboard.  I was
a little worried about the damage because the room was in my name.
    Sometimes I wish I had a tape recorder so I could save the Kodak
moment.  I just stopped kissing my man and listened, putting my finger up
to his lips as if telling him to shush.  He was a perfect gentleman,
holding me with unreasonable patience.  I felt his penis soften on my leg,
shrinking away to the size of a Vienna Sausage.  Damn you Tiffany, for
that.
    The moans became screams.  A couple of shadows paused in front of the
motel room curtains, and then moved off with unreadable dialogue.  During
all of this, I never heard as much as a grunt from her guy.  Men never
moan.  The only way a girl knows they're alive is by the size of their
penis sometimes.  By that standard, my date was close to post mortum.  I
touched his cock, running my fingers over all the interesting places,
cupping the balls, petting the hair.  The prick grew a little, and I had to
readjust the condom.
    Tiffany came.  I could tell because she stopped moaning for about ten
seconds, then came back to life with screams of, "Yes!"  Then another
pause.  For all I knew, he could have been strangling the bitch during
these pauses, it was such a vacuum by comparison.  I guess the guy was
going for seconds because after a little bit of a blow, they started
banging the wall again.
    I couldn't keep my date waiting all night, so I sat up and let him
unhook my bra.  Men enjoy doing those little things for us.  We took it off
slowly, letting him feel the cups move freely over my breasts.  I laid
back, and brought his mouth to my cleavage, then back up to my tongue.  By
the time he got back down to my nipples we were back from the dead.
Tiffany was still moaning, but we'd heard the worst.
    I was wishing it was Joe doing that, a little sad knowing that it
violated certain unspoken pacts we'd held between us.  But, there were
certain things I could make Joe do for me sexually and still feed that fire
of female domination he'd always need.  I ran my hands through the
accountant's hair, and then grabbed his skull in all ten fingers.  My hands
forced his face up away from my breasts.  The sucking pulled the nipple up
until it could stretch no further, and the breast bounced back down out of
reach.  I looked at him in the dark, seeing no more than a shadow, seeing
perhaps any man, seeing perhaps my Joe.  With the greatest of confidence, I
pushed his head to my crotch, sitting up a little as if in supervision, and
held his head away so only the tongue could reach my clit.
    "Don't you quit till I'm through with you, boy!" I said, letting his
head fall.  This I said in a voice above the moans from the bed next door.
He was good; he'd done this before.  I came in shudders far too soon,
clamping my legs around his ears.  When he returned, his cock was a
monster.  I found myself moaning, "Yes!" into the new quiet of the room.
It was Tiffany's turn to listen.


The Inheritance  Part II
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Seventeen:  Reconstruction
Mary's view

    The sound of a big engine woke me at the crack of dawn two weeks later.
Out here, a car makes a wrong turn and comes by about once every third
month, so it was a little unexpected.  I had made my bedroom in the room
over the study, so the view was to the front, and all I could see when I
looked out the window was Joe's pickup in the driveway at the far side of
the house.
    Since he had left I'd gone through the whole cycle, rejection, denial,
anger, acceptance.  So why was I thinking, my hair is a mess?
    The thing with the engine was tearing something down.  It seemed like
the noise was coming from the kitchen at the far end of the house
downstairs, and I had this image of an irate ex boyfriend taking a piece of
his investment back in rubble.
    Hurrying, I scooped up a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and a baseball
hat, and ran down the stairs to the back door.  There was Joe and a couple
other men, leveling the old barn with a big yellow bulldozer.  One of the
corner stones was about the size of a Volkswagen, and they'd hooked a chain
to it, bringing down a whole side of the derelict building.  I didn't know
what to do.  I didn't know what to say.  I didn't have a clue how to act
when he saw me.  I stepped back into the shadow inside the door's frame,
and watched frozen.  When he looked my way, I don't think he saw me.
    In about an hour the building was a heap of broken boards shoved to a
ditch near the property line.  The dozer kept on working, leveling that
whole acre, and pushing any extra dirt over the new heap until that part of
the property was flat as a pancake except for the new hill.  Joe talked to
the men a little more, pointing to the ground where the barn had once
stood.  Done, they hitched up the bulldozer on the flatbed and drove off.
Joe walked towards the house as I ducked to the hall, and then he circled
around to the front of the house.  There was a knock on the door.
    "Yes?" I said.  "Who's there?"
    "It's me, Mary.  I'm so sorry that I've not done the things you've
asked.  I had to think.  I hope you understand," said Joe from the front
door.
    I stepped out into the great room, and saw his face in the door window.
I thought I was going to cry.  As soon as I thought it, a tear came, and I
hid that side of my face, pretending to use a hand to rub something out of
an eye.
    "I'll be just a minute," I told him, backing back into the hall where I
tried to compose myself.  "Fuck!"  I said to the wall.  I felt like running
to the door and throwing my body at him - the bastard.
    "I love you, Mary.  I know you don't want me that way, but I don't care
about that.  All I care is that I get to see your face; that I'm near you.
I'll do whatever you want.  I've already put a for sale sign on my place,
and the men are coming tomorrow to do the barn," he said from the front
porch.
    I put my hands over my face, trying to stop the tears.  Then I started
laughing with joy.  I was about as stable as sweat and sour sauce.  What
was the matter with me?  I ran out into the front room, and threw open the
front door.  We looked at one another for a second and then I jumped,
wrapping my legs and arms around my slave Joe as he caught me in mid air.
We kissed like the long lost lovers we had fooled ourselves into believing
we had never truly been.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Eighteen:  The Marriage
Joe's view

    We kissed and made love, wasting the day after a year and three weeks
of denial.  After a while I went out to stake out the land for the barn
while she made me dinner in the still unrefurbished kitchen.
    Later, over baked chicken salad, she confessed, "I love you, Joe.  It's
something I took for granted, your being around.  It wasn't until you left
that I understood the empty feeling."
    "I love you too.  I have since the first time we met," I told her.  It
felt like a dream come true, those words, that day.
    Before the barn was finished and the land deals started we'd made plans
to marry the next month in a small church down by the highway.  Tiffany was
talked into being the maid of honor, something of a task since she'd never
approved of me from the start.  Mary was insistent that the colors be pink
and white just so she could have the satisfaction of watching Tiffany walk
down the isle in a derivative of red.  The fact that Tiffany was never the
wiser made it even more irresistible to my bride who smiled all the way to
the altar.
    For over a month the novelty of mostly pedestrian sex worked its spell.
Then one day, after a long day working the soil on the long neglected farm,
I came in dragging.  My penis fell asleep before Mary let the rest of me.
    "Is it me?"  She asked.
    "Of course not.  These things happen," I explained.
    "Am I boring you?"
    "It doesn't matter, Mary.  I don't have to have an orgasm to enjoy
having sex with you.  Sometimes, like when I'm tired, I just enjoy giving
you pleasure," I offered.
    "Are you sure?"
    "Yes.  Absolutely.  Cross my heart - hope to die.  You know that I get
a lot of enjoyment pleasing you."
    "Sure you don't want me to play with your nipples or something.  Maybe
you need some slut training," she teased, running her finger around my
nipple lightly.
    "You don't have to," I said, grabbing her hand, but then not taking it
away.
    She smiled, and leaned closer, bowing down to lick my nipple, and then
continue.  "You like this, don't you, slave boy?  You always did."  Her
tongue returned over and over.
    I really was tired, and knew I needed the sleep.  That, all of a
second, had nothing to do with this.  My penis was taking on life.  One
second I didn't and the next second I did; it was just like that.
    "Tell me you like it.  Tell me you want to be my slave again," she
continued.
    "I do, Mistress Mary.  I miss being your slave," I broke down and
confessed.
    "Oh you do?  Here, prove it.  Suck this.  Make it wet," she commanded,
dipping her finger between my lips.  I sucked it deeply until she removed
it and put it back to my nipple.  After a while her finger left my chest
and touched the tip of my cock, coming away with a strand of pre-cum
threading away.
    "Suck this," she commanded again, touching my lips as if she were
painting them, and then giving me a taste.
    "Oh, you are a slut.  Is that what you need to hear?  Is that what's
missing, slave?  Do you need some discipline?  I've been wondering if the
things we used to do could be abandoned.  I don't think so," She would not
relent.
    I couldn't stand it.  I begged, "Oh please, Mistress Mary.  Make me
your slut slave.  Make me your Maid, sweet Mistress Mary,"
    "Oh, I don't know.  My pussy might get lonely," she said.
    "I'll please your pussy with my tongue, Mistress.  I'll wait on you and
your lover as your cuckolded slave, Mistress," my confessions streamed.
    "Hum.  That's very tempting slave.  On the other hand, I was very upset
when you left me alone before.  What if you left me?  Sex with someone else
might be fun, but it's you I want to keep in the attic.  What if you get
jealous?"  She asked.
    "I would never leave you, Mistress.  You are my life.  I've given up
everything for you.  Where would I go?"  I said, not knowing if any of this
was a game for my orgasm or what, but at the moment, my cock was talking
and it was as sincere as it had ever been.
    "I would worry about it.  I'll need proof that you'll not leave me.  I
love you too much to bear it.  On the other hand, I loved you just as much
as a slave as I did in this bed, except for the cuddling.  We'd have to
cuddle once and awhile, even if you are a slave."
    "Yes, Mistress Mary.  I love holding you," I agreed.  Her hand went
down to my cock and started stroking the traitorous bastard.
    "I want you to write down all the things you want me to do to you.  Do
it tomorrow.  Put it down in writing, sign it, and then give it to me.
And, while you're at it, Mister, you can dig out that stash I know you're
hiding somewhere, and find some of those articles you probably read when
I'm not looking.  This time underline the kinds of things you didn't have
the guts to underline before.  I could tell, you know.  You weren't being
completely honest with me.  There were parts you'd fondled and not marked
last time.  You get up at six o'clock and get that done.  I'm sleeping in,
because I'm the Mistress," commanded my love.
    "Yes, beloved Mistress," I said.
    "And, this can wait until you're done.  In fact, it can wait until I
say.  No fidgeting," she added, tossing my cock aside and rolling over with
her back to me.
    The no fidgeting part was a lot harder than one might imagine.  A half
hour later she started snoring lightly, and I was nowhere near asleep.  My
hand touched my cock, but I dared not masturbate for fear of both waking
her, and losing the edge of doom.  If I came, I would not write a good
confession, and I'd not underline the most telling parts in my stash before
handing it to her, fueling my own destruction.  As a submissive, my wildest
desire was to give her all the rope she needed to hang me.  That's why for
the next hour I touched my cock only lightly, feeling it like the center of
some monstrous universe
  .  Somehow, in spite of these emotions and irrational thoughts, I found
sleep, only to jerk myself awake at a little after five.  I had not felt
that way since my childhood, waiting for Santa in the wee hours of
Christmas.  Before five thirty I crept out of bed, taking care not to wake
my Mistress from the bed we'd shared so pleasingly, and wanting very much
to run back to it so I could make love to my beautiful bride.
    Instead, my naked cock led me down the stairs to the study.  There,
near the back of the room, I had put my old computer.  Reaching into the
ventilation shaft, I extracted my stash of femdom newspapers, and found the
best reads quickly.  I opened several along the floor, laying them out so
they covered several meters of flooring.  My yellow marker scored every one
of my favorites without inhibitions.  She was my wife.  She had every right
to know my filthy desires.  There were five in all, each with one marked
fantasy, each more telling in order, not to mention the stories in them I'd
not marked, but also fondled.  I put the five on a stool and returned the
rest of the stash to its original hiding place.  Then I turned on the word
processor and wrote my list of confessions.
    In time, the sun came up over my back.  My mouse clicked on the print
icon, and I sat back, naked in the computer chair.  On the wall the rope,
still dangling behind me, threw a pair of vertical shadows, matched the
tower of my penis where it rose sharply between my legs, as if the three
were pledging allegiance to my destruction.  I was desperate to cum.  I was
so very, very desperate.  I fell to my knees in front of the printer and
watched the print slowly materialize in front of my eyes, spelling out my
request for eternal torment as I reread it excitedly.  I didn't know which
I feared most, her anger and denial of my pitiful compulsiveness, or her
acceptance of them
  .  Then a fatal thought hit me.  Up until that moment I'd been unsure if
I would be able to do it.  Life had been so good since we'd reunited.  But,
these things, I had realized, should be her choice, not mine.  The printing
stopped.  I tore off the paper, and set it on my marked stash.  Then I
carried it up to the bedroom, depositing it on my side of the bed.  She
stirred a little, but settled.  I closed the door slowly, and went
downstairs to attend my morning chores.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Nineteen:  The Arrangement
Mary's view

    My arm reached out for my husband, and found a stack of papers instead.
The clock said after nine, the latest I'd slept since my night out with
Tiffany a couple months back, since my new life with my new husband, and
since all this happiness.  It hadn't been like me, being this happy.  Joe
was the perfect husband, always attentive, hard working, easy to talk to.
Yet, in the back of my mind I had understood that he'd first come to me as
an offering of servitude.
    Up until the previous evening I'd waited, wondering when exactly it
would come to a point where he'd want more.  To Joe, the brief discussion
of the night before may have appeared to come out of the blue, but it had
no such origin; I had been thinking about it for a long time.  It was one
thing to enjoy a honeymoon, and an entirely different thing expecting a man
to overcome his addiction to a way of thinking about his sexuality.  In
truth, Joe had never stopped being my slave.  I could tell by the way he
eat my pussy, learning what pleased me by constant attention to my smallest
movement.  Even sexual intercourse was an interlude of submission; Joe
never came before I'd finished, often slowing to wait out my orgasms and
let them linger.  It wasn't his penis that was in me on those occasions, it
was his mind, being me, feeling what I felt through some kind of telepathy.
Oh, Joe did care about his orgasms, but not nearly as much as he did about
mine, and the thought that I might forbid his consummation and bring him to
that place of long mental brink called denial, well, I saw that too.
    A part of me had been selfish.  I had wanted a Cinderella lover, if but
for a time.  He'd been the perfect Prince about it too.  Yet, in the past
year, and more so since we'd decided to live our life together, I had read
a lot about the masochist.  It was a permanent malady, every book had said.
Some had even suggested that a submissive is unstable, apt to seek out
satisfaction outside of the marriage due to an uncontrollable compulsive
urge.  I had never seen that in Joe and suspected the thought a product of
what the author had a propensity to believe, even though when I'd read
about it, it had seemed such a natural extension of logic.  This was not
going to happen, I had decided.  Joe was mine.  I would learn to give him
so much of what he craved he'd have no time for anything else.  It was like
anything else, I realized; if a man needed sex, you gave him sex; if he
needed domination, you gave him domination.  If not, of course he went
somewhere else, though my Joe had only sought solace in his literature.  I
would see to it that he never went anywhere else.  After all, it wasn't as
if we'd not done it before, and of course, there could be advantages.
    I went to the bathroom, and the house was silent.  Back in the bedroom,
I looked out the window.  The day was beautiful, my front lawn a picture of
old willows and bluegrass.  I sneaked across the hall.  I'd made the room
opposite mine into my sewing room.  I didn't know a thing about sewing, but
there was an adorable rocker, vanity and a lot of old sewing equipment that
looked great sitting around.  I saw Joe in a pair of farmer's jeans out at
the far end of the fields, throwing stones against the old limestone wall.
There was a lot of work to do these days, but the fields had been plowed
and things could be left for later if need be.
    I yelled out the window, "Joe!"  He looked my way, catching my voice in
the wind.
    "I need some tea!  Then you can get back to work!"  I yelled at the
already overworked man.  He tossed another rock, and then came bounding
towards the house over the plowed folds like a puppy after a stick.
    Sitting back in my rocking chair by the back window, I sat a notepad on
the vanity, and started reading the stories, only briefly scanning the
confession I wanted to save for last.
    "Here's your tea, Mistress," said Joe when he got to the sewing room.
He walked towards me timidly, not knowing how to act exactly.  I cherished
his uncertainty; it was so cute.
    "Just call me sweetheart, and give me a kiss," I insisted.
    He came over with a smile and handed me the tea.  "Would you like
something else, sweetheart?  Some cookies or some breakfast?" He asked,
giving me a nice kiss on the lips.
    "Well yes, there's one thing.  I'd love for you to give me a back rub."
He came around the chair and gave one of his amazing massages.  There's one
thing I'll never be able to understand about women who don't like
submissive men; why in the world would anyone pass up the chance to have
someone give you a back rub on a minute's notice?  What a waste.
    I kept on reading his first highlighted story.  It was about some man
who had asked his fiancee to keep him as a slave and maid.  At first she'd
been reluctant.  There had been a split, and then she'd had him come over
and told him to greet her on his knees.  She ended by promising he'd have
this to look forward to every time he came home from work, handing down an
apron.  It was cute, but I knew Joe; it was his way of making an
introduction.  I just loved reading it while he was back there wondering
what I was thinking.  I picked up the printed confession I'd only scanned,
and handed it back to Joe.
    "I'm sorry, slave.  I should have been specific.  I asked you to hand
print this.  Could you redo it for me before I read it.  You also forgot to
sign it.  Sometimes I think you do these things just to get me upset with
you.  Did you, slave?"  I asked.
    "Oh no, my beloved Mistress Mary.  I just forgot.  I'll print it and
sign it right away, Mistress," he nervously said.  This whole thing was
just killing him, I could tell.  If he knew how much I had already thought
about it, I don't know, maybe he'd have been even more nervous, but I
imagined his nervousness was due more to his worry that I'd be repulsed by
his fantasies.
    "Then do that.  Don't come back until you're finished.  In fact, go to
the library in town and do it.  I want two copies and I want it notarized
before I see it again.  Is that clear, slut?"
    "Yes, sweetheart," Joe said.  His little mind was reeling over that
notarization part.  He'd probably go to the next town over to do that part,
and try to hide the top of the document while the clerk applied the stamp.
While he was living through that embarrassment, I would have the whole
morning to read up, and maybe go visit Tiffany, who'd been an enigma since
the wedding.
    "Then get out of here," I said, looking over my shoulder with a stern
upset look on my face that hid the laugh I could barely retain.
    "Yes, Mistress.  I'll be right back," he said, nearly running to the
door.
    "Kiss me first!"  I shouted.  He ran back.
    "I love you, Mary," he said, kissing me with a smack, then running back
out the door.
    "You'd better, slave.  I'll have some things for you to do when you get
back.  Something things totally demented.  And, don't touch that thing
between your legs!" I shouted after him.  I ran to the bedroom, and watched
him climb into the truck, his city shoes in his hand, as if he were late
for work or something.  The truck ran a little out of the driveway as it
backed to the dirt road and then disappeared in a cloud of dust.  I just
love pleasing my man.
    Going back to my chair, I picked up the next story, a little more
desperate, I noticed.  It was a story about a woman who was training a
slave named pissant.  He said he would do anything just to touch her
breasts.  She had offered him two years of slavery.  All he needed to do
was put his accounts in both their names and let her rent him out to a
woman she knew in a city a couple hundred miles away who owned a pool
cleaning company.
    Things got very nasty after that.  She took his money, and then had him
pose for all sorts of wicked photographs, one with a man's cock in his
mouth, which she said he hated, only holding the pose long enough for the
picture.  I don't think she had only two years in mind, because she went on
to say how some slaves were good for a few days, and others for a lifetime
- nothing about two years.  The worst part was she never let him touch
those breasts of hers.  From the photo provided, that seemed pretty cruel.
Well, we didn't have a pool, and I didn't have monster breasts, but after
all, it's the thought that counts.  Joe, coincidentally, was married to me
for life; there were parallels.  I jotted that down along with the note
about coming home to an apron.  I picked up the next three stories and
read.  Like I said before, things got very nasty after that.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty:  Prostitution
Mary's view

