Welcome to the Queen’s Court

“Be careful what you wish for….You might actually get it”

-Famous Domme

All Kinks Welcome

Come one! come all! Welcome everyone to my blog of stinky stories. Ill keep this introduction brief because we all know we want to get on to the smut. This is my new site for writting my kinky dirty stories to twist your titties. I will be posting here every couple of days as I am constantly …..inspired.

Logistics note, these posts are listed in order or most recent to oldest so make sure you haven’t missed anything, scroll down.

Happy reading pervs!


The Painful Throbbing of Mr. Bates – Part III

Part I – https://stinkies.blog/2020/09/23/the-painful-throbbing-of-mr-bates/

Part II – https://stinkies.blog/2020/09/26/the-painful-throbbing-of-mr-bates-part-ii/

I would like to believe that I would have cried for the assistance of Hazel’s mother in helping me to avoid a somewhat conflicting episode regarding my genitals. In the eyes of the lord I was given to my lovely (if not somewhat dull) wife, and could not bear the guilt of this utterly arousing episode.

But the fine mother’s hands were deep inside my mouth and I could make neither consonant nor vowel; and so Hazel ran riot as she pleased. She appeared to be spurred on by the mound pointing west and did her duty to release it, undoing my three layers.

My mind was torn between the above and the below. The zinging sensation pulling at my gums and the naughty little house girl pulling at my phallus. She had taken it in her hand and was very much intent on making a quick effort as she began firing away with in a loose fist with great haste.

“Ah yes, I see this is quite the nasty tooth…” came back Mother, “it was good that you came today, now by my reckoning I can pull this out without too much trouble, deep breath.”

And with that the two women set to their task. Hazel, hiding behind the buttocks of Mother, rubbing me with terrible exaltation and Mother wrenching with all her might at my molar. My eyes, watering both in pain and emotion. The symphony building in my mind, void of words or clear thoughts, just swaying between acute pain and a lust for release.

It was a birthing canal. A pathway to the divine god himself. My muscles tensing to the overwhelming stimulus and my dry breath, panting through my open mouth.

It was Mother that pulled the first noise from me. I gave out a guttural noise of some natural horn as the pain passed a threshold I did not realize existed. Hazel, taking this as her cue, pulled up the front of her dress and sat herself upon my hardness, fully penetrating herself in her almighty wetness.

For this was the moment I cried out with such release I am sure I popped open the buttons on my shirt. The sight of this wanting mistress sat upon me caused me a heavy explosion deep within her, semen firing with an apocalyptic intensity. Mother, with one final tug getting the final tips of the molar to release.

For a moment, the world went silent. I am sure I was bound to heaven and left to fall sharply to the ground. Only the taste of metal in my mouth and wetness between my legs kept me in the land of the conscious.

On coming round, I saw an attentive Hazel, dabbing my mouth with a rag which smelled heavily of oil. She seemed to have acquired a patchy flush on her pale cheeks. I could only assume that she had not only achieved what she had wished from me, but did so with such professionalism that Mother was clearly none the wiser.

In fact, Mother had all but left by this point. It was once again down to Hazel to complete the task. Unfastening the now sweat coated buckles that chained my every limb extension. Helping me to my feet and ensuring that I gave a handsome sum for the task, quite literally, at hand.

And so I stumbled home, the front of my trousers thoroughly soiled, the collar of my shirt pink with blood and saliva. It had been the kind of day that one could only wish for in fanciful novels. I never saw either of the two women again. Partly by chance and partly from not wanting to know if Hazel had in fact achieved her goal of stealing my seed for her own offspring and freedom.

The Painful Throbbing of Mr. Bates – Part II

[Part I – https://stinkies.blog/2020/09/23/the-painful-throbbing-of-mr-bates/ ]

This aroused young plaything eyed me intensely. Her white cloth perched on her outstretched finger. For all my life, fair reader, you must understand that I was a helpless gentleman bound by both leather and moral. I did attempt to avert my eyes, but there is only so much a gentle fellow can take.

She at first, eyed my reaction. It was not so much that my response mattered to her, but more as if she awaited a certain cue. Both she and I, her wanton breast, hung in limbo, listening to the throbbing of our heartbeats. I had by this point all but forgotten the niggling molar and all its repugnant suffering. It seemed as if pain and excitement were two trains running along the same line.

She edged ever closer to me, two corners of her undergarment in each hand, and forced them between my lips, pulling my cheeks tightly back. She tied a substantial knot at the back of my head and spun to once again face the wall.

From behind, she searched around my braces, under my trouser line and slid along my thigh. I felt relief that the leather straps hid my trembling hands, pulling my body in restraint from the twitches and jolts of adrenaline. She pulled her hand back from my thigh and slid up to hold all my manhood had to offer in one hand. My member, somewhat over stimulated and half panicked, vibrated beneath my layers, humming like a nest of angry wasps.

