SHORT N SWEET
STANDARD DISCLAIMER AND COPYRIGHT
‘Short n Sweet’ is a fictional story. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality and any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. It is planned to contain up to twelve parts, depending on the enthusiasm I feel and any encouragement I receive. Copyright is claimed by the author.
Part One: July
The amazing thing is that it was all my wife’s idea.
Now, a bit of background is in order first. But those of you with your dicks already out, or clits buzzing from somebody else’s story, can skip the useful background stuff and go straight to the line “I’d always wanted to know …”, missing out this and the next six paragraphs. The rest of you still with me ? Good. I like a little self control in a reader. My name is Rip and my missus is Diane. A little over 18 months ago, we sold our R&D business for a tidy sum. Not billions, not hundreds of millions, but enough to see us out in plenty of style. We bought a large house in a rural area with an aspect and soil Diane could use to start our own vineyard, and plenty of privacy and quiet for me to write, or what I call writing anyway.
Still reading ? Don’t worry, the good stuff starts soon. It was one evening last year – well, Saturday 8th July 2006 to be precise – and we’d hit the margaritas and were googling some stupid fact on the net to settle a disagreement between us. To cut a long story short, we stumbled on the personal ads and found theirs.
“Sounds interesting.” She murmured, in a tone I’ve come to recognise.
“Whaddaya mean ?” I slurred.
“I mean we could use a little help round here, Rip.”
Of course, my name isn’t Rip really. But I’ve always thought that actor Rip Torn had the coolest screen name of all. So for the purposes of this story, I’m Rip. I figured the comment about ‘using a little help’ was a dig at my lack of contribution round the house and garden.
“Whaddaya mean ?” I repeated. I’m not eloquent when I’m drunk. Come to think of it, I’m not eloquent when I’m sober either.
I don’t recall her reply or the rest of the conversation. What I do know is that Diane – her real name by the way – took it upon herself to contact, interview and recruit our “domestic slave couple” the very next day.
Would you believe it. A wimp-dicked sub with the name of Short ! True. I’ve seen his passport. Well, the passport’s locked in my safe actually. Peter Short. Damn his parents had a sense of humour ! I won’t test your patience with a fuller description of him yet.
It’s Sweet y’all wanna know about, right ? Well, like my own name, I’ve taken a bit of licence with hers too. It’s actually Candy but I figured that candy’s sweet. And “Short n Candy” wouldn’t have sounded so good as the title of this story would it ? But the rest is the honest truth: she has the face of an angel and legs like stairways to heaven, with tits resembling golden orbs thrown in for good measure. I kid you not.
So how did Short marry Sweet and how did they end up on our doorstep ? Well, all will be revealed soon. But this is a sex site. And a bdsm story above all, right ? So, let’s cut to the action and rejoin those impatient readers who decided to bypass all the useful information I gave you above.
I’d always wanted to know what it was like to ejaculate over a woman’s face and then watch it dry. Doesn’t sound much, does it, when you put it like that, but I bet we’d all be amazed how many guys go meet their maker without ever having enjoyed that little innocent pleasure. I mean, loads of us have probably draped a pearly necklace round a chick’s jugs, maybe even hosed her face, but it’s the ‘watching it dry’ detail that separates the men from the boys. You see, normal women simply won’t sit there motionless for maybe a coupla hours while your glistening juice slowly turns translucent, then dries from a sticky gloss to a matt varnish.
So, mild as it may seem, that was the very first trick I played on Sweet. Mind you, there were at least three others reasons I initially only coated her nostrils, cheeks and lips. That was firstly because I’d given Di a promise that I would only use Sweet for certain more ‘intimate’ tasks while Di was around. Secondly because I fancied building up slowly rather than doing every nasty thing I could think of within the first few days. And thirdly because her sweet face is so darned cute. There’s a sort of 1920s quality to it; blonde bob, pale cream skin, turquoise eyes, button nose, perfect teeth, rosebud lips and even a beauty spot to the left side of her chin.