    After reading the last of Joe's stories, I hid the papers under my bed
and walked over to Tiffany's ruins.  She was surprised to see me as usual,
but had done some cleaning up - the old dog doo stains were gone, and
replaced by a matching pair in the adjacent corner.  The dog was chained
out back by a ten foot chain staked to a poll.  He had tied himself up so
the chain was only three feet long and he had to sit in the dried mud five
feet away from his bowl of muddy water.
    "We're having an ice cream next Saturday at the church," Tiffany
offered.
    "Oh, that's alright.  Joe and I are going to be busy," I said, not to
subtly from the couch.
    "You should come.  It might make things better."
    "Better?"
    "You know.  Between you and Joe.  I know how Joe is.  Masochist and
all.  Jesus can save you from that.  He can take away your sins.  There is
a gay man in our church who has been completely cured.  He's even getting
married next month," said Tiffany.
    "Lucky girl.  Now let me get this straight.  Jesus is curing gay
people?"  I asked.
    "That's right.  I tell you, he's even lost that thing he used to do
with his fingers," she said with a straight face.
    "Can I ask you something?"
    "Sure," she said, sitting down beside me.
    "Why would Jesus make a homosexual just to cure him?"
    "You can't blame that kind of thing on Jesus, Mary.  It's not right,"
she explained.
    "Sure I can, Tiff.  If you can blame him for the cure, why not the
disease?"  I said, putting my hand on her knee and licking my lower lip.
    "Cut that out," she said, moving over a little.  I guess Tiffany wasn't
all that used to big city humor.  I was having a fit imagining how I might
con her into going with me to a Goth concert next time we made the city.
    "Why can't you get serious for a minute.  There is something terribly
wrong with a man who wants a woman to wear leather panties and smack him on
the ass with a whip," scolded Tiffany.
    "Why?  It's historic.  It's not like some leather goddess in LA
invented it for some sex parlor trick."
    "Well, didn't she?  It's not natural."
    "Natural is only a matter of perspective," I said.
    "Don' think so."
    "Let me put it to you this way.  Imagine two possibilities, one that
Jesus exists and the other that either he doesn't or god is something else.
You get all dressed up and go to church, maybe several times a week.
Whenever you can, you remember the rules to being a good Christian.  You
pray a lot, and spend some time on your knees, always respecting god with
capital letters and humble solicitations.  It's hard, inconvenient, and
sometimes even painful.  You lose a bunch of sleep over it.  Avoid all the
stuff mother nature tells you, you want to do.  Then you find out your god
doesn't exist ..."
    "That's blasphemy," interrupted Tiffany, looking warily over her
shoulder towards the picture of Elton John and Di on the wall.
    "Maybe it is, but if your god doesn't exist, you've done a lot of
servitude for nothing.  That's pretty crazy, I'd say," I finished.
    "Well, he does, so that's not a problem, Mary," said Tiffany.
    "OK.  He does.  Then what?  You have a god who created the entire
universe, and he's so insecure he needs a bunch of humans to cower on their
knees, or else the flame pit."  I added.
    "We're free to do what we want to do.  Even you can deny Christ, Mary.
It's a choice god lets us have," advised Tiffany.
    "As long as we remember who is the Master and who is the servant," I
corrected.
    "I just hope god isn't listening to you now."
    "Well, if he is, I'm pretty sure he doesn't care all that much about
all the voodoo in church.  My point was that what Joe and I sometimes do
together isn't all that different from what a lot of people do in the name
of religions.  Think about it; if your religion is right, then that means a
good ninety percent of the world's population is bowing to gods that are
only in their collective imagination.  At least Joe is real.  At least I am
real.  We're not deluded, and we're definitely not an imagination.  I call
that pretty normal," I said.
    "That's sick," corrected Tiffany.
    "In America, a lot of stuff is sick.  We have a Constitution that says,
chapter six, verse nine, 'Thou mayest be sick and still live here, even in
Virginia, but beith careful justeth in case it costeth thou millions of
Caesar's coin in defending thy honor amongst those willing to garner votes
at the expensith of thy rights.'"
    "It doesn't say that," she said.  The look on her face seemed a little
uncertain.
    I could play along.  "Sure it does.  Look it up.  They talked that way
back then."
    "Not the part about Virginia," she said.
    "Well, OK.  I made that up, but the rest is pretty close.
    "It's like prostitution," she blurted, angling the thought.
    "We're married," I reminded her.
    "Well, I mean, when unmarried women do it."
    "I was unmarried."
    "For money," she said with exasperation, as if she thought I should
have known.
    "What if we're married, and he pays for it anyway?" I had to ask.
    "That's disgusting."
    "What if he gets arrested for drunk driving and they handcuff him, and
on Friday they pay the cop out of the money he pays in fine?"
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Maybe the cop's a woman?  Maybe he likes it?  Maybe she likes it?
Maybe she invites him over later and they do it again, and he pays her to
prod him with her nightstick?" I mused, as if making a discovery.
    "Does he do a lot of drinking too?" She asked, going to the kitchen for
a refill on her tea.
    "No, honey.  I would beat him if he did," I teased.
    "If you're not going to be serious, I'm not going to talk about this
any more.  I'll just let you rot in hell, and have to feel guilty about
it," she shouted from the kitchen.
    So much for that conversation; god forbid I should harm Tiffany's
delicate psyche.  "Say, Tiff, what if we go to the social?  Would you come
over for dinner later if we do?"  I asked, a glutton for punishment.
    "What are you having?"
    "Steaks or chicken, on the kiln.  You've not seen the place since we
heathen fixed it up," I told her.
    "Steaks are fine, and you can pick me up at two for the social," she
said, looking around the corner as if cured from her disgust.
    "Maybe after supper we can go out dancing," I added.
    "Can Joe dance?"  She asked.
    "He did at the wedding," I said, not telling her I had decided not to
bring Joe along.
    When I got home Joe was still out looking for a notary public who would
stamp his confession without raising suspicion.  No sooner had I sat back
down in my sewing room rocker than his truck came rolling into the
driveway.  He came running into the house, and up the stairs.
    "Oh, hi, honey.  Did you get the notary?" I asked, ready to send him
back out to the streets if he'd not.
    "Yes, sweetheart.  I have it here," said Joe from the doorway.  He
seemed unsure how to proceed.
    "Well then, get on your knees, and crawl over here so I can see it.  I
want to see how I'm going to keep my slut busy from now on," I said
seductively, parting my legs and facing him at my chair.  I had on jeans,
but women just don't spread their legs like I did and not raise a thing or
two.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-one:  Don't Try This at Home
Joe's view

    Confessions are a mistake, I've come to know.  Every girlfriend I've
ever had went through the same kind of process.  First they listen to your
fantasies and ask a few questions that pretty much tell you they're in
shock.  Things like, "I don't know if I'd be able to pee in your mouth.  It
would make me uncomfortable," followed by a few, "Hums," as if they're
thinking about a thing or two that they might want to try.  Sometime later,
usually not until after they've made you pay for your honesty with some ten
foot poll treatment, they'll give a thing or two a go after they've had a
few orgasms and are feeling good about it.  Something like, "OK, slut.  Get
off of your Mistress.  I want you to get on the floor and put your face in
the corner."  The games begin, a few swats, a little time alone while they
get a drink, some tickling and panties in the face, then the inevitable, "I
want to see you jerk off in your hand," thing, which comes across about as
valid as saying, "Well, come on, let's get this over with while I can still
stand the sight of you!"
    Here is a fact of life they should stamp on the back of every man's
right hand as a cheat sheet: If a man doesn't orgasm somewhere between ten
and thirty minutes into intercourse, with his eyes open, with moans or
grunts, and with no more assistance than a few casual bucks of his lover's
hips and gentle swaying of her breasts, the women will feel like she is no
longer turning the man on.  A man can be exhausted or have the pneumonia.
He can be making love to a woman who has treated him like dung for a week.
He can be mourning the death of a parent, be losing his job, finding out
he's ten thousand in debt to the IRS, have his mind on a fantasy he knows
he'll never experience, and none of this will make any difference.
    Eventually, regardless of the circumstances or honesty, not to mention
probably because of it, this impotence will be magnified, redefined and
parceled out of context in order to cause the man immeasurable pain since
the woman will forthwith feel it her god ordained duty to repay in
multiples of her own self pity regarding the situation.
    Don't even think about another course if you're a man; men are made
with imaginations that always get them in trouble.  The fact that women
have 30% less frontal lobes scientifically explain this; men are born with
extra brain mass, most of which is reserved like upper memory in DOS for
self destructive things like holding an arm around a movie date for two
hours and bar fighting.  Problem is, there's not one thing men can do to
avoid the consequences of this flaw.  I gave my Mary the damned confession,
fully aware of my own history with women, and why I'd come to feel that any
way I looked at it, evolution would ensure that I was making a mistake.
    Mary had always been different, but now she was my wife.  With any
perfect picture comes a frame, I'd seen in other marriages.  I knelt there,
wondering if I could keep her and still be a slave.  She read my confession
silently by the window.  I knelt at the foot of the now vacant chair,
obediently hoping she would accept my petition.
    "You are in a lot of trouble, slut," she said casually, reading on.
She walked behind me, and took a seat on my back.  Crossing her legs, she
dangled one, bouncing it nervously off to the side of my view.  After I
thought I couldn't stand the weight anymore, she leaned back, and dug her
fingernails through my jeans and into an ass cheek.  "Yes, a lot of
trouble."
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," I said.
    "I guess this means that a lot of things will have to be different from
now on, doesn't it?  A little more like the old days, maybe worse for you."
    "I think so, Mistress."
    "And, you'll still love me when I do this to you?  What about if I make
love to someone else in our bedroom?  Or, when I abuse you or neglect you?
Won't you get tired of this treatment after awhile slave?"  She asked.
    "I loved it when you did things like that to me last year, Mistress.
It only strengthened my bond to you," I confessed, knowing it was my own
horror story I'd written.
    "I wonder.  There was that part about not letting you cum.  No man
could stand that.  Let me read some of it back to you, oh here it is.  You
said, 'If you let me have intercourse, my wish is that you will only allow
your own satisfaction, and promise never to allow me release under such
bliss, forcing me to savor what I cannot experience, and saving you from
bother after the edge of orgasm has diminished.'  You wrote that.  With an
if; such attention to detail you have.  No more sticky cum in my pussy.  I
could get to like that most of the time.  On the other hand, what if I want
some cum in my pussy?  What if I want to feel sticky.  What if I want to
have a baby some day?"  Her hand came down between my legs and wrapped its
fingers around my balls.  She leaned back further, putting a few pounds of
pressure on the handhold so that my gonads bore a good deal of her weight,
painfully.
    "I don't know, Mistress," I said, miserable with submissive impulse.
    "I guess I can always find someone tall and handsome to spud me if I
feel motherly urges," she said, loosening her grip and standing up.
"You'll have to understand.  Well, I guess you do, because this is what
you're asking.  I don't know how many times I've heard you ask for it, come
to think.  Stand up, slave," she demanded.
    I came to my feet, and stood looking at her, enjoying her beauty, my
hands to my sides.
    "I want you to go into the bathroom and shave.  When you think you're
smooth enough, there is some Nair in the bath pantry, over the sink.
Follow the directions.  If you can't be my lover, and I plan on keeping
you, which I most certainly do, I guess we'll have to find another use for
you while in the house."
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," I said, walking past her towards the hall.
    "When you get to the underarms, I want to watch.  I want some video of
the last time you have hair under there.  Oh, and slut.  I think you should
know that I didn't really want this.  I just understand that it's the only
way I'm going to keep you happy.  If that means I have to make you into a
woman, I guess that's what I'll have to do.  Now get busy.  It's going to
take awhile," she said, a little bit of disgust on her face.
    I went into the bathroom, and tossed off my clothing.  Grabbing two new
razors from under the sink, I ran a hot shower, and softened my skin.
Sitting down with my back to the spray, I lathered my left leg, and felt my
fingers running through the fine hairs and foam.  Grabbing a razor, I took
the first swipe.  There was a bald streak up my leg over an inch wide all
the way from my ankle to my knee.  My god, I was doing this, I thought.  I
took another swipe, and in five minutes had one leg as smooth and bare as a
baby's butt.  Standing up, I let the spray of the shower clean off the
foam, and saw my hair draining down into the drain hole.
    I couldn't believe how like a female's leg mine had suddenly appeared
simply because the hair was gone.  This got me aroused, and I lathered my
crotch, soon pulling the skin of my scrotum tight so I could shave patches
of the tiny hairs on the tender skin.  Then, right up into the crotch, and
as far back as I could reach up the inside of my ass cheeks.  The last to
go there was the patch of hair above my penis.  I had no pubic hair.
Unmatched, I sat down and emasculated my second leg.
    This was all very erotic, but shaving my chest and arms seemed the
ultimate touch of self abasement.  The razor slid carefully around my
nipples, as I took on the appearance of a flat chested woman.  I squeezed
my breasts.  They felt like virgin plums.  Then I shaved my back by feel,
as far as I could reach.
    "Mistress!  I'm ready to do the underarms," I yelled.
    She was at the door in seconds, video camera in hand.  "Go on.  I'm
ready.  Strike a sexy pose.  That's a girl.  Now raise the arm up as high
as you can.  Put on the soap.  Very nice.  Very sexy.  Now shave those
underarms, honey.  That's it.  Take it all off for me."
    I started shaving my underarms, moving the shaver around at odd angles
to accommodate the strange angles of the body area.  The hair there was
long, taking a couple of lathers.  Switching to the second razor, I did the
second underarm.  This was going to hurt like hell when it grew back, I
thought.
    Then I said it, "This is going to hurt like hell when it grows back."
    "Don't worry about that, slut.  I want you to do it every other day.
Use the Nair once a week too.  You don't think you're going to get over it,
are you?  Like some day you're going to wake up and not want to be my
slave.  I wouldn't be doing this for you if I thought there was a prayer of
that happening, honey.  I've admitted it; you're a slave who has a secret
desire to be a woman.  I'm not going to spend my whole life living some
kind of lie.  You're a slut; get used to it.  Do the Nair now and come
downstairs.  I'll need a slut to make me some dinner.  And, be naked when
you get there.  I want to revel in your hairless body before I decide on
how to dress you," she said, closing the door behind her, and leaving me to
myself.
    I cleaned off the underarm hair with the shower, and found the can of
Nair.  Stepping out of the spray, I started applying it until I was coated
with a fine layer of the nasty smelling goo.  It tingled for ten minutes,
and then I washed it off.  A few larger pieces of hair from my back came
loose, and wandered down the drain.  Except for the hair on the top of my
head, I was completely hairless.
    I dried off, and cleaned up the room.  Finding some of Mary's floral
deodorant, I put some on and took stock in the mirror.  If I didn't look at
the details, I would have thought I was looking at some kind of female body
builder.  My crotch looked particularly strange, the penis less like its
own thing and more like a protusion from a pink and uninterrupted flow of
skin.  The wrinkles on my scrotum were pronounce and uglier.  Oh well; I
opened the door and the air felt cooler than I remembered it previously
being when it hit my new hairless body.  I rode it down the stairs to my
Mary.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-two:  Dinner
Mary's view

