Vanessa s Secret Part 3 the conclusion
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An Imposition No More Part 5 CONCLUSION free porn video
AN IMPOSITION NO MORE PART 5 (END)
Sleazy Blonde, 2021
It's been a fascinating process over these past several weeks.
He wanted me to fist him to orgasm and so I did. He wanted a chastity
belt on 24/7 and so I put it on. Laser hair removal? His choice!
Panties and corsets now everyday? His idea! Nightly spanking because
he's been a bad boy? His idea but I never forgot to slap my lap to
beckon him!
Moreover, the benefits of this relationship! OMG!!! I don't cook nor
clean anymore. I supervise. I inspect. He does good work and gets the
odd compliment. He does great work and gets to wash me. I have never
felt more content, more at ease, in this marital bliss that I presently
do.
And Jeremy seems happy too. I call; he runs. I ask; he satisfies. I
want; he gets. It is beautiful that I have not had to push him here. He
has willingly entered the several doorways, at each of which he could
have just once said, "No." But he never did.
Despite the bliss, I remained convinced that our new pattern of married
life would not last. He could slide back into his previous mindset, the
machismo of the Eastern Mediterranean exuding from every pore. I
remember those days. I did not miss them and considered very carefully
how to prevent their re-emergence.
Do you know what goes on behind the closed doors of your neighborhood?
What do your best friends do at night before sleeping? Do she peg him a
good one? Does he make her endure irrumatio? Are they scat people? Who
ties up whom?
I offer to you, dear reader, that much goes on just past the well-cut
and trimmed Kentucky Bluegrass front lawns of the homes in your 'hood.
Don't even ask about condos and apartment buildings: cesspools of
infidelity and indecency. But neither you nor I know any of that
because what most couples do is that which they seek to keep secret,
within the confines of their own home.
Accordingly, neither you nor I would ever know that Mary has ceased to
peg John, if she ever did at all. That Bill no longer facefucks Betty
until she pukes, if he ever did at all. That Kelly and Justine whip Tom
only every second Friday now because his bowels couldn't handle it more
frequently. You get the point: we do not know.
Similarly, no one except me and wittle Jewwi.
And that presented a problem. No one would know that our relationship
had changed. Jeremy could feign off his new routines and inconvenience
me. He might dive into the chequing accounts again to "sort them out."
That would not be in my interest, not that I was cheating him but
because it demonstrated that he could exert some power, some authority,
over me and my concerns.
And I did not want my husband to ever do that again. Concurrently, I
wanted him to feel that he had to remain close to me, to my interests,
to my new, more confident life.
Beauty: I saw it instantly, pondered it, and decided to press forward
with it.
And subtlety.
Beauty and subtlety: that's me.
It took about four or five times before Jerri could come regularly on
command through just my strap-on's deft touch. No jerking. No
caressing. Just my two hands on his two hips, me pulling, him grinding,
me pushing, his clenching. Sorry: and an occasional caning for good
measure. Pain and pleasure remember.
Then there was the week in July, during our summer vacation. He found
for us (at my suggestion of course) a spectacular lakeside villa:
remote, secluded, isolated, private --- perfect. I walked around naked
but for my strap-on. I had him mince about in some heels, a mini-skirt,
a tube top, and sufficient makeup. He emptied himself through three
enemas per day that week and I filled him up with three wide inches of
strap-on all the time.
I mean it: all the time. In the kitchen, on the floor, by a window,
near a door, in the bathroom, over a radiator, in the tool room, out
behind the shed. "Come here," I wold coyly demand. "Down," I would
anxiously order. "Relax, Jewwi," I would caution. And then I pounded
him for between five and thirty minutes. He conditioned himself to
accept being fucked. I really had little to do except thrust my hips
and arch my back.
That summer, I slowly fed him Viagra. I released him and granted him an
orgasm every three or four days: freehand of course. But I wanted him
horny like nothing ever before! I teased him. I tongued him. I
tantalized him. He lived on edge and was more desperate and responsive
than ever before.
He would be ready and willing to beg "Yes!" the moment I wanted him to
do so.
That brings us to the present. For this particular Saturday night, I
requested that he wear his highest of heels, his pinkest of stockings,
garters, and bras, and that he put on the best makeup ever.
Yes, he had actually suggested most of it. My off-hand remark, "Blue?