Di was down in the cellar working on Short’s ‘accommodation’. I was at my writing desk with Sweet knelt in front of my chair. She was dressed in the brand new maid’s uniform we’d purchased; black quarter-cup bra, low cut satin blouse, mini skirt, fishnets and high heels. I’d been surfing the net. Not porn, just clicking the usual mid-morning news and sports pages. My pants were round my ankles and she was kissing my slippers, legs, thighs, hairy balls, ass crack. Everywhere but my dick. Eventually I took the situation in hand, so to speak, and jerked myself off over her upturned, motionless face. Fuuuck ! You know those orgasms that really get to you ? My brother and I always called them ‘humdingers’. They not only blow your mind but you seem to shoot twice the usual amount of scuzz too. Well that’s what I did to young Sweet’s cutie pie.
Her lips were pretty well shut and I didn’t tell her to open them. There would be plenty of opportunities for gargling and guzzling later. I’d painted several really thick white ropes from her forehead to her chin but the bulk had splattered her nose, cheeks and lips. A big dollop had raced up her left nostril and she seemed to be on the point of sneezing.
“Don’t sneeze.” I grunted, as matter-of-factly as I could muster.
It felt like I’d signed my ownership papers. I just stared down admiring my voluminous production and her static, accepting expression. I didn’t speak. I just turned back to the screen and started reading the sport again. My desk top is actually a piece of glass on two marble trestles so I could easily peer down occasionally and glance at her face. Some of my jizz had melted into her eye socket and she had to blink to reduce the stinging. But she never once even looked like moving her hand to wipe it, or asking if she could.
So, there we are. A pretty tame opening by bdsm library standards. A harmless facial. But I’d be lying if I tried to pretend that things didn’t progress rather quickly to ‘less tame’ activities. You see, Short n Sweet had signed over 24/7 ownership rights, without limits, to us. Safe ? Undoubtedly not. Sane ? Maybe. Sick ? You be the judges. Ready for just a bit more background now ? Go on ! Just a couple of paragraphs.
Short was 31 when we met them and he’s 32 now. Sweet is 4 years younger than him. It was actually her 27th Birthday the day that Di first responded to their advert. School sweethearts, they married young (24, 20), too young in my view, yet were, by all accounts blissfully happy for a year or two. But sexual incompatibility gnawed at their young love, as surely as a fox at the wire of a hen coop. Short was – is – a chaste cuckold and humiliation freak. Now, believe you me, his first choice would have been for his beloved wife to take control and do all that stuff that dominant, ‘hot wives’ do. But Candy was much too sweet for that. She was – is – an abuse slut and humiliation freak herself. And her first preference would have been for her beloved husband to take control and dominate her, if he could have.
Of course, they didn’t just race out to find a Master and Mistress instead. They tried roleplay, taking pathetic turns in each role, they visited a club but didn’t really like what they saw. They wanted something less ritualistic, not a game, but a serious, committed, long term arrangement. Hence their eventual ad, which Di and I spotted totally by chance on the day it was posted. The rest, as they say, is history ! And the future.
I left Sweet kneeling under my desk and checked out the basement. Our house is huge, with lots of original Georgian features, but it needed some maintenance work. Short would definitely be a lot harder working and a better labourer than me. Di had giggled that she would work him into the ground. As it turned out, Short’s idea of ‘exciting slavery’ was very different from my wife’s. He’d imagined all that fun you read about on sites like this. You know, prolonged teasing, erotic spanking, verbal humiliation, basically lots of attention on the male sub by his Mistress. Er … wake up and smell the coffee, Short ! Di was mainly after free labour with minimal effort from herself. Naturally he came round to her way of thinking after a while.
His 5’ 7” wiry frame was toiling naked in the dust and dirt of the basement. It’s a massive area, underneath the whole of the house, and it was long ago divided into five ‘rooms’; a vast cellar for wine, storage, a boiler room, more storage, and one empty area underneath the bathrooms of the floors above. The plumbing pipes connected up with the mains outside that wall. It was here that Short was using bricks, wet cement, iron bolts, timber posts and barbed wire, to fashion his ‘home’ to Diane’s very precise instructions. She was sat in a rocking chair, a DIY book and tape measure on her lap.
I kissed the top of her auburn bun. Her hair used to be red but now she’s 41 it’s losing its brightness and fading into a more Autumnal/Fall colour. She reached up for my hand without looking at me.
“Having fun ?”
“Oh yes.” I replied. “At least, on the face of it I am.”
If she caught my pun, she ignored it.
“We’ll be half an hour more.” She shouted over the noise of the small rotating cement mixer.