    Most women would think me crazy.  Tiffany already thought me foolish,
but I was no fool.  Joe had come to me from the first moment as a slave.  I
had indulged that when it was most convenient.  He had desperately needed
this unexplainable thing then; what would it serve me to hold his needs up
to some artificial, theocentric, moral code now?  I had studied morality,
and always felt utilitarian about the issue anyway.  When it comes to
judging one another, the very definition of applied morality, the only
standard of much use is the one that maximizes the good.  After all, that's
how everyone argues any perspective on their ethic anyway, in spite of
their normative claim.  In fact, it's the very definition of an argument,
my idea is better than your because ....  Joe's sense of satisfaction had
value, as had my need for someone to help me restore my inheritance.  If I
did this thing he needed, and did it well, he would remain content, as he
had been since I'd known him.  If not, what I got out of the marriage I
would deserve, and that moral consequence was truly an ethical negative.
These things become more significant when they relate to one's self.
    "There you are, slave.  I want some chicken and rice tonight.  Fry the
rice.  Serve for one.  Some tea first, and hand me the channel changer for
my television.  There's a good show on tonight.  If you're good, I might
let you listen," I explained, dismissing him to the kitchen.  Like a good
boy, he went right to work.  He knew how I liked it; he had cooked before,
but not much since our marriage.
    An hour later he was at my side with a tray.  "Dinner, Mistress.  I
added some orange for desert," he said.
    "Set it there.  Did I catch you looking at me, honey?  Never look above
my waist.  Is that clear?  We've not gone into detail yet, but just for
your general information, I expect for you to abide by every single rule
you suggested in that confession.  That means eyes down.  Is this
understood, slut?"
    "Yes, Mistress," he said, bowing meekly.
    "Good.  Then I guess I'll get comfortable and take off my blouse.  It's
warm in here, and you're not the only one who finds it relaxing in less
clothing.  There's nobody going to be looking at my tits bulging out around
my bra, is there?"
    "No, Mistress," the slave said, his penis sticking straight at me, but
his eyes on the floor.
    "Go eat some rice and an egg.  Your stomach's growling at me.  Not too
much; I don't want you wasting my food.  And, no seasoning; it's bad for
your health."
    "Yes, Mistress."
    The movie was good, just the kind of watery eyed thing we women love.
On a second channel a baseball game went unwatched.  I had endured a couple
of those in the past few weeks, but never again.  He must have eaten the
rice nearly raw, because he was back, kneeling at the foot of the cluster
of furniture in fifteen minutes.
    "I'm busy.  Go in the study and wait for me, kneeling of course, in the
middle of the room under your rope.  I'm going to torture you later," I
said, waving him away with my foot.  His eyes were so low I doubted he
could see my hand.
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," the pathetic man droned.  He was so useless as
company when he was this way, I was actually looking forward to giving him
some grief.  The very thought of that word torture was undoubtedly killing
him every second with anticipation.
    A couple hours later I sort of woke up from napping, finding my
television in the middle of the late show.  I got up, and refilled my tea,
and then walked into the study.  Joe looked really uncomfortable, having
knelt so long on the hard floor.  I liked it that way, priding myself in
being such a bitch when he needed it.
    "There's an ice cream social at Tiffany's church on Saturday.  We're
going.  Tiffany has some kind of idea that she's going to make me into
Church Lady, and cure you of your disease," I said as I walked around the
bowing creature I'd married.
    "My disease, Mistress?"
    "Yeah," I sighed.  "She thinks you're like a homosexual, and she thinks
that you and gay people have a kind of demonic mental illness.  She told me
they cure people like you in her church.  I don't know how you've managed
to live here all your life with these ignorant inbreeds.  Me, I just take
it as a joke."
    "Should we dress up, Mistress," the slave said, already a family man,
and being polite about the news that my friend knew our secret.
    "Of course not.  It's an ice cream thing.  I should make you go in
shorts and a T-shirt so everyone can see your pretty arms and legs though."
    "Oh, please don't, Mistress Mary," he said, the memory of the
experience with that notary public probably pretty fresh.
    "Then I guess you'll have to prove you don't need the humiliation.  Are
you ready to pay for my generosity?"
    "Certainly, beloved Mistress."
    "Fine.  I have just the thing in mind.  If you want to be allowed some
dignity at the social, then you're going to have to get all that humility
out where we can see it beforehand," I announced, going to a drawer in the
roll top desk and extracting the metal handcuffs and collar I'd sent Joe to
buy a few months back.  I walked over to Joe, and smiled.  My body was
right in front of him, not two feet away, and his eyes got so low, as he
tried to keep his view below my waist, that I could see that small bald
spot he had started near the back of his head.  I buckled the collar, and
then snapped on the little padlock.  Then I looped the handcuffs through
the collar near the back of his neck.  Done with that, I wandered behind
him, studying him like meat all the way around.
    "Give me your hands, slut.  There we go.  First one.  Now the other.
Very nice.  You look like a chicken, all plucked and with little chicken
wings.  How does this make you feel, honey?"  I asked.
    "Like a chicken, Mistress," he repeated.
    "Now for some rope.  We've never done this before," I teased.  I
wrapped the rope through the padlock once, and then tied it off.  I guess
he could untie it with some effort, but it would take more time than
whatever severe pain I had planned for him would last, and he'd be breaking
a sacred oath.  Just for thinking it, I wrapped the last foot of the rope
around his wrists once and finished with a square knot.  At the back wall,
I took up the slack, and tied my rope to the radiator.  I had my chicken on
his feet, his hands a part of his neck, those arms, showing their shaven
underarms, and ready to fly.
    "Can you breath?"  I asked from behind him.
    "Yes, Mistress," he answered with a quiver.
    "Good.  I want you to do something for me.  It's going to require some
breathing, I'm afraid," being sadistically.
    I went into my sewing room, and extracted the camera and tripod.  I
returned, setting it up in front of my slave.  For the first time, I saw
him sneaking some peaks at me and the camera as I bent over the equipment.
It was right in front of him, about stomach level, and aiming up at his
face so it caught his upper body from navel to head, and the seam in the
wall beyond where the wall met the ceiling.  A little of the rope showed
when he turned a bit.  I could sell this stuff to that creep at the adult
store, I was thinking; it was so perverse.
    "OK.  I think we're almost ready."  I went back to the desk, and got my
chair, setting it up right behind my slave husband.  I had a little riding
switch I had enjoyed in the past for riding Joe around the house.
    "Spread your legs a little.  That's good.  Now here are the rules.  I'm
going to sit behind you in my chair.  If I get tired, I might just go to
bed, so you'll need to work at maintaining my interest or I'll go to sleep
and you'll be here all night.  You, on the other hand, have about three
hours of tape to fill up.  The tape's name is Mister Lenny.  Can you say
that?  Mister Lenny," I asked, amused, thinking about how Tiffany's ex
husband might view the sacrilege of his 'good' name.
    "Yes, Mistress.  Mister Lenny," said Joe.
    "Excellent.  You just pretend you're all alone.  I'm not here.  Not one
word of recognition that I'm here, or anyone is coercing you is acceptable.
When you fell my stick on your back, you're doing fine.  When you feel it
touch your balls, you're not being honest or most probably off track.  When
you feel it playing with your asshole, you're being implored to explore
that thought in a little more detail.  You know, deeper, baby," I
explained.
    "What should I talk about, Mistress?" He asked.
    "I'm not particular.  You can talk about Mister Lenny, and how big his
cock is.  You can talk about being a girl, or a slave.  Tell him how good
it feels in panties and with shaved legs.  You can ask him to fuck your
wife so you can eat his cum out of her pussy.  Whatever you think Mister
Lenny might like.  Maybe he might like it here and decide to take your
virginity too so he can have two women at once.  Maybe he wants a slave and
wants you to himself.  You can tell him all about your skills as a servant.
Make a sales pitch.  Let it wander.  If I think you're off track, I'll prod
your balls"
    "Yes, Mistress," the poor boy said, forgetting all the rules and
looking right at my tits.  That's alright; I kind of liked the attention at
the moment.  I'd let him get away with it, and then use it to mess with him
some other day.
    "Good.  Remember; on the back means you're doing fine.  On the balls
mean you're doing pathetic enough to make me sleepy.  And on the ass means
you need to explore that thought a little more.  I'm not here; I'll be
below the camera angle, so try not to flinch.  Oh yes.  I forgot to
mention.  After the social, me and Tiffany are coming over for steaks on
the grill and then the two of us are going out on a manhunt.  You know,
Saturday night is find a date night for us girls.  Maybe I'll show her the
tape.  Depends on how bad it is," I explained, turning on the camera.  I
returned to my chair.  He was speechless, so I smacked his nuts with a
wicked upswing.  Still, he said nothing, forcing me to push up until I
found that place doctors check for hernias.
    "Oh, Mister Lenny.  I ... I was just standing here, thinking about you
and your big cock ..."
    My stick rubbed his thigh, and then up the inside of his crotch, before
rubbing along the crack of his ass, and finally probing.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-three:  Before the Ice Cream
Mary's view

    I spent two days doing most of Joe's work.  Only needing to work peak
hours at the store, I spent my early mornings and afternoons stacking rocks
on the trailer and feeding the chickens and pigs.  This was all very new to
me, and I enjoyed the novelty of the back breaking labor.  Joe slept
through most mornings, having spent most of the last two nights learning
how to stand and pace in his heels, always bound under the ropes with
enough slack to get the job accomplished.  I had told him what to do, and
grabbed a few hours of sleep, setting the alarm.  Someone had to get some
sleep; the farm must go on.  He cleaned the house in the afternoons, and in
the evenings, I relaxed as my slave grew accustomed to serving as a maid.
He tried his best to not wobble in the three inch heels, and was studying
makeup using, of all things, a Seventeen magazine as a study guide.  I
guess all novice girl need sweet inspiration.  He would come out of the
bathroom all glowing, and I'd tell him to understate.  After a few times of
that, he'd be down to pinks and light flesh, so I'd say, "Isn't that sweet.
But, don't you think you've lost that touch of whore," and he'd go back
like a trooper, probably knowing I was messing with his mind, but
enthusiastic just the same.
    On Friday night I gave him a break.  We ate a meal together.  I gave
him furniture privileges, and we cuddled on the sofa, watching a video I
knew we'd both enjoy.  At a reasonable hour, we went to bed.  He got the
message, and started foreplay.  I pulled him towards me, and like magic he
was on top of me, his penis an inch from my virgina.  My legs spread, and I
pulled his face to my mouth where we shared tongues.  He teased me with his
prick, letting it touch me, and then backing away.  I wrapped my legs
around his back, and felt his cock as I forced it into my pussy.  Still, he
only let it in an inch, knowing how that made me hot.  I tried to arch my
back, but he pulled away, taking my body with him as my legs held tight.
There had to be something done about this, I thought, out of control with
lust for his hard cock.  I wanted it deep, and I wanted it right then.
    "Please, Joe," I pleaded.
    "What's that, baby?" He said.
    "You know.  Get that goddamned cock in me, you prick!"  I begged.
    "Where do you want it?"  He tormented.
    "I want it in my pussy.  I want it deep inside of me," I said, grabbing
his hair, and pulling it out of his head in two directions.
    "When is that?"  He said.
    "Now.  Right now.  Fuck me!  Fuck me, Joe!"  I demanded, slapping my
hands across his back.
    "It's already in there," he teased, sliding the cock in and out that
one miserly inch.
    "The fuck it is!"
    "Can't you feel it, Mary?"
    "You bastard!  Fuck me!"  I told him, slapping his face.  Of course, I
didn't hit him that hard.  For one thing, it was right up against mine, we
were in fact trading kisses between dialogue.  Still, I kept hitting him,
and we both were loving it.
    He pulled his cock out.  I don't know how he managed.  I was doing all
I could to keep it from happening, but just as suddenly it didn't matter as
he put it right back in.  The penis was hard and primed and aimed like a
rocket.  He pulled it out again and then right back in again without a
hitch, making the most of that one inch.  Then, once again, the cock was
gone.
    After that, the most amazing thing happened.  He put it inside of me
and slowly, a fraction of an inch a minute it seemed, slid the torpedo as
far as it had ever gone.  When it was all the way in there, I just nearly
died, clamping my muscles around the penis like it was treasure.  We waited
like that, breathing.  Then, after a few seconds, I could feel it moving
out.  I didn't mind that at all.  In fact, I just let it go until it slid
all the way out.  There was a second of nothing but pure sugary
anticipation, and it came right back, first touching my cunt lips, and then
parting them, and then impaling me, and then filling me like a fat finger
in a tight leather glove, slowly wandering forward, like a summer river.
    We fucked for half an hour, so slow and steady that the idea of
spoiling it with an orgasm was entirely out of the question.
    Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer.  I told him, "You can fuck me
now, Joe.  I want you to fuck me deep and hard, and I want you to last so I
can have an orgasm.  And, when I'm done with you, I'm going to have you so
horny you'll give your left nut just for the chance to cum in my pussy.
And, then, do you know what I'm going to do for you, slut?"
    "No; what, Mistress Mary?"  He asked.
    "Oh, that's easy.  I'm going to stop.  I'm going to leave you totally,
completely, mercilessly frustrated.  I'm going to go to sleep, and you're
going to hold me, and be a complete mess," I told him.  Oh yeah, now it was
his turn to not be able to stand it.  His cock grew even harder thinking
about the brink it was going to get to, and he started to fuck me a good
stroke every couple seconds.  I rubbed my nipples, and he took one that I
offered into his mouth.  I have no idea why, but it took me almost ten
minutes to start a series of mind blowing orgasms.  He had to pause a few
times just to keep from blowing it.  When the orgasms hit me, one after the
other, they rippled through my body.  When I was done, my legs were dog
tired from where I'd gripped my man's body, and it seemed as if every
muscle in my body collapsed.  His cock sensed my heavenly debilitation, and
his thrusting slowed to the old massage of one thrust a minute.  I was wet,
and I knew he was having a hard time keeping from cumming.
    My instincts kicked in, and I wanted him to cum so badly.  Oh yes, I
wanted to please him, and feel his cum fill me, and feel his cum ooze out
of my pussy.  I wanted so much, just once to feel him cum.  And, of course
he did too, I could tell.  And he also wanted to not cum.  I knew that just
as well.  He wanted me to be a real tough, heartless bitch.  That wasn't
all that easy to do at the moment because I definitely wanted him to cum.
After all of that, I told myself, I was going to be selfish and make him
cum.  No!  It was like my head was struggling to obtain some higher,
invisible cause, some kind of reconciliation with a sexual photo negative;
a just plain no!  He'd done everything he had to do to earn at least that
much consideration.  He'd earned the rights to all the torment my feelings
achingly suggested they were incapable of giving.  Oh yes, I most certainly
wanted him to cum.
    I looked him in the eyes, and smiled with warm passion, egging him
right up to the rim.  The thrusting had paused to an almost standstill by
then.  He looked back at me with eyes full of the primal heat of a man lost
in tormented desire.  My hands went to his hairless chest, and touched his
nipples.  I flattened my palms, just under his breasts.  My breasts heaved,
my nipples hard and looking sweet to the taste.  My smile was so knowing.
I saw him look at them with incredible lust.  I pushed gently against his
chest, and felt him yield to my pressure, rising until all of his weight
was on his knees, his penis bending like a spring inside of me.  Still, his
cock was buried deep in my pussy.
    I licked my lips, and said, "Get off of me, slave.  I'm done with you,"
in a soft, matter of fact voice.  I pushed harder, only able to reach his
stomach.
    He looked down at my hands working near the crotch to push us apart,
his face full of both the pain of disappointment, and the torment of
submission.  Then, slowly, after a two seconds of denial, his glistening
prick twitched unspent from my pussy.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-four:  Ice Cream
Joe's view

    My penis was hard, and maybe a little red when Mary opened the bathroom
door Saturday morning.  I was supposed to be shaving myself.  She had felt
a little stubble in bed the previous night.  Instead of devoting myself
exclusively to shaving, I had lathered and was taking too much time, hoping
I could squeeze an orgasm in before she became suspicious.  My balls ached
from the night before, and I'd only slept in fits, though I'd appreciated
the feeling of my Mary's body more than I'd disliked these inconveniences
as I had held her body in her sleep.  I looked up at her, a sheepish
glance, my hands having found a leg of foam to rub.  My breath was still
heavy, and my pulse a million miles an hour.
    What are you doing?"  She asked, her hands on her hips.
    "Nothing, Mistress.  Just enjoying the lathering," I lied.
    "I see," she said, probably not believing me, but letting it drop.
"Did I see you look at my face without permission, slut?"  She said,
changing the topic.
    "Yes, beloved Mistress Mary," I confessed, knowing I had, and had been
for some time.
    "That's not allowed, is it.  See to it that you keep your eyes where
they belong.  I'll let you look at me lovingly at the ice cream social.
Before and after that, the rules are there to be obeyed.  I've let you
slide on this one, but it has been adding up.  You owe me some discipline
later for it, whore."
    "Yes, Mistress.  I'm sorry."
    "Oh, I know you're sorry.  You're not even man enough to cum after
what, almost an hour of intercourse?  That's pretty much what I call
sorry," she tormented.
    "I'm not worthy of such an honor," I said, trying to get past it, my
mind already a mass of lust.
    "Don't worry your little head about it, slut.  I'll find someone who
can do it for you.  Maybe tonight after Tiffany comes over.  We have a full
day ahead of us, don't we?  Do me a favor, and don't masturbate; it would
ruin things for us both," she added, looking at me with a face that said
she'd known all along.  She left the bathroom, letting the door stay open a
crack.
    It was hard, but I ignored the stiff cock, even when it got in the way
of my shaving.  Done, I put on what had become the usual bra and panties.
The extras for the day were the garters and hose.  Over this I had the
luxury of blue jeans and a loose sweatshirt.  I added some white socks and
brown shoes.  If I leaned down, someone might catch a glimpse of the bra,
so I rehearsed reminding myself to stand up straight.
    Mary was all aglow this morning.  We picked up Tiffany at her house by
honking the horn.  She ran down the driveway, and Mary had me open the
truck door for her like a chauffeur.  Tiffany got up front with the rest of
us instead of squeezing in the hub.  Up till then I managed to only look
below my Mistress's waist, a lovely sight all by itself, but she took my
chin with a finger and let me kiss her with Tiffany fidgeting for comfort
in the seat beside her.  I took it as a sign that I could lift my gaze
until after the social.  It's amazing how a little of that downward eyes
stuff can make the sight of her face and breasts all the more breathtaking.
    A bunch of people at the social shook my hand, calling me Brother Joe
and calling Mary Sister Mary.  We were invited to Sunday services maybe a
million times.  I had never been much for religion, having been literally
forced to go to church up until my parents died two years after high
school.  I guess maybe I blame that on god, and thought it's appropriate
that I do because he gets so much praise for anything good that happens to
the human race.  The religious know-it-alls at the funeral tried to comfort
me, telling me how god had his plan.  If there is a reason for a kid to be
left alone on the planet at the age of twenty, I figure it's a pretty
damned stupid one.  I never gave the church much thought after that, and
since the funeral left me without someone to make me feel guilty about
backsliding, me and the church just kind of went our separate ways.  The
further that went, the more they looked silly to me.  So, knowing Mary was
pretty anti-religious, I found myself feeling like we were ducks in a
cement pond.  Mary, on the other hand, was living it up, talking to
everyone in sight, and acting like the virgin herself.  I found that
wonderfully amusing to watch out on their church lawn.  This was a talented
lady I'd married.
    Half way through the cups of ice cream and coffee, she looked at me
with one of those, I'm-going-to-do-something-crazy, smiley eyes of hers and
then turned, bumping me with pistachio right where the elastic of my bra
connected the two cups.  Of course, this was on the sweat shirt, but she
started rubbing with a napkin, and the roughness of the napkin's travels
could have given me away to a careful observer.  Before anyone did though,
she stopped and said, "I guess we'll have to go into the bathroom and fix
this," leading me off into the back of the church and to the usual two
doors.  We walked into the ladies, and she snapped the mechanical lock on
the door.  Mary turned on the sink faucet, and let it run.
    "Now, baby.  Right here," she said, touching my penis through my pants
and rubbing.  She licked her lips.  Her fingers groped at my belt.  In
seconds, my pants were down to my ankles, the panties, garters and hose in
plain view.  Behind me, the window was cracked, and the sound of the people
talking on the lawn around the corner seemed inches away.  She took the
panties, and pulled them down in front, tucking the elastic under my balls
so all of my genitals were bulging and cupped in her hand.
    "Oh, Jesus, Mary," I was dying with desire.
    "In here?"  She asked, always the perfect prick tease.
    "Yes.  Right now," I begged.
    She didn't have to be asked a second time, falling to her knees.  My
hands touched her hair and shoulders.  She parted her lips, and in one
gulp, swallowed my cock.  I started swaying.  My belt buckle tinkled like a
tiny chime with each thrust.  I started to sweat.  Mary moaned.
    Someone tried the door handle, and then knocked.
    "Just a minute," Mary moaned, it coming out something like, "Mith a
mimute," her mouth still full of cock.  She kept on sucking me.
    I filled her mouth with my growing meat, and it slipped down her
throat, then recovered.  Her hand caressed my balls, egging the sperm on.
    "Oh, god," I moaned, unable to stop the words from forming.  A second
person had come to just outside the door, and the two out there were
talking about how a success the social had been so far.  I couldn't agree
more, as my beautiful bride's mouth tightened, and I started to thrust
something like a hundred beats a minute.  Her eyes were down there, pouting
up at me, absolutely thrilled to be doing this in such a public place.  I
couldn't stand it any longer, and with a few more strokes, started to cum
in her mouth.
    She moaned, "Mummm," opening her mouth, and stroking the cock so the
squirts of cum landed everywhere inside, though on her tongue mostly.  Her
mouth was wide open so I could see the white fluid land and settle.  Even
when I'd finished, she still stroked gently, letting me feel the whole
coarse of pleasure.  Done, she pulled up my pants, and zipped the zipper.
The zip, one parting shot, seemed loud enough to wake the dead, I imagined.
    "Is everything alright in there," a busybodies at the door asked.
    "OK," Mary shouted, that coming out like a loud gurgle as she tried to
cradle the cum on her tongue.  She closed her mouth, and smiled beautifully
at me, throwing her arms around my neck.  We kissed, mouths closed.  Then
we kissed again.
    "Want some, slut," she whispered into my ear.
    "Yes, Mistress," I offered, wanting to please her.
    "Too bad," she whispered back, swallowing with a loud gulp.  Then we
French kissed, and I could taste it anyways, because her whole mouth
smelled like my cum.  Knowing her mind, I knew then and there that we were
going back to the social, and she'd be completely consumed with joy knowing
everyone she talked to would be guessing at how she got that breath odor.
    "Can you hurry?" One of the women outside the door continued, maybe in
need, I was thinking.
    "We'll be right out," I said, without thinking.
    Mary laughed quietly, and wetted a paper towel, finally washing most of
the ice cream stain away.  We opened the door to three desperate and
disapproving ladies.  I smiled, and pointed to the wet spot on my shirt,
which didn't seem to help a lot as they scowled and all three disappeared
into the bathroom as a hussy team.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-five:  When the Ice Cream Melts
Mary's view