She placed her remaining hand, with quite some force, against my forehead and pressed it against the headrest of the chair. My eyebrows pulled taut, eyes wide, completely immobile except for the direction of my eyes.

“We are going to play a game,” she whispered, deadly into my ear.

She began circling her finger around the tip of my penis, moistening the head with the slick pre-ejaculate that was seeping from me.

“You are going to buy me a ticket out of this house and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

Her mother’s voice came through the door, halting her playtime. The door swung open and this Hazel vixen, still very breast-ful, had already pulled her hand from my trousers. She very cleverly, walked forward towards the tools at the back, concealing her exposed womanhood. This specimen was as cool as she was fiendish.

Still somewhat unable to comprehend the situation I was bound in, I found Mother binding my head to the back section of the chair, leather tightly pressing on my forehead.

“Hazel, I’m going to need the usual for this one, I’m sure this kind fellow is ready for this to an ordeal finished sooner rather than later.”

With that, the mother mounted a small stool that gave her an extra foot of height over me. She braced herself with her right foot stretching across my lap and lodged into the base of the chair arm.

“Now open wide for me kind sir, we all know this is not going to be pleasant, but I’ll do the best I can, Hazel dear, lets begin with the smaller tool.”

My eyes could only fix open the various patches of mould, forming an imaginary map for some far off place. A place perhaps where free-roaming tribes of Hazels had their ways with lost and injured men.

Hazel’s mother seemed none the wiser to Hazel’s villainous sexual musings and was most intent on the job at hand. I had begun to shift my thoughts away from the hounding mass in my trousers and more towards my tooth when I sensed the wandering hand, once again running up my leg. It appeared Hazel was to enjoy the danger of continuing very much where she left off, under to the near surveillance of her unsuspecting mother…

[Hold out for Part III…]

The Painful Throbbing of Mr. Bates

Ο χρήστης Lindsey Fitzharris στο Twitter: "Victorian dental chair. The  first reclining chair was invented in 1832 by London dentist James Snell.… "

May 16th, 1849, Greater London

It was to be a day of extremes, that much was predictable, having endured the four days of a pulsating molar that boomed in the back of my jaw. The throbbing had begun four days prior and it was more than I could take. My wife had been subject to my touchy mood swings and newfound bitterness, demanding that I get it sorted.

These sorts of dental issues are best sorted swiftly by those that one trusts. It is of little import the profession, be it the local barber or baker, anyone whose hands knows the body of a man or a loaf of bread should suffice in the task at hand.

It was that evening I called upon a surly friend, Johnny Whisperlake. A well respected barber several corners away. It was he, who on many an occasion, spruced my wiry and tired appearance up on many an occasion. His work was of such calibre, that I often had to reintroduce myself to passing acquaintances, them having not recognized this new to-do fellow.

He did not, however, take kindly to my request on one of his particularly surly days (one could even suppose he too suffered at the hands of an inflamed molar). He did manage though, to send me to an address but 250 meters away.

The address was less an establishment but an abode, located in the darker and grimier stretches of town. I knocked impatiently and took a step back. A girlish woman in a coal grey dress opened the door ajar, pressing her face to the crack.

“Yes?” She whispered.

Her hair was a dusty orange and her eyes green.

“I was sent here via the good barber, he informed me you could remove a somewhat troublesome tooth, I can provide you a couple farthing for your troubles?”

“You’ll be needing my mother, come round the back.”

And with that, the door clicked shut.

The back entrance did not lead into the house, as was expected, but to a small dirty shack. Once again, the green-eyed girl opened. I was greeted by a glorified tool shed, the smell of acids and varnish cutting the back of my throat.

In the middle of the dark shack, a barber’s chair sat facing the back corner. I took my place on the chair, leaning myself deep into the broken leather. At this point I was glad to have sunk a couple caps of my neighbors gin, which seemed to have calmed the throbbing.

The door behind clicked open and shut, a harsh voice grating through the air.

“So you have molar troubles? You are not the first to visit me this week. It is the time of year where the winter smoke draws all manner of malady to the fore. Here for a moment, my good Hazel will see that you are ready, I just have to finish up in the parlor.”

Without having laid eyes on my doctor, she was gone. Hazel, finding her feet, swung the chair around with an almighty creak. She found no hesitation in binding my arms into the chair with the restraining straps. Leather clasps buckled around my upper wrists, a standard in this sort of procedure. It was perhaps the extent of the restraint that tickled my curiosity and fanned my angst. Hazel continued. She knelt down at my knees and buckled my ankles tightly to the foot rest. She then swung the chair back to the back wall so that I faced the long disused tools that sat high on the shelving.

