ICE: Integrity, Chastity, Organization- Part IV




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Max, later that evening, found himself sitting in front of the computer, nude from the waist down, googling his own demise. It took him several searches and rephrases to fully understand contraption that held his life hostage. His cock, no longer his, rested quietly upon his swollen balls.

He had already mastered the art of pissing, after having shamefully sprayed an unfortunate (yet thankfully unknowing) IT technician in the staff urinals. He began to resort to using the bathroom stall, feeling like a helpless little girl. He positioned himself far back on the toilet, leant forward whilst spreading his legs wide, letting the hot relief flow into the front half of the bowl.

There was, of course, the undeniable upside to being in sex prison; the prison guard. Brianna, having laid her metaphorical stamp upon him, pissing over her territory in a state of dominant euphoria, was now always on his mind. He wondered perhaps if there weren’t several others in the office, the Brianna slaves. Each one condemned in his (or her) own way to sexual deprivation. Hundreds of puny cocks, doing hard time in a soft way. Perhaps he should listen for the jangle of keys sloshing around in her pussy…..

A boom of blood caused him to wince, the pressure of an impending erection, its uncomfortable presence. He liked to imagine that it was her hand down his pants, squeezing his small nub in a death grip, yet this ironically only fueled the problem further, often ending in a dry pre-cum stains and red rub marks.

Two days into the cage, Max came across Brianna. He was filling his water bottle at the cooling pump, located just outside the main office door. Brianna was wearing a blouse that was too small and a skirt that was too big. It was as if all eyes were to be drawn to her warm breasts today as her long legs were on annual leave.

He was bent over, obliviously filling his bottle at the fountain when he was grabbed by his hair and pulled upright. The surprise had caused him to flick spatters of water on his shirt and trousers, a small pool by the fountain.

“You are a fucking mess, you might as well have pissed yourself, get in there” she said, pushing him sideways into the infamous disabled toilets.

She locked the door behind them and turned to look him in the eye. He, shriveling in height, sat himself upon the toilet and put his eyes to the floor, stifling the excitement on his face.

“Time’s up, get the key” she blurted.

Max’s eyes lifted from the floor, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“But it’s only been two days…” Max stuttered, spittle slipping out his mouth.

“Yes, but you mean nothing to me, you are, quite frankly, disposable, get the key.”

Max was disheartened, he had reveled in her torture for what seemed like an even crueler game of deception. His time with Brianna was apparently done, too worthless to play the role of unworthy, how pathetic.

“So where is the key?” Max sighed

She looked at him incredulously, as if he was incapable of doing any thinking for himself, a lesser than man. She looked him in the eye, daring his defiance, and slipped her hand to the hem of her skirt.

“Exactly where I left it”

Sliding the zip that ran down the side of her skirt all the way to the floor, she stood upright with her feet wide apart. Her skirt fell to her ankles. There it was, her unshaven womanhood, an inviting mist, an unexplored wonderland. His cock began to swell and pinch against the metal.

The place he was about to go, was only going to give him a penetrating discomfort in what was to be an erotic hell.

[ Find out what happens here –> ]

ICE: Integrity, Chastity, Organization – Part III

[Find Part I –> [Find Part I –> ]

[Find Part II -> ]

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… “Oh would you now?”

Stepping down from the stool, it was clear that Brianna was enjoying this.

“How much am I worth? You obviously have no money, so what else can I take from you? Your dignity?”

She sat herself upon the stool, provocatively leaning her elbows upon open legs.

“I’ll tell you what Braveheart, if you really want what’s under this skirt that bad, you give me this month’s check.”

The bargain echoed silently through the safe, there was suddenly a deal on the metaphoric table. But he couldn’t give her a month’s worth of salary, that was just out of the question. He simply did not have the resources nor the capacity to provide that.

Sensing his conundrum, she walked out the office and returned second later with her denim handbag. She leaned closer to him and he could feel her hot breath tickle his ear. He tried to subtly suck in her perfume like an addict at a crack pipe.

“If you really wanted me that bad, you would give up everything to make that happen.”

“I…I guess, but…” Max was so out of his depth, he wondered if he’d ever touch land again.

Brianna fumbled around her bag, and pulled out a small felt pouch.

“How about this, since you are truly worthless, I’ll take the only thing you have, your manhood. Make your dick mine.”

Max wasn’t sure of the implications of this agreement, nor the method of which it could be fixed but nodded through curiosity as well as complete helplessness to his needs.