    "Oh, hi.  Lenny dear.  I've been wanting to speak to you," I'd said in
my best southern accent, which I was sure sounded kind of like a Kennedy
with a tit in his mouth.
    I had been watching Tiffany, and seen her glancing at the man ever
since we'd gotten there, so I made a guess it was Lenny.  Lenny had a tiny
crucifix pinned to one lapel, and a bible pinned on the other.  His haircut
I'd seen on Elvis's bass player on some early sixties beach movie.  His
wife was young, but more than a little protective of her deacon.  A couple
of rug rats kept running up so they could grab at her legs every time they
needed attention.  I had waited until the pests found some trouble to get
into before I walked up to talk to Lenny.
    "Hello.  I have no recollection having met you, young lady," the prick
said.  The tone of his voice said he was trying to be nice, but all I felt
was a condescending echo and a hint of a pick up line way back there near
the tonsils.
    So, there I was, talking to the Lenny himself, his wife and the parson
of the church waiting with smiles, anticipating me starting something
social.  I was hoping they'd catch a whiff of Joe's cum on my breath, but
thinking it unlikely.
    "This young lady is Mary.  She came with Tiffany," explained the parson
whom I'd already met.
    "Oh, he knows me, parson.  He's just being shy.  Lenny's just that kind
of guy in a crowd.  I just wanted to say hi anyway," I said, smiling and
stepping up to Lenny so he couldn't get away when I gave him a nice big
hug.  Fumbling at his jacket pocket, I slipped in a note I'd scribbled a
few minutes earlier.  I really didn't care if anyone noticed, letting fate
decide which avenue it provided for my fun.  Stepping back, I guessed
nobody had.  It said, simply, 'Hey, doll.  I'll be at the Rocking Rooster
round eightish if you want.'
    "Excuse me," said the woman at his side, trying to be nice and set her
foot down at the same time.  What charm, I thought.  I'd be telling the
bitch to fuck off, but thinking back, I doubted she had the moral ground to
say much of anything, considering how she'd robbed the prick from Tiffany
in the first place; not that Tiffany didn't get the better end of the
bargain from what I saw.
    "And you're," I said, unclenching her husband, and pretending
ignorance.
    "Mrs. Randall," she offered, holding out her hand with a
no-hard-feelings gaze.
    "That's nice," I said, shaking her hand briefly.  I always found the
tact of quick, impersonal vagueness impressively poisonous at just the
right times.
    "Well parson.  I have to confess, I've never had such delicious sweets.
Up north everything not fast food is deli.  We eat kosher pickles for
deserts.  Have to travel to Hershey just for a bit of chocolate.  You
certainly know how to live in the south," I buttered, dropping the failing
southern accent in favor of Massachusetts blather.  I mean, if you're
deceptive to everyone, the whole thing sort of misses the point.
    "Well thank you; and you come back Sunday.  We'd like to have you," he
added, the very intent of all this eating stuff, I understood.  Everybody
is after something, I guess.  I walked away, taking that thought with me.
The more I thought about it, the more I appreciated my masochist.  Not that
a submissive isn't after something, but what he's after is kind of swimming
inside of his own head.  It's not like I'm going to have to pony up later.
No, a slave is like the Everready Bunny; it just keeps on giving and
giving.  Not like these people: They pump you with some ice cream, and want
you on the dotted line the second day.  Politics; the art of obligation.
They even had me feeling guilty, and I hated damned near everything they
stood for, from their male centered deity to their white trash politics.
Not that I wouldn't consider coming back.  In fact, I'd love to drive a bus
into the city, and bring along about fifty drag queens from some gay bar
for the 'cure'.  They could stay at the mansion; lord knows there's enough
room.  In fact, thinking about that started seeming less wicked and more
like plain old party fun.  We had not had an open house party yet.
    I collected my pair of people and we went home.  Tiffany walked up the
restored mansion stairs in awe.  It had never looked this good, and for
some reason she had avoided the place up till now, preferring to call and
have me over at her dump instead.  I gave her the tour, avoiding the study
which I hid behind a shut door.
    "What's in there," she asked when we passed it.
    "Oh, that's where I beat my slave," I explained offhandedly.
    "You kidder," she scoffed.  I let it sit.
    I had sent Joe upstairs to change into what I had laid out in the spare
bedroom.  We found our way upstairs too, but went in the opposite
direction, finding the attic stairs.  The boxes of old clothing had been
sorted and reboxed by Joe months earlier, and we took advantage of the
organization, playing dress up like we were kids again.  We finished
wearing some flapper era swimsuits, over which we had the sense to wear
shorts, open shirts and long socks to fight the chill.  By the time we were
done, Joe was out back cooking the steaks.  He'd prepared a tray of
veggies, and a cooler full of wine coolers, setting the goodies up on a
picnic table on the wide brick porch.
    Tiffany and I found some lawn chairs with lawn tables by the table with
coolers and veggies, and didn't pay a lot of attention to the cook as we
reminisced old times we had shared in the attic.  Across the patio, Joe
turned around with a steak on a fork, causing Tiffany to stop her rambling
mid sentence.
    "Isn't that apron kind of feminine?" She asked.
    "Oh, not as feminine as the panties and bra he's wearing under the
sweat suit," I explained.
    "You're not?" She said, frowning displeasure.
    "Of course I am.  Joe loves being feminized.  He doesn't even own male
underwear anymore.  I find that he's a much better slave when I keep him
this way," I added, Joe just out of earshot over the sizzling steaks.
    "That's terrible.  You'll make him gay," she scolded.
    "Butter or sour cream?" I asked, trying for something less critical.
    "What are you going to do when you come home and find him in bed with
some gay wrestler or dance instructor?"  She continued.
    "Oh, he'd never do that," I assured.
    "Why not?"
    "Because I have pictures."
    "Of what?"
    "Well, just the other day, I got one of him shaving his underarms.
Videos, in fact.  I've never had to threaten him with them, but if it came
to it, he'd know and think twice.  Besides, he's more likely to find me in
bed with a wrestler or a dance instructor.  In fact, I think he'd like it
if I did," I said.  Joe was putting two nice T-bones on plates, and adding
the potatoes.
    "He shaves his underarms?" Asked Tiffany with one of her sour faces.
    "Honey, he shaves everything.  I hate it when he's stubbly."
    Joe brought over the steaks.  Tiffany's eyes traveled up and down Joe's
body.  They seemed to get stuck when they got to the bottom of his cuff and
noticed the beige sheen of his hose near the ankle.
    "Joe, take off your sweat suit, and let Tiffany see what we're wearing
today," I said.  Joe untied the apron, then pulled off the sweater and
warm-up pants.  In his bra, garters, stockings and bulging panties, it was
almost like a whole different person.  Tiffany was too shocked to speak,
holding her plate over the table like she dared not set it down.
    Joe was looking kind of red in the face too.  Yet, I knew he would step
off a cliff if I asked him.  "Be a dear and eat your bread and water in the
kitchen.  When you're done, you can lock yourself in that cute little dog
cage we got the other day.  I know how you've been dying to suffer in there
ever since we got it.  Don't worry about this; we'll put our dishes in the
dishwasher ourselves before we go out.  Now hurry along," I insisted.
    Joe picked up his sweats and apron, and scampered into the back door of
the house.  I don't think Tiffany was psychologically ready for that,
because she'd nearly finished her meal before she said the next thought.
That, when it came, was about the ice cream social, the weather, and how
much she was looking forward to the Rocking Rooster.  I felt so demented,
knowing how the unspoken word is the one always at the top of the churn.
    And, of course, while I was worried about Tiffany's little thoughts, I
knew my Joe had finished his meal before either of us had, and was already
in the study, tucked inside of the three by three by four dog cage.  Only I
knew the combination to the lock.  Those steel links would be incredibly
hard on his pantied ass well before we even left the driveway for our
evening fun.  I just loved it when I found something particularly wicked to
please my slave.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-six:  The Cage
Joe's view

    The first thing I noticed was that when I knelt for more than a few
minutes, the wire floor of the cage dug rectangular wedgies into the skin
of my knees.  I wondered how dogs could put up with this and still come out
wagging their tails and licking the master's fingers.  I sat down, and had
the same problem on my ass.  I imagined that if I changed positions enough,
a likely scenario, I would soon be pretty checkered.
    Mary and Tiffany had come in.  I heard them puttering around in the
kitchen, and then ascend the stairway.  The boards upstairs squeaked of
footfalls.  Then, after some time, time I imagined the two used to change
into evening attire, they came bounding down the stairway like two kids
late for the school bus.  The feet scampered in my direction.
    The door to the study was thrust open.  Mary stood in the doorway.
Anticipating this, I had regained my best kneeling position.  My head was
down so I could only see her legs well back from my side of the room some
thirty feet distant.  Back, behind her in the hallway, Tiffany's legs were
in shadow.  They just stood there, probably admiring the view, as my
Mistress showed me off to her lifelong friend.
    "You be good now, and don't go anywhere.  I'll probably be back late,"
Mary finally said.
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," I stammered, feeling very much on display.  The
door shut with a thump and a click.  They walked away more quietly than
they'd appeared, and were soon out the front door, it too banging shut.  I
could hear Mary locking it with the old skeleton key, and then ride off in
her Mustang.  I could hear the engine roar and then fade, imagining myself
still hearing it a little even after I knew it well gone.
    Evening was dropping fast as I sat in my cage, shifting every several
minutes to move the metal wires to fresh flesh.  It seemed like regardless
where I sat, I was digging the same grooves.  Eventually I laid down, and
tried to get comfortable.  After awhile I needed to stretch, but that was
definitely the most sadistic thing about the cage.  Unable to do what I'd
always taken for granted, I started getting claustrophobic.  I felt like I
could hardly breath lying on my back.  Panic started to take over, and I
had to get back to my knees, where I reassured myself that the cage was
wire mesh; there was as much air in here as anywhere else in the room, I
kept telling myself until I'd calmed.
    Most of an hour passed while I knelt.  My knees hurt like hell, but I
didn't have the courage to even sit down.  Finally, exhaustion took its
toll, and I sat down, finding it less eventful than I had feared.
    The sun was gone, there was no moon, and the room was black as a cave.
I could hear mice scampering about, creatures I had battled with success,
only to find them reappearing a few months later.  I'd have to do something
about them again when I got out.
    I tried laying down again, this time on my side, finding it more
relaxing.  I could make like a fetus, and do alright, though it was hard
finding room for my upper arm as I struggled to make a pillow out of it.
It seemed only minutes before I was awake again, this time startled by more
scampering of rodent feet.  I wished I'd kept the traps and poison out.
Feeling along my body, I was a mesh of wire imprints, and shifted to the
other side.
    I decided to accept the mice as tormentors sent by my Mistress Mary,
and this relaxed me because these were terms my mind could accept.  I dozed
off again, and didn't stir for a long time.
    When I woke, my arm felt like it was stuck in the wires, as if it had
become a part of the mesh.  I pulled it away, feeling the deep mesh imprint
on my skin.  I was really tired though, and laid down on my back, the same
dreaded position that had started an earlier bout of panic.  It was better
when I spread my legs, and wedged my feet into opposite corners.  I let my
hands duck inside of my panties, and fondle my cock and balls.
    In seconds I was ready to cum, and stopped, realizing the sensation of
masturbation was keeping me sane.  My lips whispered seconds, counting down
to five minutes before stroking my cock again.  I did this over and over,
counting my time by how many times I played with myself until on the brink
of orgasm.  After awhile my cock started getting numb, and it took longer
to reach my peak.  Rolling over on an earlier side, I dozed off again with
my hands still embedded in the warmth of my crotch.
    The night passed in little fits like this.  I had only guesses for the
time, but knew it was well into morning before I heard a motor.  My hearing
was getting pretty keen, I realized, noting that the engine was at low rev,
idling perhaps, some distance away.  That could be Mary, I thought.  She'd
have to drop Tiffany off at her house.
    A little later, the engine got louder.  Then I heard a second sound.
The engine was in our driveway, and it wasn't alone; there were two cars.
One stopped, and then the other.  One door opened and shut, and then the
other.  Two pair of feet ascended the mansion stairway.  The old door
squeaked open, and two pair of feet entered the main room.  I heard the
church key rattle onto the mantle.  Murmuring voices were a muffle.  Mary
laughed once, a distinct soprano.
    Two pair of feet ascended the staircase.  A hand slapped a thigh or
ass, and Mary laughed again.  Above me, the bedroom door squealed open.
For an excruciating five or ten minutes there were no sounds other than an
occasional squeal of small movements from wherever in the room they stood.
Mary laughed again.  Then voices murmured, low and soft.  The bed squeaked
from bodies falling.
    Silence again for several seconds.  A belt hit the floor with a clink.
Shoes bonked on the floor.  More silence.  My head was up against the top
of the cage, bend and listening for any detail.  The bed squeaked.  More
silence.  Then again, it squeaked.  A rhythm of squeaks started, one every
second or two.  Mary moaned.
    Someone was fucking my wife.  Her moans grew steady and accepting.
Then, a half hour later, they rested, and then he fucked her again.  I came
in my panties, then laid down and cried myself to sleep.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-seven:  The Overnight
Mary's view

    I had half expected Lenny to show at the Rocking Rooster, but I heard
later that his wife had found the note in his pocket and given him hell for
awhile.  Not that she would ever divorce the bastard, as dumb as she was.
I just couldn't wait to pass her or Lenny some day in town so I could smile
and say hello.
    It had only been Joe for awhile, so I danced with anything that had two
legs and a kickstand that night.  They had a rockabily band, meaning the
music was unchallenging enough to draw a large crowd, mostly motorhead
rejects who thought coon tails on mirrors cool.  There were lines at the
pool tables.  I actually saw two guys with the gonads to match polyester,
string ties and an earing.
    About half way through the evening I met Allen.  He stood a good six
feet, and was about my age.  What impressed me the most about him was he
wore jeans and a plain blue shirt.  I figured that pretty good, considering
how stupid people look when they try to dress special, but don't have a
clue.  I danced the next dozen dances with the dude.  Tiffany was getting
less enthusiastic as time went on, getting all moral on me, whispering
little tidbits of condemnation every time we passed.  She'd given me fits
about mistreating Joe all the way to the bar, and I'd just about had it
with her by the time the three of us left and I dropped her home.
    "Don't suppose I can talk you out of this," she said, standing outside
my car window after she'd come around.
    "Don't suppose it's any of your business," I told her back.
    "Well, don't say I didn't warn you.  You'll have a lot of repenting to
do, Mary, when you see things more clearly," she preached.
    "Maybe so, but in the mean time, I'm going to get laid by that cowboy
waiting in his car behind me.  Is there anything else you wanted to hold
this horny bitch up gumming about, Tiff?"
    "Yeah.  I'm going out of town next week, from tomorrow after church to
Friday.  Can you look after my dog?"
    "Before or after I crucify myself with guilt?"  I asked.
    "Whatever," she said.
    "Hey Relax Tiff.  I'll take care of the flea carpet for you," I said.
    "The key's in the mailbox.  I'll leave some food by the back door.  Let
him out on his chain for the daylight, and you'll only have to come by
twice since he'll be out most of the time," she advised.
    "No problem, honey," I said, putting the car in reverse, and leaving
her to find her own way up her health hazard of a porch.
    I led my captive to the mansion, and we found ourselves in the living
room where we kissed.  He held my hand, and kissed the fingers one at a
time; Allen was very romantic.
    "You're married," he said or asked.  I knew he had noticed before, but
not until then did it seem particularly valuable information.
    "We don't have to worry about that.  He won't be bothering us tonight,"
I assured him.  He kissed the ring, making my finger wet around the gold,
and I laughed thinking how wicked that was, though I also had pains of
guilt.
    My hand found his cock, rubbing the fly of his jeans and feeling what I
was about to get.
    "You don't want to do that, baby; I might pop," he said between kisses
on my shoulder and chest.  About to take his lips down my blouse and taste
the cotton at an erect nipple, I shoved him back playfully, and pouted.
Then I turned and walked towards the stairs, unbuttoning my blouse, pulling
the tail of the blouse out of my pants, and stripping it by the first step.
I threw it over a shoulder.  My bra strap was a white strips across the
skin on my back. He came up behind me, and playfully swatted me on the ass.
    "Oh," I cooed, and then laughed, feeling his hand cup my ass as he
walked up the stairs beside me.  We had a good fuck, and after it was over,
he slept in my arms, bonding till the sun came looking in my bedroom
window.  I woke my date and let him slide his morning erection inside of
me.  He had far less staying power than Joe, but I loved the way I drove
him to an orgasm so cheaply.  I, of course, needed a little more foreplay
and endurance to finish my pleasure, but decided that we'd done enough, and
moved him along with an eventual kiss at the front door.  I promised to
call.
    I was still very tired after the long night, but decided I had to let
the slave out.  I went to the study, still in my open gown.  I was as naked
as the day I was born in the seam where the gown opened with each step.
    "Time to let the doggie out," I said, unlocking the chain.  The doggie
was sore, so he crawled slowly.  He looked like someone had put him in a
waffle iron on the side he'd most recently slept on.
    "Well, I can see you've been resting," I told him.
    "Yes, Mistress," he said, telling me I'd have no trouble about the
overnight.
    "Does my doggie have to pee?" I asked.
    "Yes, Mistress.  Very much," he said.
    "You can in a minute.  First, I have a surprise for my little boy.  Can
you guess where I left it?" I teased.  I sat back on the cage, and let my
legs part a couple of inches.
    "In your pussy, Mistress Mary," slave Joe guessed.  I loved his ability
to not beat around the bush when I wanted his attention.
    "You are so right.  Now come here, and lick me.  That's a good boy.  Up
a little; there you go.  Good boy.  I'm starting to like it.  Now down boy.
That's right, put your little slut tongue in there and see what you can
find for mommy," I played, feeling his tongue start to explore.  Allen had
been short and to the point, but this was something I could savor.  Joe's
tongue tasted, and I could sense him swallowing the little drops as my wet
pussy released the sperm.  He was so incapable of denying anything I had to
offer, it seemed.  Then, when little more was to be had, he sensed that
too, and licked more around my clit, making me pant.
    "Oh, what a good doggie.  I think I'll get you your shots and keep you.
Of course, I don't have a fence, so we'll need to use the chain," I
tormented my beast, and was soon passing my own little point of no return.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-eight:  The Doggie
Joe's view

