Captain Janeway Captain s Slave
- 4 years ago
- 459
- 0
Faggot's New Duties: WIFE free porn video
We don’t talk about it much any more. I worry about that. It seems like we should talk about it, but I’m not really sure what l’d say.
“Are you okay”
“How do you feel?”
I mean - come on. I know how he feels. He feels hungry. All the time.
Honestly, the LAST thing I expected when we transgressed so deeply was this. I thought, maybe, it would be a one-time thing. I thought maybe it would be this incredible period of passion and then it would die down and he’d move on. Or I would.
I thought maybe that we’d hit it together on holidays and reunions - you know this deep secret that two horny guys shared - but otherwise, things would go back to normal.
What I didn’t think is that he’d become obsessive - that he’d need it all the time. That I would comply with that need. Share it.
I didn’t think he’d move back in - even though I insisted it should be temporary, which was a lie I told to myself while we unloaded the U-Haul … and even though I insisted that he should stay in his room (which was a lie I told myself to protect my eroding heterosexuality).
I didn’t think it would go down hill from there.
I didn’t think I’d be fucking him daily - multiple times a day. That I’d get him job at the company. That he’d be sucking me off in the Executive bathroom during lunch-hour.
That - while driving home late after a very long day, trying to massage the numbers for the quarterly earnings release, he would text me pictures from his bedroom, showing that he was ready. Waiting.
“How long have you been like, that, boy?” I asked, texting while driving, which I always insisted that he never do.
“An hour, daddy.
“Stay there.”
“Yes, sir.”
He takes it so easily now. Look at it. It’s not even lubed. He says: “Lube isn’t natural.” He says: “Pussy is pussy - and this is your pussy.”
I come in, unbuckle my suit-pants and they drop. I step out of them, leaving my work socks on. My cock is raging. This will be the third load I give him today: first thing in the morning; again at lunch, on his knees, Hoovering my cock in the large private stall in the executive restroom; and now here.
“Please, daddy - I need it so bad.”
“You aren’t the only one that needs it, k**. I need it, too.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
“I really do, Patrick. I don’t think I can live without it. I need to be in you every day.”
“Oh fuck - I need you in me every day.”
“Good boy.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
“Yes, baby. You can say.”
And then I plunged into my son’s clean, unlubed cunt. He cried out. I did, too.
I guess that was our talk. I guess that was all that needed to be said.
As I plowed him, railed him, bred him, he moaned and flexed, showing me his muscles, displaying his pride, being what he needed to be: His father’s slut-bottom son, born and raised to serve the cock that created him.
His mother moved out years ago - sensing, I think, our growing bond, unwilling to intrude on our deviant passion - frightened by it. Who knows? I don’t and I don’t care that much. She gets her alimony check and I get better pussy than she ever gave me.
“Shoot it, dad. Give me your cum. I need your cum inside me - so bad.”
“Here it is, son. Here ii cums. Hungry little slut.”
“Yes, sir - daddy’s slut-son.”
And I blasted off, deep in his guts, while his hole milked my cock like a tender young calf feeding hungrily from his mother’s teat.
Here I am - nearly fifty - and there’s more cum spewing out of my cock than when I was his age.
I can’t get enough.
He can’t get enough.
While he licked it clean as I unbuttoned my shirt, he looked at me, worshipful.
“Did you eat, daddy?”
“No.”
“Good - I made you dinner.”
“Good boy. Just what I expect.”
“Can I be your wife, dad?”
“You are my wife, k**. That’s how I see you.”
He just smiled, blissful.
“Go get the table ready. Stay naked. Apron on, like I told you to, in case I want to fuck you after dinner.”
“Yes, daddy,” he said, beaming.
Honestly, the words shocked me when they dropped out of my mouth: “You are my wife … “ I wasn’t expecting to say them. I wasn’t expecting to believe them once I said them. But now that they’d been said - now that our truth had been spoken - it seemed logical to take certain actions.
I moved him into my room that weekend.
And, I fired him on Monday.