Reaching around my waist, she pulled yet more straps around my stomach, clicking them around at the back. A noticeable heaviness to her breath on my elbows. I was rendered completely immobile except for my head, which, at this point, seemed counterintuitive to cleanly removing a gammy tooth.

Swung once again to face the front, Hazel’s hair had fallen out of her bonnet. The meek and shy house girl suddenly had a blaze in her eyes. Her chest rose and fell with a sort of labour and her stare suggested a feline-like hunger. She turned to the door, where she slid the heavy bolt across and seemed to play with something else on the hinges.

Pausing for a moment, she inhaled. She turned on her heel and laid her womanhood bare. Her sizeable breasts completely out of their underlayers and hanging sumptuously over her grey dress. There was this sweet innocent thing, suddenly feral. Her nipples were extravagant and matched her amber eyes. I soon there realized my head was no longer the only part of me that was mobile, but the pressing erection in my pleated trouser had also come to life.

Shocked as to the sudden change in this demeanour, I began to ramble sounds. One bumbling male, whose brain was yet to catch up with his lips.

Hazel, leant forward, her breasts leaning outwards with gravity, reached her hand up her lengthy grey dress and pulled down an undergarment. I wasn’t entirely sure what her intention was, but I was so urgently desperate to find out…

[Hold out for next chapter]

The Chalet, Part V – Domestic slavery in a mature woman’s world

Transparent Rope - Dog Chain Png Transparent, Png Download ...

[ Find Part I here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/23/the-chalet-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/

Find Part II here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/28/the-chalet-part-ii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ 

Find Part III here –https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/30/the-chalet-part-iii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ 

Find Part IV here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/08/03/the-chalet-part-iv-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

I awoke on the hard, freshly polished floor. The hushed moonlight through the curtains suggested it was still the middle hours. My face ran hot as the blood surged back to the cheek, tangy spittle sticking to my chin.

There was a coolness in the air. The finer hair that ran seamlessly along my body stood on end. My dried semen ran snail trails across my stomach and onto my chest, reminding me of euphoric heights only a few hours before.

Raising myself a little higher, I heard the cold scraping of smooth heavy metal on the floor. Looking over my shoulder I saw a long chain leading up to my back and out of my vision. I frowned a look of confusion as I brought my hand to my neck, only to find the chain snaking itself tightly around my throat. The metal seemed to match my body temperature and therefore must have been on for quite some time.

My arms were still weak for the climactic explosion I had unleashed in our last moments. Marina, had made my body scream and yet not laid a single feline finger upon me. As with all dogs, I was not to enjoy my share until the alpha had finished. I watched her scream an almighty roar as she unleashed her pleasure. Jealous and whimpering, I watched out the corner of my eye.

Marina now, however, appeared to be nowhere in sight, rendering the chain around my neck less a statement and more a very practical method to ensure that I did not move. I lowered myself back down to the floor, laid on my back, slept like the dog I had become.

I began stirring within my sleep, aware of the distorted and illogical focus of my dreams. Scraping my heels on the floor in a quiet fit of discomfort. My arm on a pinpoint. I gasped awake to the sight of Marina, stubbing her already finished cigarette upon my forearm. The smell of smoke already heavy in the air.

Reacting on instinct, I batted her off of me and scrambled backwards, forgetting the dog chain and catching the skin at the back of my neck in an almighty squeeze. I wretched and choked whilst trying to make sense of this rude awakening.

Even in these very moments, Marina retained her air of femininity. I hadn’t ever seen her smile. The most being a small grunt of satisfaction. Even in her deepest orgasm she groaned with an air of disgust.

Whilst I was still shackled to the floor, she was high in a chair. With her foot, she skitted across a dog bowl in my direction. I was relieved to see it wasn’t dog food, but a bowl of water. Reaching forward with my hand, I caught the gaze of Marina and thought twice.

And so I knelt myself forward, face first into the water. I began to imitate what I supposed a dog might do, lapping and slurping the water inwards. Seeing nothing but the black of the bowl.

Rudely awoken once more, I was drawn out the water, hair clamped firmly in the grip of Marina’s hand, she must have backed behind me with incredible stealth. She pulled my head back until I was facing the ceiling, my head almost resting upon her shoulder.

“You are going to play one last game with me”

Noting the finality in her tone, I exhaled a snort that suggested agreement.

“You shall only be released, after you have given me your freshest load. Failure to do so could be, well, extremely deadly for you..”

And with that, she swung her leg around the front, pushing me back into the floor and sat directly on my face. It took me by such surprise that I had barely time to catch an inward breath. Even more so for not being able to fully appreciate what years of refined perfumery laid between her thighs.