    She put my collar on me, and found a length of rope, tying my makeshift
leash off on a water pipe.  I had a half circle with a radius of ten meters
to ramble.
    "You be a good doggie, and stay down.  No jumping on things.  There you
go.  Let's see you run," she teased.  I ran on all fours until my rope ran
out, and then circled back.
    "Let's hear you bark for me,"
    "Woof, woof," I played, glad as hell to be out of the cage.
    "You're ruining that outfit.  I think you'd better take it off.
Doggies don't wear clothing anyway, now do they," said Mary.  I wondered
why she was being so attentive this morning as I handed over the bra,
panties, garter and ruined stockings.  I guess it was because she wanted to
let me know things were OK.  It was as much for her as for me, considering
the fact I'd just been cuckolded for the first time.  Giving me attention
was Mary's way of saying she could come to terms with her self indulgence,
even while it distracted me from dwelling on any of my own feeling of
regret, substituting one inferiority for another.  And, of course, there
were feeling of regret.  I did love the touch of my wife, it continuously
in conflict with my need for denial.
    "Woof," I said, once naked.
    "Good doggie.  You can pee over at the end of your rope.  Over there.
You know how to do it, doggie.  Lift one leg, and just have at it.  Maybe
in that tree.  That's a boy," she commanded, me instantly complying because
I had to leak like the Titanic.  I lifted a leg, and let my penis flop
around untouched as it sprayed the tree's trunk.
    "Now, come here, doggie," commanded Mary.
    "Wolf" I sat back on my haunches, listening to my Mistress.
    "I'll need you to help me take care of Tiffany's dog this week.  Later
this afternoon I'm walking you over.  You will get to spend the morning in
this yard, doing what you can to identify with your charge.  He'll need
some food, and water, and maybe some attention.  I think the two of you
already have a lot in common.  Then, while you're over there, I'll need you
to clean up her house.  It'll take most of the week to do it right, because
I want you to do a thorough job.  I'm tired of going over there and seeing
the mess.  She lives like a pig.  I'll need you to do your farm work in the
morning, and afternoon after you let the dog out.  That will leave the
evening for your house keeping responsibilities at Tiffanies.  Is all of
this understood, slave?"
    "Woof!  Woof!" I answered.
    "Very nice.  Now you just play and be good and I'll be right out with
your food and water.  Mommy's feeling so good this morning, and is making
doggie something special because mommy had a good time last night,"
Mistress Mary said, walking into the back door of her mansion.
    The screen door slammed shut, and it seemed even the sounds were
different from down on the ground on all fours.  I waited for my food,
doing the best I could to reinforce the idea that I was her dog for now.
Of course she would have had a good time with that man last night, I told
myself.  I must appear less than manly much of the time.  It seemed logical
that I was more like a pet than a man.  She still loved me though.  Dogs
can be loyal to their Mistress in spite of their human relationships, just
as Mistresses can be to their dogs.  I wondered what she would bring me.  I
was thirsty, and really wanted a good cold bowl of water.  I waited
patiently, expectantly.  Something had distracted her inside, so the wait
became a vigil.  Dog's all over the world must be doing this same thing, I
imagined, trying to sustain my eager disposition.
    Mary finally arrived, carrying the bowls.  She was dressed in her blue
blazer, the one she wore when she worked at the plant and feed store.  I
lapped up half the water in seconds.  I looked in the food bowl, and she'd
cut up scraps from yesterday's steaks.  My Mistress was being very good to
me, I thought, anticipating the meal.
    "You be a good doggie.  I have to go help Tom this morning.  Try to
stay out of the sun, and don't go getting your tether all tangled up on
some tree," she scolded, yanking on my rope until I was sitting up.  Her
hand petted my head lovingly.  I licked her hand as it withdrew.
    "That's nasty," she scolded, brushing her wet hand across my face.  "Be
a good doggie and I'll fuck you after you get home tonight.  Would you like
that, doggie.  Is doggie in heat?"
    "Woof, woof!" I answered.
    "Well, try to control yourself, or I'll have to have you spayed.  That
would settle you right down," she said, walking around the corner of the
house and fishing her car keys out of her pocket.  In seconds she was gone,
off to help at her store.  I sat looking at the fields.  Off across the
lawn, the chicken shack was alive with two roosters picking rocks off the
shingle roof.  We didn't have cows, but a half dozen pigs were digging mud
holes in their new pen.  Mary had already fed all of the animals, including
myself; she was a very responsible Mistress.  The morning was warming, and
the goose bumps on my arms beginning to dwindle.  Everything was very
peaceful.  A few flies were beginning to intrude on my steak breakfast, so
I stuck my muzzle into the bowl and wolfed a few bites down.  When I
finished the rest, I licked the bowl, and lapped up some more water.  Then
I found some shade on the west side of a bush, and tried to catch some
shuteye.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Twenty-nine:  The Doggie Maid
Mary's view

    The walk to Tiffany's place was only a few blocks by city standards.
Joe wheelbarrowed his cleaning supplies, and was pushing with an eye to the
horizon in fear of being discovered.  He was wearing the dog collar and a
cute white half-moon apron that was so small it didn't even cover his
crotch.  I prodded him along with my switch, flicking him on the legs just
to see him scoot a little faster along the dirt road.  He had already had
half a day of laying around in the back yard, so I expected some hustle.
    Thinking back, I guess I was a little angry too, feeling sorry for
myself for having married a man who needed this, a man who didn't object to
letting his wife sample another man's penis.  It was striking an off chord,
violating my partnering instincts.  Well, anyway, it was easier thinking of
it that way than beating myself up over the notion that I was a frustrated
housewife; a thought I allowed myself to dismiss by telling myself I had
not been that way before.  Bottom line was, I was starting to take it out
on Joe, and I was feeling more comfortable aiming my hurt in that
direction.  Joe had always presented himself as an easy target.  He was so,
to be blunt and maybe a little literal, the target of least resistance.  I
smacked his legs a dozen quick strokes; his eyes left the horizon and his
legs started chopping.  He looked like one of those turn of the century
movies where people move double-time.
    "Here we are, slave.  See; what did I tell you; this place is a wreck,
isn't it.  Just the kind of challenge we need for an idle slut," I said.
    "It certainly is, Mistress," said my slave, trying to keep the dog from
grinding his cold nose in his frustrated crotch.  As dumb as the dog was, I
half expected him to latch down on Joe's cock, thinking it some sort of
frankfurter.  It would serve them both right, I was imagining, in a pretty
PMS state of mind.
    "I know how much you like to play maid.  This is maid heaven, honey," I
began.
    "Thank you, Mistress Mary," he stammered, unpacking the supplies.
    "I suppose the best idea is to give the place a general cleaning, and
then start moving the furniture so you can strip the floor one section at a
time.  Sort and dust all the books and papers as best you can," I started,
finishing with a detailed explanation of my expectations.  Tiffany would
definitely be surprised.
    "What about upstairs, Mistress?" Asked my husband.
    "Don't bother.  I would like to think she'd want some privacy, though I
doubt it.  Still, I don't want her pissed, just pleased by what a good
slave can do.  Maybe she'll like it, and stop giving me hell about you.
Maybe she'll need this more often.  You do the best you can, and it might
bring you more suffering.  I know the incentive that must seem to you;
having another woman abuse you," I said, imagining him wanting Tiffany's
attention.  I guess if I could convince myself of that, I could put Joe in
the sacred category of, 'all men are the same', and feel a little more
deserving of my draft into the business of selfishness.
    "I'll do the best I can," said my slave.
    "I'm sure you will.  You'll have to start by cleaning up in the back
yard so the dog can be comfortable when you put him out.  Don't bother with
the rest of the yard; I don't want you arrested.  Clean yourself up here,
and you can come home and jump in bed with me at ten.  If you smell good
enough, I might let you fuck me until I have an orgasm.  Then, if you do
that well enough, I might let you cum on my foot and lick it off.  Any more
incentive than that, and I'll be a widow from the heart attack I'd be
giving you," I offered.
    "Thank you, beloved Mistress Mary.  I would love that," said my servant
eagerly.
    That done, I went home for some personal time.  The day before had been
hectic, and the business was doing well enough to wear me out after half a
day of work.  Tending to a slave seemed added work, though I knew Joe was a
tireless servant, and I owed virtually everything I had to him.
    I had Joe working all week, doing everything I could think of to wear
him out between farming at home and playing maid at Tiffanies.  Wandering
over that Friday morning, I found a first floor that looked like it have
been renovated by contractors.  The walls were spotless, and the floor
shined like new wood except where old stains had proven impossible to
erase.  That dog smell was totally absent, replaced by a faint smell of
ammonia and one of those plug-in air fresheners.  I swear, I could have
eaten off of that floor.  Even Jesus, Elton and Di glowered down from
polished frames.  Joe had washed the rugs by hand, and the color was back.
I felt like sitting down and watching TV, but decided to check the kitchen
instead.  It was more of the same.  In the refrigerator, Joe had
thoughtfully stocked a few dollars worth of food that matched the brands
and varieties Tiffany usually stocked.  I grabbed a chicken and carrot TV
dinner, and was soon pretending to enjoy the morning television.  I had
been sitting on the sofa for several minutes before it dawned on me that
Joe had resprung and cleaned the monster.
    The dog came up to me, reminding me she had one.  It had come in
dragging a plastic coated chain through a new dog door Joe had thought to
install in the back so the dog could come in and out without bothering
Tiffany.  I prepared myself for the leap, but it sat down at my feet and
waited, looking at my chicken and licking his lips, obviously a new trick.
The mutt had a new flea collar and smelled like soap.  Tiffany wouldn't
believe it was the same dog.  I started to worry just a little that maybe
her dog had died and Joe had substituted another one - not that, that
thought didn't give me a tingly feeling.  I gave Lenny a taste, and then
cleaned up my mess.  Then I went home, wondering when Tiffany would get in,
and what she would think about the changes.
    I was so pleased with Joe's week of work that I made him up in full
drag.  We'd gotten one of those black maid outfits with a foot thick
petticoat.  He looked divine, strutting around the house on four inch
heels, seamed fishnet stockings and a pair of enormous, life-like breasts
that sagged and swayed better than any real breasts I'd ever seen - though
I'm not inclined to study such things.  His face had a pound of foundation,
and the usual harlot exaggerations; I could hardly tell who was under all
that, but that was maybe the point.  Setting up the camera, I put it on
panorama view and let the tape roll, capturing the whole dim living room
like some kind of black and white period piece, Joe prancing around getting
me things, massaging my feet, doing my nails.  I had declared myself queen
of Egypt to my concubine, and later lain back on the couch while the
wannabe bitch fanned me and fed me grapes.
    The phone rang, and I clicked my fingers for Joe to answer.
    He surprised me with an impromptu, "Queen Mary's place."
    "Yes.  She's here.  Just a minute," he said, handing me the phone.
    I took the receiver, and motioned for him to get on his knees, and then
to turn around so I wouldn't have to look at his face while I talked.
    "Hello!"
    "Oh, hi, Allen.  Nice to hear from you."
    "I know I promised to call, but things have been busy."
    "Who?"
    "Oh, yes, that's my husband."
    "No, no!  You didn't get me in trouble.  He's a submissive.  He doesn't
mind.  I have an understanding with him.  I do what I want to do, and he
does what I want him to do.  Just the thought makes his useless cock hard;
isn't that pathetic."
    "Of course not.  I'd never think of doing a thing like that to you.
You make love too bold and beautifully," I said, watching the sweat run
down my slave's side.  You can hide a lot, but you can't hide sweat, I was
thinking.
    "I'll call you later."
    "Yes.  I promise.  I didn't mean to not call before.  Don't think I was
trying to avoid you.  I just needed some space for the ordinary things in
my life."
    "No, that's not a joke."
    "Tomorrow?  Yes.  That's great!"
    "I'll probably be there around nine."
  .  "Sure.  See ya then."  I handed the phone over my slut's shoulder, and
he put it back on the cradle.  He went back to fanning me, and I sat back,
eyes shut, enjoying it for awhile, letting the situation fester.
    I reached back, and touched my husband's cock lightly, letting my
fingers wander along its length, lingering.  It twitched, and a thin string
of semen, pre-cum was felt at my wrist.
    "Too bad.  Such a waste," I teased, fingering the underside of the
balls like I was playing a guitar.
    "Yes, Mistress," said my slut, submissively.
    "What we could have done with this."  I returned to touching the cock.
    "It loves your touch, Mistress," said Joe.
    "You know I was only fooling with you.  It was one of those sales
calls.  He wanted to see if we needed a second mortgage.  I think I left
one of them speechless for a change," I said, a smile growing on my face.
Joe, behind me, couldn't hide a short, nervous laugh of his own.
    "I thought you was going to make love to that man again," he said after
the levity, a brazen speech, considering he was supposed to be acting like
my concubine.
    "Not that guy.  I don't fuck salesmen.  Even us queens have our
standards, you know," I told him, not even opening my eyes.  I made a loose
fist with my hand, and fucked my husband's cock with the cave of my palm.
I peeked at it through a half opened eye.  His prick poked out from between
the oval of my finger and thumb like an eel darting for small fish.  I made
sure there wasn't enough friction to do much damage though; I wanted my
slave frustrated.
    "On the other hand, your queen is going to fuck Sir Allen of the
Rocking Rooster.  That part of the conversation was honest.  In fact, I'm
going to do it tomorrow if he shows," I divulged, pinching the head of
Joe's cock and holding it prisoner as if trapping the cum inside.
    "Yes, Mistress," my slave said, shyly.
    "I just want you to think about it, and get used to the idea, serf.
Pretty soon, this little thing won't even get hard when I cuckold it; it
will just be the way things are.  When I'm done with you, you'll know what
it feels like to be a real slave to a real queen for completely altruistic
motives," I said, meaning every word of it.  If he wasn't going to be a man
and claim his own woman, fuck him, I thought.  I patted the balls one
threatening tap, and then retracted my arm.
    Then, I wondered why I'd lied about it being a salesman.  I was getting
wicked maybe, or maybe I just needed my own sense of mystery.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty:  A Special Shopping Trip
Mary's view