Even he didn’t expect that. The tears were real. He kept asking, “Have I done something wrong, daddy?” I just nodded, signing off on his HR File. “You know what you’ve done, son,” I said, looking at the HR Chief who I made sure witnessed the entire episode. “I can get into the details of your inappropriate behavior in the Executive Bathroom here, in front of Ms. Abercrombie, and put it on your permanent record, or you can accept the three month’s severance and letter of recommendation, and move on.”
Poor k**. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him.
“But, daddy … “ he said, wiping the tears.
“And that’s another thing, Andrew. Getting this job was a favor. But keeping it was your responsibility, not mine. I’m not your ‘daddy’ at work. I’m the CFO. Don’t make this any harder, son. It’s not a good fit. Everyone knows that but you.”
Even Abercrombie nodded at that - that cold bitch had been after me for years, but on this day, I pulled her to my side. The firing became legend at the office. It secured my path to the CEO’s job, which was only secondary to the primary reason I canned my boy’s ass.
See - no matter how deviant my desires and how transgressive my relationship with my first and only c***d, at heart, I’m a traditionalist. Call me a dinosaur if you will, but I believe that a wife shouldn’t work outside the home. I believe wives should stay at home, take care of the home - and take care of their man.
Oh sure, I miss the mid-afternoon blow jobs, but the risks were way too high for them to continue anyway. Plus, that means I get to dump two loads when I get home: one while I have my martini - the other later, deep in his guts, in our bed.
That first night was tough, I admit it. But once I’d taken him over my knee to stop his juvenile little temper-tantrum, and once I explained what was expected of him, he caught on.
Frankly, the k** took to it like a fish to water. The house runs like clock-work. He gets to spend more time at the gym, which makes him even more fuckable than he already is. And I’m letting him take cooking classes at the Community College.
Now that I’m CEO I have less time to manage any part of our home life, but that’s why I have a ‘wife’, right?
I learned another thing that night, too: the k** thrives on discipline. I run a tight ship at work and I expect a tighter ship at home. He doesn’t step out of line too often, but he’s still young and young people make mistakes. So I periodically tan his ass when I feel he needs to straighten up. He gets off on it.
And, so do I.
This morning while he was riding my pole, trying to milk out a third load (Sunday mornings are our ‘special time’ given my work schedule), I told him about the job offer.
“A headhunter contacted me about a job in Europe. CEO of a private, family owned conglomerate. I told them they’d have to relocate me and my wife. They didn’t bat an eye.”
“Ooohhh daddy,” he moaned, bouncing up and down on my cock, my prior loads dripping out of his hungry gash.
“We’ll need to get married. They won’t know you’re my son, so we can entertain, like I want to. Have parties. They know you’re a guy, but I explained we have a very traditional relationship - and they were accepting. Supposedly the Chairman is in a polyamorous relationship. He looks forward to meeting you.
“Yes, daddy,” he gasped, beginning to tremble now. He never touched himself any more. He just came while I was inside him - if he came at all. Our sex was all about me - as it should be.
“We won’t have to hide. I want to show you off. Let everyone see what I hot little slut I have at home, taking care of me, taking care of my cock.”
His eyes rolled back into his head as his cock sprayed on my hairy chest, and I stood up from the edge of the bed, lifting him, driving a third load into him as his cunt made obscene squelching sounds, sucking even more cum out of my bull balls.
Our kiss was long and languorous, sloppy, like his hole. Wet. Loving. As my cock flopped out, he dropped to his knees, gobbling it up.
“I get use of a private jet.”
He just moaned.
“I’ll expect you to travel with me. Take care of me.”
He just nodded.
“What’s for breakfast,” I asked, as he slobbered on my cock, eyes looking at me, teary, worshipful.
“Eggs benedict,” he said.
“Good boy. Champagne, too. We’re celebrating. I’m giving notice on Monday. We fly overseas next week to find a house. I want you to take care of all the details of the move.”
“Yessir,” he nodded, obediently.