Seeing that the lack of air would soon cause me great issue, I grabbed for my cock. There was not a doubt in my mind that I would be raging hard and ready to go. And so I started pulling, as hard and as fast as I could. My eyes detecting the faintest fur on her pelvis, the ruffled skirt upon my nose line, the soft skin under her chin.

The harder I pulled, the more oxygen I burned. Something in me was building. I couldn’t decipher if it was an impending explosion of sexual euphoria, or a catastrophic implosion of oxygen deprivation. Each heightening the other.

I picked up pace and closed my eyes. My thighs clenching and toes curling, my balls pulling themselves deep inside me as if to build for something. More and more. Further and further. Less and less. I could see panic on the horizon, not being sure if I could come before passing out. I was suddenly wide awake and yet fading.

As if out of nowhere, Marina jammed her fingers up inside of me. In what was to be her token move, she had hit the mound which kickstarted the cascade of ejaculation out of my cock.

Every muscle in my body squeezed and groaned in deliverance, sweet and sticky release.

My mouth, released from her soft lips, drew in the air from the room. Filling my body with words of love and adoration.

“I knew you couldn’t do it…” She said, “pathetic.”

I could read what was really meant behind these words. Knowing that I couldn’t do it without her was all she needed.

“Your time here is done. Don’t ever come back.”

The Chalet, Part IV – Domestic slavery in a mature woman’s world

Metal Handcuffs | Partyrama

[ Find Part I here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/23/the-chalet-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ 

Find Part II here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/28/the-chalet-part-ii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ 

Find Part III here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/30/the-chalet-part-iii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

There we were, sat around the mahogany table of her kitchen-living room, she and I, in silence.

I had been summoned later than usual, only a couple hours before sundown. There had been no clear indication of the why, but it seemed we were past the state of playing trivialities. Her game was in full motion, I, a mere pawn in her Queendom.

She dragged hard upon her cigarette. Toking deeply, slowly. She was timely in her intakes. They lay like punctuation within her sentences, suggestions of unseen commas. To the outsider, it could have seemed an all too familiar situation. The wordless stand-off between family members. One attentive son facing an indifferent elder, perhaps a step-mother of sort. An apparent absence of maternal love.

There was, of course, one key difference. I was shackled, by my ankles, to the chair. These cuffs were no cheap affair, one could assume a sort of chrome-nickel brand, someone meaning serious business.

The mahogany stand-off seemed to roll on. There was no reason to rush for Marina, she was a woman free of obligation or commitment. A woman who could command whatever or whomever she wished. She dressed herself in neutral clothes, loose fits and hair pulled back. There was no need to distract from the fact that she was a woman. No need to shine to attention. She had a pussy to die for and this was honor enough of her womanhood.

On finishing a final heavy draw, she looked through the window, taking note of the last moments of sunlight. She stubbed her cigarette and walked to the kitchen drawers. A shining pair of scissors were brought to the table. My pulse quickened.

She drew herself behind me and began cutting. Starting from the lower seam of my shorts, she cut all the way up the side of my leg, passing through any fabric unfortunate enough to lie in its wake. She followed on up the side of my t-shirt, grazing the upper side of the scissor upon my armpit, following on the neck.

She pulled off the butchered clothes and threw them in the sink, leaving me naked as the day. She was the first person to ever have seen my nakedness. To have ever pondered my sexual machinery. She walked around me, as if she were to tailor me a new suit in her mind’s eye.

She assessed my slim ankles, the whites of my thighs, the harshness of my pubic hair, the outwardness of my belly button, my fatless frame. I admit I blushed when she squared up to my penis. I searched deeply in her expression to find some evidence of validation, if it was okay. I’d wondered if she’d seen many in her life. If dozens of other unfortunate men had been cuffed in the very same way I was.

Without a word, she hoisted her leg up over my shoulder and placed it on the top ridge of the chair. With one well calculated push, she forced the chair to swing back on its hind legs and in doing so, sent me crashing backwards on the floor.

The hard floor punched the air from my chest and left me gasping. My dick began to harden, I was in full submission. There was no longer any need for questions, nor any need for reasoning. I pulled myself around onto my back and found her standing over me with a bucket in hand.

She began pouring a thick, caramel liquid over my stomach, my pelvis and my chest. It could have been caramel if it’s fumes hadn’t made my eyes water. She knelt over me, one knee either side of my ears. Her heavy heat making my watery eyes run wilder. She drew her hand up her skirt and fondled around in search of something.

She drew out, from her lace knickers, a rag. It must have been sat in waiting for hours at the table. Compressed between her and the chair. She pulled down my jaw, crumpled the infused rag and jammed it into my mouth.

“Buff the floor”

The first words uttered in the hours between us. She hoisted herself back to her feet, dragged a chair on its hind legs and threw it against the wall.