Brianna, without hesitation, pulled down the fly of Max, silencing possible objections to being caught. Any blood that had been in his groin rushed to his feet. His cock shriveled in intimidation, he could never hope to please such a wild and feminine creature. Surely she would take one look at him and decide they should be “just friends”. The shame made him hunch lower, cringing at the thought of her reaction as she pulled his limp penis through his underwear. His hands failed to support him in resisting her grasp. He lowered his head, eyes fixed in bewilderment at the sight before him.

Searching desperately for some kind of excuse to placate her advances, he failed to notice that she was not focused on the state of his impotence. One cold fumble of the hands and a click later, Max realized what he had just summoned himself to.

“You give me your penis, and you could have everything, but until further notice, you are mine”

Max looked down at his flaccid and pasty worm. From what he could see, it was being incarcerated, punished by force in a penis-sized jail cell with a standard procedure padlock, and a small opening for a key.

Brianna stepped back and dangled the key in front of him. She reached under her skirt and hiked her shoulder as her hand slid between her tights and her stomach. Her expression changed and softened briefly as he heard the squelch of the keys being pushed inside a very wet secret hiding place. Her eyes sharply refocused on him and he was a trapped deer in the headlights. He found he could not move a muscle as she grabbed his face by the jaw examining him with her gaze. His nostrils flared. Now, mixed with the smell of her perfume, was the unmistakable smell of her femininity. Brianna smiled and wiped the back of her soiled hand over his dumbfounded mouth, leaving a trail of moisture. Max’s eyes involuntarily rolled into the back of his head and he quickly closed them. Internally, he vowed never to wash his face again.

Down below he began to feel an uncomfortable pressure as blood surged back to his lifeless member.

“Your cock is mine now, lets see how much you really want me.”

Leaving Max, stupefied with his genitals on display like a caged zoo animal, she pivoted and exited the safe door with a click of her heels. A slow, trailing, drip of pre-cum oozed out of his caged cock and fell to the floor. This was not how Max had foreseen the afternoon.

ICE: Integrity, Chastity, Organization – Part II

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[Find Part I –> ]

His mouse clicked frantically across the screen, as he blurted several incoherent words and passable smiles.

“Alison is off in a meeting…” she continued “…I’m in need of someone to help me file away these orders in the safe, she said you would help me.”

A sharp lick of perfume hit his nostrils. He couldn’t help but notice that she wore her perfumes as if a cocktail, mixing recipes of Chanel and Yves St Laurent at her pleasure. His brain filled with the scent, and began to run wild with thoughts of her fingers on his skin.

“Yeah…sure.”, his eagerness overpowering any attempt at nonchalance.

And so there they were, a fine afternoon of April, alone in the six by four metre safe. Not an inch of day would penetrate into the depths of that filing hell, and here he was, only 6 inches away from Temptation herself. She, taking the elephant foot-stall to reach letters D-F and he, poised, squatted like a 12th century fisherman over a mesh of paper.

“That photo of me you were gawking over was taken four years ago, that HR bitch pointed her smartphone at me and condemned me to a future of a red puffy complexion.”

Max felt heat rise from his belly and took upon his very own red puffy complexion. He had been caught out, shame once again tickling his loins. Yet he couldn’t help marvel over the idea of ‘HR Bitch’ being locked in the cupboard for smartphone portrait negligence.

“And why were you looking at my photo?, I see you drooling at me all the time” Her voice was like a whip. Max melted, and resisted the urge to shuffle backwards out of the safe, out of this situation, and into some dark hole where he could touch himself.

“I…I…” he stammered, unable to catch breath.

“I get it, fapping away at any old under 40 you can lay eyes on. I know your type, you think you have a chance with me?”

Words were so far out of Max’s reach that he thought he may never utter another syllable again.

“Do you think you have a chance with me? Huh? How much do you want me?”

There was no stopping it, he was powerless against what was becoming a rhythmic, scorching monologue

“How much would you pay to fuck me, right here, right now? Go on, give me a price”

Thoughts came rushing through his head, he would give his salary for a slice of her. Her sleek tights leading up her long legs, past the line of her mid-length skirt, up to where he knew few men could return from.

“…I forget, you are admin, admin salary and all that”

She turned back to reach letters G-I, as if she was all too acquainted with tormenting male coworkers alongside infinite filing tasks. The words bypassed Max’s internal filter and slipped through his lips, throwing caution at his mistress.

“I’d fuck you”

Nausea surged his throat. What had he done? How many office regulations had he compromised? How quickly this could escalate to harassment, in four words, albeit one partially contracted, he had given over control of the situation.

She turned back with an impressed smile on her face, this seemed to please her.