    Tiffany called me in the morning.
    "I came home late last night and thought I had been robbed," she said.
    "I tend to not think of my dirt as precious," I corrected her.
    "Well, just the same, I have to thank you for cleaning up.  You didn't
have to go to that much trouble.  To be honest about it, I'm a little
embarrassed that you thought you had to do that," she explained.
    "I'm sorry, honey, but I didn't have much choice.  I come over there,
and wonder if it's safe to sit down.  Besides, I didn't do it; I had my
slave do it.  It's all he's good for anyway," I explained.
    "Joe did this?  Where can I find one of those?" She asked playfully.
    "I suppose you can advertise," I commented seriously.
    "I don't think so," she said, getting moral on me again.
    "Or you can rent Joe.  I don't need him around here all the time," I
said, ignoring the brush with mother morality.
    "On my wages?  I think he'll have to wait in line.  Maybe after I hire
a cook and chauffeur," she tossed back.
    "He's cheap.  Actually, I'd not charge at all, but I think it makes
them more responsible when there is a financial obligation," I said.
    "I can afford a dollar a week if you accept credit."
    "He doesn't work by the week.  That would be salary.  Who has ever
heard of slaves on salary.  It's anti-American.  I'll rent him for a nickel
an hour, no less or I'd be giving it away," I offered.
    "You kidder," she finally broke, laughing.
    "Take it or leave it."
    "You're not kidding," she sounded surprised.
    "Of course I'm not kidding.  That could be gas money if you add it up
over enough hours," I told her.
    "OK.  Let's see how serious you are," said Tiffany, suddenly the
aggressor.  One thing I had begun to learn about Tiffany was that she had a
lazy streak in her that allowed her to ignore all of her trumped up
principles when convenient.  I didn't have to think about that too long,
just adding laziness to libido, the two excuses she never failed to use
when pleading temporary amnesia regarding higher ideals.
    "When do you need him?"
    "Right now.  The upstairs is a dump," she spit, sure I'd say no.
    "He'll be there in ten minutes.  That is, unless you want him to put
some clothes on," I asked.
    "Oh, no.  I wouldn't think of giving you an excuse for backing out,"
she said.  I knew for a fact that she thought she was the one who'd played
the highest card of tongue in cheek, but it wasn't going to work.
    "It's on you then.  I'll send him right over.  In fact, it couldn't be
coming at a better time.  I have to drive into the city for some things,
and need a baby-sitter," I told her, knowing she'd have a hard time taking
that much dialogue as a joke.
    "You're kidding ..." she started to get repetitious on me, but I hang
up.
    "Joe!"  I yelled.  He'd just come in from working the front forty, and
was cleaning up.
    "Yes, honey," he said, romantic after an increasingly rare romp in the
sack I'd given him the midnight before.
    "You can put on some panties, and a pair of tight swimming trunks.
And, some tennis shoes.  Maybe a shirt.  Tiffany needs some help cleaning
the upstairs; now that she's seen how good you did.  I'll be going shopping
and will have to lock up, so be sure to get everything you need in the
wheelbarrow before you leave," I told him.
    "Yes, Mistress," he said, dropping the honey stuff because he sensed
the change in mood.
    "You have five minutes.  I don't care what she does with you while
you're over there, just as long as you don't fuck her," I said to his back
as he ran to change his clothing.  He seemed a bit eager, if you ask me.
Well, if he's thinking about sex with another woman, I thought, we will be
fixing that.
    We left the house together, and I patted him on the butt to prod him
along while I got comfortable in the car.  Soon I passed him as he trudged
up the lane, honking good-bye like the privileged class might have honked
the buggy horn passing a servant they were fond of.
    I hit a good restaurant because I could afford it, considering I ate
well alone.  Then I made my way to the adult store before two.  I went
right up to the counter, and just asked, knowing it would be less
embarrassing than trying to hide my intentions and spending an hour looking
for what I wanted.
    "Hi.  I'm looking for a good chastity belt for my husband."
    "What size?"  The man asked.
    "I don't know.  I think he wears about a forty-two," I guessed.
    "No," he laughed.  "I mean, how big is he?"
    "Oh.  Oh yeah, well I'd say he's about seven inches when he's randy,
which is most of the time, come to think of it," I offered.
    "We have two types," he began, coming around the counter, and taking me
to a rack.  "We have this kind that is sort of like a big leather pair of
pants.  You fit his winky in there, and it is tied up, and then you lock
the buckle in back where the three belts meet."
    "How does he pee?"
    "The end sticks out a little.  It comes up kind of like a fountain.  Of
course you could always take it off when he has to go," the man instructed.
    "Kind of big and ugly anyway, isn't it," I said.
    "Yeah, I suppose so.  It's big in the gay community though.  Sometimes
they just don't like to see the other guy's penis and are into the leather
smell.  It's a power trip with some men.  Women seem to prefer the other
one," he said, moving to an entirely different rack.  It was beginning to
feel like a trip to a department store; never the same kind of thing in any
one place.
    "Here we go.  This is pretty simple actually.  You put the penis in
this metal tube, which aims the cock in a generally downward direction.
Then you lock the cuff around the cock and balls until it's tight, but not
too tight.  You have to promise me you won't make it too tight and come
back here complaining about how he got all numb ... or worse," he said,
enjoying the conversation a lot more than me.
    "Don't worry about it," I said to keep him on track.
    "Well, then you're done.  No belts, no fuss, and definitely no getting
out unless you have a handcuff key.  It even comes with a lock-on bolt that
you can thread through the end of the tube to keep the cock from getting
hard enough to poke out the end.  If you get one a little small, that can
be particularly nasty.  A small lock keeps the extra bolt in place, which
you can get at any hardware store.  I don't recommend that little extra on
a steady basis though; it's a special effect, for when you want to watch
him suffer.  This model comes in twelve inchs and peewee," he advised.
    "Thanks for the tip.  Peewee, I guess.  Who the hell has twelve inches
anyway," I said, going to the counter, and making the clerk carry the
merchandise.
    "Maybe I do," he suggested.
    "Maybe I don't care if it gets in the way and someone steps on it," I
said.
    "What do I win if I can prove it?"
    "You get to be a fireman.  And, I get to win a lawsuit," I told him.
    "Fifty-three and tax," he said with a smile.  "Anything else I can do
for you?"
    "I don't know.  Do you have a line on a sex therapist?"
    "I've been known to talk to people," he offered.
    "Well in that case, no thank you.  I prefer insanity," I said, handing
over cash.  I kind of liked that guy, though anyone working in a porn shop
as a clerk isn't recommended by Good Housekeeping.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty-One:  Tiffany's House
Joe's view

    I knocked on the door.  Tiffany opened it in seconds, as if expecting
me, although she did open it timidly, like she was a little fearful, it
seemed.
    "Come in," she offered.  I walked in, setting aside an armload of
cleaning supplies I had liberated from the wheelbarrow.
    "Well, this is a little unexpected.  You don't really have to do this,"
she started.  Lenny had been attracted by the knock and came up behind her.
    "I think I probably do.  Mary has kind of left me out of the house," I
explained.
    "Oh, well, how do we do this then," she said, her hands wiping at her
hips nervously.
    "I guess I need to give you a hand with the upstairs.  Whatever you
need most.  I could just start in on my own, if that's what you want," I
offered, petting the dog that had come up beside me and heeled like I'd
taught him the week before.
    "You seem to like Lenny?"  She asked; an ice breaker.
    "Oh, yeah.  He's a good dog.  Just needs attention," I said.
    "He has been an angel ever since I got home.  I don't know what's
gotten into him," she said.  "You should train dogs for a living," she
added, indicating she understood my efforts had something to do with his
change in habits.  Tiffany leaned down, resting on her haunches and petting
him with me.  I could see down her house dress a little and realized she'd
been feeling casual enough to not put on a bra yet this morning.  I looked
back at the dog, determined not to stare.
    "It's just a matter of getting into his head.  I've had some time
learning what he goes through.  Kind of a naturalist perspective," I
overstated.
    "Oh," she said tongue tied.  She stood up, and I stopped petting the
dog too.
    "That and SR psychology, you know, Pavlov."
    "I see," she said, dim wittedly.
    "How do we do this.  I'm not like Mary," she said.
    "Well, I guess there's nothing much to it.  You just tell me what you
want me to do, Ma'am, and I do it for you," I explained.
    "OK.  You can just go upstairs and clean the bathroom then, uh ... what
should I call you?"  She was flustered, but was holding up her hand, it
aimed towards the banister, and a finger snapping as she thought.
    "Mary calls me slave, slut, or whatever she wants."
    "You like that?"  She said, lowering her hand, and looking at me like I
was deranged.
    "It's just a word, Ma'am," I explained.
    "Mary's weird," she stated.
    "I don't think so, Ma'am.  She has a lot of down home country girl in
her, in fact.  She's just extremely practical.  She sees a deal, and grabs
it, without all the luggage or bigottry," I protested.
    "Wait a minute.  Who is the slave here?" Tiffany finally asserted,
fighting for her right to be right.
    "I am, Mistress Tiffany," I said, bowing my head.
    "Well then, go upstairs like I told you to, and start cleaning up the
bathroom ... slave."
    "Yes, Mistress," I said, heading up the stairs with my supplies.
    "Next time I want to complain about Mary, you can be quite about it
too, OK," she said up the stairwell at me.
    "Yes, certainly, Ma'am," I agreed.  I guessed that with Tiffany, the
whole Mary thing sparked a competitive impulse that drove her to an
attitude attack, which I must confess helped me feel more comfortable as a
submissive around her.
    I did the best I could to do a perfect job so Tiffany and Mary would be
pleased.  The hot water faucet dripped, so I made a mental note to bring
washers and wrenches next time over.  I had used nearly the whole bottle of
cleanser on the tub of rust, but was prepared for that.  After a couple
hours of cleaning Tiffany came up for inspection.
    "You do good work."  She stepped into the bathroom and shut the door
behind her.  I was on my knees, polishing the legs to the sink with Brasso.
    "What does she do to you now, after you've done your work?" Tiffany
asked.  Her legs were less than a foot from my view, and right in front of
me.  I dared not answer.
    "Does she have you kiss her feet?"  It seemed like Tiffany was a whole
different person with the bathroom door shut.
    "Sometimes, Mistress," I said, looking up at her.
    "Well then, kiss them," she said, as if feeling cheated by the
competition implied between Mary and her.
    I bent down, and kissed Tiffany's feet, an inch above the toes.  My
kisses were as gentle as I could make them, knowing how fragile Tiffany's
psyche about such things was.
    "I like that.  If I let you do this, will you be telling Mary I took
advantage of you?" She asked.
    "She said I wasn't allowed to have intercourse with you, Mistress
Tiffany," I confessed.
    "Yes, but did she say you had to tell her everything we did together.
That was my question, slave; or are you stupid, too?"  She probed.
    "No, Mistress.  I mean, she didn't say I had to tell her everything we
did, and I'm not stupid either; that is, not as intelligent as you, my
beautiful Mistress, but I can think a little," I tried to not dig a hole
saying.
    "I think you're stupid.  Tell me you're stupid, slave," she said,
getting into some sort of comfort zone.
    "I'm not very smart, Mistress.  I'm a slave.  Slaves are not very
educated.  I need your wise direction, and promise to do whatever you
desire, Mistress Tiffany.  I know that it is for my own good, and that I
could never be anything without the leadership of superior women," I tried.
    "Just say your stupid; without all the rest of it," she scolded.
    "I'm very stupid, Mistress," I said.
    "Good.  Then if you are stupid, you won't remember this and tell Mary a
thing, will you, my little cleaning person," she advised.
    "I'll not remember much, Mistress.  I'm very stupid.  I can't remember
more than just a minute or two.  I'm so fortunate that you are here to tell
me what to do," I said, feeding off of her thoughts.
    "Lick my legs then.  Nice and smooth.  Don't get me wet.  If you do it
right, I'm going to let you eat my pussy.  I haven't had a man eat my pussy
right since before I married that prick Lenny," she confessed, holding the
hem of her dress up so I could see mid thigh while I licked up her long
tapered legs.
    "Yes, Mistress, but Mary said I was not allowed to fuck you," I risked
repeating.
    "Come on, Joe.  I can't believe you.  Look, just start licking.  I
don't want you fucking me anyway.  You're not man enough to fuck me, jerk.
I can't believe it; I'm alone in my own house, letting a strange man lick
my legs and my mind is cluttered up worrying about what Mary wants.  Just
lick and try not to say anything else, OK," she said, a bit pissed it
seemed.
    "Yes, Mistress.  You are so magnificent and lovely," I said, trying to
make amends, and resuming my licking as tenderly as I could.
    "I think for making me so angry, you'll have to move up and lick my
ass.  Right up here," she said, turning around.  I licked the beautiful
back of her legs, and then started kissing at the crease between one of her
cheeks and a thigh.
    "Over a little, slave boy.  Right up the middle.  Don't worry about the
panties.  I want you to get them nice and wet."
    "Yes, Ma'am," I responded, licking the panties lightly right at the
crease of her ass.  She bent over the sink, holding onto the sides.  She
looked back at me, but we really weren't seeing each other - I mean, face
to face.  Gathering her dress, Tiffany drew one arm through the arm hole so
much of the dress would stay gathered around a shoulder.  One breast was
exposed, and swaying at the top of a tower of gorgeous white skin.  She was
starting to breath heavy, and I had my face full of her ass.  Pushing the
panties aside and probing deeper, my tongue found her asshole, and started
to lick there.
    "I like that, slave.  Lick there.  I want your tongue up my ass.  I
want you to fuck me with your face there," she said between hard breaths,
and stepping out of her panties.  My hands grasped her thighs tight, taking
control of her waist.  I started to move my head up and back, each time
dipping my wet tongue further into her.  In time, I was a good couple of
inches deep, the taste not all that different from anything else after the
first few seconds of slight bitterness.
    "Nobody's ever done that for me before.  I've always dreamed I'd find
someone to ream me, someone who'd like it, or at least not be in a position
to complain about it.  You tell anybody, and I'll tell Mary you fucked me.
I don't think she'd be too happy about that," said Tiffany, cementing the
conspiracy.
    She had me sticking my tongue in her ass a good ten minutes past the
point I thought my tongue was beyond another probe.  Then she turned
around, me licking her ass and thigh the whole way around.
    "I loved that.  Now you can eat me.  I want to feel your tongue making
little ovals around, you know, where I feel it the best," she said, her
pussy now at my mouth.  I smelled her sex, and a light patch of hair
brushed across my lips.
    "It's lovely, Mistress," I confessed.
    "I knew you'd see things my way.  Make me think you want it.  Make me
forget you're not going to fuck me.  Make me want to have an orgasm with
you down there," she said very sweetly.  I buried my face in her pussy and
licked from bottom to top, then started at the good stuff with all the
skill I knew, thinking of her every move as a hint to the way she wanted it
done.
    "Get your finger wet, Joe.  I want to feel it in my ass.  That's it.
Get it wet again.  Yes, oh," she started moaning.  I had my finger in her
ass a couple of inches, probing for that G spot I'd read about, and my
mouth tight at her pussy where my tongue circled and brushed against her
wonderful clit.  An off hand gripped a thigh, holding her to me.  Her hands
made furrows through my hair as they held me passionately.  She rode my
face like a saddle.  My body had become a tripod on the floor, my head
slowly fell back as she flattened my face for a more comfortable ride.
When she came, she rode fast, then slow, and then humping my head again, in
waves of pleasure that lasted twenty minutes.  I envied her this, mine
lasting but seconds, and having been so few these last few days.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty-Two:  Home again
Joe's view