I turned, my body staining itself an ochre red, my mouth full of sex. I withdrew the rag, made a singular wiping motion across my body. Picking up as much liquid in one go and slopped it on to the floor. I pulled myself to my hands and knees to face away from her.

I began, pushing the resin into the floorboards, buffing with all my might. My hard penis swinging right and left as if a meter reading. I dared a glance over my shoulder, seeing, nothing less than Marina, legs a meter apart, two fingers deep into the delight of her own pussy, eyes fixated on me.

I would have given anything to have been granted a moment to savor my own pleasure. To have partaken in our mutual masturbation. Eying each other deeply, panting with glazed expression. But Marina would not have permitted me such a bliss. The rush that ran through her veins was the result of the denial she was granting me.

And so I polished on, erection and the point of no return, mentally savoring the grunting moans of Marina…

[Find the final part here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/08/05/the-chalet-part-v-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

The Chalet, Part III – Domestic slavery in a mature woman’s world.

How Mental Health Is Like Pulling Weeds

[ Find Part I here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/23/the-chalet-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/

Find Part II here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/28/the-chalet-part-ii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

That night I pulled myself so senseless to the thoughts of Marina. My heart thudded at the memory of her towering over me. I floated, mentally, back up her skirt, letting my senses fill in what my eyes weren’t able to. I became hungry for her, in a way I hadn’t known before. This woman tormented and pleasured my mind, with only the flow of hot ejaculation able to banish her from my mind.

I virtually ran to the chalet the following day. My eyes wild with fatigue and a yearning, my heart turning in my chest.

As with all great expectations, it was abruptly shot from of the sky and left to fall limply to the floor. I was not welcomed by Marinas sloping breasts nor her hot tobacco breath, but a crudely written note taped to the door.

“Weeds in garden need doing, see to it, currently out”

In some form of elliptical orbit, Marina had swung herself tightly round me and launched herself out into space. Or at least that’s what the melodrama in me had declared.

Despondent and ultimately pissed at the way of things. I stomped round the side of the chalet and identified the weeds of my misfortune.

A pair of gardening gloves had been compassionately laid out on the table. It was clear that this ‘garden’ had been long given back to nature. Winding thistles, dandelions and prettier sub-families of weeds were well at home in the rough ankle height grass.

Hours passed. Myself on my hands and knees, covered so aptly with cuts from roses. My shins were green with stains and I had already sweated through my shirt, now drying itself upon the table.

Looking upon my handiwork I saw that I had barely made a dent in this catastrophe of a garden. Perhaps this was some kind of joke. Perhaps this was a way of mocking me and humiliating me. ‘Fuck this’ I thought, I walked over to the table, sat myself down and lit a cigarette.

I didn’t consider myself a smoker, but had occasionally used it as a way of expressing defiance. What made the defiance even more delicious was taking the cigarette from Marina’s box, naughtily perched on the external window sill. I slipped my hands down my underwear and played with my flaccid dick. It was the perfect crime.

I breathed in the acrid smoke with satisfaction, reclined against the ground floor wall, quietly content with myself. I hadn’t yet realized that Marina had returned and was watching me from the double doors.

I choked and spluttered as I caught her eye. Throwing down the cigarette, making no attempt to excuse myself I fell to the floor and got straight back into the weeds. Her presence boomed from her, her gaze sent me shivers.

I heard her come close to me, leaning over, inches from my ear.

That musk had returned. A mix of dated perfume, tobacco and womanhood. Her words breathed into my ear.

“Suddenly, not much the man when a woman arrives”

My face flushed, embarrassed I leaned my head closer to the weeds that now seemed to be watching the unfolding drama with glee. My heart was pounding blood to my head and my dick.

“Why stop pleasuring yourself now?”

And with that, I received an unexpected hand in an unexpected place. She slipped her hands, swiftly and directly down the back of my trousers, curve round the mound of my buttocks and slip straight inside me.

I gasped a breath that could have swallowed the garden hole. My lungs drew in air to maximum capacity and my whole body clenched. No words escaped my lips. I was floating in the moment, my glands throbbing chemistry around my body. I was breathless and full of life all at once.

With her hand pressed inside, I exploded out my appendage. Pounding out lashings of semen, soaking the layers of clothes I had on, my breath still holding. I looked only to the blinding light of the sun.

Only when the seminal flow stopped did I finally relieve the outbreath. Panting on the floor, not wishing to move. I died the small death, right there amongst jealous weeds. Spittle had collected at the corners of my mouth. I was both present and completely absent at once.

She pulled her fingers out from me and left with the sound of footsteps on thick grass.