[Part III – ]

ICE: Integrity, Chastity, Organization – Part I

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“ICE”, she says, his eyes glazed over. “Integrity, Confidentiality, Efficiency; this is your mantra.”

Alison, a good eight years inferior to him got off on playing his superior. She may as well have pulled down his trousers and began there, at least he could have understood her reasoning from that standpoint. At barely four inches he already knew he was disappointing, a C- in the penis game.

“What we can do is set up a spreadsheet so we can check off your progress as the weeks progress?, If you know ICE, your job will be super easy.” He could almost hear her vagina purring at the glory of her condescension, which was always accompanied with a semi-assured smile.

Alison took pity on him but at the same time reveled in his weakness, and his very real statusless-ness, and so the days went. She treated him as the worthless dog he clearly was whilst he got himself off at night on the ball-crushing pleasure of her disdain; a chocolate coated match made in heaven. So side by side, plugging away data for a local adult learning centre. They were taught to be grateful, they got to wear smart-casual and spend three-minutes brewing tea in the staff kitchen of their own accord on staff time.

Max had become proficient in the art of humoring. Humoring his work companions, the tepid office conversation and most notably, humoring his own reason for being. His parents, hardworking Syrians, came to England in the mid-nineties in search of a better life for their spawn. How could they have known that their little darling’s existence could be likened to a communal teabag, limp.

But then there was Brianna, magnificent Brianna. She was at least two tiers above him in the pay scale but seemed to walk about the office as if she had just been released on bail for petty theft. Scatty, with dishevelled brown hair, and blotty black makeup, she was the highlight of his day. She maintained her role as the office wildcat, undermining the status quo, yet somehow presenting herself as an indispensable member of the team, flipping the coin as she pleased.

There were rumors of how she had managed to maintain her position. Some of which plausible, given what he had seen thus far, the rest, as far fetched as they were delicious. Word of tying managers to office chairs, naughty photos acquired on dodgy staff-dos and locking HR staff in cupboards overnight. He questioned none of them. In fact, quite the opposite. The one time Brianna came to talk about a jam in the fourth-floor printer, she had leaned casually over his desk. Max had caught a glimpse of her black bra cupping her voluminous cleavage under her blouse. This led him to spend almost his entire lunch break, shamefully indulging rumors about her in the handicapped bathroom. Definitely part of the ‘C’ for Confidentiality in his I.C.E. practice.

Whatever the root of her finesse, Max was in awe. The office drained much of Max’s will to endure, but the straight-to-the-vein dose of Brianna could last until at least lunchtime. He pondered what their future could look like, should she give him the time of day. He wasn’t completely out of her league physically. A bit gangly, all knees and elbows, but he was tall, with a sculpted nose and strong brow. However, his height and lack of natural masculine dominance caused him to slouch horribly.

“Oh I don’t think of you like that, we’re just friends,” Max didn’t know what it was about himself that made this rejection so commonplace. That phase in particular, combined with his small cock and limited sexual experience, had simply eroded his confidence throughout the years. Now he awaited the day that he could shuffle out of doors backwards with his head down as common practice; he would have made a great oversized Geisha, he mused. Barely noticed, yet always servient.

On one particularly drab day, Max found himself unaccompanied by Admin Alison for a few hours, and took the liberty to enjoy his free moment in front of the database. He picked at a few jobs here and there, a few gratuitous clicks of the mouse every couple of seconds, (how can we make ICE part of his ICE-ing only when really necessary. Until suddenly, he found himself in front of an empty draft email. A few weeks ago, after his bathroom embarrassment, he had found Brianna through the global directory and wanted to see what her office photo looked like. She was well poised and wore her hair in a high ponytail. He had almost stayed after hours to print it out, but didn’t muster the courage. Now he kept it covered behind his work tabs, sneaking a quick fix when his mind wandered and he couldn’t resist.

A recognizable voice shook him cold from his reverie.


It was Brianna’s unmistakable rasp…

[Follow on here for part II – ]

The hard road to Xativa – Part IV

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Find all previous chapters to this story here —>

Part I:

Part II: 

Part III:

Joel dropped the appendages of all three men at once. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and jumped to his feet. It was instinct, to conserve his masculinity in the face of the woman he really wanted. A caustic mix of shame, emasculation and the sense of being caught-out made him panic; but he stayed mute.

Mim leisurely walked towards the four of them with a gliding motion that didn’t typically belong to her. She was slower, more theatrical than her typical business ‘charge’; she was playing the game.

