Part Two
‘The view from the gutter’
January 2009
After the thrill of the first week or two, during which I couldn’t get enough sex, real life began to assert itself: Christmas shopping, a family theatre trip, my business to be attended to. I took a break from writing stories and blogging but even then my time was limited. Also, I found my initial appetite for orgasms became slightly less insatiable than at the beginning.
All three of us got a little stir-crazy cooped up in my apartment. So I unlocked Jed’s steel tube allowing him to pass through security checks and we took a day trip to Paris on the Eurostar. Candace and Jed posed for tourist photos together under the Eiffel Tower and at the Louvre. We emailed them to their friends and family with a ‘Happy New Year’ message.
We all knew that their first few weeks had been a honeymoon period.
In 2009, their true test was beginning.
Trust is something we’ve spent a lot of time discussing. Each of us, in our own way, has to build it. You never really know when you let somebody into your home. I don’t remember the names of those movies with Sharon Stone or Glenn Close but there are real madwomen out there, and I couldn’t be absolutely certain Candace wasn’t one of them until she’d proved otherwise ! She and Jed might have been a pair of weirdo axe murderers – I simply decided the high reward justified what my experience and intuition told me was a low risk.
In turn, they didn’t really know for sure I wasn’t going to put them both in bondage and then slit their throats until I’d passed up that opportunity. That’s the unfortunate thing about casual bdsm sex. You can’t really enjoy it until you can properly relax with your playmates. It can be amusing to read stories about a blonde wife having unprotected sex with twenty black gangsters but I really don’t think that’s reality.
Ironically, the internet has provided all of us with opportunity and undermined trust in equal measure. Thirty years ago I used to have to trawl endless personal columns of UK sex magazines in the hope of meeting one local submissive woman. But at least those few that advertised back then were usually genuine. Nowadays it takes only moments to search specifically for a redheaded piss-whore within my own London postcode but the chances are that any respondent will actually be some bald dude whacking off in Australia.
I would have found it strange and unsatisfying to have Candace and Jed living in my apartment, relaxing, watching my TV, drinking my wine, then us all occasionally playing a couple of hours of bdsm games. That arrangement might suit some people but it wasn’t what they, or I, wanted.
Instead, I control every aspect of their lives from when they wake up, to when they go to bed, and every minute in between. And my job is to push them, challenge them, to treat them mean.
It begins from the moment I wake up.
In 1978 I was introduced to toilet play by a French girlfriend. She was a young Parisian nurse who enjoyed water sports in all its forms. She loved to be pissed on and to piss on me in the bath. She swallowed mine too, although I could never bring myself to reciprocate ! She introduced me to enemas too and calmly sat on the john to shit when I was shaving.
However, we never played with adult diapers.
Maybe they didn’t exist back then ? I’m not sure. I sure never found out about them until after I married, so Candace and Jed are the guinea pigs on whom I’ve been able to inflict this particular form of discomfort. They get only two opportunities to use the bathroom each day. At around 8.30 a.m. and 8.30 p.m., 12 hours apart.
After I’ve awoken, drunk a mug of coffee and brushed my teeth, I supervise their joint morning toilet session. I waited until January 2nd to introduce this deeper level of humiliation. It took several mornings of reluctance and even tears before they started being able to cope with it.
People who think this is all scatological miss the point. It is about control, embarrassment and indignity, not human waste itself. Above all it emphasises the difference between normal freedom and voluntary slavery. Like most westerners, Jed and Candace have both found it deeply humiliating to perform all their most private acts in front of me.
One of the goals of 24/7 TPE is to maximise the submissive’s value and minimise their comfort. A harsh toilet regime is part of that.
As far as I’m concerned, their visits to the bathroom are time wasted. Time that could be put to much better use slaving away on my behalf.
So what better than to keep their bathroom time strictly limited and brief ?
Some privacy and a comfortable seat are normal in the modern world.
Tell me what better way to highlight the abnormality of their situation ?
The ache of controlling full bladders or bowels during the day or night is a simple, natural way of causing them hardship.
Their diets are designed to make it increasingly difficult for them to contain their bodily functions over a 12-hour period.
Gradually, I tweak little ideas to make their performance as embarrassing as possible.
I generally make Candace go first, then Jed after her, both using the same plastic tray in the corner of the family bathroom. It’s a kitty-litter tray without any litter or newspaper. She squats astride it and awaits my permission.