“Go home” she said “You’re finished”…

[Find out what happens next here… https://stinkies.blog/2020/08/03/the-chalet-part-iv-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

The Chalet, Part II – Domestic slavery in a mature woman’s world

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[Find part I here –> https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/23/the-chalet-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

I had responded to a post in the local newspaper in search of assistance in general house maintenance and was already on my fourth weekend at the chalet. Nothing remarkable about the chalet or the owner could be taken from those initial weeks. She was notably distant, and often bellowed commands through corridors and was always trailed by a stream of smoke. Never too present, but at times I’d feel as if she’d be watching me.

It was that fourth weekend that Marina began to reveal her true intentions. I entered through the hallway, the texture of dust in the air.

“The veranda needs a wax, see to it” came the distant voice. “You’ll find what you need in the storage cupboard.”

Wishing to not displease my employer, I immediately sought out what I needed, but was distracted en route by a door that had never been open before. It struck me as bizarre as no visible light seemed to come from it. If anything, its darkness sucked the surrounding air into it. Edging closer, I dared to steal a glance.

The door snapped shut in front of me, the heat of her feminine presence leaned over me and onto a hand pressing the door shut. The softness of her chest almost imperceptibly touching my shoulder blades. Turning with a sudden sense of conscience at the clear violation of confidence, she stood, inches from my face, holding the wax in one hand and a buff in her other.

“I think this is what you are looking for.” stated as plain as her satin dress.

Wishing not to aggravate her any further, I took the bucket and cloth from her, head down and headed to the veranda.

She wasn’t lying, the veranda had been subjected to an intensive bleaching from the sun and was a withering grey. I cracked open the can with a screwdriver I found on the floor and set to work.

With a framework as slim as mine was, I was yet to be accustomed to the hard repetitive labour. My weak adolescent like arms would seize and shoulders quiver. But this was no place for signs of weakness from a woman who paid him a rather handsome allowance.

“Are you struggling?” The harshness of her voice suggesting a displeasure.

“No, no, no I…”

“Perhaps I should find someone else? Or have I asked too much…”

She had something about her today. She was much more present, much more oppressive in her tone. I wondered if it had been the room incident.

I further began to mumble, pardoning the undeveloped musculature of my post pubescent body. Offering her reason for my ineptitude. Then I felt something I hadn’t quite expected.

A foot, pressing into my back. Pushing me down onto the freshly waxed patch of wood I had been so diligently working on.

“Because…” at this point I was flat against the floor, daring not to move. “I am in need of a great many things here, and I am in need of someone who can do it all”

Her foot began shuffling its way, up my back and towards my face. My cheeks flushed with what I expected to be shame, but was stirred upon realizing that this was no shame. It was a new brand of feeling, one I wasn’t yet quite able to put my finger on.

“Are we going to be able to uphold our agreement?” By this point, the sticky wax tacked my face to the floor and her foot was flat against my cheek. I craned my view upwards to her towering heights which silhouetted against the sun. Her underskirt fully exposed but hazed by the shadow. Only a stir of her feminine vapor could be sensed.

She pulled her foot away, leaving a gritty and smarting outline on my face.

“Finish up then go home. Come back tomorrow. You are going to do something for me.”

With that she walked away. Lying, paralysed in a wash of hormones, I found that I had one further sticky patch, this time from between my legs. It was a penile premonition of things to come. Something inside me had arrived. It began as a simmer, but would soon be brought to boil.

Marina and I.

[Find the next part here … https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/30/the-chalet-part-iii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]

The Chalet – Domestic slavery in a mature woman’s world

8mm Chrome Effect Plastic Chain (2m) The Little Post & Chain Company

It took a lazy Sunday morning, reading the newspaper, my loyal, aging wife sat next to me, to be jolted back into a long abandoned chapter of my youth.

‘Woman’s death leaves chalet in disrepute’

The photo had me choking on my morning coffee. A tremor of my younger self belched to the surface, from the groin up. Beginning at the inside of my leg, hitting my diaphragm and an emerging a coffee-gurgled squeak

After all this time, there she was, or perhaps given her death, wasn’t. Long legs, a fleshless frame, cigarette poised between lips, and a long black skirt that trapped the sweetest part of her. This black and white print had captured her perfectly. A photo, one can confess, that I had taken.

I have never recounted to anyone what happened in that chalet. Partly because breaking the silence of a story threatens to crack it in two. For fear that what happened, could be manipulated, undermined or contested by those ears it fell upon; It was my dirty treasure.

You see, Marina was a special kind of woman. A woman whose tastes were written within her being. A secret language only she and her orgasm spoke.

The chalet has long since been the stage of my so many silent fantasies, layers of twisted truths and played out scandal. A place which my wife will never enter. The place my thoughts fall when I groan and penetrate her. Black belts, chains and dark breaths. Sorry my darling, you marry a man for his secrets as much as his truths. My wife should be grateful for Marina. There are times, I confess, where I have pleasured her to the thought of Marina, of all the things I did, and didn’t, with Marina. A thought that mixes me with shame and a dirty sense of pride.