She looked Joel up and down, and circled him, as if examining an item for auction. A veritable meat market for helpless husbands finding themselves in ever more enduring sex scenarios. She caught his eye with a mischievous smirk, she was enjoying this, dare he say, aroused by this game. She loved power, she loved that he gave her power, he loved being overpowered. He felt his extremities warm and his sense of a playtime heightened. It seemed he was into this game after all.

“I think it’s time we get him fucked, don’t you?” Mim suggested, “I’ll be in 149 when you are done with him”

She turned on her heel and was out the room in seconds. The four men, all stood up, eyed each other, agreeing non-verbally who was to get this started. Joel, surprising himself more than any one, took place upon the bed. He was feeling confident now. He laid back on the bed, looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath, this was his time to play the role of passive.

The unnamed assailant was first to jump at the opportunity. He whipped off his remaining swatches of clothing and before long had his hands behind the thighs of Joel, pressing his knees up toward his face. Joel put all thoughts of apprehension from his mind, he too was ready to feel something new and exciting.

The pressure of this man’s dick against his entrance made him gasp. There was something about submitting to someone that drew all sensation back to the brain. His arms and legs weakened and his eyes began pleading into the face of the penetrator. He pushed himself in and Joel drew in air. His back arched as he bundled his face into the pillows. It was an unexpected sensation, a full empathy of all those nights with the various noises and grunts of Mim, suddenly in complete understanding of it all. The fine line of pleasure.

The man started pumping himself in and out of Joel in thrusting motions, building speed steadily. The other men seemed to derive pleasure from watching Joel be dominated. They too mounted the bed, taking both flanking sides of Joel, rubbing themselves to their own private show.

Moustache, interjected on the fucking and took his place below Joel. Pushing himself in confidently and taking a vigorous approach to the penetration. Moustache seemed to be grabbing Joel’s legs hard and squeezing the muscles as tight as he could. It was a more staccato rhythm and one which Joe’s lungs struggled to keep up with.

The speed of the menagerie quickened as Joel was being thrown from his back to his front, onto and off of the bed, kissed and grabbed. Joel felt a stimulation inside him that caused his hands and legs to tremble. He felt his head leading off into the blank and completely giving himself over to this uncontrollable pleasure. A grunt from one of the men brought his attention back.

It was Whiskey Sours, his muscles contorting and face grimacing as he was about to blow his load. With a stifled roar, he let himself go all over Joel’s chest. Joel felt the man’s white fluid, pooling on the contours of his torso. Once warm, suddenly cooling.

The other two took this as a queue to follow, pulling themselves out of Joel and going for it with vigor. It was the assailant first, a silent killer, sighing gently as he relieved his pleasure on Joel’s thigh, soon followed by Moustache, firing himself across the length of Joel, reaching the top of his neck.

It was as if the whole world sobered in that moment. Breaths were caught, brows were wiped, noses sniffing. Joel, coming back to reality, realized his job was done. He felt weak and thumping, but a sweet satisfaction was circulating in his veins. It was time for him to run. It was time for him to get his own. He would leave the mess on his body that Mim’s fantasy had created and bring it to her as a prize, a badge of his accomplishment.

Joel jumped to his feet and ran for the door, he was glad to have not succumbed to the stimulation of being fucked. He was glad to have saved his load for Mim, because she was, without doubt, in for it now. He could not get to room 149 quick enough.

The hard road to Xativa, Part III

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[If you haven’t checked them out already, follow parts one and two here:

Part I:

Part II:

Joel, without realizing, shuffled back a step. Mouth agape and completely naked, he was completely lost for words.

“I…I…uh” he stammered, piecing together the scene before him. Three men, seated in the far end of what must have been the hotel’s take on a honeymoon suite. Two of the men on a blue sofa with amber dots, the other, looking over his shoulder on the far end of the bed.

Joel’s penis fell limp with despair. But what was he to do with these men? This all felt overwhelming. He went to turn back and walk out the door when the man on the bed stood up and approached him. He was tall, with dark hair pulled back away from his face and a colored necktie that suggested he was the fun type. He squared-up, inches from Joel’s face, reached his hand beyond Joel’s shoulder and pushed the door shut. Joel could count the eye-lashes on this man, and detail without issue the cocktail recipe this man had clearly enjoyed but moments before. Pressing his lips close to Joel’s ear, he whispered one word; Mim’s and Joel’s safe word.

It was clear, Joel was to submit to himself to these men. It was Mim’s way of asserting her dominance and in acknowledging this, he felt his fists unclench. He would do anything for her, even this, whatever this was. The man, who Joel named Whisky Sours, proceeded to place his hands all over Joel’s shaft. Joel was not opposed to homosexual activity, he had once or twice found himself catching a glance at other guys in showers, but other than that, it had never really crossed his mind.