I stand in my white bathrobe and use a hairbrush to prod her knees apart.
“Wider.”
She spreads her thighs, her spine leaning against the wall for balance. Then she looks up at me. Eyes moist with shame, but holding my gaze. With each day it seems to have got just that bit easier for her.
“Yes ?”
“Please Sir. May I go ?”
“What type ?”
“Both, Sir.”
I hesitate. “Okay. You may dump first. Then pee.”
I find it’s harder that way round. Especially when you really need to go, as Candace does now. I can tell. After putting Jed to bed last night, she and I watched TV and then had sweaty sex. I allowed her a glass of water before locking her up in her own bedroom. She’s been restraining her bladder since before dawn. She just wants to release it all at once.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Jed and I both stare at her.
A ripple of concentration crosses her face. Her forehead frowns in a grimace and her brown eyes flicker sideways.
“Straight ahead !”
She snaps her gaze back at me, a flush of red washing over her neck and cheeks. Her knees twitch inwards.
“Wider.”
She pouts in frustration and apology, forcing her thighs wide apart. The rules are straightforward. She mustn’t flinch, mustn’t look away. She must maintain full eye contact with us throughout. Her knees have to remain as far apart as she can hold them.
Some sex psychoanalysts talk about the ‘submissive dichotomy’. This is the catch-22 whereby a sub craves a particular humiliation or pain but that doesn’t mean she or he actually enjoys it. That’s why so many cuckolds are happy being fantasists. The rational part of their brain is in control of the sexual part.
Relatively few people are like Candace and Jed who have actually taken the serious step of making fantasy reality. Their constant dilemma is whether to let their head rule their sexuality, or vice versa.
And I can see it now in Candace’s eyes. She is staring at me, but through me. Her battle is with herself, not me.
“Come on.”
A few moments later, she passes wind loudly. So unladylike. It’s the pulses in her diet. The mottled skin on her neck turns puce.
“…sorry.” She mumbles.
She is trying to concentrate. Which muscles to relax ? Her cunt hangs open, fetid with last night’s action. Her body is tense. She farts again, this time one of those quiet hisses, more controlled.
“I’m s … sorry, Sir.”
I nod indulgently. I find it fascinating, how innate this shame is within us all. Why have doors become standard on toilet cubicles ? For much of mankind’s history, and in some countries even now, taking a dump was and is a social activity.
“Hurry up.”
Personally, I love my privacy. I enjoy my own relaxed space and time with the newspaper, making whatever noises and odours my own body wishes. But, hey, I haven’t volunteered to be a slave.
Candace strains again and finally something emerges. It is large, shiny, dangling. She grimaces and pushes again, trying to be totally silent, to preserve just a modicum of her dignity.
I chuckle. “I never know where you store those things, my dear.”
It is important to comment. To ridicule. A fresh tsunami of scarlet washes over her neck and face.
It plops, steaming, onto the clean white plastic tray, lying there like a smoking gun at a crime scene.
I fan the air in front of my nose with the hairbrush.
Although actually, its firmness and scent are a credit to her system considering what she ate yesterday.
“Is that it ?”
She bites her lip, shakes her head, scowling with effort.
I sigh exaggeratedly, in mock annoyance, and glance at my watch. I have denied her privacy and comfort, now I refuse her time as well. One minute or so is all that a slave should require.
Suddenly two more, smaller logs tumble out of her. She whimpers with relief.
“Yeuch.” I scowl. “That’s disgusting. Finished ? At last. Okay. Go on then, you can piss now.”
Her eyes close in an extended blink of shame, relief and concentration. After a few moments a gush of golden liquid sprays the tray.
I had forgotten how disorderly the female anatomy is when it comes to urinating. We males often forget yet another advantage of having a penis. Men are much more comfortable taking a piss in public, as we do it at urinals all the time, at offices and sports stadiums, even outdoors behind a tree if we’re caught short. Our aim is accurate and controlled.
It seems that most women find peeing much more embarrassing. I’d love to be a fly on the wall of a ladies restroom when they’re all sat in a line in their cubicles, listening to each other hissing and tinkling. I’ve even been told by a couple of women they lay some toilet tissue in the pan first to deaden the sound of their fountain. Not using a normal lavatory highlights how a woman’s aim is scatter-gun and wild.