I bear the burn marks one receives when dragged into manhood. I pledged my devotion to her. They stand proud on my skin today, long hidden by stories of ‘youthful infidelities’ and nothing more.

I brush breadcrumbs off my ever thickening arm hair and peer across to the table. My wife is yet to plunder my dungeon of dirty treasures. The moments when I was owned, when I no longer belonged to myself. When I was prisoner to Marina’s fantasy.

“Chalet up for resale as family struggle to retain ownership. Previous owner, described as solitary and withdrawn, left neither assets nor will.”

Hardly surprising for a woman like Marina to be described as such. She valued distance as much as she valued her unholy tastes. She had a particular niche for weak men, who in my case, was a late adolescent on the brink of manhood. Wielding a weaponry I had yet to understand.

She was 45 when I entered her world, and I 19 when she entered me.

A man can have many fucks in his life, an endless sea of feminine fragrance, dining on the freshest of pussy and offloading onto all manner of fabric. But you see, the greater sex is a much more esoteric venture. One where we become our deepest selves, only to be granted a ticket back to consciousness via climax.

I have always been loyal to my wife, both in mind and soul. But my cock, shall always be hers, Marina’s. This is the lesser told lust story, one where I was subject to the rightful scorn of an older woman’s lust, in what I have always so endearingly termed, The Chalet…

Find part II here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/28/the-chalet-part-ii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/

ICE: Integrity, Chastity, Organization – Part VI

PART I – https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/13/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-i/ 

PART II –  https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/15/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-ii/

PART III– https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/16/ice-integrity-chastity-organization/

PART IV – https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/29/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-iv/

Part V – https://stinkies.blog/2020/05/01/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-v/

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Max, having become accustomed to the sensation of the cage, found himself swimming through ideas of the whats, the whens and the hows of Brianna’s game. It would seem, however, that the most enduring game of all, would be Brianna’s absence.

Given Max’s typically unimpressive romantic history and even more unimpressive penis, he had taken to the late night tug and cummy finish. He thought of it as his nightly indulgence, much like a late night courvoisier or reading in an armchair; activities, he supposed, real men would do.
Yet for Max, low-res porn with half-baked female orgasms saw him through.

But now, Max wasn’t able to enjoy the even smallest nugget of joy life had sparingly granted him. Or at least, life had infused that joy with Brianna’s pussy and then cruelly caged it out of reach. He was a man dying of thirst whilst bobbing in the ocean. Brianna had set fire to his senses, but he was condemned to sit and watch, tormented by the level of euphoria he would undoubtedly never reach.

She, the musty femme of which he had buried himself inside of, was nowhere to be seen. He was on day 9 of this Brianna-less rampage and he could take no more. Her absence burned deep into him. He had been denied his dick, now he was to be denied her.

And so the tedium of office life continued. Alison, the ball-crusher who sat next to him, had recently got a new boyfriend and found no hesitation in implying said boyfriend’s superiority.

“He’s like, got his life together, you know? Like he wants to take care of me, like, he’s in charge? Like the big boss? He’s actually going somewhere…”

Max was grateful for her incessant rambling. The noise blurred out the space where his flowing cum stream and throbbing cock should be. He pondered the idea of, when the time comes, to blow his first load on Alison. Just for fun. To rev himself up under the desk and just fire it up her leg. He smiled, but knew, he was no man for that. Besides, he didn’t need the office clocking on to his inadequate appendage.

However, given the metaphorical stopper tightly bound around Max’s balls, he felt the heat of sex surge through his bloodstream at most hours of the day. He was grateful on many an occasion to have had the cage, to help suppress his unintentional office erections.

There was Charlene from Marketing, a girl with a forgettable face but had no shame in wearing inappropriately high skirts. One day, she sat herself upon her office chair, not realising that her poor choice of workwear was rolling up her thighs, revealing her cheap lacey underwear. Max, positioned himself, somewhat pathetically, in view of her just to enjoy the hot thrill of sexual taboo. He was however caught out by her line manager, a married man of 5 foot 6, who gave him a look of disgust and contempt that was so commonplace for Max.

Then arrived a Thursday afternoon on a typically painful day in the office without Brianna. He was summoned down to run checks on the public computers in the Adult Learning Library. This wasn’t unheard of and was a good excuse to kill time with a slow, ineffective walk.

He lulled down the stairs, round the corner and crossed the building into the public space. The centre had seen better days. Government cuts alongside a society of lost causes meant things looked shabby. Things could also get rough at times. There had been stories of knives, drugs and heavy porn use in the library alongside a faint smell of piss and corsodyl.