I studied the cage. It consisted of two low brick walls that had been built coming off the external rear wall of the house itself, creating a three sided box about the size of a large dog kennel. The floor of the cage was concrete with a tiny puddle caused by one of the dripping bathroom pipes running along the wall. The roof of the cage was made of timber frame with a barbed wire trellis, and a top layer of cemented bricks and iron bolts capping the walls, securing the whole thing firmly in place.
Highly primitive, undoubtedly uncomfortable, and perfect.
Short was now making himself a door of a similar design to the cage roof.
I left them to it.
I made myself a pre-lunchtime vodka and tonic then returned to my office.
Sweet was still there, in situ. Her face was almost dry but for flaky residue. I sat down and smirked at her. You notice how often Masters ‘smirk’ rather than smile. It’s true. I mean you ‘smile’ at your wife, or girlfriend, even if she’s sub. That’s okay. But you don’t smile at a true slave, particularly if she’s another man’s wife. You give her a completely different kind of look; one where your lip curls and your eyes don’t show any real warmth. It’s a smirk, a grin, maybe a leer, or a sneer. But not a smile.
It’s for their benefit too. A sub wife or girlfriend wants love and affection. But a sub couple don’t yearn for that. They want to be devalued.
And I knew just what I was going to do next to devalue Sweet !
I’d peed on a couple of women, including Di, in my life. But firstly it had been part of a game and secondly there’s a big difference between ‘on’ and ‘in’. I knew from the Questionnaire that she’d filled in that Sweet’s mouth was a virgin urinal and I’d already begun researching on the net about ways you can make it more difficult for the sub. But I had plenty of time for the hard stuff. For now my cups of tea and juice and this vodka would do nicely.
“Out from there.” I barked. “Kneel there instead.”
I unzipped myself again and draped my dick over her upturned face, standing by the window overlooking the lawn.
“How do you feel, knowing you’re about to be used as a toilet for the first time ?”
I took the lobes of her ears and pinched.
“I don’t know … ex … cited, and humiliated … all at once.”
I nodded. “And ? Carry on.”
“I …” she grimaced, turning an even darker shade of scarlet, “… I wish you wouldn’t say used as a toilet. I w … would prefer you just s … said I am a toilet instead.”
Fuck. That’s when it first hit me. Sweet by name but very foul by nature. I was dealing with prime grade submissive filet.
“Then I will use you as one.” I said. “Morning, noon and night.”
I lifted my dick, which was hardening with the excitement of our little chat, and used her blonde hair to tilt her head forwards.
I popped my helmet inside onto her tongue. Then I pulled it out so that just the tip was inside her lips. I wanted the whole cascade to hit her taste buds, soak her gums and coat her teeth.
The first little jet was delicious. For me, of course. I gave her a couple of seconds worth then stopped my flow. I watched her throat work. I stared into her eyes, registering their expression. Satisfyingly, her blue eyes couldn’t quite hide the look of distaste, although I wasn’t certain whether it was the flavour or the mere act itself. Later I was to learn that the hot temperature shocked her, as did the sharp bitterness on her palate.
But give the lady a prize, she didn’t move.
Of course, her prize was simply more of the same. Lots more.
I took my time. Normally it’s a pain in the bladder stopping mid-flow, but this time I loved it. I must have spent two minutes taking that leak. But I didn’t waste a single drop. It frothed a bit and she gurgled but she got it all down into her belly.
Her eyes were watering as I pulled my dick out of her mouth. Was that just a watering sting, or genuine tears, or a bit of both ?
“Thank you … Master.”
“Tell me, what do toilets drink ?”
She frowned. “I … nothing, Master. Well, just urine.”
“Exactly. So what will you drink ?”
“J … just urine, Master.”
I slapped her cheeks twice with my dick to dry it off.
Like I said, the amazing thing is that this was all my wife’s idea.
*** *** ***
Those first weeks, we used to trade our new slaves a few hours a day. Di would take Sweet a while and I’d concentrate on Short.
Now, I ain’t gay so if you’re looking for some guy-on-guy action you’re gonna be disappointed. For a while anyway. Until we hit on the idea of advertising Short’s talents but that wasn’t until October. So you’ll have to wait until Part Four to hear about that.
But even an Alpha Hetero like me can enjoy a few games with a male slave. Like thrashing him, for starters. I’m a stickler for details. And whenever Short makes the slightest mistake, I like to be able to pass an extreme sentence; casually, like “that’ll be one hundred strokes”, for the slightest error. Now, Short couldn’t handle a hundred strokes in one session. He still can’t.