And then I gave him what he was waiting for - my morning gut-full of piss, which he’d begun to accept willingly, ever since the firing.
Just another one of his wifely duties.
“Are you okay”
“How do you feel?”
I mean - come on. I know how he feels. He feels hungry. All the time.
Honestly, the LAST thing I expected when we transgressed so deeply was this. I thought, maybe, it would be a one-time thing. I thought maybe it would be this incredible period of passion and then it would die down and he’d move on. Or I would.
I thought maybe that we’d hit it together on holidays and reunions - you know this deep secret that two horny guys shared - but otherwise, things would go back to normal.
What I didn’t think is that he’d become obsessive - that he’d need it all the time. That I would comply with that need. Share it.
I didn’t think he’d move back in - even though I insisted it should be temporary, which was a lie I told to myself while we unloaded the U-Haul … and even though I insisted that he should stay in his room (which was a lie I told myself to protect my eroding heterosexuality).
I didn’t think it would go down hill from there.
I didn’t think I’d be fucking him daily - multiple times a day. That I’d get him job at the company. That he’d be sucking me off in the Executive bathroom during lunch-hour.
That - while driving home late after a very long day, trying to massage the numbers for the quarterly earnings release, he would text me pictures from his bedroom, showing that he was ready. Waiting.
“How long have you been like, that, boy?” I asked, texting while driving, which I always insisted that he never do.
“An hour, daddy.
“Stay there.”
“Yes, sir.”
He takes it so easily now. Look at it. It’s not even lubed. He says: “Lube isn’t natural.” He says: “Pussy is pussy - and this is your pussy.”
I come in, unbuckle my suit-pants and they drop. I step out of them, leaving my work socks on. My cock is raging. This will be the third load I give him today: first thing in the morning; again at lunch, on his knees, Hoovering my cock in the large private stall in the executive restroom; and now here.
“Please, daddy - I need it so bad.”
“You aren’t the only one that needs it, k**. I need it, too.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
“I really do, Patrick. I don’t think I can live without it. I need to be in you every day.”
“Oh fuck - I need you in me every day.”
“Good boy.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
“Yes, baby. You can say.”
And then I plunged into my son’s clean, unlubed cunt. He cried out. I did, too.
I guess that was our talk. I guess that was all that needed to be said.
As I plowed him, railed him, bred him, he moaned and flexed, showing me his muscles, displaying his pride, being what he needed to be: His father’s slut-bottom son, born and raised to serve the cock that created him.
His mother moved out years ago - sensing, I think, our growing bond, unwilling to intrude on our deviant passion - frightened by it. Who knows? I don’t and I don’t care that much. She gets her alimony check and I get better pussy than she ever gave me.
“Shoot it, dad. Give me your cum. I need your cum inside me - so bad.”
“Here it is, son. Here ii cums. Hungry little slut.”
“Yes, sir - daddy’s slut-son.”
And I blasted off, deep in his guts, while his hole milked my cock like a tender young calf feeding hungrily from his mother’s teat.
Here I am - nearly fifty - and there’s more cum spewing out of my cock than when I was his age.
I can’t get enough.
He can’t get enough.
While he licked it clean as I unbuttoned my shirt, he looked at me, worshipful.
“Did you eat, daddy?”
“No.”
“Good - I made you dinner.”
“Good boy. Just what I expect.”
“Can I be your wife, dad?”
“You are my wife, k**. That’s how I see you.”
He just smiled, blissful.
“Go get the table ready. Stay naked. Apron on, like I told you to, in case I want to fuck you after dinner.”
“Yes, daddy,” he said, beaming.
Honestly, the words shocked me when they dropped out of my mouth: “You are my wife … “ I wasn’t expecting to say them. I wasn’t expecting to believe them once I said them. But now that they’d been said - now that our truth had been spoken - it seemed logical to take certain actions.
I moved him into my room that weekend.
And, I fired him on Monday.