Most of Candace’s stream is contained within the plastic tray. She hoses her own brown waste and droplets splash up onto her calves. She lasts, thirty, forty seconds, staring straight ahead at me, emptying her bladder as completely as she can, ready for the long day ahead.
I give her my most wicked smirk and raise my I-phone.
“Knees wider.”
‘Tch’. The shutter snaps another photo for her bedside. There are already 12 clip-frames of her and Jed in various poses and acts on the table next to her pillow, constant reminders of her place.
To some people, however submissive, this total destruction of their dignity would not be erotic. To others, anything involving faeces is off limits. Even Candace and Jed had their doubts when we began. But underneath her fixed stare, inside her soiled orifices, she is steadily discovering the ecstasy and liberation of utter disgrace.
The bathroom starts to smell. Even Candace’s waste tends to stink shamefully after a while due to the spicy diet. I throw open the frosted window and a blast of freezing January air blows in. My message is clear. It is her fault that they will both now shiver in the cold.
Next comes Jed.
He spreads his strong thighs, his shoulder blades braced against the wall too. Candace’s soggy pile wallows underneath him. Meanwhile, she stands at attention, bottom unwiped, naked, at my side. Her skin is already goose-bumping, the nipples on her big breasts stiffening.
“Please, Sir. May I go now ?” he whimpers. I love the way Jed pronounces ‘Sir’, emphasising the ‘r’ like a school kid in class. It’s difficult to sound manly in such a compromising position.
“What ?”
“Please, Sir. May I go ?”
“What ?”
“Both, Sir.”
While he repeats the same cycle, Candace bends over for me with her bottom facing the open window. Nobody from the building opposite can see us, but it heightens her feeling of vulnerability. I lay my hands on her white buttocks and ease them open, letting the air circulate into her filthy rim. I know this is her least favourite moment of all. This wonderfully Freudian humiliation of childish anal inspection.
I take my time, letting 20 seconds pass, while I watch Jed.
“Okay.” I tap her round butt.
Still keeping her head down, she fumbles out an arm and blindly uncoils tissue from the roll. She reaches behind her and wipes her anus, dropping the paper into the toilet pan. I inspect her once more, give her a second smack.
“Disgusting. Do it again.”
She wipes herself, two, three more times, as necessary.
Jed empties the entire contents of their tray into the toilet, scrapes it clean, then flushes everything away. He hurriedly scrubs, disinfects, dries and props the tray neatly in the corner ready for its next use.
Meanwhile Candace steps into the shower for 60 seconds. The water is cold. Not icy, take-your-breath-away cold, but chilly. There’s no need for me to waste hot water except on Sundays when they both wash their hair. She scrubs her body frantically, fingers in every orifice, rubbing her shivering skin with a bar of old fashioned antiseptic carbolic soap.
I unlock Jed’s tube and he follows Candace into the shower. The cold water and chill air keep his dick limp for the one minute he spends washing his wiry, muscled body. It feels weird being in such close proximity to another naked guy. You notice things about a body you never would; a scar under his knee from keyhole surgery, a raised mole on his hip.
After they have both dried, they stand to attention. Naked, clean, skin blue-tinged from the cold and itchy-red from the soap, their ablutions done. Almost ready for another gruelling day. The first part of their bathroom routine has wasted a total of barely five minutes.
It’s now time for exercise and breakfast.
“Give me fifty.”
We have moved through to my open-plan living room.
Like a corporal and his recruits, I boil up my kettle and watch them do 50 press-ups.
Backs straight, bodies rigid, noses pressed to the floor.
Candace starts to sag at 30, Jed at 40.
“Okay. Now onto your backs.”
They roll over, hearts pumping. Candace slides on her heart-monitor watch.
“Legs apart.”
I stand between Jed’s legs, sipping a mug of tea. He is sweating, naked, blood pumping. It is already almost three weeks since his last orgasm, and that one was ruined. I love the frustration already visible behind his grey eyes. I can read him now. Like poker, you eventually learn almost anybody’s secret tics.
I’m assured this is the really hard period.
The first week or two of chastity is about breaking the habit. It’s largely a mental thing. The mind fancies an orgasm. Let’s face it, guys just get into an indulgent routine. Mostly it’s simply a naughty addiction to the nice feeling.
But after two weeks it’s increasingly about the male body’s physiological requirement to reduce its accumulation of testosterone. It’s a much more physical thing. The body actually needs an orgasm.