Max gave the receptionist a passive nod as he walked up to the security barrier. The post was manned by a six-foot something woman in a tight fitting polo neck and long trousers. Stood next to a mini x-ray machine and metal detector frame. It was like passing through some pitiful airport security, just with less enthusiasm.

Max passed through the barrier, thinking nothing of it, but suddenly felt a firm hand hit his chest.

“Whoa there”, her voice was indifferent and almost acidic.

Max turned to her as his eye caught the red light flashing above the metal detector frame.

‘Shit’ he thought, the cage.

“Legs apart, this will be a second” she gestured, pulling out a sizable paddle, and hearing it click into action.

Max began to sweat, this was not going to end in his favor. His fingers started trembling as he knew what was about to happen. She passed the scanner roughly over his body until it screamed around his groin. She passed it over, again and again. Each time a new set of ears perked up from the reception area. She clearly was enjoying herself. She clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She clearly knew that this Max was not the type to fashion a hot cock piercing and was only too eager to exercise her rights in finding out.

“Come with me,” she motioned to a door on the right.

She pushed him through the door alongside the echo of sniggers from the onlookers.

Max’s face flushed with shame. He wanted to curl over.

“It seems we have a problem here….Max”, squinting at his name badge

“I’m going to ask you to drop your trousers.”

‘Fuck,’ Max thought. This was not going to end well…

ICE: Integrity, Chastity, Organization – Part V

PART I – https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/13/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-i/ 

PART II –  https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/15/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-ii/

PART III– https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/16/ice-integrity-chastity-organization/

PART IV – https://stinkies.blog/2020/04/29/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-part-iv/

Jeflock JASDL Sliding Accessible Toilet Door Lock | Timothy Wood ...

Max shifted down onto his knees, eye level with Brianna’s pussy. He relished every second of the cold toilet floor, the hum of the extractor fan and the heat that emanated from between Brianna’s legs. For in achieving what felt like the climax of his conquest, he was also being shown the way out. It didn’t matter now, he had no choice, he was told to get the key and set himself free, it was what she wanted.

He lifted his hand and brushed the tip of his finger upon her soft pubic hair. Sensing the texture ripple through his fingertip, another pulsation of his penis caused him to grimace. He took his time, figuring that the years he would wank to this moment would be worth the momentary crushing on his hardening dick.

He switched the angle of his finger, and went to push himself inside. He was once again grabbed by his hair and pulled to meet her red-eyed stare.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Brianna blurted

“I… I…”

‘Fuck,’ he thought, ‘somewhere along the line, I have either misjudged what was happening, or more likely, done it wrong.’

Max was familiar with this territory. The barren wastelands where his confusion and her disgust would meet. A hot, fetid atmosphere, too uncomfortable to bear. Shame dripping out of every corner.

“I don’t want your poncy little fingers in me, if you want the key, I want you to get it with your tongue”

Max, this time, had to stifle a shriek at his mini hulk-like erection, threatening to burst the cage open. She smiled at this, she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Still not having released Max from her death grip, she forced his face deep into her.

Max was somewhere completely otherworldly now. He felt raised off of the cold floor and now floating through heats of some all female rainforest. The heartbeat of Brianna, passing along her pubic bone was now beating upon his face. Tick tick, tick tick, tick tick. The humid musk of her pussy made him shiver with excitement. He was everywhere and nowhere. The vast wilderness and the safest home.

He pressed his tongue past his lips and through hers. He was undoubtedly impressed that she kept her keys inside her as if a personal pocket. He was unsure if he would be able to hook anything with his tongue, especially given the circumstances. But he foraged around anyway.

He struggled to take air as Brianna was giving no option for retreat. He kept going, writhing his tongue around inside her, as deep as he could. Holding the backs of her legs as if to pull himself further inside.

Then a deep laughter came from within her. The thundering beats of her lungs pulsating through her skin. She pushed his head away, this time laughing harder.

“You little maggot, of course you are not off the hook that easy. We have a fucking deal, wipe yourself off and get back to your desk”

And with that she pushed him backwards to fall on his elbows. She gave a satisfied look at the cum-filled mess on the right side of his smart-casual trousers, leaking down just the one side. His hair, bunched at the back of his head, and his eyes, slowly returning back to mother earth.

She made for the door, throwing it open in plain sight of the rest of passersby and was gone. Scrambling to his feet, Max threw himself to close the door, locking it behind him and sliding down with his back against it.

He had barely caught his breath in all the time he was in the toilet. His hands were shaking, his legs lying limp in front of him. The only part of him still possessing life was locked beneath his underwear. He was in a state of exhausted euphoria, an unquenched mesh of sensations. He had no idea how far Brianna was willing to take this, or if he would even make it to the end of it. Only time would tell what else was in store for him.

[Find out what happened next here –> https://stinkies.blog/2020/05/04/ice-integrity-chastity-organization-2/ ]