Even he didn’t expect that. The tears were real. He kept asking, “Have I done something wrong, daddy?” I just nodded, signing off on his HR File. “You know what you’ve done, son,” I said, looking at the HR Chief who I made sure witnessed the entire episode. “I can get into the details of your inappropriate behavior in the Executive Bathroom here, in front of Ms. Abercrombie, and put it on your permanent record, or you can accept the three month’s severance and letter of recommendation, and move on.”
Poor k**. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him.
“But, daddy … “ he said, wiping the tears.
“And that’s another thing, Andrew. Getting this job was a favor. But keeping it was your responsibility, not mine. I’m not your ‘daddy’ at work. I’m the CFO. Don’t make this any harder, son. It’s not a good fit. Everyone knows that but you.”
Even Abercrombie nodded at that - that cold bitch had been after me for years, but on this day, I pulled her to my side. The firing became legend at the office. It secured my path to the CEO’s job, which was only secondary to the primary reason I canned my boy’s ass.
See - no matter how deviant my desires and how transgressive my relationship with my first and only c***d, at heart, I’m a traditionalist. Call me a dinosaur if you will, but I believe that a wife shouldn’t work outside the home. I believe wives should stay at home, take care of the home - and take care of their man.
Oh sure, I miss the mid-afternoon blow jobs, but the risks were way too high for them to continue anyway. Plus, that means I get to dump two loads when I get home: one while I have my martini - the other later, deep in his guts, in our bed.
That first night was tough, I admit it. But once I’d taken him over my knee to stop his juvenile little temper-tantrum, and once I explained what was expected of him, he caught on.
Frankly, the k** took to it like a fish to water. The house runs like clock-work. He gets to spend more time at the gym, which makes him even more fuckable than he already is. And I’m letting him take cooking classes at the Community College.
Now that I’m CEO I have less time to manage any part of our home life, but that’s why I have a ‘wife’, right?
I learned another thing that night, too: the k** thrives on discipline. I run a tight ship at work and I expect a tighter ship at home. He doesn’t step out of line too often, but he’s still young and young people make mistakes. So I periodically tan his ass when I feel he needs to straighten up. He gets off on it.
And, so do I.
This morning while he was riding my pole, trying to milk out a third load (Sunday mornings are our ‘special time’ given my work schedule), I told him about the job offer.
“A headhunter contacted me about a job in Europe. CEO of a private, family owned conglomerate. I told them they’d have to relocate me and my wife. They didn’t bat an eye.”
“Ooohhh daddy,” he moaned, bouncing up and down on my cock, my prior loads dripping out of his hungry gash.
“We’ll need to get married. They won’t know you’re my son, so we can entertain, like I want to. Have parties. They know you’re a guy, but I explained we have a very traditional relationship - and they were accepting. Supposedly the Chairman is in a polyamorous relationship. He looks forward to meeting you.
“Yes, daddy,” he gasped, beginning to tremble now. He never touched himself any more. He just came while I was inside him - if he came at all. Our sex was all about me - as it should be.
“We won’t have to hide. I want to show you off. Let everyone see what I hot little slut I have at home, taking care of me, taking care of my cock.”
His eyes rolled back into his head as his cock sprayed on my hairy chest, and I stood up from the edge of the bed, lifting him, driving a third load into him as his cunt made obscene squelching sounds, sucking even more cum out of my bull balls.
Our kiss was long and languorous, sloppy, like his hole. Wet. Loving. As my cock flopped out, he dropped to his knees, gobbling it up.
“I get use of a private jet.”
He just moaned.
“I’ll expect you to travel with me. Take care of me.”
He just nodded.
“What’s for breakfast,” I asked, as he slobbered on my cock, eyes looking at me, teary, worshipful.
“Eggs benedict,” he said.
“Good boy. Champagne, too. We’re celebrating. I’m giving notice on Monday. We fly overseas next week to find a house. I want you to take care of all the details of the move.”
“Yessir,” he nodded, obediently.
And then I gave him what he was waiting for - my morning gut-full of piss, which he’d begun to accept willingly, ever since the firing.
Just another one of his wifely duties.
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