Or it thinks it does. But if monks and celibates can overcome any urges, then so can Jed. His eyes, his whole demeanour pleads for release. But he never says so. Asking me is strictly forbidden. I could never bear all that whining. Besides, he has several weeks to wait yet.
“Fifty scissors.”
They open and shut their legs; touching their ankles against the floor, then raising both feet up to meet each other, before lowering their legs down to the floor again.
At first, Jed’s freed dick twitches around in his hairless lap like an excited puppy. But as he warms up, he usually becomes erect.
I stand in front of Candace. She is perspiring too. Already her stomach, thighs, legs are benefiting from this regime. Her labia wink at me every time she opens her legs. I’ve also started her on a separate, evening routine of Kegel exercises. She doesn’t really need them yet but they have two benefits. They not only make her feel that her tight young cunt needs improvements but they hint to Jed that I’m now getting some muscular thrills from her that he has never experienced.
We work our way through a brutal 20 minutes-cycle of stomach crunches, squats, thrusts, bicep curls, and leg raises. Candace’s heartbeat nudges up towards her limit. To slow down, they regularly ‘buddy’ each other in a few stretches of their hamstrings, hips and spinal columns.
She ignores her husband’s erection. It’s like an invited guest at a party. We all pretend it’s not there. Nobody shakes its hand.
But it amuses me how impressive a cock can look without any pubic hair. It looks larger, jutting out from his bare body, rather than nestled amongst a clump of male pubic hair. Ironically, Jed looks both hunky and childlike in equal measure as he struts his stuff like a lower division Chippendale.
“And now our favourite.
They both lie face down on the ground, gasping heavily.
‘The Plank’ is an exercise to develop core rigidity. They take their full weight on their elbows and toes, holding their bodies in the air, parallel to the ground. For a while, it’s easy. I glance at my watch.
After 3 minutes and 6 seconds, Candace wails and slumps to the wooden floor. But considering she couldn’t even hold herself up for one minute when she arrived in London, it’s quite satisfying.
Jed manages a whole minute and twenty seconds more than her, then he too collapses in exhaustion.
“Not bad.” I announce. “An improvement, at least.”
They have managed a combined 446 seconds, 15 more than their 431 seconds yesterday.
I think they have earned their breakfast.
The Recommended Daily Allowance for an average male is 2,500 calories, and 2,000 for a female. So many diets are bullshit; faddish and indulgent. Truth is, eat more food than you use up, and you’ll put on weight.
But eat fewer calories than you burn and you’ll lose weight.
Simple: stick to a strict diet, avoid sitting around, take regular exercise, and the pounds will literally drop off. An extreme example of this kind of diet is the Velvetglove Plan.
Since January 2nd, Jed has been on semi-starvation rations of 1,250, and Candace 1,000 calories, per day. Once they have lost sufficient pounds and toned their bodies, I will increase their daily intake to maintain their weight at a constant level.
But for now, they’re constantly hungry.
Which is a good thing.
I cannot stand fussy eaters. I feed them two meals a day, roughly 2/3rds of their RDA in the morning and the 1/3rd balance in the evening. Conscientiously, I have purchased a small library of nutrition, diet, calorie and recipe books.
I began in December using tins of baby food as the basic ingredient in their unappetising slop. But that worked out too expensive due to the small pot sizes. For me, it’s crucial that I spend very little on their food.
It’s not the money, of course, but the principle.
I also researched and found reputedly human-grade dog food but I was still concerned about health and safety. I fed them one sample and decided I could do a better job myself.
My first rule is that their food should be harmless and edible. I am not turned on by the idea of making anybody ill. I also ensure that it contains a balance of protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and greens, in line with their dietary regime.
However, beyond that, it should be a severe test of their obedience. I do my best to make their meals stomach churning. Unless I’m following a particular recipe, I aim for a glutinous texture, or liquidised with chewy, gristly chunks. I go for sludgy brown or green colours and sometimes use food colouring.
Some Masters prefer seeing slaves eating out of bowls on the floor like pets, but that’s not my preference. Instead, I sit and watch them close up at the table as they spoon the slimy swill I have lovingly prepared for them into their mouths.
In an email before they arrived, I asked Jed and Candace each to list me their five most and least favourite foods.
“Hurry up.” I snap, whenever they linger.
I love it when they visibly gag on mouthfuls. This is food reduced to its most basic function; sustenance. It is a fuel, nothing more. All of the pleasure that food can provide – visual, fragrance, flavour – has been eliminated, except for pungent spices.