Really? Pink goes better," could hardly be construed as any form of
command. He acquired and dressed himself in his clothing, not mine. He
wore men's clothing to work. Only at home when no company was expected
did he wear his more feminine garb.
And the first time he had worn a complete outfit in front of me?
"Cute," I had said as I shrugged my shoulders and went to make a tea,
Chamomile, from France. Crossdressing would, he assumed, remain
private.
Anyway, I hid myself as he prepared in accordance with my wishes. Every
now and then, I'd emerge to fleetingly caress his shoulders, his
nipples, his cock, and just before he could react? Bang: I'd scoot
away!
I seductively invited him upstairs: "Sweetie, cuffs, penis gag, nipple
clamps. Ten minutes. Go." He darted away like a little boy dashing
toward a toy racing cart.
I entered the room. He was in his submissive position. I smiled at him.
This would be a good night for us.
"I brought some extra equipment," I said nonchalantly. His eyes
widened. He was surprised. I took out the extra straps and secured his
upper thighs to the foot of the bed. I took some more extra straps and
secured his upper arms to the sides of the bed. Between his hands
(cuffed), feet (cuffed), arms (strapped), and thighs (strapped), he
could hardly move. At least he could breathe through the penis gag.
I left him to ponder his future for a few minutes and then return
suddenly and started caning his cheeks red. I stopped and said flatly,
dispassionately, simply, "Obey, okay? Obey."
He nodded through his sobs. Perfect.
I left the room, went downstairs, and opened the door. The light in the
car in the guest spot came on. The four women got out. Darlene, my best
friend, led them in. I welcomed them. There were brief introductions.
Basically, I had hired three prostitutes, each of whom advertised
pegging services, to peg my Jeremy. He didn't know that, of course.
Each of the four put on their masks so, apart from their strap-ons
which they now put on, they were otherwise naked. I remained dressed in
my cute lingerie, my heels, and wearing Ms. Bull-Dyke, the huge 12"
monster that was guaranteed to leave every man crying in submission.
Well, that's what the saleslady had told me at the adult store.
I made no attempt to quieten my guests as they followed me into the
room. We did not speak. But our heels clacked on the hardwood floor.
And our mixed giggles and hushes spoke volumes. My pathetic little sub
must be shitting himself by now.
"Hi, honey. I think it's time we had a little chat," I said quite
gleefully as I pulled up a chair near the head of the bed. I lit a
Camel and blew the smoke in his face.
"Jeremy, we are never going back to how things were. I have been
fisting your walnut gland for a couple of months now; a real man
wouldn't tolerate that; a finger every now and then perhaps, but not a
fist every third or fourth day. I see you also have a big yellow flower
tattoo on your asshole. No real man would do that."
And on and on I went, listing out in great detail just what an
inadequate man he was, how uselessly ridiculous he was whenever he put
on the airs of masculinity.
"And now sweetie, to ensure that we never go back to how things were,
you are going to experience the ultimate in emasculation, here, in our
bedroom."
His eyes popped.
[Readers, lighten up! Come on! I'd never castrate him. He might ask for
it and I might facilitate the same, but I would never do so against his
will. Don't even think that!]
"These four women are my friends. Perhaps you know them. Perhaps you
don't. Regardless, each of them is going to fuck you up the ass with
their strap-on. See the cameras? Pics and vids this time; this time is
different. They will fuck you until you cum on my command. And you'd
better cum or else!"
I caned him several times with the riding crop. I went pretty hard on
him this time. I wanted him to remember this moment.
"And whatever they say when they fuck you, you'd better agree with it!
Shout it out!"
He squealed in his penis gag.
"And I, my darling little cockette, will be sitting right in front of
you, watching you get fucked up the ass by women. You will not know who
they are. You may or may not know them well." I leaned forward and
snarled at him. "But if you ever step out of line in our new marriage,
mark my words, you will be humiliated as never before. Pictures.
Videos. You'll never show your face on the streets of this city ever
again.
"And if you continue to make your wife happy, just as you have been
doing so well now for so long," I stroked his uncaged cock as I said
it, "then no one else will ever know of what happens here tonight.
True, every time we go out, you may wonder if any of the women in our
company are any of the women here tonight. You'll never know.
"So, it's in your best interest to always behave well generally,
impeccably toward women, and zealously devotedly toward me."