Whisky Sours, sensing a storm raging Joel’s mind, pressed himself closer to him, and kissed him hard on the lips. Joel noted both the roughness of this man’s unshaven face, and the sweet lemon bitters taste. The man’s heaviness was an unusual sensation, and the idea of not being the lead in the foreplay was something he wasn’t used to; likened to being given a script with no lines. He let himself warm to this man’s touch. His fingers rough up his arms, the heat jumping out the neck of his shirt.

Still struggling to comprehend his role in this fuckery, Joel wandered if he would be up to the challenge. There were three men in total in this room and he was supposing that the other two were not merely adjudicators. Whisky Sours lead Joel by the dick (still swinging limp between his legs at this point) and pushed him, with a hint of force, to the other two guests.

“Undress him” he said to Joel, pointing to the man seated on the left. He was forced down to his knees by a hand on the shoulder. Joel looked up at the men. A crack of enjoyment broke onto the man’s face.

The guy was a good ten years senior to the rest. He had maintained a stark hairline and fashioned a thick white moustache which bridged his neatly-aligned teeth. Joel, seeing the work in front of him, began with the man’s socks. Pulling them off and laying them directly where they fell. The man was wearing what could have been an expensive suit, given its silky feel. Joel suddenly realized that the only way to take off this man’s trousers was to unzip from the crotch. Uncertain what he would find up there, he made for the belt. Unbuckling, he caught the zip between the tips of his fingers and began to pull it down.

There was much happening below this man’s trousers. His penis had been tucked in straight down into his underwear and seemed desperate to be released. It was the first time he had touched a penis that wasn’t his own. It was surprisingly firm, he noted. Warm and alive. Passing beyond this man’s machinery he pulled open the waist and slid down the trousers. Moustache-Bridge obligingly raised his hips to avoid anything that would hinder the pace of his satisfaction.

There it was, another man’s penis, pressed inside soft blue boxer-shorts. Joel had to admit, he had come this far, and now he too had the curiosity to know what it would feel like. After all, it was all for her.

He hooked his fingers over the waistline and rolled them down, past his knees and along with the rest of his clothes. His cock could be described as heavy and slightly curved. Perhaps no larger than Joel’s own, the consistency of girth from base to tip was admirable. Joel was only too knowing of what a man in this position wants done. Joel was competent in many areas of life and saw that if a job had to be done, it had to be done well.

He grabbed Moustache-Bridge by the base of his shaft, licked his lips, took in a deep breath and slid his lips down. It was remarkable how little he could manage. How much admiration he suddenly had for all the times he had pressed himself hard into Mim’s mouth, and her taking it without a struggle. He was slightly disappointed that she was not there to share this with him.

Sliding his mouth up and down in repeated motions, the man started to grunt with pleasure. It had clearly been a good day for him, and Joel realized for the first time. These men were part of Mim’s new business agreement, and he had been a binding factor to sweeten their deal.

A sweet taste, unfamiliar to Joel began to enter his mouth; it must have been Moustache’s pre-cum. Suddenly, before he knew it, Joel was encircled by the two other men, being tapped on the shoulder and cheek by two weighty cocks. Whisky Sours having undressed without being noticed and yielding an almighty erection, his unnamed assailant yielding a more modest apparatus, poking out his suit trousers.

The unnamed assailant, blonde hair and big teeth, took Joel’s hand and wrapped it around his penis. Before long, Joel was pleasuring three men at once. Each groaning in their own way, a smug look of satisfaction at what would likely have been a new experience for them too. Joel, distracted by his work, had not realized that his once shy dick had now begun to warm to this unexpected version of events. The heat of these three men, the musks, textures and aromas, it was as if discovering a new continent; a mix of the new and familiar.

“You’re liking this, aren’t you…”, a woman’s voice startled him, it was Mim’s voice.

“…lets see gentlemen, if we can really get our money’s worth out of tonight’s rent boy”

“Oh my god”, Joel thought, “I really am part of the business deal”…

[Follow on with the story –> ]

The hard road to Xativa – Part II

[If you haven’t read part I already, find it here –> ]

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Joel’s taxi journey was sticky and full of wild ideas. The hot air blowing through the window only served to dry his brows and blow-back his hair. He wasn’t sure what could be expected of Mim with this wild goose chase. Naturally he found the idea thrilling and considered himself lucky to be maritally bound to such a wildcat, but equally, a touch of disappointment at not having seen her at the airport sat on his tongue.