Why do I get off on this kind of domination ? Heck, if only I knew. It’s about denying them control of yet another facet of their lives. They cannot even decide when they eat, how much they eat or - most importantly - what they eat.
“It’s so hard.” Candace reveals two evenings earlier, when I ask her. “Disgusting.”
“Hunger is good for you.” I smile. The two of us are lying alone in bed.
“It’s not the hunger. It’s the food.”
I take a sip of my brandy. “They’re linked. You’ve eaten all those steaks and chicken over the years. Donuts and fries. Hunger teaches you that you don’t need all those Western indulgences.”
For me it’s crucial they miss out on treats like chocolate and ice cream, savouries and sweets, caffeine and alcohol. They can have as much as they want of that stuff once they have returned to ‘normal life’.
She looks at me doubtfully yet bravely. “I guess. But I often feel sick.”
“That’s the idea. But only to feel sick.” I emphasise the word ‘feel’. “I haven’t actually made you sick have I ?
“Actually, oftentimes I gag up into my mouth and have to swallow it down. You know, bile.”
“Sure but I haven’t made you ill. Look at you. You’ve lost weight, you’re beautiful, healthier too. You probably don’t realise how much good this regime has actually done you.”
Then I look into her eyes and soften my tone.
“Seriously, are you saying that you want us to agree some food limits ?”
Her brown eyes search mine. Slowly, silently, she shakes her head.
This morning, their spicy, curried stew is a serious challenge. Their faces are sweating, pale, sickly green. The portions are substantial. Dietary advisors tell us that breakfast should be the largest meal of the day.
Tripe is the muscular lining of the stomach, in this case beef. The blonde, glutinous honeycomb section is the cow’s second stomach and it’s cheap, protein-rich and relatively low in calories. Their bowls are identical but Jed’s wallows full to the brim with 900 calories worth, while Candace’s is only three quarter’s full.
While they eat, I sit and sip my home-brewed latte, nibble chilled mango segments. The contrast between our bowls is important.
“Come on guys.” I repeat impatiently, as they choke it down as best they can; big mouthfuls, synchronised eating.
I almost always serve them offal.
It is no coincidence that offal rhymes with ‘awful’. The word shares its Teutonic etymology with abfall, afval and affald, literally ‘garbage’ in German, Dutch and Danish.
Tony, my local supplier, is an old fashioned Cockney butcher who invariably has a selection of tripe, brain, snout, lung, sweetbread, chitterling, scrotum and testicles. Strangely, if you can get past the idea, some of these things are delicacies in parts of the world.
Seriously.
I sometimes wonder what Tony thinks about my sudden conversion to entrails and organs. But he’s never asked me.
I prepared this morning’s Tripe Curry yesterday. Whatever I’m making, I often do 2-3 days worth at a time and freeze some, because the stink in my apartment takes hours to clear.
The only really important discipline is to wash whatever offal I’m using very thoroughly in salty water. Tripe recipes usually recommend cooking it for hours so it becomes tender but I prefer to cut the cooking time right down. You can make this delicacy the proper way with chillies, cumin and spices, or just use a cheap jar of hot curry powder, along with onions, garlic, coconut milk and seasoning.
After the curry has boiled and simmered until the tripe is cooked but still chewy, I add lentils and prunes, monosodium glutamate for extra sliminess, a vitamin supplement powder and then stew it a bit more.
Again, I would not expect every submissive reader to be turned on by the idea of force-feeding. It’s an acquired taste, so to speak. But Jed and Candace said they want to experience the full “Velvetglove treatment”.
Like many hardships, it’s about humility and acceptance. Humans can get used to virtually anything.
“No regrets ?”
I can tell when I have pushed them right to the edge. So long as they shake their heads or indicate tolerance in some way, I know they’re okay. Deep down, they want to be tested every bit as much as I want to push them.
And if you read about what slaves and prisoners, even sailors and soldiers, were forced to eat to survive in the past, then I think revolting food is all part of an extreme TPE experience.
The defining difference between TPE slavery and Bdsm-games is that the latter are temporary. It’s possible to maintain a high degree of eroticism for a few hours, even a whole weekend. But clearly that’s neither possible nor desirable in a long term arrangement.
The best indication that an erotic-moment has moved on to a slave-moment is when Jed and Candace lose any visible sign of sexual excitement. During the limited spells when Jed’s Steelworks tube is removed, I like to see his penis become soft and small, as a sign he’s struggling more than he’s turned on.