I snapped my fingers. The first and second prostitutes (Candy and
Sylvia, I think their names were) leaned the mid-sized mirror against
the headboard and wedged it down with a pillow. Jeremy's face was a
foot from the mirror.
I was behind him now, lubing up Ms Bull-Dyke. Without foreplay, I
rammed it into him and ferociously thrust in and out as fast as I could
for several minutes. I rapidly pulled out of him and flopped onto the
bed by the headboard. Our faces were close.
"Look in the mirror at her, Jerri!" I ordered loudly.
He saw the third (Natalia?) mount the bed between his legs. He couldn't
see her eyes; but he could see her ear-to-ear grin.
He looked. She pushed. He groaned, and they were off to the races.
Three-and-a-half hours later, Darlene led the girls out the door. They
had been social enough. The Chardonnay helped. They were getting paid
for their work and appreciated the opportunity to work out some of
their own demons about men. They had issues to vent. And they did. Upon
Jewwi. Before I forget: they loved Jeremy's canapes and other amuse-
bouches. He excelled in the kitchen, he really did.
I know not what went through his mind as he stared at each woman's
hooded eyes. Anger? Misogyny? Fear? Intimidation? Ruin? Perhaps I'm
looking at this all wrong; maybe there was pleasure and contentment,
relief and surrender, tranquility in unashamed resignation. I guess I
hoped it was the latter because I really did want our relationship to
grow and thrive.
I had watched his face for the full 3.5 hours. I glared at him with the
same shock and repugnance that I had possessed when he had first asked
me --- it seems like a lifetime ago --- to massage his prostate. He had
squirted and dripped endlessly for the entire evening. He'd come a long
way since his first massage.
Fortuitously, Darlene had briefly spoken to me about the merits of
double-headed dildos. A gleam in her eye, a smirk at the edge of her
smile: I inferred that she knew what she was talking about. It was
something that she and I could discuss at a future date, without the
stresses and pressures of hosting our three guests, and without the
sudden, unexpected sounds emanating from Jerry's tiny tied-up body.
Darlene went last, having often stayed in Jerri's vision during the
previous hours. She alone among my four guests had taken her mask off,
just before she went to mount him. Jeremy's eyes went wide and he
started balling when he saw her. She comforted him: "It's the way it
has to be, Jerry," she softly said as she violently rammed Mad Max as
she called hers into him. Seventy-five minutes later, drenched in
sweat, she dismounted him, slapped his ass, and exclaimed with passion
and joy: "What a fucking sissy loser! I'll never forget this day!"
Darlene would say nothing to anyone. But Jewwi now knew someone ---
personally knew someone --- besides me who knew of his most
embarrassing secrets. The three other mysterious women served an
anonymous "who else?" purpose. Darlene served an immediate and direct
one. He must have felt trapped.
True, I thought to myself. He is now a sissy loser, a trapped one at
that.
But he is, I instantly remembered with pride, my sissy loser who will
do anything to keep me happy. I want him to stay by me keeping me
happy. And if it takes my being happy to make him happy, then within
reason the sky's the limit on what I can do to him, for him, and most
importantly for myself.
Things to discuss with Darlene one day, I suppose. Alone with her,
probably. Maybe after she and I share some fun time in Jewwi's cute,
little, hairless, tattooed ass. Before I forget, yes, I do not intend
to expose Jeremy again like that. I don't need to now. I believe that
Darlene and I are sufficient to effortlessly ensure his ongoing love
and future submission.
Yes: love. In a world of torture, war, starvation, oppression, death,
theft, assaults, kidnappings, adultery, infidelity, backstabbing, and
innumerable other depravities, what was wrong with a little love
between a Mistress and her sub?
I would never dump Jeremy now. He was perfectly trained. I needed him
to serve me (I guess I was trained too as it were) and he needed me so
that he might serve. I felt his love more intensely than ever; I am
certain that he longed to feel the same back. I truly loved him now,
simply not as a husband or a man per se but certainly at least as a
best friend and companion.
I would never have to push him so hard ever again. He knew well now his
place, much as I mine. No: he and I were no longer equals. The first
time my fist went up his ass guaranteed that.
But our loving marriage was stronger for the eventual inequality.
Who are you to judge us?
finito
Jerri
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