The taxi, pulling a hard right, pulled Joel from his thoughts and fixed him upon the half-weathered excuse of a hotel plonked a dusty plot. Even in the blazing spanish sun, this particular construction was able to suck light and colour from surrounding it. Wirey leafless trees, cracked wall paint and a fading sign for the entrance were all that greeted him. Tipping the taxi driver favorably and walking through the arched entrance, he smiled at the thought of Mim, hunting for the location of her next sexual feast, patting herself on the back for such an obscene choice of accommodation.

Joel checked in, picked up his room key and headed to the first flight corridor. The door to room 138 opening with a satisfying click.

He threw his bag on the bed. The clock showed 6:15pm, he didn’t want to hang around. He headed to the bathroom to get himself showered and prepped for what could likely be an arduous and enduring night. The mirror inside, cracked in the corner, showed a man who had a dangerous mix of fatigue and excitement. The red eyes, hot cheeks and his normally flush facial hair airing on the side of wild. He was an attractive man, his experiences with women had taught him that. Being tall and dark, he found that he was a standard template for women’s desires, and had learnt to become sexually proficient through years of much-enjoyed adventures.

Without breaking his own eye contact, he peeled the layers of clothes from his body onto the tile floor. Running down his body, he examined his features. Following his throat, between his collarbones and reaching his sternum. Noting the textures and notes of his skin. The smooth between the rough. Running his eyes down his stomach, past his belly-button and beyond. Joel could do this for hours, admiring the contours and lines his muscles created around his body. The way it felt to be entirely man for just a moment.

A black bag caught his eye to the left of the mirror. He blushed at his own narcissism for not having seen it prior. It was his and Mim’s trusty sex bag. The blood surged downwards, hardening him at the thought of her having been there before him.

He opened it and found a note tucked neatly inside.

“Clean yourself up, be ready, you have a 7.30pm, no uniform required, Mim”

Pulling himself away from his excitement, he further delved into the bag, seeing that the toiletries provided did not elude any further to the night’s festivities. He got to work grooming, scrubbing and cleaning. It was part of the joy of sex, washing away all of life’s stresses and taking pride in ones sense of being a man. He had to work extra carefully to work around his phallus, which seemed all too ready to step up to the mark and penetrate anything that got too close.

Time passed, and Joel stepped out of the bathroom in a puff of aftershave soaked vapour. He noted the chill of the evening air hitting his body, pimpling his skin. He was ready, and it was almost time. It wouldn’t be long before the show would begin, what show that would be he was not yet sure.

7.25pm and the phone shrilled shook him from his thoughts. He walked across the room, pulled the phone from the receiver.

“Yes?” he started.
“Room 140, are you ready?”, it was Mim
“Good, they will see you now”

The phone clicked back onto the receiver leaving Joel and the dial tone.

They? He thought to himself. Giving it no further thought, he opened the door an inch, peered both ways and scurried, completely naked and somewhat vulnerable to room 140. The door was ajar. He hurriedly pushed himself through and closed the door behind him. The lights were off and only the street lights gave luminescence. Stood there with no clothes, eyes adjusting, he finally saw what the night lay before him.

Three fully-suited men, sat there, hungry eyed for the feast that had just been delivered. This was sure to be a night like no other.

The hard road to Xativa

Having already spent three weeks away from his wife, Joel was overwhelmed with excitement at the trip to come. His wife, Mim, a bubbly blonde-haired go-getter, had been in Spain, recruiting new clients for her online marketing firm. They had fallen in love five years prior, and those years, for Joel at least, had rendered his life unpredictable and exhilarating.

Although Mim had a somewhat naive aspect, she was about as sharp as they came. The joy she derived from having situations completely under her control was translated into a sharp business hand. For Joel however, life seemed to him as something designed to be enjoyed. He had no need for rocking the boat, especially when he could just ride off the back of the waves his wife’s cut-throat lifestyle had created for him.

Joel and Mim had agreed to meet once Mim had everything wrapped up in Alicante. From what he had heard, she’d had to make some tough negotiations, but was hopeful that these would come to fruit in the long run. A plush hotel was already booked and awaiting them in Xativa, a town not so far from Alicante, and it was there they would enjoy the stifling heat, midnight wine and mediterranean cuisine.

There was also one other reason for excitement. As Joel had come to learn, Mim’s sexual tastes were far from what he had ever experienced in any of his previous relationships. She was someone who liked to play, Joel often being her plaything of choice. It was not uncommon for him to submit her sexual charades, having already agreed a life-long safe word on their wedding night. Being completely enamored, Joel would have done anything for her; it was what he considered a vital ingredient of their marriage. He had been bound up shibari style, dressed obscenely, eaten a 3 course meal off of various appendages and fucked in public places. He was, naturally, happy to concede to her desires and considered them a never-ending personal challenge, and they only seemed to be getting bigger.