    "Did she get some use out of you, slave?"  My Mistress Mary asked
several hours later.  I was in the study, and tied to the rope with my
hands overhead.  I'd been told to shave, and then told to dress in my best
bra and stockings so that my cock jutted out bald and naked like the orphan
it was.  At least I had some play, I'd been thinking, dreading the times
I'd been left on my toes under this rope.
    "I think she got to liking it, Mistress.  I finished the bathroom and
her bedroom," I answered.
    "The bedroom?" She said suspiciously, stopping her pacing in front of
me, and casting an eye.  She looked the peak of seduction, having gone to
considerable effort for this ceremony.  That was the word she'd used,
ceremony.  It's amazing how one little word can work a guy like me up to a
fever.
    "She had me eat her pussy, Mistress," I confessed, knowing better than
to lie.
    "Did she now?  In her bedroom?"  She asked.  I could tell she was
upset.  I thought about this same woman, my own wife, how she had bedded
another man right above the rope I was swaying under, and briefly thought
how unfair it was for her to be this unrattled.  My cock twitched, my mind
grasping not only the meaning of this one sided monogamy, but its very real
day to day implications.
    "She had me do it in the bathroom, Mistress.  I only cleaned the
bedroom," I told her.
    "And did she like this, this sex you had with her in the bathroom" Mary
asked, starting that thing she did, walking around me with slow even steps.
    "She was very excited, Mistress.  Tiffany makes a lot of noise."
    "You bastard!"  She failed to suppress, slashing one of my thighs from
behind with her leather stick.  Up until then, she'd held it under her arm,
making a point of looking the full roll in her riding pants and tight red
vest.  The vest squeezed her bare breasts, forming heaving cleavage.  She'd
found the perfect, practical boots with only an inch of heel too, them
coming up over her ankles, held by a dozen crosses of lacing; cute.  These
heels clicked nicely on the wooden floor that was beginning to show signs
of wear on the circle around my familiar spot.
    "I didn't fuck her, Mistress," I explained.
    "I don't believe you," she said testily.
    "I wouldn't lie to you, beloved Mistress," I protested as the next blow
hit my thigh just below my ass.
    "She would tell you to lie to me.  She acts like she hates everything
about me, but I know her.  She wishes she could be me.  She covets that
which is mine, saith me," Mistress Mary said.
    "I could see that," I confessed.  A third blow was higher, the tip of
the leather nipping the back of my balls, just missing enough contact to
cause the jewels pain.
    "You fucked," she repeated.
    "I would never do that to you, Mary.  I love you too much to be
unfaithful," I said sincerely as she came around in front of me.
    "You wouldn't do what, slave?  You wouldn't fuck around behind my back;
with my best friend even, or you wouldn't fuck me, or you wouldn't fuck
period.?  I'm confused," she asked.
    "Um.  I mean I wouldn't fuck Tiffany.  You was very specific," I
protested.
    "I suppose you probably didn't.  But, I just know how men are.  You're
a powerless race when it comes to an open invitation," said my Mistress.
    "Mistress, I have a problem," I took the opportunity.
    "Well, that's an understatement, but amuse me," she scoffed.
    "Mistress Tiffany told me that if I confessed what we did together,
she'd tell you that I had intercourse with her.  She scares me, Mistress.
She's so competitive with you, and I feel like I'm in the middle of
something I can't control," I said swinging from my rope.
    "Oh, there you go.  That's the royal understatement," she said, finally
gaining a little of her trademark levity.  Her stick struck down, and
smacked my prick.  Like a diving board, it sprung.
    "Here's the deal.  If you fuck her, you are in trouble.  If she says
you fucked her, you're in trouble.  If you lie to me, you're in trouble.
Now, what does that mean to you, slut?" Asked Mary.
    "I, uh, I guess Mistress, I guess it means I'm in trouble," I managed.
    "Exactly.  But, I'm going to fix it.  I've decided to fix it so you can
have all the fucking your little male mind can handle, and still not have
to worry about me getting upset with you.  You'd like that, wouldn't you,
slave?  You'd like for your Mistress to fix it so that your little penis
can fuck all it wants, and you can't get into trouble?"  She asked.
    "That seems too good to be true," I confessed, truly confused by the
proposal.
    "I'll be right back," she said with a lilt in her voice.  I waited
under the ropes for a few minutes.  She came sauntering back into the room
with her new toys.  Her riding pants were gone, and in their place, she'd
put the pants with the strap-on.  I'd thought she'd lost that one, and it's
effect was electric on my submissive penis.  In her hand she held something
else, but it was difficult to tell what it was.
    "Here we go.  Fuck time for my little slave boy.  Here, fuck this," she
said, kneeling in front of me, and trying to slip the thing she held onto
my penis.  I was looking at it closely then, and realized it was a metallic
tube with some kind of cuff at the base.  She couldn't get it on because I
was about as hard as I'd ever been, and she stopped trying after she'd only
managed a couple of painful inches.  Frustrated, she put the device on the
floor, and stood, looking at me with a twisted lip of frustration.
    "I guess we'll just have to get that useless thing soft.  I'd wait for
it to give up on it's own, but I just have to see how this thing does," she
said, turning around and going to the table where she'd left her half
finished glass of wine awhile back.  She came to my side, and held the
glass under my cock.
    "Now I'm going to make you cum for me.  When you're done, I'll let you
have something to drink while I fix you up," she said, as if discussing a
maintenance issue.
    Her hand touched my cock, and then started to stroke it pleasingly.
Her other hand held the wine glass, it's contents jostling against the
glass walls with her vibration.  When my breathing picked up, Mary's tongue
started licking at my nipples, a prelude to her lips gently sucking.  I
looked down on this from the perspective of a slave far too long denied the
touch of his dream lover.  I have staying power, I like to think, but she
was dressed for pleasure.  I looked away, trying to find distractions that
would allow me to enjoy the attention longer than the brief brink I
imagined myself approaching.  I found the cuff and tube in front of me, and
tried to imagine its application, wondering how long I'd be forced to wear
it, a day, a week, a month, forever.  That wild femdom concept, of course,
did nothing to easy the feeling that I would be forced to cum far too soon.
I groaned out my despair and pleasure, cumming in spurts that left white
creamy lines of paste on the inside walls of the wine glass.  She kept on
stroking, feeding the last of my cum into the glass.
    "Let's see that again, slave," she said, putting the glass down beside
the chastity device, and kneeling in front of my cock.  She blew on my
cock, and licked the balls sweetly.  After a few minutes of massaging my
legs, ass and balls, she took my cock into her mouth, and started to suck
me.  Unbelievably, I was hard again; not as hard as before, but hard enough
to know I could have a second orgasm if I was given enough of that thing
she was doing with her tongue and hands.  As time went by, I was struggling
to cum before she tired of me, and then, at the last minute, she stopped,
leaving me panting.
    Picking up the glass, she looked at my face, and kissed me on the lips
with heartfelt passion.  Her hand started stroking my cock.  Her vest had
spilled a breast, and it rubbed against my chest.  She grabbed my hair, and
pulled my face from hers.  She showed me the glass of wine, and brought it
to my lips.
    "Drink your cum, slut.  Drink it all, right now," she commanded.  I
started to take it as she tilted the glass, and then had to swallow hard as
she kept it coming.  In seconds it was gone, and I was almost ready to
explode.  She took the glass from my lips.
    "That was very nice.  You drink cum like a regular little whore.  I
hope you're still thirsty, because I'm going to get some more," she said,
kneeling with her glass, and then concentrating on stroking my cock.  I
looked down at her, both of her breasts were now swaying where they had
escaped the vest, her eyes fixed on my cock, inches from it, as she held
the glass underneath.  Occasionally, the glass lip would touch my cock,
making me feel so used, like some kind of lab rat ready to give its
specimen.  I came, the power of the cum huge, quick, short and over in what
seemed like one little spurt.  Of course, I gave more than one, three or
four tiny emissions of cum.
    "You can't drink it like that.  It's not wet enough," she said, a
little upset that I'd had so little cum on my second orgasm.
    "I'm sorry, Mistress," I said.
    "That's OK.  I have an idea.  Pee in the glass a little; not a lot; I
don't want a mess," she said, still kneeling right in front of me as if she
wanted to see what it looked like from the toilet's perspective.
Unbelievably, this turned me on, and in spite of two orgasms, I wanted to
pee in the that glass, slowly growing an attitude that was a bit sadistic,
fantasizing about peeing on my bride.
    "Yes, Mistress," I said in a less than humble voice.
    I struggled.  The feeling of her hand on my cock made it hard to pee
even though I really had a fair degree of urge.  In time, a trickle came,
maybe a teaspoon full, yellowing the bottom of the wine glass.  I pushed,
trying too hard, and some more came out, half filling the glass before I
could stop.  Strangely, I had imagined her my submissive as she knelt there
in front of me like my urinal, but as the pee had started to flow, I
returned to the reality of the situation; she was going to make me drink
whatever I put in that glass, and I'd already managed a good four ounces.
I, in fact, had never stopped being the submissive, and that thought
grabbed me like an anaconda and had me ready for a third round of orgasm,
though my cock would probably not make it past three inches if she tried, I
imagined.
    "Very nice, slave.  I think you want to do this.  You were trying so
hard.  Here you go," she said, bringing the glass right to my lips, and
giving it to me as fast as she had the wine.  This wine was a very mellow
yellow, with an acidic smell.  I guzzled half the glass before I tasted
much.  It was like drinking hot salt water, and once I got past that, my
only fear was that I'd retch it up.  I somehow managed, and she held the
glass over my lips, waiting out the last drop.  Down below, my stomach
rumbled in protest, but held.
    "You are now a toilet.  Do you feel any different, slave?  I should
think you'd feel very different after that," She teased, playing with my
cock as she spoke.  I was loving her touch, ready for a third, but it would
have been pushing it to say I had those three inches.
    "OK.  Now for this," she said, kneeling, putting the glass down, and
her hand coming back with fingers full of chastity.
    "Go ahead, slave.  Get as hard as you can.  I'll give you a whole
minute to get hard enough to keep me from putting you in this thing," she
said, waiting and watching my penis.  I twitched it, and strained, a ton of
effort for an ounce of result that even I barely noticed.  It was as if I
no longer had muscles down there.  My stupid cock just sat there and got
smaller.
    "You look like a little boy.  Are you sure you know how to do it, baby?
I don't think this one works yet," she teased.  "Here, let me give you some
help," she said, stroking it, and then putting it into her mouth,
pretending to suck my cock, but not allowing enough friction with her lips
to do any good.  I bucked wildly, to no avail.  I looked down, nearly in
tears as she smiled at her conquest, and teasingly positioned the tube
right in front of my baby penis.
    "Oh well.  Too bad it doesn't know how to get hard.  I imagine in an
hour or so it might remember, but then, in an hour or two, I don't think it
will want to," she said, slipping the tube over my cock with so much ease
it was like slipping one wee motor scooter into the Lincoln tunnel.  She
positioned my balls over the cuff that was welded to the base of the tube,
and checking to make sure she didn't pinch anything, started the series of
clicks, ending a click or two beyond the point she was sure I couldn't get
loose.  I knew I was doomed.  If this was tight enough to hold me, empty
and tiny as I was, I'd soon be even more entrapped as the sperm filled my
balls and the cock grew more greedy.
    "Oh look; well, of course you can't because it's aiming at the floor,
but I mean, if you could see this, Joe, you'd see the cock is hiding in
there.  I have plenty of room for the rod.  I doubted it would, but now I'm
sure it will fit easily.  Look, here's how it works," she said, pulling a
tiny rod, padlock and two keys from where she'd hidden them in her stretchy
strap-on pants, just under her beautiful belly button and above the pussy I
realized with horror I'd not had a go at throughout the sex.  She slipped
the rod into the end of the tube, and then padlocked the end of it so my
cock was now imprisoned with one tiny bar barring the exit at the end of
the tube.
    "What do you say, slave?"  She asked.
    "Thank you, Mistress," I answered, wondering how I would endure being
out of contract with my own cock for the first time in my life.
    She kissed me, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
    "Yuck!  You taste like piss."  Then, changing the subject as she backed
away, she said, "I'll save this for later.  After you're horny again.  I
know you told me you wanted to fuck all the time, but I think two orgasms
is enough for my little slut."
    Her hand went to the artificial phallus wobbling between her legs.  It
stroked the big black leather seductively.  She licked her lips.
    "All the fucking you can handle, baby.  You get to fuck your new
chastity belt all the time now, and you will finally get to fuck my
strap-on when I am ready; I know you've been wanting to.  See how I fixed
that.  See how I fixed everything.  And, guess what else; you won't have to
worry about Tiffany making up stories about how she had intercourse with
you anymore.  Isn't that nice," said my Mistress, laughing, and over her
bad mood, as she walked through the door.  I felt my cock twitch, but it
would be several hours before I could no longer keep it from touching the
little metal bar at the end of my chastity tube.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty-Three:  Joe Fucking
Mary's view

    I watched TV, and took a load off my feet.  I had been on the run all
day, shopping in the city, and tending to Joe's needs after I'd collected
him at Tiffany's.  I knew he'd appreciate some time to reflect.  Not to
mention, I was kind of feeling better about things, less pessimistic.
Maybe it was because I had some control over my situation, I thought,
slipping the keys onto a chain and tossing the wad into my purse.  As I
watched the shows, I played with my old reliable strap-on, like some kind
of pervert might do watching an x rated video.  This prick was a quality
product, a thought that wouldn't have occurred to me prior to this new
lifestyle.  It was just one more thing unlikely to let me down.
    As for letting me down, I had guessed it would take a bunch of visits
before Tiffany had the nerve to move in on my husband.  I should have known
better, fully aware by that time that her morally superior attitude was
pure idealism, something akin to foreplay, if you ask me.
    After awhile I started feeling like sex.  A person can only give and
give so long.  I got up, and went to the bathroom to freshen up, passing by
the open door where my new husband was struggling to keep his feet.  He had
been such a dear, waiting on me like that.  I got a little bit of a giddy
feeling knowing he'd probably recovered enough by now to feel a bit crowded
in his new genital appliance.
    "Do you want down?"  I asked after freshening up, peeking around the
door frame, and into the room as if I had other things to do.
    "Yes, Mistress Mary," Joe said.
    "What will you do for me?"  I cooed.
    "Anything, Mistress.  I'll do anything you want me to," Joe said
boldly.
    "Do you still want to fuck?"  I played.
    "Uh, yes, Mistress," he chanced, me still well hidden behind the wall.
I came into the doorway, and sauntered up to him like some kind of street
slut, my butt wandering with each step, and my black penis wandering in the
other direction like some kind of counter weight.
    "Sure?  I'm so horny.  I'm so very horny, GI," I said, imitating
something I'd seen on a Vietnam war movie an old boyfriend had made me
watch with him a decade ago.
    "I'd love to have sex with you any way you want me to, Mistress Mary.
You know I do," he said hopelessly unashamed of anything I could imagine.
    "If you promise to be a good whore, I'll let you down then," I said,
releasing the rope, and watching him fall to his knees with fatigue.  I
walked right up to him, and played with my plastic cock, it inches from his
hair where he bowed.
    "Tell me you love cock!  Make me hard with your words, bitch," I
commanded, rubbing it on his cheek.
    "I love your cock, Mistress," he said, looking down.
    "Not like that.  Say, I want cock.  I need cock.  I want to suck cock.
A good whore isn't particular," I played.
    "I want cock, Mistress.  I need to suck a cock.  Please make me a
cocksucking whore, Mistress," he complied.
    "Well, at least look at it.  Did you tell me you wanted to fuck a few
hours ago?  And look at you; can't even bring yourself to look at a good,
hard cock, one all ready for and fat enough to fuck anyone as desperate as
you seemed to be, slut!  Was you lying to me?" I asked.
    "No, Mistress.  I love this cock," he confessed.
    "Lick it on the end, bitch.  I'm going to teach you how I want you to
suck cock," I commanded.
    He started to lick, and in time, I had him lick it all over.  When I'd
tired of that, I put it in his mouth.  I had him open his mouth just a
little, and like I mentioned, I slipped it to him, my hips soon bucking up
and down as I did the work like a real man.
    "Do you know how to deep throat, cunt?"  I asked my husband.
    "No, Mistress," he answered when I backstroked it out of his lips.  I
put it back in, not missing a beat.
    "Just swallow.  You have to convince yourself it's food.  I'll put it
in, and you swallow.  When I take it out, you tell yourself it was
something you ate that went down just fine.  The secret is in the
psychology; otherwise you'll gag.  Are you ready, whore?" I said, wondering
if this was going to work.
    "Yes, Mistress," he said.
    "I want you to stop with this Mistress stuff, whore.  Next time you
have the chance, I want to hear, 'Yes, Master.'  Is that understood,
bitch?"
    "Yes, Master," he said, me slipping out just long enough for him to
speak the third time.
    "Alright.  Now, on the third stroke, you're going to be deep throated
for the first time.  If you do it right, I'll feel better about it when I
have you do a real cock for me," I said, destroying whatever ego he might
have been holding onto for a rainy day.
    "Yes, Mistress," he almost was able to finish before I stuck him full
of my latex penis.
    "One, two, threeeeee," I said, one word per stroke.  I watched in
wonder as his throat took the whole salami.  My crotch was buried in his
nose, mashing it.  There I held my penis parked so he could grasp the
gravity of his situation.  I bet a good four inches of that monster was
past his tonsils.  A great success, I pulled out gently, not wanting to
damage my new deep throating slut.  I did the usual face fucking until he'd
caught some air, and one, two, threed him again several times until I was
sure he knew the new routine.
    "You suck cock really well.  Are you sure this is your first time,
bitch?"  I teased.
    "Yes, Mist ... Master," he answered.
    "This makes me very happy, slut.  If I find a date who needs a TV to
suck him off, I'll be good and ready.  I do declare, sweetheart, you know
all the tricks," I tormented with a bad southern accent.
    "Thank you, Master."
    "Now, enough of this.  Get my cock good and wet, then over to the desk
with you.  I want you to lean over, and stick that pussy out as far as you
can.  Here we go.  Come on now, bend over like you want it.  All good
whores like it doggy style when they're hot.  Are you hot, bitch?"
    "Yes, Master.  I want your cock in me.  I want to fuck," he pleaded.  I
was convinced.
    "Spread your legs, I can go deeper if you do that for me.  That's a
girl.  Now take a deep breath and try to relax.  I just know you're going
to love this," I said, letting a drop of spit hit the end of the dildo and
then pressing it into his puckered ass.
    "Oh," he said, feeling the tip of it spread him painfully.
    "That's a good bitch.  Moan for me.  It makes me hot."
    "Oh, God, Master.  It's too big," he protested.  There was no use
protesting.  I pulled back the half inch of impalement I'd started, and
then worked it in again, this time giving him the half inch without as much
moaning.
    "You'll get used to it, honey.  It's always like that the first time,
but once you've lost that virginity, it gets easier," I advised, shoving
the penis in a whole inch this time.  He was really tight, I noticed as I
pulled it out the second time.
    "Ouch.  Please, Mistress.  Wait just a minute," he pleaded.
    "That's not right.  Tell me you want my cock.  Tell me you're hot for
my love stick, baby," I corrected.
    "No.  Please, Master, wait," he tried.
    "The sooner we get this behind us, the better.  Try to relax.  Pretend
you're taking a big shit.  I know you want it.  There we go," I said,
pushing forward until the penis started to slide easier.
    "Oh," he groaned, before breathing in short little gulps like some kind
of pre-birthing student.
    "There we go.  Now we can fuck.  Tell me how much you want it baby," I
played, easing the penis back and forth, marveling at how much work it was
being a man.
    "Oh, God, Mistress," he said, still hurting I presumed.
    "If you don't start acting like you like it's fun, I'm going to have to
do this faster," I threatened.
    "Oh, yes, Master.  Fuck me.  I love your, uh, cock in me.  I feel so
full, Master," he started, probably out of fear that any increase in the
intensity would rip his insides out.  Of course I already knew a lot about
how he felt, having experienced this once myself, although I imagine a
penis a bit more forgiving than a dildo.  I had managed to endure because
the boy I was dating seemed to have potential at the time.  Still, it hurt,
although after awhile I knew my slave would learn to deal with it.  I, on
the other hand, after some reflection, had told my old boyfriend to go to
hell.
    "That's better.  How does it feel now, slave.  How do you fell about
your first good fuck," I teased.
    "I love it, Master.  Thank you, Master.  My cock is hard, and it hurts
where it's pressing against the bolt at the end of my chastity tube,
Master," he added unexpectedly, popping in his complaint.  Up to that point
in the fucking, I'd completely forgotten about that.  Seems, my Joe had
ripened just in time to feel some pressure in more places than one.
    "That's nice," I answered, pulling my strap-on out of his ass, and
walking away.
    "You clean up.  I'll leave this cock in the bathroom for you to take
care of.  It seems like I've been spending all day taking care of your
needs.  I have to get dressed and see if I can find someone to take care of
mine.  Don't wait up; I'll be late.  And Joe," I said, waiting for him to
straighten up and look in my direction.
    "Yes, Mistress," he answered.
    "Around eleven, put yourself away in the cage.  I'll probably have a
guest.  You've been a good fuck, so you can have a pillow."
    "Yes, Mistress.  And, thank you for fucking me, Mistress," said Joe,
always appreciative of my efforts.  That's why I loved him so dearly.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty-Four:  Allen
Mary's view