The spoons I’ve given them are deep, like small ladles. They eat in wordless, rhythmic tandem; raise, sniff, slurp, taste, chew, gulp - raise, sniff, slurp, taste, chew, gulp, etc.
“Thank you, Sir.” They say afterwards, bowls scraped clean, hunger temporarily sated, trying not to belch.
I smile magnanimously.
Breakfast has only wasted another few minutes.
We return to the chilly bathroom.
The stench has cleared by now and I shut the window.
First, they brush their teeth and rinse thoroughly with mouthwash.
They each take turn to shave their pubic areas on alternate days. They both use a Seiko clean-cut shaver that gives an incredibly smooth finish, but once a week they use wax strips as well. I make Jed use Veet for Men depilatory gel on his underarms and legs.
While Candace applies lush mascara, eyeliner and red lipstick, Jed promptly lathers a generous coat of Vaseline onto his dick and genital area. So long as he’s quick, the combination of eating breakfast and the cold air means his soft dick usually slots easily back into the steel tube for another day’s chastity. Keeping his skin smooth and well lubricated has so far prevented any in-growing hairs or chafing problems.
I slip the key into my robe pocket nonchalantly, as disinterestedly as I can. His eyes can no longer resist glancing longingly as it disappears.
Finally, they spray deodorant under their arms and Candace adds a dab of my favourite Guerlain perfume to her nipples and neck.
They are now ready to dress. I don’t require that they both wear diapers every single day. It depends on my mood. I put Jed in one most days and Candace about 3 or 4 times a week.
Jed wears man-size adult diapers that are cream-coloured with a kiddies sky-blue and pink balloons motif. They are sealed, odour-and-water proof. Although I don’t want Jed to suffer chafing from his steel tube, I have no problem if he gets a splash of diaper rash.
Candace wears less cumbersome black PVC diapers that are sexier, more like panty-pads than Jed’s bulky adult nappies.
On top, they have various outfits to work in.
Today Jed slips into a ballet tutu again. This one is bubblegum pink with a frilly hem, purchased from a famous transvestite store in Soho. The material is a cheap satin that stretches over his diaper giving him the profile of an overgrown toddler. He has a similar one in PVC that came from an adult baby website. He dons a pair of sneakers. Unfortunately, the cross dresser’s high heels that I purchased for him have had to be put into storage because he fell over in them and hurt his ankle.
Candace puts on a classic domestic uniform. I’m afraid I’m a sucker for the French chambermaid look. I prefer her wearing a bra, to braless. My favourite is a black quarter-cup shelf bra, size 34 C, that her D cup tits spill out of. Over it she wears a rib hugging, low cut silk blouse.
She puts a suspender belt round her waist and seamed black fishnet stockings. Over her black diaper or thong, she wears a tasteful leather miniskirt. If her backside and legs had been better I’d choose an even shorter one but this is the length I find most flattering and sexy on her for now. Around her waist she ties a frilly white apron and slips shiny black stiletto heels onto her feet.
Now they’re ready to start.
Candace serves me a fresh coffee while Jed begins his chores.
It is just after 9 a.m. and I can relax at last, having got them both washed, exercised, fed and dressed in under an hour. For most of the remainder of the day, I can leave them relatively unsupervised to their menial toil. They work in strict silence except when I speak to them or they need to ask me something. Talking or even communicating with each other in gestures is forbidden.
My apartment takes on a wonderfully calm atmosphere. I read the newspaper and any mail that’s been delivered, drink more coffee, surf the BBC website. Candace and Jed work like a pair of those discreet hotel chambermaids carrying out room service while you’re still in your room. They work in the traditional manner. No noisy modern appliances. Just what used to be called ‘elbow grease’. Hard slog with brushes and cloths, down on their hands and knees.
They knew what to expect. Of all my stories, Priceless and Short and Sweet are the two they both hark back to. Some are too extreme, others too bland. It is the M/mf domestic triangle they wanted to make real.
I don’t think I, and certainly not they, would want to live like this permanently. This is like a temporary exotic vacation or a jail sentence, depending on your perspective.
The antique clock on my mantelpiece makes a heavy sound. It beats out the passing of each second with a monotonous tick. I find it a comforting background noise that I don’t notice because I’m distracted. But for Jed and Candace that endless ticking defines their drudgery. Minutes and hours slowly drag by as they tick off the seconds of another day passing.