Joel woke the morning of his flight with a blind sense of excitement in his loin. He had packed the essentials and arrived at the airport with a carry-on sized backpack over his shoulder and a book in his hand. The three-hour flight passed quickly, as he lost himself in the cheap supermarket fiction. Passing through passport control and customs, he felt the puff of hot air gulp through the sliding doors at the arrivals entrance. His eyes darted around the sea of impatient friends and relatives, unable to hold back his excitement at grabbing his wife. But thirty seconds had passed and his anxious glee began to sober into doubt; she wasn’t there. He paced around the group, searching for her within the density, but still came up short. It was no use. Throwing his eyes upon every face, he caught a glimpse of his name sprawled across a whiteboard, being held by a disinterested taxi driver, limply holding a sign with his name on it. Feeling slightly consoled, he approached the half-sweated man with a smile and slowly vocalized his greeting in English. With a grunt of acknowledgement and shake of the hand, the taxi driver passed him a letter, clearly written in Mim’s handwriting.

Joel, here is your motel for tonight, you will have further instructions on arrival, be ready, Love Mim. –

Aisle 13 Part III

If you haven’t read parts I and II of the story, check them out below!

Part I –>

Part II –>

Stood there, in tight polyester and sheer finish tights, Graham began to lose his sense of self. He was no longer the passenger that boarded the plane, but in some other worldly scenario that he finally embraced as arousing. This woman had removed him from his aisle 12 husk into her aisle 13 plaything.

“You think you’re too pretty to wear the scarf honey?”, her whispered tone scolding.

She grabbed his scarf-holding wrist and pried it from his palm. Spinning him around and pressing his face into the glass door of the cabin oven. She pressed her body against his and began tying the scarf around his neck. Graham’s pulse quickened, it became clear to him that this woman was capable of doing anything she wanted to him, and all the while Graham found himself resisting less and less.

She did the initial cross on the scarf and slowly began pulling it tighter. The loop travelling closer and closer to his throat and giving no indication of stopping. On touching his rough neck, the scarf began to press. Deeper into the muscle, the windpipe and all the surrounding tissue. The blood poured to Graham’s face and he felt an almighty rush to his penis. He was at her mercy. Just as he thought he couldn’t take any more, she slackened the loop and put the extra knot.

“Do you like your outfit, Nancy?” allowing for an unimpressed glance down at his pounding chode “It seems like Nancy is a dirty little slut”.

She grabbed this new Nancy’s solemn excuse for manhood, contemplating its texture between the skirt and her fingers. It appeared more curiosity than arousal that kept her hands wandering. Suddenly her eyes flashed back at his. “Sit down, I knew what kind of whore you were from the first time I saw you board the plane,” she spat. Forcing him backwards into the cabin seat. He, desperate to be relieved from the wave of ecstasy washing over him, toppled back into place.

She pulled down the double-crossing safety belts and bound him in. “Do not move until I say so, or the cabin will be greeting their newest crew member.” Her chin barely moving through her snarling voice.

She then moved to the cabin phone behind her, punching in digits and adopting a new, previously unheard voice, a lighter, friendly tone.

“This is your cabin crew speaking, we will be preparing to land in twenty minutes so please if you could stow your trays, ensure window panels are fully open and seat belts fastened as we come through the cabin for a final check.”

By this point, Graham was a sweating husk of a man. Completely submissive, he was begging for his mistresses next order. She turned to him, lifted up her leg and pressed the base of her heel into his chest.

“You have 2 minutes until the captain briefs us on landing procedure. If you haven’t finished by the time that door opens, I will humiliate you in front of the captain as a dirty little femboy. Now finish yourself you worthless pig”

Graham took no time in getting started. He fumbled his hand into his skirt and under the tights. The tip was already tacky from so much anticipation and began pounding away. Chemicals began surging through his body, sweetening his muscles and releasing so much of what he had been holding back. He barely registered what was in front of his eyes as he became this doughy eyed beast. All he could feel was her heal pressing into his chest and her gaze burning into his face. He didn’t dare look up to meet her gaze.

It all happened so quickly, his stomach contorted and his breath ceased. He felt the warm liquid run across his knuckles and down his nylons. A moment of nothingness. Then, began externalising again, remembering where he was and who he was.
Silently, she took her foot off his chest, unstrapped him, picked up his damp clothes from the floor and threw them at him.