    I picked up Tiffany for the drive to the Rocking Rooster.  She looked
kind of sheepish and aglow all at the same time.  I let it sit awhile,
humming along to a tune, the radio off.  We were two blocks from the dance
hall before either of us said a thing.
    "So, how'd he do?"  I asked.
    "What?  Oh, Joe.  Yes, he did a good job," she said, looking at me for
the first time.
    "I thought so.  He told me all about it."
    "Well, he was pretty worked up.  I let him lick me for doing a good job
with the bathroom," she sort of confessed.
    "Of course he did.  He's a slave.  He does whatever you tell him to do.
Too bad; he actually does have a nice cock, and can fuck like the devil," I
played.
    "What did he say we did," she blurted out, guilt painted all over her
face.
    "He said he licked you.  I figured, it's a thankless job, but someone
has to do it."  I just felt compassionate, letting her off the hook.
    "I wouldn't let him make love to me," she hedged, not leaving well
enough alone.
    "No honey, I was the one who wouldn't let him fuck you.  But, since he
didn't, who cares who thinks who didn't let whomever do whatever whomever
thinks he didn't do," I said.
    "I'm lost," said Tiffany, probably a little pickled over the thought
that my husband didn't fuck her because I, instead of her, hadn't allowed
it.
    "We're here.  Forget Joe.  Allen said he was going to be here tonight,
but before I settle for that, I want to dance with someone new," I said,
changing the subject.  I already had what I was after anyway, knowing
Tiffany would be fretting over how I wouldn't let Joe fuck her.  The thing
you can't do is what plagues you.  Knowing by now how her mind worked,
she'd be chomping at the bit to seduce my man next time.  The idea of
sending him over there with his chastity belt on had me positively giddy.
    It was Tiffany who got to the someone new before I did, and I had to
admit her taste was improving.  Still, Allen was better, employed,
handsome, easy to talk to.  I had him slow dancing on the dance floor for
most of an hour, only pausing once for a change of hot beer for a cold one
that he ran across my back when I was getting hot.
    "So, is your old man home tonight?" He asked.
    "Sure he is.  He's home every night," I told him.
    "Cept last time," he corrected.
    "Oh, he was there then too," I told him, amused by the way he stiffened
in my arms.
    "What, was he watching?" He seemed kind of annoyed by the thought.
    "Of course not," I said, feeling him relax a little.  "So what if he
was," I added, playfully.
    "I don't know.  I guess I just don't like the idea of being used."
    "You go home with a married lady, and you're worried about being used?
Tisk, tisk, Allen, you are not being fair," I scoffed.
    "So where was he?"
    "Who?"
    "You know who, you bitch," he said, not playfully and not mean, just
bitch.
    "My husband?  Oh, he was in the study.  I had him locked in."
    "What is he, some kind of hunchback?  Keep him locked up so he doesn't
come out at night and terrorize the countryside?"
    "He's submissive.  I lock him up and cuckold him.  He loves it."  I
could feel Allen really stiffen up then; almost like holding a brick I was
thinking.  I rubbed against him to loosen him up, and realized his prick
was as stiff as the rest of him.
    "I don't know what to say," he confessed eventually.
    "Why?  Because it's a shock, or because you want some discipline?"  I
asked, genuinely intrigued.  I mean, I'd not considered having two slaves.
I was, in fact, kind of enjoying the variety.
    "Well, I don't know.  Maybe a little of both.  I loved the sex we had,
but I can admit I've had a time or two when I've fantasized about a
dominant women.  I guess I could like it some," he confided.
    "Just get it out of your head, Allen.  I already have a slave.  I come
here for a man.  Are you a man, Allen?"  I tormented.
    "I don't know?  Why don't you check?" He was giving as good as he was
getting.
    "Alright, I will," I said, dropping my hand right down the front of his
pants, and wrapping my fist around his penis.  I could feel it pulsing.  My
wrist was sort of edging the front of his trousers down a little, and I
knew it was my hand that kept the tip of his penis from showing.  A couple
of people along the edge of the dance floor might have been noticing this,
but I didn't let my eyes wander from the shocked look of pleasure mixed
with embarrassment on Allen's face.  He was such a puppy.
    "Not here," he asked, not doing a thing to change the situation other
grabbing my ass so we'd be forced to dance a little closer.
    "At the table then," I said, kind of like commanded maybe.
    I took my hand out of his pants, and led him to the table.  I sat by
the wall, and started rubbing a finger along the side of his cock where it
bulged under his pants.  He didn't stop me, but did keep glancing at the
rest of the room.  There was a couple at a far table that couldn't keep
their eyes off of us; quite encouraging.
    "What if I did that to you?" Allen asked, a little embarrassed I
expect.
    "I don't care, as long as the bar doesn't see us and kick us out," I
said, hoping it would shock him.
    "What about if your husband saw us?"
    "I already told you; he's locked in his cage.  Besides, he's already
had his tonight," I played.
    "Oh really?"
    "Yes, I fucked him just before I came here."
    "So I'm stuck with sloppy seconds," said Allen, as if he'd been
cheated.  He put his arm around me, and let his fingers find the top of a
breast.
    "No, I fucked him - with a dildo.  He practically begged me."
    "You are a nasty girl," he said, levity in his voice.
    "Want to stay the night?" I offered, whispering in his ear.  Leaning
closer, his hand was able to crawl under the cup of my bra.
    "Only if you promise to go to sleep with my cock in your mouth," he
offered, maybe a little afraid he'd not prove manly enough without some
kind of domineering offer.
    "What if I dream about sausage and eggs?"
    "I'll take my chances," he countered.
    "I can be nasty.  You said it yourself.  And, now that I know you like
assertive women, maybe you'd like it if I chewed some?"
    "I said I was a little kinky, not a little crazy.  You'll have to save
your mastication aspirations for your husband's penis," he teased.
    "Oh, I can't do it with his," I protested.
    "Why not?  From what I hear, he'd probably like it," Allen
extrapolated.
    "Well, for one, he has this copper tube thing over his prick.  I have
him in chastity.  I'd break a tooth," I said, in a playful mood.  Allen's
cock pulsed under my finger, telling me I'd struck a nerve.
    Allen would never fully admit it, but he was as much a wimp as my
husband.  I was thinking that maybe every man has these little fantasies,
and it was all in just how we women choose to direct them; you know, lead
their cocks about, so to speak.  I also thought that my husband was maybe
just a whole lot more honest than most men, or perhaps not as taken with
that macho training boys secretly get when we girls weren't looking in
school.
    "I think Tiffany can find her own ride home," I offered, seeing her
dance with her newfound stud for the tenth song.  Later that night, I did
go to sleep with Allen's penis in my mouth, but not until I'd drained it
twice.  In fact, I even dreamed of sleeping with a penis in my mouth, a
strange kind of parallel reality, which had me chewing on occasion, but not
hard enough to cause a fight.
    I woke up to the ring of the bedside phone.  The sun was just up, and
the chickens outside were making such a racket from neglect that I wondered
why the phone had made a difference, which of course it hadn't for Allen.
I made a mental note to attend to the feathered pests after breakfast.
    "Guess what?" Tiffany asked after my sleepy hello.
    "You're getting married," I said, thinking of the dumbest thing she
could do with a one night stand.
    "No way.  I took that man to bed, and around one in the morning he told
me he was married.  He was here on a business trip, as if this is the sort
of town people come to for business.  I was like thinking, why me!  Do I
look like a cheap motel?"
    "So, did you kick him out?" I asked, avoiding the obvious comeback.
    "He just left," she said, proving Tiffany was still Tiffany.
    "Good, so now you have a vacancy," I said.
    "You need a baby-sitter again?" She guessed.
    "If you don't mind."  I knew she'd be thinking about fucking my Joe all
night long.
    "Sure.  I can think of something for him to do," she said.  I bet she
could, I was telling myself as I hang up and went downstairs to see how Joe
was holding up.  I had to admit it, I'd completely forgotten about him, and
he had probably spent a little too long in his cage.
    "Up you go," I said, unlocking the cage, and watching him struggle out
of the confine.  He looked miserable, and I felt sorry for him, but I had a
guest, making this feel a little like I was putting the dog out on a wet
morning.
    "Put on some new panties and run over to Tiffanies.  She needs some
more help.  I'll call her, and tell her to lay you down for a nap later, if
you're good," I instructed, knowing I was pushing his endurance.
    "Yes, Mistress," he said, limping to a standing position.
    "Is this the slave?" Said Allen, who'd mysteriously materialized in the
study doorway.  He had on briefs, and a suntan.
    "Oh, hi.  Joe, this is Allen.  Allen, Joe.  Allen spent the night.  Joe
was just leaving, dear," I said to Joe, Allen, Joe and then Allen again.
    "That's nice," said Allen, obviously reveling in a superior position.
    "Would you care for some breakfast?" I asked Allen, patting Joe on the
ass after aiming him towards the downstairs bathroom where he could freshen
up.  I notice his piss hard-on was making the head of his penis purple and
bubble out of the end of the copper tube as best it could with the bolt in
place.
    "Yes, dear.  I would love that," said Allen, taking my waist and
leading me to the kitchen.  We had a lovely breakfast of eggs, sausage and
toast.  I even packed Joe a breakfast for on his way; after all, he'd been
so compliant and humble, not uttering a word of descent at being replaced.


The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty-Five:  The Feud
Joe's view

    Tiffany seemed unusually glad to see me.  Perhaps it was because she'd
been so thoroughly used by the man she'd brought home the night before,
something I knew nothing about at the time, or more probably, it was
because of the way Mary had teased her in the car on their way to the
Rocking Rooster, another thing I had yet to learn.
    "Well, come on in, slave boy Joe.  You'll catch a morning chill
standing there in your panties," she said, letting me in and then scanning
the scarcely traveled highway for anyone who might has seen us.
    "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mistress Tiffany, but I think my wife
was busy, and wanted some time to herself," I explained.
    "I know about that.  Don't you never mind.  We'll find something to do
with ourselves," she explained, going to the kitchen and getting us both a
soda.
    She started, "Now, why don't you take off those panties, and let me
have a look at you," she said, something like sex already on her mind, I
was guessing.  I dropped my panties, and she choked on some soda.
    "That crazy bitch," she protested, seeing my chastity device.
    "Please, Mistress, I'd rather find something to do so I'm not thinking
about sex all the time," I offered, worried that Tiffany would use me to
get back at my wife.
    "Does that thing hurt?" She asked.
    "Not most of the time, if I'm careful and don't swell.  The bolt at the
end is the most uncomfortable part."
    "I'll have to give this some thought," she said, reflectively, sitting
on a chair, and dangling her foot.  I loved her legs.  Tiffany was fairly
good looking in a dizzy kind of way, but her legs wore the most wonderful
curves, especially when she crossed them, and the muscles on the top one
bulged with a seductive flair.
    I was stuck looking at them when she said, "Do you want to make me
happy?"
    "Of course I do, Mistress Tiffany."
    "Good, then before I put you to work, I want you on your hands and
knees.  We'll do some horsy riding.  My daddy used to ride me around on
this very floor.  If I don't take advantage, I'll probably be dead before I
get some more of that.  Come on; come over here and let's play," she said.
    I crawled over, my nose inches from her calf, and my cock already
wedged up against the post in my chastity tube.  Painful as it was, at the
time I was getting used to it, not having had the luxury of masturbation in
some time by then.  She stood up, straddled me, and sat on my back.
Tiffany was a tiny lady, but an adult, and I instantly realized this was
going to be a little work; kind of like doing knee pushups with each step.
    "Giddy-up, horsy," she commanded, and off we went around the coffee
table.
   "I was going to fuck you, Joe, but oh well.  She's got me for now," said
Tiffany, as we rode around the living room for the fiftieth time.  Once in
awhile she'd bunch up her legs and give little kicks at my haunches.
    "When you get to the couch, turn around, and let me fall off.  I have
something else I need you to do for me," said Tiffany, rubbing her pussy on
my back by then, although my knees were hurting so badly I barely cared.
    "Yes, Mistress," I answered, dropping her off.  She stuffed a pillow
under her stomach, and pointed over a shoulder to her back.  I got the
message, and started to rub.
    "I hope she likes this Allen," said Tiffany, raising all sorts of
questions in my mind.
    "Why's that, Mistress," I said.
    "Well, because if she likes him, maybe you'll get to come over here
more often.  Maybe I'll keep you.  I could use this kind of treatment after
the time I've spent with Lenny.  I could maybe even forget about him, if
things stayed this good.  Over there, yeah, right in the middle.  Scratch a
little, ummm.  You're good at that.  What was I saying?"
    "About Lenny," I said.
    "No I wasn't.  Oh shoot, I can't remember, but it wasn't at all about
him," she said, shifting so I was automatically moved to a shoulder.
    "What makes you think she likes Allen so much?" I asked, it killing me.
    "Oh, she does.  I can tell.  With you, I think it was she just didn't
want to lose you, but with him; she wants him.  I've never seen a girl so
in heat, God pity her soul," said Tiffany.  I had no idea she was so
perceptive, making me wonder if much of what Tiffany said in public was an
act.  Of course, I was hoping she was wrong too.  Feeling like she wasn't
made that hope increasingly desperate.
    "Joe, honey, you wouldn't mind rubbing my buns a little, would you
dear?" Said Tiffany with sugar.  I changed the spot I had been kneeling on
the floor and started on the thighs, absolutely dying to touch lower on her
legs.  I had always thought of myself as a bit of a tit man until recently,
Mary always insisting that I focus more of my attention on the floor.
    "Come here," said Tiffany after I'd rubbed another half hour and
assumed I'd put her to sleep.  I crawled over towards the head of the
couch, where she'd come up on her elbows.  Her hands were on her chin,
watching my chastity device, so I put it in front of her, not one to be
unaware of my Mistress's intentions.
    "How long has this been on?"
    "My god, a day, Mistress," I said, verbalizing what to me seemed an
astonishing fact - it had seemed far longer.
    "Look, your prick turned sideways, so the slit on its head is tucked
into the bar.  Does that hurt?" She said, as if in deep study.
    "Yes, Mistress, like a dull ache that you can't get rid of, or a bad
spring in the bed when you can't move," I explained.
    "I bet it does.  What happens if I touch it?" She asked, licking her
finger, and rubbing all over the head of my penis.  She could see a lot
better than me, it perpetually pointed down, so I'd not even been able to
sit when I pee.  Licking her finger again, she continued to play
vigorously, her finger slipping around all over the tip of the head.
    "Oh, god, Mistress Tiffany," I moaned, wondering if that much alone
could make me cum.  Of course, I also knew the chances of success were slim
to none, making the entire futile thing a cycle of pleasure and pain from
which I alone could not disengage.
    "How about when I do this?" She asked, stopping the wet rubbing, and
grabbing my balls with the same hand.  She squeezed with all five fingers.
The squeeze was even, and not hard enough to hurt much, only increasing my
frustration and making me aware of how full of sperm I'd already become.
Ironically, the more I needed release, the more my own body had conspired
to make me swell so that the cuff that held my chastity device in place had
become more secure than ever.
    "It helps to frustrate me, Mistress Tiffany," I said.
    "Do you like that?  Do you like being frustrated?  Wouldn't you like to
cheat just a little?"  She asked, looking me in the eyes.  She turned to
sit, and drew close enough to make it hard for me to see her lips.
    "Sometimes, Mistress," I confessed.
    "You're just like Lenny," she said, coldly, squeezing hard enough now
to make me uncomfortable.
    "No, Mistress.  I don't mean to cheat on my wife.  I just want to cum,
and get rid of the desire," I said.
    "You would cheat; in time, given enough of a chance," she said.  Then,
realizing what she'd said perhaps, her eyes went down to my chest, and she
saddened.  Of course I could be made to cheat, given a mountain of
pressure; maybe, I thought I could sense her thinking, Lenny had been
subjected to this sort of pressure.  We are all human, and I think it hit
her, faced with herself; faced with the realization that she was acting
like the slut who took her man away.  What was the difference between she
and Lenny?  Human beings are far more the same than they are different,
most of the time.
    So, I felt her then, and knew her pain, still firmly in her grasp.  I
said, "If I were to cheat, I'd want to do it with you."
    She looked up at me, almost as if I'd become a whole different person,
and then took my head in her hands, and kissed me.  She didn't quit either,
our taste mixing with that newness, until we felt one and out tongues were
no longer strangers.

The Inheritance  Part III
by: jo199@iwaynet.net

Chapter Thirty-Six:  The Aftermath
Mary's view

    "I'll just have to tell him," I told Allen.  We'd been dating for
several months.  It seemed that nearly every day Joe was being sent to
Tiffany's house.  My own housework was being neglected for want of a
servant, though I tried.  I dared not use Joe for anything more than the
increasing burden of farm labor, for fear we'd have a bad crop.  Then, as
soon as he got to a good stopping place, I had him off to Tiffany's so I
could spend time with Allen.  Of course, I loved this time I spent with
Allen, knowing by then that the fear of losing Joe had driven me to a hasty
marriage.
    "He'll be crushed, poor slut," said Allen.
    "So, I shouldn't tell him?" I said incredulous.
    "No, tell him.  How are you going to tell him?" Allen said, showing two
moods.
    "Well, for one, I think he already knows.  Tiffany's been making the
moves on him, so I bet he'll not be taking it too badly.  I think he has a
crush on her, not that I blame him, or her," I said.
    "With a chastity belt?  I never took Tiffany for the platonic type."
    "She gets hers.  In fact, I've not heard much of a complaint from her
lately, about slaves and the moral implications.  She's not physical about
it, but she likes the oral sex, and if ever there was a lady who needed a
housekeeper, it's Tiffany."
    "Maybe she'll take him on then?" Suggested Allen.
    "Maybe she will," I agreed.  "There's only one big problem though."
    "What's that, love?"
    "I'm kind of ashamed to admit it, but I lost the keys to his chastity
device.  I mean, I'd have let him out a long time ago if ...."
    "Now wait a minute; I thought we agreed to leave him in that thing.
I'm not into three ways like some," accused Allen.
    "I wouldn't let him fuck me," I defended.
    "Well then it's best the way it is," said Allen, forgetting his earlier
compassion.
    "Everyone needs relief," I explained.
    "Even a slave; a slave who virtually begged for this from the first
day," said Allen, not at all eager to level the playing field, I was
guessing.
    "I suppose so; at least until I can be sure Tiffany will take him.  You
know, I'll have to give him the land when we split.  It's just not right
for me to take it.  They'll need the income too, and if I screw either of
them over, I'll be losing the only friends I have in this two horse town.
I've already had a lawyer split off the house so I can sell it separate," I
told Allen.
    "Where would you go?" He asked, teasingly.
    "Why, to your place, Mister Big Bad Wolf," I teased back.
    "I'll huff and puff, and have to blow your bedroom door open," he
played back.
    "Then I'll have to tie you up and put something in your mouth.  After
all, even Little Red Riding Hood needs some security," I shot back.
    "Oh, alright, if you have to," Allen pretended to complain, putting his
hands behind him, and waiting for the scarf.

Joe's View

    We were in the middle pews.  I, of course hated the idea of organized
religion, but Tiffany had told me to think of it as some sort of submissive
act.  Little did the preacher know, and far from it for me to confess.
"You will have to become a Baptist for me.  I don't care if you like it or
not; I'm the Mistress, and all my little yard slaves are going to have to
learn to abandon their wicked pagan heritage for mine," she's commanded.  I
don't think she cared one bit that for me it was a sexual thing, this
submission to a god I could not respect.
    I looked over at her, and she was very happy about things, increasingly
so since my divorce and our marriage.  Every time we went by Lenny, she'd
look at her ring and gloat over the prize, saying something like, "Hey,
Lenny, I think your wife's calling you," as if to suggest he was hen
pecked.  She'd even renamed the dog, Rover.  Conversely, she always gave
off the appearance of a very diminutive woman, clasping my arm near the
shoulder and smiling at every word I said as if the law.  Who would have
suspected that the silly little Tiffany was mostly an act.  Underneath she
was as solid as a rock.  She knew exactly what she wanted, and in
particularly, when to demand it.
    So, sitting there in the pew, listening to the utterances of the
minister, and knowing full well the lies they were, I sat enslaved to this
torment, considering every minute of it worthwhile for the benefit of my
new Mistress Tiffany who would reward me with much sweeter torments for
this compliance.  She leaned up against me, as much as was permitted in
these walls.
    She was very happy, particularly today, three days since our wedding.
Our eyes met, and she cupped her hand to whisper something in my ear.
    I leaned over to hear her words.
    "I bought you another chastity thing when Mary and I went shopping
yesterday.  They all have the same keys.  I'm very excited about it."
Then, without as much as a wink, she looked up at the minister and smiled,
as if absorbed in his rubbish.
    I sat back, and grew a whole new bundle of nerves.  Shoot, I didn't
even know what my prick looked like anymore; it had been so long.
    She leaned back to my ear.  "What do you suppose we should do first?"
    I whispered back, "I'd really like to do it missionary style first
thing off.  You know, me on top, and looking into your eyes."
    She answered, "You are so kinky, honey.  That's why I like you so
much."

The End