Slut Boy Mega Collection Volume 3

Chapter Three-3

“That’s what I like about you, Slut-boy, such a big deep wide-open f**k-hole on such a shrimpy little boy. Somehow I just knew you’d stretch out wide for me, and as always I was right. I could just pound bigger and bigger pricks into you all day long and all night long on every damn day for the rest of your life! And big as I am, before long you should be able to handle me fisting you. Don’t think for a second that I won’t, Slut-boy. The sound of your choked grunts and whimpering screams is such beautiful music to me… I could just loom over your squealing squirms and punch myself up your sissy little ass forever and ever and ever…”

It almost seems like she does. Time stops for me, doubled over the bar, swinging to Mistress’ rhythm, listening to her heavy breathing and feeling that enormous spike of bone gore endlessly, agonizingly into me. Tears stream constantly from my eyes, and yet my traumatized insides revel at every vicious thrust. How can a human take so much rock-hard c**k? But at last out in the real world another hour somehow does pass, bringing on seven o’clock, and the time for my holy Goddess’s evening bath. She gives me a final, maniacally jackhammering frenzy; a demoniacal f*****g that at last elicits those remarkably pig-like squealing squirms from around my giant c**k-gag. Panting heavily, she withdraws her long, hard, elephant-bone p***s from my painfully gaping ass.

Immediately she crams the big plastic butt-plug straight back in—although now this nubbled prick seems hardly noticeable. The matching p***s gag is then unstrapped and removed from my mouth, and my hands and feet are released from the six-foot spreader bar. Mistress drags me off the trapeze, and for a moment I’m so woozy and crippled that I collapse at her feet. Promptly she kicks me hard in the condemned nuts.

“Come on, Slut-boy! Move your incredibly cored-out asshole you contemptible little sissy-slut! My soon-to-be eunuch she-male slave! We don’t have all night, here.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I gasp out, and somehow begin to crawl. Gradually I gain control of my spaghetti limbs and flayed skin, and eventually I make it back through the bedroom suite to the spacious, customized bathroom. I switch on the Jacuzzi for Mistress, and while it fills I gather soap, shampoo, a big sponge glove and heavy scented bath oil.

Sweaty and disheveled by her workout, Mistress leisurely strips out of her body harness, leaving it for me to clean and put away tomorrow. She sinks into the churning tub with a sigh of exquisite pleasure then, and after a few moments allows me to cripple over and oh-so-reverently bathe her. Constantly my persistent little sissy-p***s swells, screams, and collapses, in an insanity-inducing cycle, as my sponge-gloved hand scrubs slowly over every curve and convexity of that fabulous, soapy-slippery, almost superhumanly beautiful body. Finally I finish by double-shampooing her long, thick, silkily shiny sable Asian hair. Then unfortunately my most cherished part of the day is over. While Mistress lounges and soaks and lets the bubbling Jacuzzi and luxurious bath oil work on her muscles and skin, I move painfully away to lie out towels for her, an embroidered silk kimono, then her very best evening clothes and the hottest accessories.

Then, when everything is ready for her but me, I at last move to the low toilet bench jutting perpendicularly from the wall. This duty is something else I was forced to learn to accept within a month of marriage, but even after over ten years I still find it occasionally hard to relish. In any case, without hesitation I raise the seat ring at the end and then sit on the bench, where I voluntarily lock my ankles into the shackles provided. Then I tightly secure the wide belt restraint across my waist, and lie back down on the bench, until my head fits snugly into the small oval toilet cabinet at the end. I lower the seat ring to cover everything but my mouth, and upon meeting the top of the toilet cabinet the seat locks automatically in place, trapping me there and immobilizing my head completely.

Automatic restraints await my hands as well, and once I’m finally in position, I lower my arms and press my wrists into the pressure-locking shackles on either side of the bench. These snick authoritatively closed, and then I can do nothing but lie there blindly in the dark, helplessly bound up tight on my extensively wounded backside, waiting for Mistress to finally finish her bath.

Eventually she does, and even through the close toilet cabinet I can hear her climbing from the tub and toweling off.

Her feet approach me, and water droplets dripping onto me from her just-bathed body, she steps over my tightly shackled body and straddles the toilet bench. Sitting right down on my cabinet-enclosed head, she squirms on the seat ring until she finds the right position by force of long habit. She leans forward a little then, grabs my n****e rings for balance and leverage, and immediately I open up. Half an inch from my face she begins to urinate, spraying her hot acid waste straight against my tongue, down my open throat and into my belly.

Stray drops and streamlets spatter my features, but nearly all of Mistress’s piss goes right where it belongs. Afterwards I dutifully lick out her sainted hole until it’s spotlessly clean. At last my big butch wife grunts once again with satisfaction. Leaving me lying there, locked onto and inside the humiliating toilet bench, she goes to do her hair and face and dress herself up to go out dancing.

Nearly an hour passes before she finally releases me. When she does, she looks so stunningly gorgeous that my heart wails out miserably with an unbearably poignant mix of pride, shame, pain, and unrequited love at the sight of her. Her brows are angled down again, and her expression is impatient and cross. “Hurry up and clean out that tub, Slut-boy! Then I want you locked-up in your cage! Chop-chop! I’ve got to get out of here!”

Less than five minutes later I hang there, my birdcage positioned directly over the middle of the bed a foot above the covers. Once again my feet are shackled tightly together, and linked to my hands and elbows cuffed behind my back. Squatting miserably cramped with my dildo-gagged face and plug-filled ass pressed firmly against a pair of specially made gaps in the otherwise closely set bars, I’ll be waiting at least five or six hours to see what kind of lover(s) Mistress brings home to take advantage of those openings, and replace all that hard impersonal plastic with hard, hot, thrusting and spurting flesh.

Lately they’ve all been rough trade—big, and black and as ruthlessly sadistic as she is herself. One day last week there were even four of them, muscular tattooed bikers rotating on and off, double-teaming each of us throughout the entire terrible night. How will she ever top that outrageous orgy?

Promising that tonight she somehow certainly will do so, Mistress leaves the lights on—allowing me to spend the intervening hours studying every humiliating detail of myself in the big bedside mirror. Then she smiles possessively, contemptuously at me.

Satisfied with what she sees in her stuffed, plugged, chained, caged, piss-filled, viciously reamed out and thoroughly whipped husband, she leaves me hanging there, doe-eyed with devotion, while she goes out to find herself about a dozen hung studs, all of them big and brutal and abusively eager to drain their capacious balls.

Then the real f*****g fun can begin!