“Please go back to your seat immediately, Mr. Johnson, the plane is about to land.”
Her tone was stern and professional. If it wasn’t for the mess he had made and the coffee stained clothes he might have thought it was all a dream. He put on his damp trousers and shirt over the dry but partially sticky air hostess outfit, walked back along the aisle, past oblivious passengers and returned to his seat. As he disembarked the plane he kept his head down, unable to see if she was there, but he heard that familiar voice as he exited the doors, and felt a rush to his groin.

“Thank you for flying with us, we hope to see you again soon.”

Aisle 13 Part II

[If you haven’t read part I, find it here –> ]

Before he knew it, two more flight attendants were on site to witness the carnage. The three of them, towering over him, pitying him for what was clearly his inability to function normally on an airline flight.

“You will have to come with us, we will find you a change of clothes.” said one of the attendants, with a look of disgust at what her job obliged her to do. Attend to withering men, soaked with their own worthlessness. It was at this point that Graham felt a sense of submitting to what lay before him, this was not expected. Grabbing onto the seat in front of him, he lifted his pooling self to his feet, side stepping as he dripped across the vacant seats.

The gathering of air hostesses in aisle 13 seemed to draw attention from other passengers. Some showed an expression of curiosity, others disdain. Graham was frogmarched to the front of the plane, sodden and abiding, unable to move swiftly as the hot liquid called for a compass like walk, as if all joints in his lower half were temporarily out of service.

The curtain at the front of the cabin was drawn and Graham was once again face to face with his new airline mistress.

“Look at you,” she said whilst shaking her head. “Never have I seen such a pitiful mess”

Graham came to and began to attempt to vocalise his confusion. “Nuh, uh uh” said the attendant, waggling her finger inches from his face.

“You are to be compliant, is that clear?”, Graham began to stutter, “Is that clear!?” she interjected one more time. He knew it was, he was suddenly feeling a weakness in his knees. He wanted to drop down and be smaller than her. He felt smaller than her, she knew it.

She leant closer to his face, her orange neck scarf tickling his unshaven throat. “You will wait in the toilet, until I say.”, opening the door behind his back and pushing him inside. Locking with a single sliding click.

Graham turned to the mirror. His cream shirt, splattered with coffee, clinging to his rotund stomach. His blue trousers gone black and still showing the little dignity he had left. He hadn’t quite noticed however that his dignity had also taken on a more elongated stance, unashamedly declaring itself a beneficiary of the events. Before he had a moment to question his arousal, the door clicked, opening to find his airline maiden thrusting a pile of orange and brown clothing at his feet.

“Put this on” and before he knew it, the door was clicking back into place. Graham did not need to examine the clothes further to know that this was a full air hostess outfit. The side cut blue short skirt, beige tights, a tight-fitting blue blouse complete with rough neck scarf and hat. This had to be a joke, all part of a larger ruse, courtesy of the airline crew. He knew for sure that this was driven by the black-eyed hostess, but could this have been part of a wager? A cheap way for them to get by on their meagre salaries?

Lifting up his work shirt to a reddening stomach, Graham knew he had no choice. His skin was pulsing from the heat and he needed to get into something dry. He peeled off the layers of clothes from his skin, almost hearing his body sigh as the vapor fogged the mirror. Standing in front of the fogged glass, his naked body appeared more circular than linear. Giving no more thought to his unimpressive body and his engorging genitals he pulled up the stockings. Packing his heavy white legs into the smooth finish net and tucking in all that wouldn’t play nicely. Next the mini skirt.

Delighted to see that the skirt reached his waist and hung pressed against his rear, giving him a better shape as a woman perhaps than he had ever been as a man. Followed by the blue blouse, buttoning with a mix of precision and force, compressing his weight into the shirt he supposed was intentionally too small for him, a further twist on this already maddening game. By the time he had reached the top button, he could barely breathe.

Where the uniform pushed the female features upwards into a more pert arrangement, his features seemed to be pressed down, pooling out the bottom. He felt heat rising from his belly to his ears, it was a mix of shame and something else. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Satisfaction? Pleasure? Like this is what he should look like. This is what he deserved to look like. He saw no need to put on the neck scarf and proceeded to collect his clothes and exit the toilet.

The air hostess was not where he had suspected her of being. The pleasure derived from degradation was mixed with her own sense of work compliance. She was in the middle of the aisle, serving two passengers what was undoubtedly the wrong sandwich. She marched back to him with an air of excitement and misguided resentment.
“I am so sorry Mr. Johnson, that is the only available change of clothes we have on board.” And then, leaning in closer so that only he could hear, she whispered, “What a pretty little shit you are”. The games, it appeared, had only just begun.