Here they are on the ‘trip of a lifetime’. A six month tour of UK and Europe for two educated and well paid young marrieds. And yet each day is another one lost, an unpaid waste of time holed up inside a 3-bedroom apartment in wintry London.
After an hour of brutal scrubbing of every kitchen and bathroom surface, underside, tap and pipe; dusting, wiping and polishing of every skirting board, glass surface and mirror, Candace goes up to the roof deck.
It’s bitterly cold. Grey, scudding clouds fill London’s skies. A dirty smattering of yesterday’s thawed snow litters the streets below. It is one of England’s coldest Januarys for years. Too cold for just a miniskirt and heels.
She wears her own coat and boots that are warm enough for US winters. She sweeps up the leaves that have been blown from the tall surrounding trees onto the deck. They swirl, dodging her broom like brown mice. She scrubs the safety rail and reties the plastic covers protecting my tubs of plants and bushes. The outdoor air does her good, bringing pink to her cheeks and clarity to her eyes.
I sit indoors in the warm, make a couple of phone calls, climb the stairs to gaze out at her a couple of times. Jed is washing and drying every glass in my apartment to a sparkling finish. I can’t stand drinking from dull, smeared glassware. He does an excellent job. He did them yesterday and will probably redo them tomorrow. My entire array of champagne flutes, tumblers, highballs, beer and wine glasses.
While they are busy, I take my own leisurely time in my spotless en suite bathroom. Naturally, I leave a mess; bristles in the basin, skid marks in the toilet pan, suds in the shower, damp towels on the floor. I pull on a T and shorts and climb onto my rowing machine set up in Candace’s bedroom.
I do twenty minutes sculling and ten minutes of free weights, then down a glass of grapefruit juice, and towel my sweat off. I’ve taken advantage of their stay with me to lose a bit of weight myself, to step up my own training regime.
I check in the kitchen that I have lard to make their evening meal.
In fact, I have all the necessary ingredients: lard, onions, tomato puree, plain flour, seasoning.
And horse’s testicles !
Tonight I am giving them a spicy stew made with stallion’s balls.
I found this delightful Eastern European feature dish in ‘Cooking with Balls’, a recent publication marketed as the world’s first testicle recipe book.
I kid you not.
By now, Candace is back inside the apartment, coatless, her hands warmed.
It is time for my massage.
I strip off and take a quick piss in a convenient jug while Candace lays out the towels and warm oil. Then I lie face down on the bed. I’m still clammy and the jojoba she applies to my back feels good. She’s becoming a good masseuse. Firm but gentle fingers, with improving stamina. She teases the knots out of my old muscles, smoothes out the flabbier wrinkles.
I can hear Jed bustling away quietly in my bathroom, repairing the disarray.
I spent a lot of time in Asia and South America. I love being massaged. But I used to hate that nagging feeling that you’d only paid for, say, one hour, and the distraction throughout that your time may finish at any moment.
With Candace, though, I just lie there for as long as I like. Ninety minutes, two hours, whatever, until I can feel the exhaustion in her hands. Like most subs, I know she actually enjoys the feeling of giving me pleasure, although it’s a punishing workout. I never do more than give her a curt grunt of approval afterwards. It’s important to leave my gratitude unspoken.
Criticise yes, thanks no.
Massage doesn’t always lead to sex. But today it does. I roll over and she works oil into my front; feet, toes, legs, shoulders, arms, hands. I spread my thighs as a sign. Her fingers float over my dick like a butterfly, teasing me hard.
I lie there, eyes shut, just enjoying it all.
Her wet mouth encases my crown and her fingernails tantalise my balls. She recognises my signs, knows what I like.
I hear her voice summon Jed into the bedroom.
“He’ll soon be … mm … ready for lunch.” She mumbles to him, between sucks.
Her hands dance mischievously, then she drizzles more oil onto my shaft and skilfully pumps it in exactly the best place, with just the right pressure.
I spurt what feels like several gallons over my abdomen. I keep my eyes shut and grin at my wildly optimistic imagination, my orgasm gently subsiding.
I feel her lips pressed to my chest, licking, cleaning me, sliding down to mop up my navel.
Yep, she’s right, I suddenly feel hungry for lunch.
END OF PART TWO
PART THREE COMING SOON: ‘SAINTS AND SINNERS’