So, right from the start we put in place this system of ‘corporal finance’. It works basically like a credit card. He has a borrowing limit, a minimum balance he had to pay, and an interest rate.
Payment is due daily on any outstanding balance. To make the maths easy (never my strong point), I instituted from the start a minimum payment of 10% of the outstanding balance, and an overnight interest rate of 10%.
So, when he received a “one hundred strokes” sentence, it became due immediately on the evening of the misdemeanour. Let’s say he managed to take 20 strokes that evening. Thus he borrowed the balance (80) overnight, incurring an 8 strokes interest charge, making it 88 outstanding. Then, let’s say he managed another 20 strokes the next evening. That left him with 68 due as the new balance, incurring a further 7 strokes interest charge, leaving 75 outstanding. In this way, he’d already taken 40 strokes over 2 nights to pay off just 25 !
Naturally, I could usually find another ‘error’ in his work pretty quickly. This enabled me to whack on another 100 strokes to his balance. By the end of the first ten days, I had him where I wanted him.
Short “owed” 250 strokes of the cane. He had to bend over each evening and accept a minimum of 25 (10%) simply to service the interest due on his overnight balance. Like a loan shark, I simply collected my dues.
Occasionally he gritted his teeth and bore 30-35 strokes and I always encouraged him, as it was more fun. I could tell he’d get relieved when the balance fell below 200. But sooner or later I’d find another mistake to punish and he’d be back up to 250 plus in an instant.
Like some Latin American or African debtor nation, he was stuck in a cycle of endless debt and there were no soft-hearted liberals or rock and roll stars to suggest loan forgiveness.
But thrashings were a means to an end, not an end in themselves. They were the currency we dealt in, given that Short and Sweet had no money and we paid them no wage. So what were the ‘ends’ each of us wanted ? Well, as I’ve said, Di primarily wanted help around the house and garden. In our company, her main role had been cost control. Although we’ve now got a few millions in the bank, she still loved the idea of free labour. Well, not free, very cheap. We obviously have to feed and house S & S, and more on that in Part Two. Naturally, the sexual potential of two slaves was never of ‘zero interest’ to Di, but it was certainly not an end in itself for her.
As I’ve already said, Short and Sweet themselves were in it for slightly different motives, but exploitation was a part of it for both of them. I guess – for them – we could have paid them a minimum wage and then ‘fined’ them a pittance for mistakes, but the ‘corporal finance’ idea worked at least as well, probably better. Short’s butt became a bit of a mess but I was always careful to avoid opening up cuts. I chose lighter, whippier, stinging canes.
And me ? Well, my ‘end’ was – still is – simple, yet complicated. On the one hand, it was to get my ‘end’ away ! Hell, I love Di but, like most guys, show me a bit of variety and fun and I’m there. And on the other hand, I have all these nasty ideas bouncing around in my head. My role in our company had been the creative bit; I love the idea of free experiments. Suddenly these two people were like guinea pigs for my research !
Probably my number one experiment was to try to find out how long a human male can go without an orgasm. Of course, a Benedictine monk would skew the result one way and a 19 year old rock guitarist would skew it the other. I figured that Short – a 31 year old, very average guy – would make the perfect test case. He already owned a Kali’s Steel Bracelet chastity device that seemed 100% secure, so we locked him in it and waited for the frustration graph to climb. Over the following months we purchased several more heavier, even more uncomfortable, just as secure devices.
Of course, I have never believed in a young wife sharing her partner’s frustration ! Sweet was fortunate that Di and I felt she had a major role to play in spicing up our sex life, as well as washing up our dishes. As the months rolled by towards last winter, we decided that she also had a role to play in adding zing to other people’s fun, but we’ll get onto that in due course. My initial experiments were merely designed to investigate what a female submissive’s limits really are, when she thinks she has none !
That is what I dedicated much of my valuable time to exploring last Summer, and I invite you all to read about it in Part Two of this diary. Until then, a final thought: ‘some people are born on third base and yet they go through life thinking they hit a triple’.
To be continued in Part Two: ‘August’
If you have enjoyed this Story so far, please say so. I am writing it in tandem with another work – ‘Five Words’ – and I doubt I will have the time or energy to continue with both of them. It may be too early to judge, but the one that gets the most positive feedback and scores from readers is the one that I will complete. The other one will most likely fade away.